The silence stretched maddeningly between them. “I imagine that you find the public coaches very dirty, Your Grace,” Lisette said.
“I find traveling very dirty regardless of the coach, Miss Bonnaud.” He dried his hands, then faced her, leaning back against the sturdy bureau that held the wash basin and crossing his arms over his chest.
His unreadable stare made her feel the first tendrils of alarm.
“It is, that’s true.” She walked over to her bag and opened it, determined to appear as nonchalant as he.
“That was a very enlightening performance you put on in the carriage,” he said at last. “I was impressed.”
She didn’t suppose “Thank you” was the appropriate answer. “You pushed me into a corner,” she said defensively. “I didn’t have a choice. We agreed that I would help you find Tristan if you would let me go along. You couldn’t expect me to jeopardize his safety by telling you too soon where he is.”
She shot him a veiled glance. Her voice had grown stronger the longer she talked, but it didn’t seem to change his stance any. He just kept staring at her with a piercing gaze. An oddly compelling gaze.
It was most unsettling. “Because you know very well,” she went on, “that the minute I do, you’ll abandon me and go off on your own.”
“True.”
She gaped at him. He hadn’t even bothered to deny it. “Well, I can’t have that. I have to protect my brother.”
“Do you?” He pushed away from the bureau. “I begin to think you have a darker goal.”
That took her completely by surprise. “Darker goal?” she asked, her blood freezing in her veins.
“When I first met you, I assumed you weren’t part of his scheme. But your play-acting today proved that you are masterful at pretense. How do I know that our entire conversation this morning wasn’t a pretense? That you aren’t leading me away from London at this very moment for some devious purpose?”
Devious purpose? Masterful at pretense? He thought she was some sort of swindler! “That’s a vile accusation! I would never do such a thing!”
“And why should I believe you?” He strode nearer, his face dark with threat. “You’ve proved yourself very good at dissembling. For all I know, you and your brother cooked up this plan together.”
“B-But why? Why would I do that?”
“That’s what I want to know.” He loomed over her. “I ought to have you tossed in the gaol until you tell me the truth.”
“Because I cry well?” she squeaked.
“Because you are attempting to defraud me,” he said in an ominous tone.
He was going to throw her in irons, just because she could do some acting in a pinch!
“I swear I’m not doing any such thing,” she said, her heart in her throat. “You know why I insisted on your taking me with you. You do! I don’t know where you’ve got this daft idea that I’m some swindler, but nothing could be further from—”
He started laughing. She gaped at him, now all at sea.
That merely made him laugh harder, and he gasped, “You’re not . . . the only one . . . good at pretense.”
And suddenly she understood. This was revenge for her play-acting this afternoon.
Planting her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “You are a horrible, horrible man! How dare you terrify me like that? Why, I ought to —”
He dropped onto the settee, laughing so hard he could scarcely speak. “If you . . . could only have seen . . . your face . . . when I mentioned . . . gaol . . .”
She walked up to hit him on the arm. “That was not remotely amusing!”
“I . . . beg to . . . disagree . . .” he choked out, holding his stomach in mirth.
Glowering at him, she strode over to the ewer, brought it back, and poured its contents on his head.
He jumped up off the settee, sputtering, “What the devil was that for?”
“For making me think you were going to pack me off to gaol, you . . . you . . . oaf!”
“Oaf?” he said as he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his face. “That’s the best you can do?”
She narrowed her gaze to slits. “Cretin. Devil. Arse.”
He smirked at her. “Careful now. Aren’t you supposed to be a respectable married lady?”
“You nearly gave me heart failure!”
“You deserved it, after all that crying and nonsense.” He mimicked her. “M-My brother was right. I sh-should never have m-married you!”
Tossing the empty ewer onto the settee, she crossed her arms over her chest. “The words might have been feigned, but the sentiment is still valid.”
“It wasn’t my idea to do this,” he reminded her.
“And it wasn’t my idea to pose as a married couple. Thank God that’s pretend.” She headed for the other room.
“Oh yes,” he said irritably as he followed close behind her. “You would hate being married to a wealthy duke who could buy you whatever you wanted and show you the world you so obviously crave to see.”
That he had noticed her love of travel vexed her immensely. She whirled on him in a temper. “I would hate being married to any man who would own me. Who would want to tell me what to do, when to do it, how to do it, and with whom. No thank you.”
He slicked back his wet hair. “Is that really how you see marriage?”
“As a prison for women? Yes.”
“And you see no advantage in it,” he said as he came right up to her.
“None.”
“What about children?”
“My mother had two. She wasn’t married.” Though Lisette would never follow that example, she wasn’t about to admit it to His High-and-Mighty Grace.
He lifted one imperious brow. “And you ended up in poverty as a result.”
“So did my half-brother, and he is legitimate. The fact is, in this country, unless you’re the eldest, you inherit at the whim of your father. Marriage is no protection against that, especially if a woman is marrying far above her, as Dom’s mother did.”
“What about companionship?” he prodded.
“I have two brothers who will never abandon me. That’s companionship enough for me.”
“And love?” he asked softly. “What about that?”
She glanced away, not wanting him to see her ambivalence on that subject. “Love is the chain men use to hold a woman prisoner. They offer her love and in exchange for her devotion, they give her none. I learned that well from my mother’s example.” Forcing a bright smile to her face, she met his gaze once more. “So you see, Your Grace, I find no advantages to be had in marriage.”
“You’re forgetting one more,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“Desire.”
She fought a shiver at his provocative tone. She hadn’t forgotten that one. She’d ignored it. “Desire is only an advantage for the man.” She’d been telling herself that for years, but it somehow rang hollow when she said it to him.
“You can’t be that naive.” His voice was now a low thrum. “Surely your mother enjoyed her nights in your father’s arms.”
“I wouldn’t know. Maman didn’t talk about such things.” Her mother had been determined to act respectably outside the bedchamber, probably thinking that it would convince Papa to marry her. Obviously it hadn’t worked.
“And you? No man has ever tempted you with desire?”
Not to any great extent. Until he had come along. And she wasn’t about to admit that to him. “No.”
Something flickered in his face. The thrill of a challenge? Or something darker, more visceral? “Then it’s about bloody time someone did.”
He grasped her face between his hands and sealed his lips to hers.
Acknowledgments
First, to my critique partners, Rexanne Becnel and Deb Marlowe, thank you for always knowing what’s wrong even when I can’t put my finger on it. And Deb, thank you for finding the secret door e
ven when I painted myself into a plot corner!
Thank you, Becky Timblin and Kim Ham, for keeping me sane during the months and months of insanity.
This book wouldn’t even have been conceived without my agent, Pamela Ahearn, who has always encouraged me to push beyond my comfort zone.
And I can’t do anything without my wonderful editor, Micki Nuding, who didn’t even blink when I said I needed another month to finish. Thanks, Micki, for understanding that sometimes characters need time to come into fruition.
Most of all, thanks to Rene for enduring all the chaos with stoic grace. You’re the best!
SABRINA JEFFRIES is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Royal Brotherhood trilogy, the School for Heiresses series, and the Hellions of Halstead Hall series. The winner of numerous awards, she also headlined the novella collection The School for Heiresses and contributed to the holiday anthology Snowy Night with a Stranger. She lives in North Carolina with her husband and son.
Visit her website at www.SabrinaJeffries.com.
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JACKET ILLUSTRATION BY ALAN AYERS
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AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH © JESSI BLAKELY FOR TAMARA LACKEY PHOTOGRAPHY
COPYRIGHT © 2012 SIMON & SCHUSTER
Also by Sabrina Jeffries
The Hellions of Halstead Hall Series
A LADY NEVER SURRENDERS
TO WED A WILD LORD
HOW TO WOO A RELUCTANT LADY
A HELLION IN HER BED
THE TRUTH ABOUT LORD STONEVILLE
The School for Heiresses Series
WED HIM BEFORE YOU BED HIM
DON’T BARGAIN WITH THE DEVIL
SNOWY NIGHT WITH A STRANGER
(with Jane Feather and Julia London)
LET SLEEPING ROGUES LIE
BEWARE A SCOT’S REVENGE
THE SCHOOL FOR HEIRESSES
(with Julia London, Liz Carlyle & Renee Bernard)
ONLY A DUKE WILL DO
NEVER SEDUCE A SCOUNDREL
The Royal Brotherhood Series
ONE NIGHT WITH A PRINCE
TO PLEASURE A PRINCE
IN THE PRINCE’S BED
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Deborah Gonzales
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books hardcover edition October 2012
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Designed by Davina Mock-Maniscalco
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jeffries, Sabrina.
’Twas the night after Christmas / Sabrina Jeffries.—1st Gallery Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Nobility—England—Fiction. 2. Mothers and sons—Fiction. 3. Reconciliation—Fiction. 4. Widows—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.E39T93 2012
813′.6—dc22
2012015020
ISBN 978-1-4516-4246-9
ISBN 978-1-4516-4250-6 (ebook)
’Twas the Night After Christmas Page 28