A Rogue's Christmas Kiss

by Eva Devon

  Gray stared at her, his dark eyes as hard as obsidian. “Wedding breakfast?”

  Despite that stare, she licked her lips and smiled. Though with each passing moment, she felt a sort of ridiculous breathlessness at all his coiled energy. “I did mention at the church we’d have people waiting. You see, I took it upon myself to invite the local gentry to celebrate our nuptials.”

  His sensual lips turned downward. “I see. It couldn’t be avoided?”

  “It is customary,” she replied. She hid her dismay at his blatant wish to avoid the people who were to be a part of his future circle. “And they are all curious to meet you.”

  She could have sworn he shuddered. The barest movement, to be sure, but he seemed appalled. What had he thought would transpire when he arrived?

  Finally, he clasped his strong hands behind his back, his dark coat stretching over his broad shoulders. “Lead on, then.”

  Without another word, but a growing sense that her adventure was going to prove fraught with frustration, she did exactly that.

  As she led him up the stairs to one of the large rooms at the front of the massive house, she reminded herself that she knew next to nothing about her husband. Nothing except for what a bit of gossip here and there had provided.

  “What is that odor?” he asked suddenly.

  She placed a hand on the balustrade and glanced back at him. “Odor?”

  He frowned. “Yes. It smells like a tree.”

  She laughed. “You make that sound terribly offensive. I’ve had boughs brought in. You’ll find them all over the house. I adore Christmas.”

  “Do you?” he drawled, looking pained.

  She furrowed her brow, a feeling of dread lodging deep in her stomach. “And you do not?”

  “No,” he said tersely.

  “Why?” she blurted, appalled that anyone could hold such disinterest or disdain as he clearly did.

  To that, he replied with stony silence. Then to her shock, he took her hand in his and began striding purposefully down the hall. . . Towards the din.

  As soon as he led her through the opened doorway, a cheer went up from the guests.

  “Huzzah!”

  “Three cheers for the bride and groom!”

  “Felicitations!”

  The cheers were raucous and delighted.

  The wine she had ordered to be served was clearly being imbibed apace.

  A footman passed with a silver tray and she seized a glass.

  Her husband stared then took a glass for himself.

  “You know, you do that a good deal,” she whispered just before she took a long, barely-ladylike drink.

  “And what is that?” he asked, lifting his glass to the merry room in barest acknowledgement.

  “Stare,” she replied.

  He sputtered on his wine but managed not to choke or spill.

  The crowd of well-wishers was now applauding and clearly waiting for them to say something.

  So, she raised a hand.

  “Dear friends,” she began. “I have known most of you all my life. And it is my pleasure now to introduce the new Earl of Gray to you.”

  And with that, she turned to him, waiting for him to do as he should and make a small speech.

  He did it again. He stared at her, like a fox that had suddenly spotted the hounds.

  For a brief and terrifying moment, she wondered if he was going to turn tail and dash for the door.

  He did not.

  Instead, he faced their guests. He said with as little excitement as one could possibly manage, “Thank you all for your attendance. I am very pleased to see you all.”

  And then he strode off towards the tall windows overlooking the parkland.

  By himself.

  With his drink.

  She stood stock still, in the spot he’d left her before their gaping guests and tried not to glower daggers at him.

  Dear God, she’d married an arse. An utter arse.

  A handsome arse. But an arse, none the less. There was really no other way to put it.

  Could he truly hate to be married to her so much? She’d always rather thought herself a good catch.

  After a moment, the crowd returned to their wine. Whispered gossip about the strange turn of the morning filled the air.

  “The fellow seems to be confused,” a deep and perfectly-articulate voice said behind her.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” a familiar female voice added.

  Marabelle winced and allowed herself a moment before facing the Duke of Huntsdown and his new bride. She sighed. “He certainly seems to be ill at ease.”

  “He thinks he’s at a funeral, I do believe,” the duchess observed.

  “Oh Olivia!” Marabelle exclaimed. But then she leaned in and confessed. “He was late to the wedding.”

  “No,” Olivia gasped.

  The two had become fast friends since Olivia had become her neighbor and the Duchess of Huntsdown. Marabelle adored Olivia. Their friendship had arisen at an incredibly important time and, though the duke had been courting Marabelle, they’d both ensured that the peer had seen who was truly meant to be his duchess.

  “Shall I go speak to him?” the duke asked. “I do think we’ve met. Years ago.”

  “Please,” Marabelle encouraged with a note of gratitude. “Anything to raise his dark spirits. One would think I’d put a noose about his neck this morning in reality, not just as a metaphor.”

  The duke’s lips twitched with amusement. He nodded and headed off to join the recalcitrant earl.

  “He’s exceptionally handsome,” Olivia stated.

  “Yes,” Marabelle agreed, clutching her wine glass like it was an anchor in a turbulent sea.

  “And brooding,” Olivia added with an admiring grin.

  “You should have seen him ride up to the church, all wind disheveled. Right out of the most glorious romance.”

  Olivia’s eyes danced. “But reality isn’t proving quite so romantic?”

  “No,” Marabelle confessed. “I’m not sure what to do. Do you think he just has bad manners?”

  “He has lived abroad for some time, has he not?”

  Marabelle nodded, wishing that half the county hadn’t witnessed her husband’s odd behavior. But then again, she’d never been overly concerned with the opinions of others. “Yes. It’s why I was so looking forward to marrying him.”

  “Have you told him that?”

  “When could I?” Marabelle pointed out.

  “Tell him as soon as possible,” Olivia advised, brushing a russet curl from her brow. “I have found that the delay of speaking one’s mind with a man, while often lauded, is, in truth, a vast mistake.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Marabelle agreed, grateful for her friend’s advice. “Though he seems like he might eat me alive if I utter more than a few words to him at present.”

  “It’s the shock.”

  “Of what?” Marabelle protested. “Me? Am I so very terrible?”

  Olivia blinked. “Marriage, my dear. Marriage! It’s quite a shock to a man’s system,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Marabelle laughed. “I should have thought he was made of sterner stuff than that.”

  Olivia shook her head knowingly. “Babes. They’re all babes in the end. Best you remember that. It’s we ladies that are made of iron.”

  Ford caught Marabelle’s eye and gestured with an ever so slightly frantic air towards the dining room. The movement was a clear sign that it was past time to go in for the wedding breakfast. But her husband and the duke seemed to have wandered off.

  “I think I best draw upon that mettle now,” whispered Marabelle. “For I must go and collect my husband before the breakfast grows cold.”

  “Send the drinks around again,” Olivia advised quickly. “The duke will convince him that, at least for this morning, he mustn’t act too much like a badgered bull put to pen.”

  “My goodness. What an image. He does look ra
ther gruff, does he not?”

  The duchess proceeded to pluck up a glass of wine from a passing tray.

  A wonderful thing. If the duchess was imbibing again, it was almost required that the room join her.

  Marabelle didn’t often give thanks for the copious amounts of etiquette in her life. But at this moment, she could think of nothing better.

  For, at least, the more wine drunk, the merrier the group would be. That way, they’d be less likely to think her husband felt as if he’d married a horrendous hag.

  Chapter 3

  Sebastian stared out the tall set of windows embossed with roses in stained glass. The windows overlooked acres of snow covered grass and old forest.

  How the hell it had come to this?

  He hadn’t been in an English great house in almost a decade.

  Oh, he’d been in many opulent family homes throughout Europe. Palaces, really. He was, after all, a lord by birth. He knew his way around these kinds of people. But for some inexplicable reason, setting foot in Northly and facing that horde of servants downstairs had sent him rattling back to his boyhood. His father and mother were cold and unyielding in their determination to produce a perfect little lord. They wanted a perfect little lord that would be an even greater soldier than his father.

  The great house he had spent his childhood in had never been a home. It had been a beautiful, unkind prison of marble and gold. And the servants had been his jailers.

  Escaping away to school had been the greatest relief of his life. . . Until he was able to escape the country, of course.

  Now, he owned one of the largest estates in the country and he hated it.

  “Forgive me, but I do believe we’ve been introduced.”

  Sebastian dug his fingers into his palms then turned to face whoever had decided to venture into his self-imposed solitude.

  My God.

  He felt a smile begin to ease his scowl.

  “Your Grace?” Sebastian asked, already knowing the answer.

  The Duke of Huntsdown nodded. “I felt certain it was you.”

  They’d seen action together. Years ago now.

  The Duke of Huntsdown had been the kind of solider and leader that any man would dream of having. Instead of treating soldiers like they were fodder for cannon, he saved as many as he could. . . By using spies.

  Spies like Sebastian Rutherford.

  It hadn’t mattered that such a tactic was considered unsporting. The Duke of Huntsdown cared about information and how to use it to save his men.

  Sebastian had only ever had direct interaction with the duke once. But it had been an honor.

  “Come. Let’s go have a proper drink,” the duke suggested.

  Sebastian nodded but then he paused. “I don’t know where—”

  “I do,” the duke replied easily. He set off towards a door at the back of the room.

  They eased out of the crowd, despite several pairs of eyes on them.

  “I’ve been coming here for years,” the duke said unapologetically. “I even hoped at one point that Marabelle would be my duchess, you know. I even asked her to marry me. Thank goodness, Olivia came along. Marabelle and I were not suited, wonderful lady that she is.”

  The information sent him into a bizarre series of emotions. Marabelle?

  The duke’s sense of familiarity with her sent a surprising spike of jealousy down Sebastian’s ramrod straight spine. For God’s sake, he’d known his wife for less than two inauspicious hours. He’d no right to be jealous. And yet, she was his and he wanted her.

  Those two points were undeniable no matter how hard he was attempting to pretend otherwise.

  “And why did she turn you down?” he found himself asking as they entered into a small study. The walls were lined with books.

  He loved books. So, immediately, he felt himself relaxing, surrounded by what felt like old friends.

  The duke laughed. “Marabelle wouldn’t have me, thank God. I did keep asking her though. Terribly bullheaded of me. But I’m grateful Marabelle never yielded to my barrage.”

  “Grateful.”

  “Mmm,” the duke confirmed casually. “If she’d agreed, I would never have wed the love of my life.”

  Love of my life.

  Bloody hell. Sebastian longed to sigh with frustration. But he held too much respect for the duke to be quite so blatantly disrespectful of the man’s clearly foolish views on love.

  The duke cocked his head to the side. “I see it upon your face.”

  “What? A spot?” Sebastian played at ignorance. He didn’t want to offend the duke. “I haven’t gotten one since I was young.”

  The duke rolled his eyes. “Your skepticism. You don’t believe in love. But it is like the plague, my friend. We all catch it.”

  “An apt comparison.” Sebastian stalked to the fire. “Death will also, no doubt, be imminent after a great deal of suffering.”

  The duke, undaunted, laughed again. He headed for the decanters on the table by the window. As he poured two generous portions into the matching crystal snifters, he said, “My apologies for acting the host but you do seem–”

  “Not at home?” finished Sebastian, warming his hands.

  “Ill at ease, at best,” the duke amended.

  “I’m not. You know my sort. It’s why you had me selected all that time ago.”

  “You don’t put down anchor. You don’t make connections. Not lasting ones.” The duke crossed the short distance to Sebastian, glasses in his hands.

  Sebastian took the glass with the offered drink, ready for a bit of a slow burn. Angling the amber liquid towards the cold winter sunlight, he nodded. He hadn’t given meaningful affection to another person in all of his life. It certainly had never been given to him. He’d been taught early on that affection was a misguided emotion.

  Well, there had been one nanny. One kind woman who had taken care of him for four years. She’d tried to put a glimmer of hope and kindness into his life. If it hadn’t been for her, he was fairly certain he would have turned out to be a monster. A perfectly precise monster.

  His parents would have thought him, no doubt, the perfect product of their tutelage. Another cold fish, not giving a damn for anyone except for the few people continuously repopulating their class. He’d always been meant for the army. His father had been a colonel and he’d wanted his son to go even further. Mercy had been a quality that had been despised in their house.

  Mercy was something he still struggled to practice every day, but he knew it was the best of all qualities one could have. It was why he admired the duke so much. He’d seen the effects of such leadership.

  “Marabelle is a very good sort, Gray,” the duke said softly.

  Gray. It was his title now. He wasn’t certain he would ever grow accustomed to it.

  “I’m sure she is. But I don’t like. . .”

  The duke’s brows rose. “Yes?”

  How to say it? He thought of the rigid and polite ballrooms he’d visited. Of the women who had nothing to say or hid their vicious thoughts behind polite masks. “I don’t enjoy ladies of our society.”

  “Good God, man. You can’t exactly wed a whore.”

  Sebastian’s scowl returned. “I hadn’t planned to wed at all. Besides, I never said whore. There are a vast many women who aren’t ladies, who live interesting and complex lives. And don’t be so condescending of whores. Most of them are far better than our ilk will ever be.”

  The duke groaned. “I suppose this is all coming out very strangely. I have no issue with women who aren’t born to our class—”

  “They’re usually far more interesting,” Sebastian emphasized.

  “Marabelle is educated, kind—”

  “A breeder—”

  “My goodness. Am I a horse or a Jersey cow?”

  That voice. That lovely, lilting voice, which should have been ice cold at hearing such an insult, flowed over him in merry tones.

  He could have, turtle-like, attempted to hide
and pull his head in. Instead, he squared his shoulders and faced her.

  She was magnificent.

  The coils of her black hair shone ebony in the winter light. The diamonds in her hair winked, highlighting the mischief in her eyes. And that mouth, that red mouth, as bright as the holly berries hanging above the door, begged to be kissed.

  God, he could nibble that lower lip of hers for the better part of an hour and be content. If he was to forget that she was Lady Gray, nothing would stop him in the all-out pursuit of her.

  But he didn’t need to pursue her. She belonged to him. As the English upper class ensured, he could do whatever he wished with her.

  And perhaps, he would do exactly what he wanted. . . And soon.

  It was the only possible pleasurable thing about this whole endeavor.

  “Sir,” she asked, folding her hands before her waist, “do you make a habit of falling into silence or is it I who strikes you dumb?”

  He blinked and answered honestly, “It’s you.”

  She laughed. “I must be fearsome, indeed.”

  Sebastian very slowly surveyed her person. “You’re very beautiful, Countess.”

  The duke cleared his throat and put his glass down. “I’m certain my wife is looking for me.”

  Her cheeks burned at Sebastian’s comment. She said, “She’s discussing the deplorable state of the next county’s mills with Lord Brakenbury.”

  “All the more reason to make certain no blood is spilled at your wedding,” the duke said with forced cheer. “Brakenbury is a ponce.”

  Marabelle nodded. “He is, indeed.”

  “Go rescue your wife then,” Sebastian put in.

  The duke’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m not saving Olivia. She can fight her own battles marvelously.”

  With that, the duke strode from the room, leaving Sebastian with his wife.

  His wife.

  Those were two words he had, for years, never imagined uttering.

  But the letter from the Earl of Gray had moved him deeply and he had been unable to glibly cast aside the old man’s wishes.

  So, he’d agreed to marry the daughter.

  If he had to marry, he had supposed this was ideal. After all, he hadn’t had to find her, court her, or do any of the things that a typical man with a powerful title and a fortune would do.