He’d drawn close enough for her to breathe in his woodsy, earthy, oh-so-manly cologne. She’d nearly fainted into the antiquities section.
But then he’d looked at her with warm green eyes—truly looked at her—the way people rarely did, because it meant allowing the other person to truly look at them, too. Equal and opposite reactions.
He made her feel like the only woman in the bookshop. Perhaps the only woman in the world. Or the universe.
The moment seemed to last forever, and yet it was over much too soon.
Then he’d made her a dashing bow, bid her adieu, and strolled away with Messier’s Catalogue of Star Clusters and Nebulae, leaving Alexandra holding an insipid book of stories for “obedient girls.”
End of scene.
Or at least, it should have been the end.
Alex resolved to scrub the encounter from her mental slate, but Penny—the incurable romantic among them—wouldn’t allow it. Since he hadn’t given his name, Penny anointed him with increasingly ridiculous titles. First he was merely the Bookshop Rake, but as the weeks wore on, he made a rapid ascent up the rungs of the peerage. Sir Read. Lord Literature. The Duke of Hatchard’s.
Stop, Alex told her again and again. That was ages ago, and I haven’t thought of him since. He certainly hasn’t thought of me. It was nothing.
Except that it wasn’t quite nothing. Some idiotic corner of her memory embellished the encounter with rainbows and sparkles until it resembled . . . something. Something too mortifying to ever admit aloud, even to Penny, Emma, and Nicola. In truth, Alex avoided admitting it to herself.
From that day forward, whenever she visited Hatchard’s—or the Temple of Muses, or even the Minerva Library—she looked for him. Imagining that they might collide once again, and he would confess, over afternoon tea that lingered into dinner, that he’d been haunting the bookshops, too—hoping to meet with her. Because, naturally, in those two minutes of painful one-sided conversation, he’d divined that an incoherent, clumsy, working-class girl small enough to fit into the average kitchen cupboard was everything he’d always yearned to find.
You’re exactly what I’ve been searching for.
Now that I’ve found you, I’ll never let you go.
Alexandra, I need you.
Common sense, feh.
Alex worked for her living, setting clocks in the homes of wealthy customers, and she didn’t have time for dreams. She set goals, and she worked to achieve them. Feet on the ground, shoulders squared, and head on straight.
She would not—absolutely not—be carried away with romantic fantasies.
Sadly, her imagination ignored this memorandum. In her daydreams, the afternoon tea led to walks in the park, deep conversations, kisses under the stars, and even—Alexandra’s dignity wilted just thinking of it—a wedding.
Truly. A wedding.
Do you take this man, Anonymous Bookshop Rake with Horrid Taste in Children’s Literature, to be your wedded husband?
Absurd.
After months of attempting to quash this madness, Alex gave up. At least the fantasies—foolish as they might be—were hers to keep secret. No one else need ever know. In all likelihood, she would never meet with the Bookshop Rake again.
Until, of course, the morning that she did.
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WICKED AND THE WALLFLOWER
By Sarah MacLean
“You shouldn’t tell lies, Felicity Faircloth.”
Felicity leapt straight into the air with a little scream at the words, spinning to face the far side of the room, cloaked in darkness, where nothing looked out of place.
Lifting her candle high, she peered into the corners, the light finally touching a pair of perfectly polished black boots, stretched out, crossed at the ankle, the shining silver tip of a walking stick resting atop one toe.
It was him.
The man from the dark balcony. The dark balcony where she’d been rendered breathless. The dark balcony which, when made light, had doomed her and her family to laughingstock.
He was here. In her bedchamber. As though it were perfectly normal.
Nothing about this evening was normal.
Her heart began to pound, harder than it had earlier in the evening, and Felicity backed away from him, toward the door. “I believe you have the wrong house, sir.”
The boots didn’t move. “I have the right house.”
She blinked. “You most certainly have the wrong room.”
“It’s the right room, as well.”
“This is my bedchamber.”
“I couldn’t very well knock on the door in the dead of night and ask to speak with you, could I? I’d scandalize the neighbors, and then where would that leave you?”
She refrained from pointing out that the neighbors were going to be scandalized in the morning anyway, when all of London knew she’d lied about being betrothed to a duke.
He heard the thought, nonetheless. “Why did you lie?”
“I don’t converse with strangers in my bedchamber.”
“But we aren’t strangers, love.” The silver tip of the walking stick tapped the toe of his boot in slow, even rhythm.
Her lips twitched. “I have little time for people who lack consequence.”
Though he remained in the dark, she imagined she could hear his smile. “And tonight you showed it, didn’t you?”
She scowled. “You have the better of me, sirrah. To what end? Fear?”
“No. I don’t wish to scare you.” The man’s voice was heavy like the darkness in which he was cloaked. Low, quiet, and somehow clearer than a gunshot.
Felicity’s heart thundered. “I think that is precisely what you wish to do.” That silver tip tapped again and she turned her irritated gaze to it. “I also think you should leave before I decide that instead of fear, I shall feel anger.”
Pause. Tap tap.
And then he moved, leaning forward into the circle of light, so she could see his long legs, black beaver hat on one thigh. His hands were uncovered by gloves, three silver rings glinting in the candlelight on the thumb, fore and ring fingers of the right one, beneath the black sleeves of his topcoat, which fit to his arms and shoulders perfectly. The ring of light ended at his jaw, sharp and clean-shaven. She lifted her candle once more, and there he was.
She inhaled sharply, ridiculously remembering how she’d thought earlier that the Duke of Marwick was handsome.
Not anymore.
For surely, no man on earth should be as handsome as this one. He looked remarkably like his voice sounded. Like a low, liquid rumble. Like temptation. Like sin.
One side of his face remained in shadow, but the side she could see—he was magnificent. A long, lean face all sharp angles and shadowed hollows, dark, winged brows and full lips, eyes that glittered with knowledge that she’d wager he never shared, and a nose that would put the royals to shame, perfectly straight, as though it had been crafted with a sure hand.
His hair was dark and shorn close to his head, close enough to reveal the round dome of it. “Your head is perfect.”
He smirked. “I’ve always thought so.”
She dropped the candle, returning him to shadows. “I mean it’s a perfect shape. How do you get your hair shaved so close to the scalp?”
He hesitated before he answered. “A woman I trust.”
Her brows rose at the unexpected answer. “Does she know you are here?”
“She does not.”
“Well, as she takes a blade to your head regularly, you’d best be going before you upset her.”
A low rumble came at that, and her breath caught. Was it a laugh? “Not before you tell me why you lied.”
Felicity shook her head. “As I said, sir, I do not make a practice of conversing with strangers. Please leave. Out the way you came in.” She paused. “How did you come in?”
“You’ve a balcony, Juliet.”
“I’ve also a bedchamber on the third floor, no
t-Romeo.”
“And a sturdy trellis.” She heard the lazy amusement in his words.
“You climbed the trellis.”
“I did, as a matter of fact.”
She’d always imagined someone climbing that trellis. Just not a criminal come to—what was he here to do? “Then I assume the walking stick is not to aid in movement.”
“Not that kind of movement, no.”
“Is it a weapon?”
“Everything is a weapon if one is looking for one.”
“Excellent advice, as I seem to have an intruder.”
He tutted at the retort. “A friendly one.”
“Oh, yes,” she scoffed. “Friendly is the very first word I would use to describe you.”
“If I were going to kidnap you and carry you off to my lair, I would have done it by now.”
“You have a lair?
“As a matter of fact, I do, but I’ve no intention of bringing you there. Not tonight.”
She would be lying if she said the additional qualifier was not exciting. “Ah, that will ensure I sleep well in the future,” she said.
He laughed, low and soft, like the light in the room. “Felicity Faircloth, you are not what I expected.”
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THE DUKE BUYS A BRIDE
By Sophie Jordan
Alyse’s eyes fluttered open to sunlight streaming on the air, tiny motes of dust and particles suspended in its beams.
It was an alien sensation. Waking to sunlight. She was always awake before the sun came up. Before anyone else in the house had roused, she was awake, starting the fire and fetching the milk and getting breakfast underway.
She’d never slept so late before. The realization froze her to the bed. She clutched the pillow against her head, her senses on high alert, prodding the air around her.
A sigh stirred somewhere behind her, confirming that she wasn’t alone. He’d come to bed. While she slumbered this man, this stranger, had slipped into bed beside her and she had slept on, blissfully, totally unaware, totally vulnerable. She shuddered at this horrible realization. It shouldn’t come as such a surprise, but it was no less shocking.
She held herself motionless, waiting to see if that sigh meant he was awake. Her hand brushed something beneath the pillow and she was reminded of the butter spreader she had tucked away the night before. It was still there. She gripped it tightly, at once feeling somewhat more secure. It might not be the most ideal weapon but it was better than nothing.
After a moment of continued quiet, she pushed back the covers and eased away from the body at her back that was radiating heat in a strangely welcoming manner. Welcoming, she would guess, because it was so cold outside of the bed and for no other reason. The fire had burned itself out some time during the night and when she expelled a great breath she could see it like fog on the air.
“Awake, are you?”
Her feet hit the floor and she whirled around at the deep voice, her long plait of her flying like a rope and landing with a soft thud over her shoulder.
He was all casualness, laying flat on his back with one hand tucked behind his head. Her gaze crawled over him. All over his naked chest. He was unclothed. Her breath caught. At least what she could see of him was unclothed. The bedding was bunched and gathered around his narrow waist.
She gawked again at that chest. She couldn’t help herself. It was nicely formed with ridges of muscle along his stomach. Not an ounce of fat detectable. Unusual for a privileged gentleman. He had the means for indulgence. Food. Wine. Ale. She’d seen enough of the gentry in her life to know that a good many of them were on the portly side. Not him though. Her gaze skittered along the shape of him hidden beneath the counterpane. Surely he was wearing something beneath.
“What have you there?” he asked.
She followed his eyes to the butter spreader clenched in her hand. In her scrutiny of him she had forgotten she had it.
It was rather ridiculous. Warmth flushed her face and yet she did not lower her arm. It felt the thing to do – brandish a weapon with this man so near and in such an obvious state of undress. She wasn’t exactly attired modestly either. The entire scenario felt … precarious and ripe for tragedy. Her tragedy, if she were not careful.
A corner of his mouth curled and he added, “Is that for protection?”
She gave a stiff nod.
“From me?”
She nodded again. “It seems … advisable. One can never be too safe.”
His smile faded and for a moment she thought she had offended him. Until he replied, “Indeed not.”
Of course, he would agree. Trust no one. Was that not his sound advice?
Abruptly, he moved, launching himself from the bed, flinging back the counterpane and revealing that he was, indeed, naked.
He marched across the chamber. Her mouth dropped open with a croak as she gazed at his bare buttocks.
“You slept beside me without a stitch on!”
He stopped beside the chair where he had draped his clothing. Turning, he sent her a quick glance, arching a dark eyebrow as he reached for a garment. “I always sleep naked.”
She jabbed her butter spreader in the air toward him, careful to keep her gaze trained above his waist. A tricky task. “Not with me you don’t!”
“As this was the first time we slept together, I did not realize we had established protocol.”
He was maddening! “It is common sense … common decency! I may have agreed to be your employee but I did not agree to such—” She waved her butter spreader madly, sputtering, “To such intimacy!”
“You agreed to share a bed with me,” he replied with utter equanimity. “That amounts to intimacy.”
“I might have agreed to that on this one occasion, but I did not expect you to disrobe. This is wholly unacceptable!” Even as the words spit from her lips like arrows, her gaze swept over him. Over all of him. Including south of his waist.
Good heavens. Her face erupted in fire.
He wasn’t the first nude male she had ever seen. Stepping in to play mother to young boys, she had, of course, observed the male body. And yet none had looked as he did. So large and very virile. Her gaze locked on his manhood. So very … very.
He shrugged as he riffled through his garments, searching for something. “Sorry,” he announced without the slightest apology to his voice. “It’s my custom. Should the occasion ever occur again you shall just have to close your eyes.”
He moved toward her then, his strides easy, but all of him was still very much naked and very much distracting.
“Would you please dress yourself?” she snapped with a small stomp of her foot.
His arm stretched out to her, offering something for her to take. She frowned, flashing a quick glance down, too wary to take her gaze off his face for long – as though his expression determined everything, specifically whether or not his intent toward her was ill-disposed or not.
“Here. Take this. As long as you are going to arm yourself you might as well do so with something that could actually draw blood.”
She inched closer to peer at what he was holding in his hand. It was a sheathed dagger. The hilt looked interesting. Gem-studded? No. Leather with colorful threading.
“You’re giving me a … weapon?”
“Yes, I am. An effective one.”
A long beat of silence passed between them before she reached out to accept the dagger.
He released it to her and then turned away. “Now if the occasion should arise again where we share a bed, you will be properly armed. Just be certain not to stab me in your sleep.”
She watched mutely as he dressed himself, trying not to appreciate the way his muscles and sinew flexed with his movements. It was rather hypnotic. She told herself she could admire him rather clinically. It didn’t mean anything.
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A NOTORIOUS VOW
By Joanna Shupe
Apollo obeyed then prodded Oliver with his snout once more before trotting to the main door. That was odd. The dog had an entrance of his own that allowed him to come and go as he pleased. Why was he trying to gain Oliver’s attention?
Putting down his soldering iron, Oliver rose and opened the door. He motioned for the dog to keep going, to show Oliver what he’d found.
Apollo darted through the door. Oliver followed, the frigid air slapping his face and blowing through his thin shirt as if he were naked. He hunched his shoulders and hurried after his dog. Hopefully, this would not take long; otherwise he might suffer hypothermia.
Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he watched as Apollo loped toward the maze. Oliver knew every inch of these gardens; he’d played in them often enough as a boy. His mother had loved it out here as well, taking him on adventures every chance they had, and the memory caused a dull ache in his heart. Even six years after his parents’ deaths he missed them terribly.
When he rounded the bend to the sitting area, his stomach dropped. Jesus . . . A figure was on the ground, unmoving.
And it was a woman.
Oliver dashed forward, his heart pounding as he fell to his knees. Her skirts had twisted around her legs, her body slumped under an iron bench as if she’d tried to catch her fall on the seat but had missed.
He reached out, desperate to assess how badly she’d been hurt. Blood streamed from a cut on her brow. Damn it. She must have hit her head on the way down.
Was she dead? With two fingers, he searched her neck for a pulse. Relief cascaded through him when he felt a weak, but discernable, heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing even. She was alive.
He needed to send for Dr. Henry Jacobs. This woman could very well be concussed. Sliding his hands under her, he lifted her into his arms and started for the house. Henry would know what to do. The doctor would quickly set this woman to rights and then Oliver would send her on her way.
How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 39