He tried to disguise his interest in Viola. She sat next to Lady Sophronia, watching as the other guests laughed and danced. Wes asked Lady Alexandra to partner him first, and then Lady Serena. Both were excellent dancers, but he barely registered a moment of it. He was only biding his time.
After two exuberant airs, someone called out to Miss Penworth to play a more sedate country dance so they might catch their breath. Wes seized his chance and approached the settee.
“May I have this dance, ma’am?”
Lady Sophronia’s eyes gleamed as she looked him up and down. “If I would grant anyone a dance, it would be you, Winterton. But I haven’t danced since Frederick, my fourth fiancé. He was the finest dancer, and spoiled me for every other partner.”
Wes grinned and turned to Viola. “I’m sure I could never live up to him. Perhaps Mrs. Cavendish will step out with me, then?”
“Go on, Viola,” said Sophronia, wonderful woman. “Dance with the man.”
She took his hand, and Wes felt a charge leap up his arm. She gave him a smile, and it was as though the sun had come out. They took their places and he barely remembered what steps to do.
There was no real chance of conversation. Wes was content to gaze at her when they separated. With her dark hair piled up on top of her head and her green eyes alight with happiness, she was entrancing. Every time they clasped hands, her gaze met his, warm and deep and smiling, and he could hardly breathe from how much he wanted her.
When the dance finally ended, he was both relieved and annoyed. Relieved because it ended the torment of watching her without being able to speak to her. Annoyed because now he didn’t even have an excuse to watch her. She moved among the guests with quiet grace, suggesting the next dance, helping turn the pages for Miss Penworth, graciously accepting Lord Gosling’s invitation to dance. Wes’s gaze followed her helplessly around the room, like a smitten boy’s. Everything seemed right when she was around—not only because she had a way of putting everyone at ease, not only because her good cheer never wavered, but because she was the most sensible person Wes had ever met.
After a decade of traveling around the world, Wes had a deep appreciation for people who were able to get things done without fuss or drama. Viola seemed to think of everything and took care of problems before they even happened. The one lapse, Lady Alexandra’s stolen kiss with Justin, had happened because he lured her away from the party. Otherwise… every arrangement had been pitch perfect. He could tell Lady Serena was somewhat overwhelmed by the demands of being hostess, and Lady Sophronia simply didn’t care to mind the details. It was Viola who recognized that Miss Penworth’s fingers were growing tired, that Lady Sophronia had nodded once too often, that Lady Bridget was drooping in her chair, and murmured a word in Lady Serena’s ear that it was time to end the evening.
Back in his room after everyone had gaily bid the others Happy Christmas and good night—for it was Christmas Eve—he stared into the fire crackling in his hearth, unable to sleep. Was she still working, arranging things for everyone tomorrow? After which she would quietly withdraw into the background, when she deserved to be celebrated as the mastermind of the entire party. Was she enjoying a little sip of port, her mouth rosy and shiny from the wine as she contemplated her work? Had anyone told her how invaluable she was, or how thankful they were she was there?
It was beginning to bother Wes that she was neither hostess nor guest, neither family nor servant, yet everything seemed to rest on her shoulders. Someone ought to thank her, and show appreciation for her unfailing good humor, grace, and charm. Someone ought to make sure she had a happy Christmas, when she had done so much to make it happy for the rest of them.
He wanted her to feel treasured and appreciated. Not only for the way she saw to everyone else’s comfort and amusement, but for the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed. For the way she took everything with such good humor and grace. And for the starry look in her eyes when she was well kissed.
He jumped up from the chair and strode to the wardrobe. After a minute of rummaging, he found what he sought. It wasn’t much, but he thought she might understand.
His heartbeat seemed to boom in his ears as he made his way through the quiet castle. It was late, nearing midnight. It was almost Christmas Day. When he reached her door, he tapped very lightly and held his breath, waiting.
The first thought through his brain when she opened the door was that her hair was down. It reached below her shoulders, one long curl lying on her breast. Wes’s eyes fixed on that curl, on that plump swell of flesh, and his mouth went dry.
The second thought through his brain was that she was in her dressing gown and nightdress.
“Wes,” she said softly, and he jerked his eyes up. “What—?”
He cleared his throat. “May I come in?” Her lips parted—damn, how her mouth entranced him. “I have a gift for you,” he added.
She blushed the most endearing shade of pink. “Oh no, that’s not necessary.”
Wes’s lips quirked. “Please.”
She let him in and closed the door. Without comment he handed her his travel atlas. Viola looked up at him, startled.
“It’s not much,” he said apologetically. “I’ve had it with me for years. When I am away from England, it reminds me of home, and when I am in England, it’s got splendid maps.”
“It’s yours? You must keep it—”
“I want you to have it.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. “It also has descriptions and engravings of scenic vistas all over England and Scotland, so you may see a bit of the world even if you never go beyond Kingstag Castle.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Happy Christmas.”
Her face went still as she gazed at the book, letting it fall open to an engraving of the cliffs at Dover. Then she looked up at him. There was a lovely flush on her cheekbones, and he could feel her every breath. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
His body roared to life, desire pulsing through him like a tidal wave. Before she could say more he kissed her softly, then harder as her hand went up his chest, around his neck, into his hair.
Every thought fled Viola’s brain except the smell and taste and heat of him. Wes pressed her back up against the wall and let his hands roam over her waist, her hips, up to her breasts. She sucked in her breath as his thumb went over her nipple. Wes paused, giving her a searing glance. It was all Viola could do to nod; yes, she wanted to say, more.
He’d brought her a gift, one of his own atlases. She was still clutching it, the worn leather smooth and soft. Normally she and Stephen exchanged small gifts, or at least a letter, but the snow had kept the mail coach from Kingstag for days. The Duchess of Wessex always gave the staff generous gifts, but Viola knew to expect the same thing the housekeeper would receive. Only Wes had given her something personal, something very dear and valuable to him and therefore wonderful to her. She’d never had her own atlas, nor any need for one. Only Wes looked at her as Viola, who yearned to see the world, not merely the secretary who made everything run smoothly. Only Wes…
Looked at her as if she were beautiful and fascinating.
Do not be afraid to seize happiness, echoed the dowager’s voice in her head. Viola knew she should be afraid. Not only because he was an earl and she was practically a servant, not only because an affair could cause her to become an unemployed almost-servant, but because Wes could break her heart. Somewhere in the last several days she’d gone and fallen in love with him, with his laughing blue eyes and droll sense of humor and wonderful wicked hands, which were currently exploring her body with exquisite effect.
But instead of choosing the prudent course, she dropped the atlas on the sofa beside her and clung to him, kissing him back with every fiber of her being. Being busy from morning to night as the duchess’s secretary hadn’t made her forget what it was like to want a man, to be wanted and held and loved by a man.
“Viola,” he breathed next to her ear, “I want to make love to you so
desperately…” His hand cupped her breast, a heady sensation through the soft linen of her dressing gown.
She wasn’t afraid. She wanted to seize happiness. Even if just this once, she wanted to feel loved by him. She bit his earlobe gently, making him shudder, and whispered, “Please do.”
His hands shook as he unbuttoned her nightgown until it gaped open to her belly. She leaned her head back against the wall, breathing unevenly as he drew the sturdy linen apart, baring her to him. Her pulse felt like a drumbeat between her legs.
“Such beauty,” he whispered, his fingers tracing her collarbone. “Such sweetness.” His touch drifted lower, swirling over her breast. Viola moaned. “Such passion.” He brushed her ribs and Viola quivered. “Viola, I…”
She made her eyes focus on him. His hair was wild—from her hands—and his eyes burned as blue as flame. A fine sheen of sweat covered his brow, and he was breathing even harder than she was. “Take off your clothes,” she said.
He blinked, and a wicked grin curved his mouth. Without a word he stripped off his dressing gown, his waistcoat, his cravat. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers, then pulled the shirt over his head. Viola’s throat closed up as he shed his undergarments to stand before her completely nude.
The Earl of Winterton was magnificent, lean and strong and bronzed all over. Only one part of him was untouched by the sun, and her gazed fixed on it. His erection stood straight and thick, and the pulsing between her legs grew stronger.
“May I?” Unabashed at her staring, he fingered the edges of her nightgown. Viola managed to nod, and he slid the garment off her shoulders. “May I?” he whispered again, his hands sliding around her hips. Again she nodded, and he lifted her against him. She put her arms around his neck and hiked her legs around his waist, and he carried her through the open door into her bedroom and rolled them both onto the bed.
He drove her wild with light, teasing touches, then firmer strokes that made her twist and writhe in his arms. He kissed her everywhere, his mouth hot and potent. Viola was the one who finally reached between them and wrapped her hand around his erection. “I want you,” she gasped breathlessly. “Wes.”
Wes moved over her. His arms bulged as her hand slid up and down his length. Her body humming, Viola guided him between her legs and hooked one leg over his hip. His entire body was taut, and she thought she might burst into flames if he didn’t take her then.
He pressed inside, making her gasp. He slid almost out and licked his thumb. “You’re so beautiful,” he rasped. “I’m about to spend myself just looking at you.” He touched her as he slid deep again. Viola arched off the mattress and gripped handfuls of the linens.
Again Wes pulled back. “Open your eyes.” His voice had gone ragged. His body was shaking. Viola forced open her eyes and saw that his face was tight with strain. “I want to see the moment when you find your pleasure…” He stroked again, his hips moving in slow, hard time with his thumb. Viola stared into his eyes until she couldn’t, until the waves of climax made her vision go dark and her body convulsed. She clutched at him and he thrust hard and deep as he kissed her. Dimly she felt him shudder in his own release, but he kept kissing her until she felt soft and exhausted.
“Viola,” he murmured as he nuzzled her ear. “I want to stay the night with you.”
So he could make love to her again. So she could make love to him, and wake up with his arms around her. Viola gave a sleepy smile. “Please do.”
Chapter Ten
Viola had never had a happier Christmas Day.
She woke with Wes stretched out in her bed, looking down at her with a wicked smile. He made love to her again, and only left when the full light of day shone through the small window.
Breakfast was quiet. Withers told her the Cavendish girls had gone to eat with their mother in her apartment, and the other guests were sleeping late. She drank her tea leisurely, wallowing in the memory of every wicked, sensual thing Wes had done.
The rest of the day passed much the same way. Bridget cajoled everyone into one last rehearsal for the play, and dictated several notes for improvement to Viola, but the sun had come out and the young people wanted to go outside. It was cold and bright, and before long the company was throwing snowballs at each other, the ladies shrieking in glee and the gentlemen roaring about battlefield honor and glory. Lord Gosling took a large snowball to the face and Bridget laughed so hard she went head over heels backward into a snowdrift. Lady Alexandra threw one at Lord Newton, who seemed to enjoy it very much. By then Miss Penworth and Lady Jane had dug a hollow under a tree, and began throwing snow at everyone from the safety of their fort. Viola managed to hit Wes in the shoulder with a snowball, and in retaliation he chased her into the garden, out of sight of everyone, and kissed her among the snow-covered rosebushes.
Tonight Viola was invited to dine with the guests. She wore her best green gown and her mother’s pearls, and felt Wes’s admiring gaze as if it were a physical touch. When he tapped lightly at her door late that night, she was waiting, ready to spend another night in his arms.
Boxing Day brought a return of duty for Viola. Lady Charlotte Ascot finally arrived, after being snowed in at a roadside inn. The dowager was well enough to come down, swathed in shawls, to present the servants their gifts and thank them. Viola accepted her gifts happily—a length of blue silk, oranges from the hothouse, and five gold guineas—and belatedly sat down to write her brother a letter. She had to share her happiness about Wes with Stephen.
It led to a surprising discovery.
She found Wes in the billiard room with his nephew and some other gentlemen. When he caught sight of her he put down his cue stick and excused himself.
“Come with me.” She took his hand. “I want to show you something.”
He raised his brows but came with her willingly. Viola led him to the duke’s study, quiet and hushed in His Grace’s absence. She felt a frisson of nerves just entering the room; normally Mr. Martin came to her when she needed to know something about the duke, to tell the duchess or arrange the calendar. But sometimes she had cause to enter here, as she had earlier today.
“I had to fetch more quills,” she said as she closed the door carefully behind them. “Mr. Martin, His Grace’s secretary, keeps a supply of the best ones in his desk.” She nodded at Mr. Martin’s desk in the far corner of the room. “And while I was here, I took the very smallest peek at the shelves. Guess what I discovered?”
Wes’s face blanked. “Do you mean—?”
Flushed with eagerness, she nodded. “The Desnos atlas. At least, I believe it is so. It was put away with the other books.” She went to the shelves beside Mr. Martin’s desk and took out the book she’d seen earlier. “Only you can say for certain.” She brought the book to the duke’s wide desk and laid it flat.
There was a haunted hunger in Wes’s face as he opened the cover. It was not a terribly large book, but it was bound in fine old leather, the titles stamped in gilt. Viola watched his fingers caress the binding, lingering on a small crease near the spine. “It’s very like my father’s,” he murmured. Reverently he opened it, turning a few pages.
“A map of the new world.” His finger barely touched the page as he indicated the illustrations. “These were the maps that sent me off to read journals of explorers, and to scalp Anne’s doll.” He turned another page. “And here—star charts to navigate by! I should have studied these more closely, to be able to discuss them intelligently with you.” Viola felt a burst of pleasure at his words. He turned more pages, scrutinizing some in silence and exclaiming over others.
Through it all his enthusiasm for travel shone through. He would pause and relate some story of his travels to India, and to Caribbean islands where pirates roamed. Only when he turned to the end of the book did words fail him. The last two dozen or so pages were covered with close-written notes. Wes’s face went still.
“Is it his writing?” Viola ventured.
Silently he nodd
ed, reading.
She slipped her hand into his. It must be bittersweet, to see his father’s journal entries in the back of the atlas and know he couldn’t have it. This was indeed the atlas the Duke of Wessex had purchased for the duchess.
After several minutes he closed the book, giving the cover one last brush of his hand. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps His Grace will be moved by your story,” she said.
Wes smiled wryly and shook his head. “Perhaps.” He pulled her into his arms. “You found it and gave me a chance to see it again. Thank you.”
“I wanted you to see it and know it wasn’t lost.” She glanced at the atlas in apology. “Even if His Grace won’t part with it.”
Wes looked at her for a long moment. “You,” he said at last, “are extraordinary.”
“No,” she scoffed. “Very ordinary.”
“Not remotely,” he whispered, and kissed her. She placed her palms on his chest and went up on her toes, kissing him back. She might not be extraordinary, but this—this deep-seated contentment and awe at the way he felt and the way he made her feel—this love was the most dazzlingly extraordinary thing she’d ever experienced. Whatever happened later, she would have this moment of true joy and love to remember.
“What the devil?” said a terribly familiar voice. Viola froze, her eyes flying open. Wes raised his head, and as one they turned toward the door.
The Duke of Wessex stood framed in the doorway. As Viola watched, stricken, Mr. Martin peeped around the duke’s shoulder before immediately retreating.
Oh dear heavens. She took a step backward and pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. His face as grim as a thundercloud, Wessex strode across the room. “Winterton, I presume.”
Wes bowed. “At your serv—”
The duke shoved him backward. “How dare you. Mrs. Cavendish is our cousin.”
Wes’s eyes flew to Viola, who shook her head mutely. “I meant no offense, sir.”
At the Christmas Wedding Page 11