The Heart of Christmas

by Nicola Cornick; Courtney Milan Mary Balogh

“You look as though you have chewed on a piece of lemon peel,” Juliana said, slipping her arm through Clara’s and guiding her toward the rout chairs at the end of the room. “It is Sebastian Fleet, I suppose. You never quite managed to cure yourself of that affliction, did you, Clara?”

  Clara bit her lip. She had not realized her preference for Fleet’s company was still so obvious after she had spent so much time and effort in trying to appear indifferent. But Juliana’s eyes were kind so Clara shook her head ruefully and admitted the problem. “I fear not. I have tried, but I cannot help my feelings.”

  “Ah, feelings.” Juliana’s lips curved into a smile and Clara knew she was thinking of Martin. “What a blight they can be. No, there is absolutely no point in fighting how you feel.”

  “I thought,” Clara said, “that you disapproved of my tendre for the Duke of Fleet?”

  “I did,” Juliana said cheerfully. “I do. One cannot approve of Fleet. He is too old for you, he is too experienced and he is too much of a rake.”

  Clara sighed. She knew Juliana was right, but in some deep and stubbornly instinctive way she believed that she was the right woman for Sebastian Fleet. She had always believed it, but his rejection of her had made her falter and question her conviction.

  “I do not wish you to be hurt, Clara,” Juliana said. “Fleet has had years of practice in keeping intimacy at bay. I understand because I did the same thing myself.”

  “And Martin helped you to see that it need not be so,” Clara reasoned.

  “That is true. But that does not mean the same thing will happen for you.” Juliana touched her hand briefly. “I am sorry, Clara. I want to help you—to save you the hurt.” She shot a glance over Clara’s shoulder. “Fleet is here now. Do you need a little time?”

  Clara cast one swift glance toward the door then shook her head rapidly. “I am very well. I know you only mean to help me, Ju.”

  Juliana nodded and squeezed her arm, then they both turned to watch the Duke of Fleet approach. There was a prickle along Clara’s skin, a mixture of fear and anticipation. He looked so autocratic, so easily in command.

  Fleet had bumped into Martin in his journey across the room. Clara observed that Martin had managed to forget the refreshments. No doubt he had been distracted by some political discussion and had completely forgotten his original errand. She shook her head slightly.

  The two men were coming toward them, deep in conversation. Juliana was beaming with a smile of warm pleasure as her husband approached her and Clara felt a pang of envy that she could not repress. She longed for such intimacy with Sebastian, but that was much more than he was prepared to give her.

  Even so, she was scarcely indifferent to him. There was something about the way he moved that made the breath lock in her chest. She could swear her knees were trembling a little.

  The duke had seen her now. He had also apparently noticed that a couple of gentlemen were hastening toward her, determined to get there before he did. A smile touched the corner of his mouth. The expression in his blue eyes made Clara feel ridiculously hot and bothered. She felt as though his gaze were stripping her naked. Damn the man. How could he work such mischief across a crowded ballroom?

  Fleet had caught up to the two young men, Lords Elton and Tarver, and had diverted them from their original course toward Clara by grasping their arms, bending to have a word in their ears and then sending them packing in no uncertain terms. Clara’s lips thinned. Though she had not particularly wished to be importuned by either Elton or Tarver, nor had she a need for Fleet to play the high-handed protector. Especially when she had earlier rejected his offer of help.

  Fleet was upon them now. He bowed, first to Lady Juliana, then to Clara.

  “How do you do, Lady Juliana, Miss Davencourt? It is a pleasure to see you this evening.”

  A faint smile curved Juliana’s lips. “Thank you, Fleet. How pretty of you. Now, I sense you want something. How may we help you?”

  Clara could sense Fleet watching her. She turned away and pretended a complete lack of interest. Surely there was some fascinating event occurring on the other side of the dance floor that she could focus upon…. Fleet took her hand. Her pulse jumped. He was smiling, very sure of himself.

  “I was hoping you would grant me the pleasure of a dance, Miss Davencourt.”

  Lady Juliana was looking pointedly at their clasped hands. Fleet let go of Clara and she gave him a look of limpid innocence.

  “I beg your pardon, your grace, but I do not dance this evening.”

  Both Fleet and Juliana looked startled.

  “You do not dance tonight!” Fleet sounded thoughtful and not in the least put out. “How very dull for you to attend a ball and not indulge in the dancing.”

  Clara smiled. “I have no wish to indulge with you, your grace. You must forgive me. Pleasant as it is to see you, I told you earlier that I was not in need of your escort.”

  She sensed both Juliana’s amusement and Fleet’s chagrin, although he did not permit any expression to mar his features. Instead, he turned to Lady Juliana.

  “If you were to recommend me as a suitable partner, ma’am, Miss Davencourt might be persuaded to relent.”

  Clara’s lips twitched. She had to concede that it was clever of him to try an approach through Juliana but she was fairly certain her sister-in-law would not let her down.

  Juliana laughed. “I cannot recommend you as suitable in any way, Fleet, at least not to a respectable young lady.”

  Fleet gave Clara a rueful smile that nevertheless held a hint of some other, more disturbing emotion in its depths. It promised retribution.

  “Then if you will not consider me suitable, Lady Juliana,” Fleet continued, “pray take pity on me.”

  Juliana flicked an imaginary speck from her skirts with disdainful fingers. “Pointless to appeal to my sense of pity, Fleet. You know I have none.”

  “I know your husband intends to dance with you, Lady Juliana,” Fleet said, watching Martin finish his conversation with an acquaintance and make haste to join them. “A pity that Miss Davencourt denies herself—and me—a like privilege.”

  Juliana’s whole face lit up at the sight of her husband. “When you are married, Fleet, then you may have the privilege of dancing with your wife. For now it is Miss Davencourt’s right to deny a suitor if she chooses and she is weary of rakes. I suggest that you nurse your disappointment in the card room. Clara?”

  Clara inclined her head. “Lady Juliana is in the right of it, your grace. I shall bid you good evening.”

  Fleet bowed gracefully. “Then I shall take you at your word. Good night, Lady Juliana, Miss Davencourt.”

  He went without a backward glance.

  Clara watched him go. The lowering thing was that he radiated such indifference. She wished she had not given in to the childish impulse to thwart him. It was not that she wished to dance with either Lord Elton or Lord Tarver, but she had wanted to make that choice for herself. Once Fleet had dismissed them and presented himself as substitute she had vowed to reject him.

  “A word of warning,” Juliana said, turning back to Clara for a moment as Martin urged her toward the dancing. “Do not make a habit of playing these games with the Duke of Fleet. He made the game when you were still in the schoolroom.”

  “I think Clara was quite right to turn Fleet down,” Martin said unexpectedly. “He can do nothing to enhance a lady’s reputation.”

  “No, dear,” Juliana said with an affectionate smile, “but as usual you have no notion of what is really going on.” She led her spouse away to join the set that was forming for the quadrille.

  He made the game…

  Clara shivered a little. Fleet had told her that very morning he was no ordinary rake. She must be mad.

  Everyone else was dancing and Clara realized she was the only girl left sitting out. It was not something that happened often, but whatever Fleet said to Elton and Tarver had evidently made the rounds, for although plenty of gentleme
n were looking in her direction, none were making any move to engage her. How exceedingly annoying. Clara’s exasperation with the Duke of Fleet grew stronger. Some of the debutantes were smiling behind their fans, clearly delighted the prettiest girl in the room was partnerless for once. Clara gritted her teeth. She would not stay to be laughed at. She would have to make a strategic retreat to the ladies’ withdrawing room.

  It felt like an unconscionably long time that she lurked in the shadows, pinning and repinning her silver brooch, tidying her already immaculate hair and smoothing her dress. Eventually she was so bored she could bear it no longer. She stalked out into the corridor wondering whether Juliana and Martin had concluded their dance and would provide her with some company.

  The corridor was dark and quiet. Sprigs of holly and mistletoe adorned the walls here, as well, between the flaring lanterns. There was a scent of pine and citrus in the air, a smell so nostalgic of Christmases past that Clara paused for a moment and breathed in the heady scent, smiling. She was thinking of Christmas at Davencourt, when a door on her right opened abruptly and the Duke of Fleet stepped out directly in front of her.

  “At last,” he said. “I have been waiting for you.”

  SEB FLEET HAD BROKEN both his resolutions for the evening within two minutes of stepping inside Lady Cardace’s ballroom. His plan to tell Martin he had changed his mind about being godfather to the twins fell at the first hurdle when his friend greeted him with such delight that Fleet found himself unable to disappoint him. He might have despised himself for such sentimental weakness—it was an affliction that he had not suffered previously—but then he caught sight of Clara and all other thoughts fled his mind.

  Clara had long ago ceased to wear the white muslin of the very young debutante and tonight she was in a gown of delicate pale green. It swathed her soft curves with the sort of cunning elegance that accentuated rather than hid the body beneath. Her fine blond hair was swept up to reveal the tender line of her neck. She was smiling at something Juliana was saying. She looked radiant; Fleet felt it like a punch in the stomach. He vaguely remembered that he had resolved to avoid Clara that evening.

  He had stopped, stared, and barely been able to conceal from Martin the fact that he was profoundly, outrageously, attracted to his sister. Then he had seen Elton and Tarver heading in the same direction with seemingly much the same thoughts as his own, and had ruthlessly stepped in to tell them that he was Miss Davencourt’s escort that night unless they wished to challenge his right. Neither of them had done so.

  He felt an almost uncontrollable compulsion to kiss her, to claim her, before the assembled company. The impulse appalled and excited him more than any other emotion he had ever experienced. Only the thinnest shred of self-control prevented him. Public response to such behavior would be to hound him into marriage or be cast out. So his desire for Miss Clara Davencourt would remain unslaked. Except…

  Except that he could not resist. Part of a successful rake’s strategy, of course, was cold calculation. He needed to be in control at all times. Seb Fleet had lost his control where Clara Davencourt was concerned. And now he had her where he wanted her.

  Clara had stopped dead when she saw him. In the second it took for her to recover from her surprise, Fleet leaned one hand against the wall, pinning her between his body and the door.

  This was dangerous and foolhardy, but he felt an exhilaration that brooked no refusal. A strand of honey-colored hair had loosened from its clasp and lay against her cheek, heavy and smooth. He raised one hand to touch it and felt her jump. Her eyes were huge and dark in the shadows of the hall. When she spoke her voice was shaky and he felt a powerful rush of conquest.

  “What do you mean when you say that you were waiting for me? You were playing cards.”

  Fleet shook his head. “I merely wanted you to think that.”

  There was silence between them. He kept her trapped between him and the door, so close he could feel the warmth of her body through the thin muslin of her gown. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her ear. She jumped again and the response caused a jolt through his own body.

  “Do not…” Her words were a whisper.

  “I was intending to have you all to myself,” Fleet said softly. “I knew you would not stay alone in the ballroom when you were devoid of admirers—what lady would expose herself to such humiliation? So I merely waited for you here.”

  He saw her expression change to anger.

  “How conceited you are!” she exclaimed. “First you abandon me in the ballroom and then you presume you may pick up with me again whenever it suits you!”

  Again she saw him smile. “I did not abandon you, Miss Davencourt. You rejected me.”

  She bit her lip. “Most gentlemen can comprehend a simple refusal, your grace.”

  “Alas, I have always been slower to understand than most.” His breath stirred a tendril of her hair. The curve of her cheek was achingly sweet and the pure line of her jaw so tempting that he wanted to bury his face in its curve and breathe in the warm, feminine scent of her skin. His body tightened unbearably.

  She turned her head slightly toward him. Their lips were no more than an inch apart now.

  She whispered, “I have something to tell you, your grace.”

  Excitement kicked through his body. He could feel the caress of her breath against his cheek. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and he almost groaned aloud to see it.

  “You told me this morning that a lady should always be aware of her surroundings in order to thwart the evil plans of a rake.” She raised her gaze to meet his. “I wanted to show you that I have taken you at your word. Good night.”

  He thought he had her trapped, but now he realized she had had one hand behind her back from the very beginning of their encounter. Indeed, he could read the triumph in her eyes. There was the softest of clicks as the doorknob turned in her palm. She gave him a smile that was pure provocation, stepped back into the ballroom and closed the door gently in his face.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SEB FLEET caught himself just before he slammed the palm of his hand against the panels of the closed door in sheer frustration. So, Clara Davencourt had outplayed him for a second time that evening. He, on the other hand, had been taking his own game entirely too seriously. The constriction in his breeches told him just how desperately he wanted her. The physical ache was only matched by the aching disappointment of denial.

  He shook his head slowly. He had been seduced by his own seduction. He had assumed he could outwit Clara and steal a kiss. But he wanted so much more from her; he could not pretend otherwise. He felt trapped between a rock and a very hard place.

  “Are you all right, old fellow?”

  Fleet straightened up. His host, Lord Cardace, had come out of the library farther down the passage and was looking at him with concern and no little curiosity. He realized he must have looked very odd, half-slumped against the wall.

  “I am very well, thank you, Cardace,” Fleet said. “Just a trifle winded. The gout, you know. In my toes. Damnably painful when I try to dance.”

  Lord Cardace grimaced sympathetically. “The trials of age, eh, Fleet?”

  “And of the bottle,” Fleet agreed.

  Cardace clapped him on the shoulder. “Then I’d find a seat if I were you. My wife has arranged for the mummers to entertain us. Can’t abide all that old-fashioned singing and dancing myself and it’s not for the old and infirm.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Fleet said with suitable gratitude.

  He allowed Cardace to escort him with solicitude into the ballroom, then slipped away to the shelter of an alcove not, as his host assumed, to sit down and rest his aging bones, but to observe Clara without being observed. She was sitting between her brother and Lady Juliana in the demure pose of the perfect debutante. Fleet’s lips twitched. She looked entirely composed. There was no hint that a few minutes before she had been within an ace of being ravished in a corridor
by an out-and-out rake. The suitors were swarming around her again and Fleet felt the familiar wave of primitive possessiveness swamp him at the way the men were fawning, kissing her hand, whispering in her ear, smiling, toadying.

  Until that moment, he had promised himself he would walk away. Clara Davencourt was not for him and well he knew it. He was full of good intentions. Then she gave her hand to Lord Elton to lead her into the dance, and a powerful wash of jealousy swept through Fleet. He started toward her.

  One kiss. He would take one kiss and then he would leave her alone forever. He promised himself that.

  He noted the precise moment she saw his approach. Her blue eyes narrowed with a disbelief she could not quite conceal. She caught her full lower lip between her teeth for a second before she turned aside to respond to something Elton was saying. The same honey-colored curl he had touched earlier in the darkness now curled in the hollow of her throat. She looked both fragile and determined. He could sense defiance.

  Elton was no lady’s champion. He saw Fleet approaching, turned pale, babbled something to Clara and shot away across the floor as though his coat were on fire. Clara turned on Fleet, ignoring the set that was forming around them, the curious ladies and gentlemen who had seen her abandoned before the dance even started.

  “What on earth did you do to Lord Elton?” she whispered.

  “I did nothing.” Fleet was all innocence as he gained her side and took her arm.

  “You know what I mean!” Clara’s face was flushed with annoyance. “You spoke to him earlier! What did you say?”

  “I warned him not to pester you with his false protestations of affection.”

  Clara snorted. “So that you could pester me instead?”

  “You injure me.”

  “And you infuriate me!” Clara’s blue eyes flashed. “Twice now I have bid you good-night.”

  “I am sorry. I never retire early from a ball.”

  “Oh!” Clara let go of her breath on an angry sigh. “Your high-handed interference first left me without partners and now has me standing alone in the middle of a set.”