“I would offer to dance with you,” Fleet said, “but you have already refused me and I do not wish to put my fate to the touch again.”
Clara gave him a dark look and turned to stride off the floor. Her back was ramrod straight, her entire figure stiff with outrage. She ignored the raised brows and titters of amusement.
Fleet followed. Clara was standing with her back to him. He put a hand on her arm, leaned closer and spoke for her ears only.
“Do not be too complacent about escaping me earlier. I shall kiss you before the night is out. I swear it.”
He felt her tremble. She spun around to face him. Her gaze was uncertain now, but behind her eyes he saw the flicker of something else: she was intrigued against her will, unwillingly fascinated, tempted…His blood fired at the thought.
“I do not believe you,” she said, summoning all her will to steady herself.
“Believe me,” Fleet said.
He had timed the matter to perfection. There was a shout that the mummers were coming and then a tide of people swept them to the edges of the ballroom as the dance broke up. The door was flung wide and the mummers marched in to the beat of the drum. The orchestra took up the tune with gusto and the crowd shifted and split as the dancing started again. Gone was the decorous elegance of the waltz. This music was fast and wild and, for a moment in the flickering fire and candlelight, amid the boughs of holly and mistletoe, it seemed as though they were in a medieval hall surrounded by all the pageantry and joy of Christmas.
Fleet grabbed Clara’s wrist and drew her into his arms. Her body was soft against his and she came to him without demur. Perhaps she imagined they were to dance, for the strains of the music filled the air, mingled with laughter and voices.
Instead he drew her into the shadowed darkness of the window recess. It was colder here. Snow brushed the panes and the reflection of the candlelight shone in the glass. Without another moment’s delay he bent his head and covered her mouth with his.
She stiffened with shock, but only for a moment. He felt her body soften against his, felt the instinctive response she could not hide. Her mouth opened beneath his and his mind spun even as a vise closed about his body, the desire he could barely control rampaging through him like wildfire.
He reined in his urgency and slid his tongue gently, caressingly, along the inside of her lower lip, teasing a response from her. He must be gentle; this was not the time and the place for anything else. She made a small sound in her throat at the invasion of his tongue and he was shot through with lust so hot and primitive he was suddenly within an ace of tangling his hand in her hair, and slamming her back against the cold stone wall to kiss her within an inch of her life.
The beat of the music was in his blood now, primeval and intense. His mouth crushed hers again, his tongue sweeping deep. He wanted her naked in his bed. He wanted to strip away the layers of clothing between them and take her with an urgency and desire that made no concession to gentleness. He had wanted her for such a long time. He had denied that need and now he could deny it no longer. “Clara…”
He said her name on a ragged whisper as his lips met hers for a third time. Her eyes were closed, the lashes a dark sweep against her cheek. Her lips were swollen from the ruthless demands of his. She was trembling.
So was he. His emotions were frighteningly adrift. The way Clara was clutching at his jacket to pull him closer, the taste of her, the fusion of sweetness and desire, kindled in him sensations never previously experienced. She was his and his alone; he would never let her go.
He pressed her closer to him, one hand coming up very gently to caress her breast. He could feel the nipple harden through the muslin of her dress against the palm of his hand. The heat ripped through him.
Their lips parted slowly, reluctantly, one last time and he felt as though he were losing something. He felt cold.
She was looking at him with such dazed sensuality in her eyes that his heart turned over. He could not speak. A moment later she blinked and her expression warmed from bemusement into anger.
“When I asked for your help this morning,” she said sharply, “I was not requesting lessons in kissing.”
Sebastian, shaken by the unexpected intensity of the experience and by achieving the one thing he had dreamed of doing for the past two years, was rocked back.
“You scarcely need lessons, my dear,” he said. Did she not understand her own power? If she could do that to him with one kiss he shuddered to think what would happen when he took her to bed. When? He forced his wild thoughts to slow down. He would not make love to Clara Davencourt.
He looked at her again as the heat drained from his body and a shred of sense took hold. He had not given much thought to her reactions, being so wrapped up in his own. Now, scanning her face, he made a stunning discovery that sent his thoughts into turmoil again.
“That was your first kiss,” he said slowly. He felt a little regretful. While he had been swamped with lust and thoughts of ravishment, she was experiencing something quite different. Something new. Something shocking. He should have guessed. He should have realized how important the moment had been for her. He shut his mind to the thought of how important it had been to him.
“Yes, it was,” she said.
Fleet was at a loss. He had taken greedily from her with no thought for her feelings. While he floundered, Clara had evidently regained full possession of her senses.
“Don’t you dare say you are sorry,” she said wrathfully.
Fleet smiled. “No. I’m not sorry.” Her expression eased slightly. “It was nice,” he added.
“Nice? Nice!” Clara took a deep breath.
He could see the hurt in her eyes. Nice was so bland a word for what had happened between them. Devil take it, how could he be making such a hash of this? He was supposed to be a man of the world. The trouble was that he was accustomed to dealing with women of the world, not inexperienced young ladies. He felt woefully out of his depth.
“Then I wish you a nice Christmas, your grace,” she said, spun on her heel and walked briskly away.
SHE HAD BEEN KISSED for the first time. Thoroughly, expertly, ruthlessly kissed by a man who was a thorough, ruthless expert. She knew she should feel shocked or offended or both. The trouble was, it had been wonderful.
Clara curled up on her bedroom window seat and watched the snow falling. The clouds were breaking now, shreds of moonlight showing in the blackness, glittering on the white branches of the trees as the tiny flakes fell softly then finally ceased. It was very late and the city was quiet. Clara leaned her head against the cold pane and thought of Sebastian Fleet.
She supposed she had been in love with him from the start. That realization did not excuse her behavior but it certainly explained it. She should have slapped his face. Instead she had pulled him closer with a hunger that had startled her as much as it had no doubt astounded him. The experience had been like feast after famine, joy after long nights of loneliness.
She sighed, wrapping her arms about her knees and curling up tighter still. When he let her go she had realized what had been an earth-shattering experience for her was for him no more than a pleasant encounter with a pretty girl. The vast gap between the two of them—the experienced rake and the never-been-kissed debutante—had never seemed starker.
Now was the moment to accept the truth and relinquish her fantasy.
Sebastian Fleet would never love her as she loved him.
As she wanted to be loved.
As she deserved to be loved.
She pressed her fingertips to the cold glass. Outside the night was beautiful but frozen. The trees were still as statues. Above the trees swung a little star, glittering in the deep dark of the night, sometimes obscured by the scurrying cloud, sometimes shining bright, growing in strength.
Have hope.
Have faith.
Clara shook her head slightly. She slid off the seat and let the curtain fall back into place. The room was warm and quiet
. She felt lonely.
“PERCH,” the Duke of Fleet said, taking the pristine, pressed newspaper from the tray his butler offered, “would you be aware of those shops that sell Christmas gifts for infants?”
Perch’s eyebrows shot up into his hair. “Gifts for infants, your grace?”
Fleet gave him a hard stare. “Nothing wrong with your hearing this morning is there, Perch?”
“No, your grace.”
“Do you know the answer to the question?”
“No, your grace.”
“But you could find out.”
“Of course, your grace.” Perch bowed. “Would you wish me to purchase something appropriate, your grace?”
“No,” Fleet said absentmindedly, scanning the headlines, “I will do the purchasing myself. I merely need the direction.”
“Of course, your grace,” Perch said. “I shall see to it at once.”
Fleet nodded, tucked the paper under his arm and headed toward the library. He wondered what Miss Clara Davencourt was doing this morning. He would not call in Collett Square to find out. After the fiasco of the previous night it was best to leave matters to cool. Looking back, in the frozen light of day, he wondered what on earth had possessed him. Before he had gone to the ball he had made a perfectly reasonable resolution to avoid Clara’s company, which he had broken as soon as he had seen her. It was incomprehensible. He must have been drunk. He must have been bewitched. He must have been both bewitched and drunk at the same time. It must not happen again.
Even so, he knew that his behavior had been shabby. He should send her some flowers to apologize. Except that she would probably cut off the tops and return the stems to him. He smiled a little at the thought.
Two portraits flanked the entrance to the library. They were of the previous Duke of Fleet and his Duchess. Sebastian rarely noticed them, for they were as much part of the fixtures and fittings of the house as a chair or a lamp. Now, however, he stopped and regarded the painted faces. His father looked noble, wrapped in scarlet and ermine and adorned with the ducal strawberry leaves. His mother had a gentler face beneath her coronet. Wise and kind, she had put the warmth into his childhood.
The huge ruby betrothal ring of the Fleets gleamed on her finger, alongside the simple wedding band. They were both in the vaults of his bank and there they would stay; it felt symbolic, somehow.
His mother had never really recovered from the loss of her youngest, Oliver. It was all wrong to bury one’s child. Whenever he thought of the burden he had laid on his parents, he felt the same crushing cold. If he had saved Oliver it might all have been different, but he had failed.
He hurried into the library and sat down beside the fire. Perhaps it was time to rearrange the portraits in the house. A couple of landscapes might look attractive in the hall. At least there were no pictures of Oliver to haunt his waking nightmares.
There was a tap at the library door. Perch entered.
“Hamley’s Emporium is the best shop to purchase children’s gifts, your grace,” he said.
“Hamley’s,” Fleet said. “Excellent. I shall go there at once.”
He felt a profound relief to be occupied.
IT WAS LATE when the knock came at the door of the house in Collett Square. Clara had been reading alone in the library in the big armchair in front of the fire. Martin and Juliana were attending a dinner party and Mrs. Boyce had gone to bed. Clara had fully intended to follow, but had become caught up in Miss Austen’s Sense and Sensibility and stayed before the dying fire as the clock ticked past midnight.
She heard the knock and looked up, surprised anyone would possibly be calling at this time of night. She heard Segsbury’s footfall across the floor, followed by the creak of the hinges and a low-voiced exchange.
“I regret, your grace, that there must have been some mistake. Mr. Davencourt and Lady Juliana are not at home….”
Your grace?
Clara sat bolt upright, her book sliding off her lap with a thud. Could this be Sebastian Fleet come to call at this hour? Impossible, unless he had arranged to take a glass of brandy with Martin and discuss the latest legislation going through the Houses of Parliament….
“It is no matter, Segsbury. My mistake, I believe.” Fleet sounded distinctly ill at ease now. “If you would be so good as to give this to Mr. Davencourt. It is a Christmas gift for the twins.”
There was a rustling sound. Clara’s curiosity gave her the excuse she needed. She opened the library door and went out into the hall.
“Miss…” Segsbury was as taken aback as a butler of his experience could be. “I apologize. I thought that you had retired.”
“It is no matter, Segsbury,” Clara said with a smile. “Good evening, your grace.”
“Miss Davencourt.” Fleet sketched a bow. He did not smile at her. In the barely lit hall Clara could not read his expression, although she fancied his mouth was set in grim lines.
Her heart was tripping with quick, light beats. She had wanted to see Fleet again despite everything. She had been compelled in some way to force this meeting when she could have stayed quietly in the library and allowed him to go on his way. Now she wished she had not given in to that impulse. This hard-faced stranger was not the man she had wanted to see. Already he had distanced himself from her. Already the events of the previous night seemed like a fevered dream.
“If you will excuse me,” Fleet said, “I was merely delivering this parcel.” He gestured to the package now in Segsbury’s hand. “It is a Christmas gift for your young nephew and niece. I hope I have chosen appropriately. It is a little difficult when one is not accustomed to shopping for children.”
Clara felt a jolt of surprise. “You chose it yourself?”
A rueful grin touched Fleet’s mouth. “I did.”
“And you delivered it yourself, too. How singular!”
She saw his smile deepen and felt a jolt of pleasure inside. “Perhaps you could put the parcel somewhere safe, Segsbury,” she said, “while I show the Duke of Fleet out.”
Segsbury gave her a hard stare. He had been butler to Lady Juliana before her marriage and so was no stranger to unconventionality, but he had a very definite way of showing his disapproval of such inappropriate behavior. He looked at Clara for a long moment and she looked back steadily, then he bowed slightly. “Very well, miss.”
Neither Clara nor Fleet moved as Segsbury walked away with stately displeasure. The hall was quiet as his footsteps died away.
“I wanted to see you,” Clara said.
“So it seems. It was not, perhaps, your wisest decision.” Fleet’s entire body was taut with what Clara assumed was anger.
“Last night—”
“Miss Davencourt, we really must not discuss this.”
“Not discuss it?” Clara felt something snap within her. “What do you want to do instead, your grace? Sweep it under the carpet because it is difficult for us to face up to so inconvenient an attraction?”
“No,” Fleet ground out. “What I want is to have you.”
Clara felt a sudden, treacherous excitement. It caught like a flare, blazing into shocking and sensual life. Fleet’s eyes darkened with concentrated passion. He took one step forward, grabbed both her arms and his mouth captured hers, swift and sure.
Clara instinctively moved closer to him. All conscious thought fled her mind. Her arms went about him, fingers tangling in his hair. He tasted faintly of brandy and strongly of desire. The kiss grew frantic, then rough, almost brutal. The shock of it sent a blaze of feeling right to the center of Clara’s body.
His impatient hands were already pushing aside silk and lace, and when he closed his hand over her breast, warm and hard against her bare skin, she gave a desperate moan as she felt her legs start to buckle. He half pulled, half carried her through the library door, slamming it shut behind them.
Then they were down on the rug before the fire and she was clutching at his shoulders. His tongue and teeth had replaced his fingers at her
breast, and she squirmed and arched in quick delight to his touch.
She was shaking; so was he. Clara noticed it with astonishment, for surely this man was supposed to be an experienced rake. Yet he touched her with reverence as well as ferocious desire, as though he could not quite believe what was happening. The sense of power the thought gave her, the sheer unbelievable seduction of his hands on her body, roused a driving need.
His lips returned to hers with a passionate tenderness and urgency that inflamed her. He moved over her, throwing up her skirts, sliding a hand up her thigh, over the soft skin to find the hot, central core of her. Her body shivered like a plucked cord beneath his touch.
“Sebastian…”
She felt as though she were dissolving into some desperate pleasure, and when he moved down to meet her unspoken plea for release with the touch of his tongue against her most intimate place, the sensation was too hot and too sudden to resist. Her body was speared by so violent a delight that she rolled over, stifling a cry against his chest.
She could feel his arousal hard against her thigh but even as she reached blindly for him, intuitively knowing what was needed, he was withdrawing, wrapping his arms carefully about her. Although he held her close, she somehow knew he was putting distance between them. The pleasure and the astounding intimacy she felt turned cold and started to shrink.
“Clara…sweetheart…we must not…”
If Clara’s thoughts had been clear, she would have noticed the harsh undertone in his voice, realized he was still trembling as much as she. Instead, she only knew that while her body still echoed with unfamiliar passion, Sebastian was trying to retreat, leaving her feelings too raw to bear.
“We must not? Sebastian, we already have!” Her voice cracked, and she felt him hesitate then draw her closer against him. The warmth of his arms should have been reassuring but it was not, for it already felt wrong. She had opened herself body and soul to this man, had allowed him the most shocking and unimaginable liberties. Now, in return, she had received nothing but humiliation.
The Heart of Christmas Page 14