The Christmas Gift (A Regency Novella)

by Georgina Devon

  "Freckles?" He moved a step nearer. "To make them?"

  "Absolutely not!"

  Before she knew what he was about, he caught her jaw in his hand and lifted her face. His mouth curled in a wanton smile that made her insides flow like heated honey.

  "Do not get rid of them, for they are one of your most attractive features. They keep you from perfection."

  If he had not been holding her face in his hand, her mouth would have dropped open. "Perfection? Thank you for the compliment, but Spanish coin has never appealed to me."

  He released her so quickly she staggered and had to put a hand on the dressing table to steady herself. Where his touch had been, she felt branded.

  His back to her, he took a deep breath as though he were fighting some strong compulsion he would not succumb to. "As you wish, Vixen. However, I did not interrupt you to tell you how beautiful you are. I came to tell you that Jaimie and I are going for the Yule Log you feel is so necessary to our holiday happiness."

  She blinked, trying to shift the image of him making love to her to the more prosaic one of him fetching the Yule Log. It was not an easy transition and it showed in the tremor she could not eradicate from her voice.

  "That is wonderful, Davenport. Do not forget that it must be an ash."

  "Not so. We are practically in Scotland, and we have always had a birch log here as the Scottish do. Ash is for the English."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to argue the tradition since the hunting box was in England, but....it was not as though she was the mistress of the house and would desire good luck throughout the coming year. With a shrug, she turned away from his piercing gaze and taunting lips.

  "As you wish. It is your home."

  "So it is." Davenport's deep baritone mingled with the sharp click of his boots on the uncovered portions of floor as he went to the door.

  Lavinia did not look around to see him leave.

  When she was alone, she folded up on the chair and gazed at nothing, her heart beating slowly and painfully. He had merely stated fact when saying this was his home, and she was a ninny to have wanted him to say it was hers too.

  She was still a ninny three hours later when her spirits soared just because she heard his voice in the hallway. Careful not to seem elated, she laid the beribboned Kissing Bough on a table.

  Smoothing her black skirt down her hips and then her Titian locks back into the bun at her nape, she moved toward the door. It banged open before she got there, and Davenport backed into the room. With him came the clean, woodsy scent of outdoors and the cold dampness that smelled so fresh. He carried a large log, Jaimie holding the opposite end.

  The two men maneuvered the piece of wood into the fireplace and then, with grins splitting their faces, left the room. Before she could follow, they were back with another log.

  Eyes wide with curiosity, Lavinia asked, "What is this, two logs?"

  Jaimie, still grinning, left the room. Davenport, nonchalantly brushing dirt from hic navy coat, smiled so the lines around his mouth drew her gaze to his well-shaped lips. Against her better judgment, she wished he would kiss her.

  Davenport overturned her thought by saying, "You said we needed ash. I thought we needed birch. So, I compromised. We have both."

  Warm contentment filled her at his unexpected concession. "Thank you. And tonight we must light them both with the sliver Mrs. Hatchet saved from last year's Yule Log."

  That evening, the two Yule Logs blazed warmly in the grate as Lavinia looked around the cozy parlor. Everything was perfect. The tangy smell of evergreens teased her nostrils, and the mistletoe laden Kissing Bough teased her fantasies. Combined with the roaring, crackling fire, they gave her a sense of the Christmas season.

  Soon the servants and Davenport would join her for the Christmas Eve celebrations. At first, she had been surprised when Davenport invited the servants, but from Hatchet's response she'd quickly realized that was a custom here.

  A sound drew her attention, and she turned to see Davenport entering with a maroon velvet box in his hand. His impressive shoulders and thighs were shown to perfection by a black velvet coat and silk breeches. Silver lace sparkled at his throat and wrists. The elegant attire emphasized his saturnine features and dark complexion, making him appear the antithesis of the Christmas spirit.

  Yet, he created in her a thrill of delight that made her shiver and her knees weaken. "You are early."

  He strode into the room, seeming to fill it with his presence until all she could see was him, and all she could feel was her body reacting to his masculinity. She caught the back of a nearby chair to support her melting body. Best not to fall at his feet.

  "I have a present for you." He stopped when only a foot of space separated them.

  The breath caught in her throat. "I....I don’t have one for you. I'm sorry—"

  His hand shot out and his finger caught her chin, lifting until her eyes met his. "Vixen, the gift you give me is yourself and that is greater than anything I could possibly give in return."

  His words gave her hope. There might be a future for them beyond that of protector and ladybird. Just as she was about to speak, the servants entered. The moment for shared emotion was lost.

  Mrs. Hatchet’s sharp eyes took in the two of them. "Milord, Miss Russell. I hope we dinna be disturbing you."

  Mary, excitement heightening her color, burbled, "Jaimie and Mrs. Hatchet said we was to come here."

  The jumble of voices and the electricity of anticipation caught Lavinia up in the servant's Christmas spirit. Grinning, she said, "You've come at just the right time. The marquis was just preparing to fix the Wassail punch." She slanted him a mischievous glance from under her lashes. "Weren't you, milord?"

  He smiled good-naturedly. "Of course. What else would I be doing alone in the parlor with you, Miss Russell?"

  Lavinia's skin turned fiery. "Nothing whatsoever."

  With a low chuckle that set Lavinia's pulse pounding, Davenport began putting the Wassail ingredients into a large silver bowl. In went hot ale, eggs, spices and plenty of sugar.

  "Oh dear me," Mrs. Hatchet exclaimed. "I've done forgot the apples." She rushed from the room, her ample skirts billowing in her wake.

  Everyone laughed and Lavinia glanced at Davenport, meeting his eyes. Together they shared their amusement at the housekeeper's chagrin. The sharing warmed Lavinia.

  Mrs. Hatchet returned with a dozen withered apples that had been held back specially for this occasion. Davenport put them in the brew, gave it a good stir, and served everyone generous portions.

  Davenport lifted his drink and toasted. "May you all have a merry Christmas and a profitable New Year."

  They all raised their silver cups. It wasn’t long before Lavinia plunged into the spirit and began singing the Wassail song:

  "Wassail, wassail, through the town,

  If you've got any apples, throw them down;"

  The others quickly joined in. Davenport's deep, melodious tones made Lavinia glad she'd started the old song.

  "If you’ve got no apples, money will do;

  The jug is white and the ale is brown,

  This is the best house in town."

  Flushed with merriment, the servants drank heartily and Jaimie exclaimed, "And the marquis is the best master of all."

  "Thank you, Jaimie." Davenport's voice was serious.

  To Lavinia's surprise, Davenport’s complexion darken at the praise. She'd thought him impervious to what others said of him, and particularly a servant. Every other member of the aristocracy whom she knew would have considered Jaimie's opinion irrelevant.

  Jaimie, because of his toast, had moved forward so he was standing under the Kissing Bough. The twelve lit candles on the decoration highlighted the silver-green enticement of the mistletoe threaded throughout the evergreen ornament.

  "Jaimie, lad, you are surely caught now," Davenport said with a significant look at the Kissing Bough."

  "Aye, milord, that do be th
e way of it," Jaimie replied, his gaze going immediately to Mary.

  The young woman, wringing her hands in the folds of her apron, met Jaimie's look shyly. Mrs. Hatchet pushed Mary forward and the two young people exchanged a chaste kiss.

  Lavinia watched the by-play, marveling at the innocence of the exchange. She knew Jaimie and Mary cared for one another, but their lips met and then parted with nary a sign of overwhelming passion. Instinctively, Lavinia knew that if it had been she and Davenport under the mistletoe, it would have been impossible for her not to flow into his embrace.

  When Mary broke away, she giggled nervously. Jaimie's eyes glowed but he didn’t pursue her.

  Before the moment could become awkward, Davenport stepped forward. "Well, now that you've met your obligation, Jaimie, I have small gifts for all three of you." He gave each servant a present with a word of appreciation.

  Lavinia's heart swelled with pride for this man who could be so considerate of those less fortunate than himself. But when his munificence led him back to her, he spoke so quietly that only she heard.

  "I have a very special gift for you, Vixen." His mouth curved, softening the hard line of his jaw, and his eyes sparkled with an emotion that made the breath catch in her throat. “It waits a more private moment.”

  "You owe me nothing," she murmured, her gaze dropping from the intensity of his.

  "Do I not? Then we must remedy that oversight."

  Before she could reply, he turned back to the servants. The fire still burned merrily when Mrs. Hatchet announced it was time for Mary and Jaimie to finish their last minute chores for the night.

  No sooner had the servants left then Davenport was at Lavinia's side, his hand lightly skimming her skin before coming to rest where her neck met her shoulder. The searching look he subjected her to singed to her very toes. It was as though he questioned without words, but she could not fathom what he asked, only drown in the depths of his black eyes.

  If the poets were right, and eyes were the window on the soul, then she would gladly give herself into this man's keeping. Instinctively, she knew him to be honorable and secure. If only he loved her.

  The wish brought poignant regret. She forced herself to look away, and at the same time move her head so that his touch fell away. Taking a step backwards, she smiled as though nothing mattered but the happy season.

  She bent a small curtsy, her knee hardly moving. "The Christmas season becomes you, milord."

  His mouth curved upward, but he did not smile. "And I think my gift will become you."

  The fingers holding her skirt clenched, merriment deserting her. She knew what he intended to give her would be too extravagant to be a proper gift. She also knew she must accept it gracefully, for by Society's and Davenport's standards she was a lady no more. Later, when they were no longer together, she would return whatever outrageous gifts he gave her.

  But her decision could not quell the disappointment that swamped her as he opened the box to display a parure of emeralds and diamonds that consisted of a necklace, two bracelets, ear bobs, and a tiara. It was a beautiful set and obviously old. Had it been given to her as his wife, she could have been proud to accept.

  "It’s stunning," she murmured.

  He set the box on the nearby table and lifted out the necklace. "Turn around."

  She did as ordered, knowing it would be futile to argue. The touch of his fingers on her nape caused her to sharply draw her breath. When his thumb rubbed down her spine, not stopping until he reached the neckline of her bodice, shivers of pleasure radiated from the deepest part of her.

  "Your skin is as fine and creamy as fresh milk," he murmured just before his lips alighted on her bare shoulder.

  Her skin flamed and her breasts ached. All she had to do was twist on her heel, and his mouth would slide over her flesh, along her collar bone, and...

  Before she could act on the temptation, he moved away. She sighed in relief, not wanting to be that vulnerable to him. She didn’t want to desire him this potently, and especially when she was just another woman he would adorn with expensive jewels in recompense for using her to slake his lust. It didn’t matter that she had offered herself to him first. She was beyond rational thought where he was concerned.

  "Turn back around, Vixen. I want to see the earrings on you."

  Resigning herself to wearing the beautiful gems that she wished could have meant more than payment for services not yet rendered, Lavinia pivoted. The hunger in his black eyes stopped her cold. His pupils were expanded so there was only a sliver of dark brown iris showing.

  When he reached to put the jewelry on her ears, his fingers shook. He wanted her as badly as she wanted him. The knowledge was balm to her battered heart.

  As he attached the glittering emerald drops to her earlobes, his mouth curved into a smile of devastating potency that drew her like a moth to a flame. She knew that like the flame he would burn her very soul to cinders and never look back. Yet, in this instant, it was a fate she would rush to meet if only to have his love - or even the parody of his love.

  He studied her for long minutes while her pulse pounded and her stomach knotted. Would he never speak?

  "They become you. I’m glad."

  He turned and took the tiara from its satin bed, shifted and set it on Lavinia's hair. As it passed in front of her, she recognized the tiara as a beautiful piece of workmanship. But when it sat on her head, she could not stop the feeling of being bought from assailing her. Still, she kept all emotions from showing.

  Meeting Davenport's intense scrutiny, she said, "These are too expensive."

  He smiled, a slow, lazy movement that set her pulse pounding and her heart racing. In one lithe movement, he took her in his arms and his lips hovered a moment away from hers.

  "You will soon earn their value many times over."

  Before she could speak the hurt caused by his equating her love to money, his mouth covered hers. He moved against her with a thoroughness that swallowed her protests. The heat from his flesh penetrated the layers of clothing between them and seeped into her, flaring like a bonfire in her abdomen.

  He pulled away to breathe and she heard someone whimper. Only when she saw the gleam of satisfaction in his black eyes did she realize the someone was her. Embarrassment would have caught her, but she saw the hunger he could not hide. The taut line of his cheek and the harsh angle of his jaw said they were together in this passion.

  He craved her as badly as she did him.

  He swung her up into his arms. A gasp escaped her swollen lips as he bore her from the room. Twining her arms around his neck, she buried her face in the hollow between his shoulder and chest. She didn’t look up until she heard a door shut.

  They were in his room, a place she had never entered, even though she had lived in this house for almost two weeks. It reminded her of him: Stark and spare, dark and haunted; yet, strong. There was a minimum of furnishings; sturdy oak stained deep brown. A large wardrobe, a wash stand, and a massive bed left room for an Aubusson carpet beneath deep leather chairs.

  The bed caught her attention. It was simply made with a plain headboard and no other ornamentation except the thick fur used as a coverlet.

  He deposited her on the luxuriant fur and followed her down, the length of his lean body flush with hers. His mouth caught hers and drank deeply of her ardor.

  Tremors of awareness rippled through her limbs. She wanted more. Eagerly, she returned his kiss.

  Chuckling deep in his chest, he pulled away to gaze at her. Propped on one elbow, his free hand combed through her hair until her bun was a mass of curls on the pillow and the tiara was a glittering nest of green on the cover.

  "Your hair is liquid gold." His features tightened. "And your eyes are like smoky, satiny pewter when you are aroused. I knew they would be."

  His deep voice rumbled over her nerves, turning her muscles to molten desire. All she ever wanted, the greatest gift any Christmas could provide, was in her arms.

&
nbsp; In a hushed voice, throaty with the passion heating her flesh, she asked, "Am I a wanton to enjoy this? To want you so?"

  Her fingers caressed the clean line of his jaw and up to the full curve of his lower lip. The intake of his breath was a harsh noise. He caught her roving hand and stilled it in the strength of his own.

  His eyes burned into her. "Not wanton. Merely young and not yet jaded."

  Without conscious thought, words tumbled from her. "I love you."

  Before she realized what he intended, he released her and stood by the bed staring down at her. She lay in disheveled vulnerability, uncertain what to do.

  Abruptly, he turned from her and strode to the door connecting their rooms. He opened it and motioned for her to leave.

  Devastated by his desertion after her declaration, she scrambled from the bed, escape her only thought. All she wanted was to leave the painful reality of his rejection. But his harsh words followed her as she skirted around him and into the haven of her own room.

  "Give it time, my dear, and you will begin to view what we just shared as a job; not love." His mouth twisted cruelly as she glanced back at him. "I find myself unwilling to bring about that natural fate on Christmas Eve. Perhaps tomorrow."

  "Perhaps tomorrow."

  "A job, not love."

  The words rang in Lavinia's ears, just as they had for the past twenty-four hours. Tomorrow was today, and he had not come near her. She did not even know his whereabouts.

  She sat alone at the dinner table, a piece of Christmas goose on her plate and plum pudding in a bowl set before her. It would be so easy to cry into the food, but she knew the wound he’d dealt her was too deep for tears to mend.

  Last night he had refused her passion. Even worse, he had mocked her love. Her heart felt as though it had stopped beating and become a cold stone in her tight chest.

  She had to admit to herself that she'd done her best to make him love her and she had failed. Realizing that, she also realized that to let him make love to her would be to perform the beginning act in her emotional death. Not even for Emily and John could she do that.