What A Lady Needs For Christmas

by Grace Burrowes

  “Say that again,” she whispered, tugging her nightgown up past her hips so hot skin brushed hot skin. “Say it.”

  “It’s vulgar,” he replied, using a particular hard, smooth part of him to stroke over Joan’s sex. “I should not use such language before a lady.”

  “I’m your lover,” Joan said, lowering herself enough to trap that same part of him between their bodies. “Make free with your naughty talk.”

  “Then fuck me,” he said softly, as much dare as invitation. “Take me in your hand, Joan, and put me inside you.”

  And here came a revelation: Joan desired her husband.

  She wanted to be a good wife to him, because she owed him that and she’d taken vows, but she also desired, even needed, these marital intimacies with him.

  She wrapped her fingers around his shaft and positioned him. “Like this?”

  And oh, this was better.

  For as he glided into her body, shallowly, slowly, by maddeningly patient increments, Joan’s husband also dallied with her breasts.

  “Move, Joan. Don’t make me do all the work.”

  “Move how?” For all she felt was that undifferentiated urge to squirm, though now she also wanted to scream.

  He went still.

  “That doesn’t help,” Joan said, trapping his hands against her breasts, lest the misguided man cease all his efforts at once. “I prefer it when you move.”

  She preferred it frantically that he should resume moving. Frantically and immediately.

  He curled up and kissed her, hard, a reminder that kissing could be part of this too, which was true enough, but rather beside the—

  “You move here,” he said, his hands guiding Joan on either hip. “Pleasure yourself, use me to gratify your passion.”

  She wanted his caresses to her breasts, but with his bare hands on her bare hips, he showed her an intimate, interesting rhythm, that took all of her concentration.

  “Like this?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  His hands fell away. Without ceasing her undulation, Joan put his palms over her breasts again. “Please.”

  Bless him, he obliged, until sensations began to pile up on each other, resonate, and overlap. Heat and wanting swamped Joan from within, as well as a sense of freedom twined around a longing of the body and the heart both.

  “Joan, slow down.” Dante’s hands were back on her hips, trying to still her movements, but she could not allow it. If anything, she wanted more—

  “Please, love. I’ll spend if you can’t—”

  She kissed him to stop his prattling, because something bright and novel was welling up from inside her, or from him, inside her. His grip on her tightened, and he hilted himself hard against her, while all Joan wanted to do was to keep thrashing, until, until—

  She could not think until what, because her husband had gone still again, breathing hard, his arms wrapping Joan in a fierce embrace.

  “Good God, woman.” A hoarse, wondering endearment. “Good God Almighty.”

  Her body vibrated with longing, she was breathing hard, and her husband had subsided utterly.

  “Are you all right?” Because their previous attempts at marital intimacies had not been as athletic. “Dante? Is anything amiss?”

  “I am not all right. I am married.”

  “You sound pleased.” While Joan was bewildered, for surely this flustered, anxious, dissatisfied feeling was not marital bliss?

  “I am slain on the altar of your passions. Again, dammit. Joan, I’m sorry.”

  Naughty talk had served her much better than her husband’s silly poetry, for Joan’s passions left her with an inconvenient urge to weep.

  “I made free with your person, Husband.”

  “My early Christmas present, and yet, I sense your own efforts were not similarly rewarded.” He pushed her braid over her shoulder, a gentle touch that invited Joan to cuddle against him. “Talk to me, Joan. I left you hanging, didn’t I? I left you hanging again.”

  He was already threatening to slip from her body, and the sensation underscored a sense of emotional emptiness. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  And they would soon make a mess of her nightgown.

  “Here.” He snatched a handkerchief from the night table. “To catch my seed.”

  More vulgar talk, though not half so inspiring as his earlier pronouncements.

  “I don’t know as I’m fit for this aspect of being a wife.” She made use of his linen, and found some consolation curling onto his chest.

  “You are fit for this,” he said, patting her silk-clad bum in a manner that had to be husbandly. “You most assuredly are. The fault lies with me. My self-restraint is out of practice, but I’ll make amends. I promise I’ll make frequent, sincere amends. You deserve to find your pleasure, but I hadn’t expected such passion in a new wife. My delight renders me…incompetent. I’m sorry, and I’ll find my balance soon.”

  His apologies were heartfelt and comforting, though Joan still wasn’t exactly certain what he apologized for. Dante Hartwell was many things—honest, pragmatic, honorable, passionate, and hardworking—but incompetent was not among them.

  He continued to stroke her backside, which soothed the riot inside Joan, and yet, she fell asleep wondering: If she were honest with her new husband, if she confided her situation to him, and explained to him exactly how great a liability he’d taken on when he’d married her, would he have any interest in making those frequent, sincere amends?

  Would he have any interest in remaining married?

  ***

  “You allowed your sister to marry a man whose finances you hadn’t thoroughly investigated?”

  Asher MacGregor, Earl of Balfour, could not resist an opportunity to needle the oh-so-competent Tiberius Flynn, Earl of Spathfoy. Petty behavior, true, but Spathfoy was an English lord much in need of needling, and a host’s holiday generosity compelled Balfour to tend to the oversight.

  “I hadn’t time to investigate Hartwell’s finances,” Spathfoy said, tying a crooked pink bow on a sprig of greenery. “And though you Scots might do it differently, in England, a girl’s papa is the one looking over her suitors.”

  “I’ve found something at which you do not excel,” Balfour remarked, snatching the mistletoe from Spathfoy and untying the bow. “Who dresses you, Spathfoy? Your bows positively droop.”

  “My countess dresses me, and undresses me, and she has no complaints about anything drooping. Your bow isn’t much better than mine.”

  “Mine is jaunty, yours droops. Where shall we hang this?”

  “I don’t see why we’re the ones assigned this task,” Spathfoy groused, picking up another sheaf of mistletoe and choosing a red ribbon. “The footmen would be happy to take it on, and the maids would cheerfully direct them.”

  Balfour rose to poke up the fire in the library’s enormous hearth. “In the first place, the ladies assigned this task to us so we wouldn’t be underfoot in the kitchens. No less personage than the Duchess of Moreland has passed down her family recipe for some German sort of holiday cake, and nothing will do but Hannah must teach it to the ladies of the assemblage.”

  “So when are we to raid the kitchen?” This bow was no better than the last, though Spathfoy appeared to admire his own handiwork.

  “The stuff has to bake, Spathfoy.”

  “No, it does not. Have you never eaten cake batter, Balfour? Never dipped a larcenous finger in the sweet, creamy— You’re not tying your share, old man. Stop wandering about and get back over here.”

  Balfour heeded the scold because it was deserved. “More droopery. He can steal cake batter like a schoolboy, but a simple bow eludes him. What shall we do about Hartwell and your sister?”

  The only bows left were white, which meant they were reaching the end of this inane exercise.

  “I’ve threatened him with worse than ruin if he trifles with Joan’s affections. I think this is my best one yet.”

  “For God’s�
��” Balfour left off wrestling a sheaf of mistletoe and a ribbon that wouldn’t stay snug about the stems. “A charming effort. There’s hope for you, Spathfoy, and while I approve of some judicious threatening when it comes to one’s sisters’ suitors, I invited Hartwell here in part to explore some business opportunities with him.”

  A large, blunt, half-English finger came down on the half hitch of Asher’s bow. “It works better this way, though if you try to entrap my finger and take liberties with my person, my threats will all be reserved for you, Balfour.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m getting your countess eyeglasses for Christmas. You’d best enjoy her misguided attentions while you have them, Lord Droopy Bows.”

  “Hartwell strikes me as a good man,” Spathfoy said when Balfour’s bow—by far the best of a bad lot—was complete. “Prudent, hardworking, shrewd, devoted to his children. His sister approves of him.”

  And those last two attributes—devotion to children and a sister’s regard—would carry weight with Spathfoy, as well they should.

  “He has some odd notions,” Balfour said. Scottish notions, he suspected. “Rather than build up cash reserves, he’s paid down debt.”

  “Mortgages are available when cash is in short supply.” Spathfoy gathered up his pile of bound mistletoe, which—let it be noted—was about half the size of Balfour’s.

  “Mortgages are available when a business is on solid footing. When trouble strikes, nobody lends a bloody groat, regardless of how much sound management, potential profit, or equity remains to secure the loan. I say we hang some mistletoe in each bedroom.”

  “I hardly need mistletoe to undertake kissing in my own bedroom, Balfour. And if you do, then my profound condolences to your count—”

  Balfour tossed a bouquet of mistletoe and ribbon at Spathfoy’s chest. “You have no holiday spirit. Dickens wrote a story in which your sort figured prominently.”

  Spathfoy rose and deposited Balfour’s missile in a plain wooden crate piled high with beribboned greenery. “You’re saying Hartwell could use some investors.”

  “For an Englishman, you’re a quick study. Hartwell is now family to you, your sister’s welfare bound up with his. Before I involve myself, my brothers, or my brother-in-law in his business, I thought I’d give you the opportunity.”

  Spathfoy rooted through the mistletoe, selecting a fat bundle bound with red ribbon. “You were being polite, then, allowing me to bat first?”

  “What are you doing with that?”

  Rather than answer, Spathfoy leaped onto Balfour’s estate desk in a single athletic bound, nearly landing on a stack of bank drafts and correspondence. “Your countess will thank me.” He tied the mistletoe to a lamp hanging over the desk—tied it off center—then hopped down, nimble as a cat.

  “For an English galoot, you move quietly. And yes, I think you and your father ought to have first go at investing in Hartwell’s mills. He oversees them himself, lives within walking distance of them for much of the year, and employs mostly women.”

  Spathfoy stood back, hands on hips, surveying his feeble attempt at decoration. “I thought it was the hemp mills that restricted themselves to women.”

  “And the hemp mills have had a notable lack of unrest among their workers. Hartwell says women are more reliable, they drink less, they’re content with modest wages, and they do better fine work. Why in the bloody hell did you hang that over my desk? I’ll be interrupted the livelong day until the berries are all gone.”

  And Spathfoy would sneak down here in the dead of night to hang fresh mistletoe, until Balfour had been kissed to within an inch of his life.

  “I’m being generous,” Spathfoy said, picking up the box. “You’re Scottish, so generosity is a foreign concept to you. This way, you need only sit upon your lordly, kilted arse, looking conscientious and businesslike, and you’ll gather up kisses. Let’s be off, shall we? We have at least three dozen bundles yet to hang, and this is a large house.”

  “You’ll talk to Hartwell about his mills?” Because generosity was not a foreign concept to the Scots, and Balfour had once been a man with few supporters and many mouths to feed.

  “Come along, Balfour. The ladies are depending on us.”

  “I hate it when you’re coy, Spathfoy. It hardly becomes an Englishman of your self-importance.”

  “You’re just jealous.” Spathfoy moved toward the door, the pied piper of mistletoe. “I have consequence and dignity, and better than all that, I have strategy.”

  “You have a big, nattering English mouth. You’ll talk to Hartwell?”

  “I’ve invited MacMillan to join us for cards tonight, and my countess has taken Miss Hartwell under her wing. You and I are off to hang some mistletoe in the nursery.”

  Where Hartwell’s children were corrupting the youth of the Scottish Highlands, and likely aggravating a fat rabbit as well. Balfour followed his lordship into the chilly corridor, hustling to keep pace.

  “Our niece is in that nursery, Spathfoy. Fiona and her damned rabbit will tie us to the bookshelves and make us read fairy tales until spring, and Hartwell’s get will assist her.”

  “If I’m inclined to invest in Hartwell’s mills, that doesn’t preclude you from doing likewise, you know.”

  “You’d invest jointly with me?” The question had to be asked, though Spathfoy was fairly leaping up the stairs with his box of mistletoe.

  “I never said that, though I cannot speak for my father’s judgment in these matters—or my mother’s. They’re headstrong, those two. They consider you family, and try as I might, I cannot dissuade them from the notion. Mama’s Scottish antecedents might have something to do with her confusion.”

  Or with Spathfoy’s pride.

  They reached the floor upon which the nursery was located, as was made obvious by the boisterous rendition of “Silent Night” ringing down the hallway.

  “The children are in excellent voice,” Spathfoy remarked, heading for the nursery suite.

  “And the maids are likely half-swizzled.” Three-quarters, from the sounds of their caroling. “Why are we starting up here, Spathfoy? The footmen come up only to trim wicks, tend the grates, and deal with that damned rabbit. That mistletoe will go to waste.”

  “Frederick is a good fellow, Balfour—for a rabbit—and if you’re not a good earl, for Christmas I’ll find Frederick a lady rabbit to keep him company. I might anyway. A lonely rabbit is an offense against the natural order, according to my countess.”

  For God’s sake. The Lord of Misrule was making an early start on the season. “Have you been at the eggnog, Spathfoy? You’re taking this holiday spirit thing a wee bit too far.”

  Spathfoy paused outside the nursery suite door, while the children shifted into a version of “Greensleeves,” which had lyrics children ought not to be singing.

  “You don’t want to spend the morning hanging three-dozen sprigs of damned mistletoe any more than I do.”

  “Language, Spathfoy. We’re preparing to storm the nursery, after all.”

  “And likely to endure the kisses of the nursery maids.” Spathfoy did not exactly need to steel himself to make that sacrifice, judging from his piratical expression.

  “And we’ll kiss the little girls, and that damned rabbit, too, but why?”

  “So that when we turn to our next objective—the kitchens—we will have our reinforcements with us.”

  “Because,” Balfour said, helping himself to two sprigs of mistletoe, “if we have the children with us, nobody will be scolded for snitching batter or biscuits.”

  “Or for stealing kisses.”

  Fifteen

  To Hector’s surprise, cards among the wealthy and titled wasn’t much different from cards among the unwealthy and untitled. Men drank, they complained about the cards in their hands, they muttered about the other fellows having good luck, and bragged on their own skill.

  Earls, however, lamented not knowing what to give their countesses for a Christmas tok
en. They offered terse condolences to one another upon the misery of having a child in the nursery who was—sorry to hear it, laddie—teething.

  Or colicky.

  Balfour’s brothers had been at the table, along with Hector, Balfour, and Spathfoy. Connor MacGregor favored singing the old Highland ballads and lays to a teething child, and had gone so far as to share a few verses of a wee tune he’d devised for the very purpose.

  Gilgallon thought a child best soothed by slow rocking in a papa’s arms, while Ian MacGregor had found that reciting the 23rd Psalm had a calming effect—on the papa, if not the child.

  Mary Frances’s husband, Matthew Daniels, had said little, but had done considerable justice to the decanters.

  Daft, the lot of them, though Connor had a beautiful bass-baritone singing voice.

  Hector had excused himself as the hour approached midnight, having the sense that play would be for something other than farthing points in his absence.

  He made his way to the library, not only in search of a certain bonnie lassie awake past her bedtime, or not exclusively in search of her, but also because something had teased at the back of his mind, niggled, like a shutter banging somewhere distant in a big house on a windy day.

  The library was occupied, else there would have been no candles lit on the towering Christmas tree. The entire room smelled like a German forest—brisk, piney, and cozy at the same time.

  “You’ll ruin your eyes, Margaret Hartwell.” But what a lovely picture she made, curled in one corner of the sofa, her feet tucked under her, a book open on her lap.

  “I’m not reading.” She uncurled and stretched, which made her bodice seams strain. “I was thinking. You’ve been excused from the card table?”

  She was less fussy around him since they’d shared a kiss. Hector’s purpose for visiting the library had been to root around on the vast desk, because he had a sense some document or other wanted sending to Aberdeen, or some memo hadn’t been forwarded to its proper destination.