All the Pleasures of the Season (10 page)

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

G
ilbert paused outside Miranda's room, his hand on the latch. There wasn't a sound inside, and he wondered if she was asleep. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

She wasn't in bed.

She was sitting in the window seat in her white nightgown, her knees drawn up, watching the snow falling.

She smiled when she saw him. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he replied, and leaned on the closed door.

“It has occurred to me that this might not be the right time for . . . this,” he said. “With so much to do tomorrow, so many people here. We can wait, take our time, if you like.”

She got to her feet, and the light from the window—the glow cast by snow at night—illuminated the slim curves of her body through the sheer folds of her gown. He swallowed, felt desire stir, despite his noble intentions. “You look like the waterfall,” he said.

She stopped before him. Her eyes in shadow, her hands clasped at her waist. “I don't want to wait, Gilbert. I want you, I want to be your wife entirely.” She came slowly toward him, a shimmering angel in the darkness. “Every time you kissed me, I dreamt of this.” She slid her hands under the lapels of his robe. “When we rode together, danced, met on the street, I dreamed of this exact moment. “

She stood on her toes to kiss him with feather-light touches of her mouth, like snowflakes on hot metal. He put his hands on her waist, drew her closer. Her body was warm under her thin gown, and her hair was loose around her shoulders, a cascade of golden silk. He kissed her gently, intent on going slowly, making this night perfect for her, for both of them. He glanced at the bed, pictured her there, beneath him, and swallowed a groan.

She stepped back for an instant and untied the satin ribbon at the neck of her gown, slid it off her shoulders, and let the garment slide to the floor with a sigh. She stood before him naked.

He had seen statues, paintings of goddesses and famous beauties, but none of them matched the perfection of Miranda, his bride, his wife.

He drew a sharp breath, instantly hard for her, ready, his resolve to go slowly suddenly tested.

“Now you,” she said.

He untied the robe, a heavy velvet affair lent to him by Phineas, and let it fall. It crumpled at his feet with a growl.

He felt her eyes roam over him like a touch, stop at his erection. It leapt hopefully under her gaze, arousal making him harder still, and he gritted his teeth. Would she be afraid, shy? He made a vow to stop if she was, no matter how desperately he wanted her.

“Come here,” he whispered, and she stepped into the circle of his arms and laid her head on his shoulder, holding him for a moment, getting accustomed to being naked against him, her skin on his. He could feel her heart beating. He lifted her chin, brought his mouth down to hers and kissed her. She opened with a sigh of need, and he deepened the kiss. He touched the softness of her skin, skimmed his hands over her back, her hips, her bottom. He felt her nipples harden against his chest as she pressed closer. He gasped as she brushed her hip against his erection, caught her, held her still.

“We should go slowly,” he said.

She looked up at him in the moonlight, her eyes dark pools of desire, her mouth moist from his kisses. “I don't want to go slowly,” she insisted. “I want to know what makes you happy, learn how to please you. Teach me.”

She was gliding her fingertips over the naked plains of his chest, exploring, and he felt them descend across his hips, over his belly. He drew a sharp breath as her hand brushed over his erection—and paused, and did it again—sliding a finger along the length of him, then clasping him in her hand. He stifled a groan, grabbed her hand and held it still.

“You're beautiful, Gil,” she sighed.

“I'm supposed to say that to you,” he said. “And I'm supposed to be in charge, since—” Since what? He wondered. Since he had experience? It meant nothing now. With Miranda it was all new, as if he'd never touched a woman before, never felt desire until this moment.

“Then show me what to do,” she pleaded. “I want to please you. Take me to bed, Gil. I don't want to go slow. Is that a wicked thing for a lady to admit?”

He laughed against her lips, kissing her. “You are a lady to your fingertips, and still a woman,” he said. “My woman.”

He lifted her, carried her the few short steps to the bed, and laid her down. She held out her arms to him, and he tumbled into them, his mouth meeting hers. He kissed her chin, her throat, the throbbing pulse point. He cupped her breast, ran his thumb over the pert peak, and kissed it. “Oh,” she sighed, as if she'd discovered a hidden secret. “Oh, my.” She tangled her hands in his hair, caressed his legs with her own, held him to her, her body arching, her hips seeking his.

He teased her, taking his time. He kissed her other breast, caressed the soft curves of her body, let her caress him and make discoveries that drove them both wild.

He slid his hand down to the soft curls between her thighs, cupped her. She gasped as he slipped his finger into the heat of her. He stroked her and she turned her face into the light, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her skin flushed with desire. No matter how many times they made love, how many years they lived, he knew he would never tire of seeing her like this.

Miranda was on fire. Every kiss, every caress drove her higher, into a secret, delicious realm of pleasure. The whole universe centered on this bed, on what his fingers were doing to her. She dug her nails into his shoulders, wanting more, everything, all at once. Infuriatingly, he lay on his side, watched her as passion and sensation rose and spread through her limbs, filled her.

The pressure of his touch increased, expertly, driving her mad, and the night exploded into stars around her and he caught her cries in his mouth, kissing her, murmuring endearments.

She felt him shift, felt the hot bluntness where his fingers had been. He slid inside, filled her, as pleasure still rippled through her body.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, not moving, his voice strained.

She shook her head and put her arms around his neck. “More,” she whispered, arching her hips. “Is there more?”

He smiled. “Much, much more.” He began to move—slowly, carefully, gently—and she groaned, wanting the heat and friction that his fingers had created, sensing this pleasure would be even greater.

She wrapped her ankles around his hips, arched into him, and he swore softly and began to move faster, his powerful thrusts filling her, plunging deeper with each stroke.

She felt her own climax building again, and she cried out as he thrust into her again and again, groaning her name as he finally found his release and poured himself into her.

He collapsed against her, holding her, kissing her, and she felt the heavy beat of his heart against her own. She stroked the softness of his hair, reveled in the weight of his body on hers, the warm glow of satisfaction that filled her. And love. Was it possible that she loved him more than she had an hour ago? She never wanted this moment to end, and yet—

“Is there more?” she asked again.

He lifted his head and smiled wickedly, kissed her. “Not for a little while, I'm afraid.”

She felt herself blush. “No, I meant are there more—ways,” she said, for lack of a better explanation.

He laughed, and the sound vibrated through her. “Enough that we can spend a whole lifetime discovering them.”

She cuddled against his side, curling into him, a perfect fit. “I don't think a lifetime will be long enough.”

“Then we had better make the most of every moment,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers in a tender kiss.

 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

“G
ood morning.” Miranda greeted her family, hovering in the doorway of the breakfast room, with Gilbert beside her. Every eye turned to look at them, and conversation ceased.

Miranda swallowed. They had meant to come down early, breakfast before anyone else rose—both to avoid awkward questions, and so they'd have time to go back upstairs before the day's activities began—but the two activities had gotten reversed somehow. She felt her skin heat, knew she was scarlet to the roots of her hair.

Everyone seemed suddenly tongue-tied.

Gilbert held her chair, and she took her place, let the footman put a plate of food in front of her. Who knew eggs could be so fascinating, or a sausage . . . she suppressed a giggle.

Gilbert cleared his throat. “I understand there's quite a lot to do today,” he said.

“Oh, yes. Indeed there is,” Phineas replied. “We will troop out into the woods and the orchards and collect greenery to decorate the hall. The gentlemen will cut down the Yule log.”

“According to legend, hewing the Yule log is testament to a man's virility,” Marianne said. Miranda choked on her toast.

“Marianne,” Adam warned.

“What?” She asked innocently. “I merely mention it because there are so many fascinating myths associated with all the Christmas traditions, Adam. You told me yourself that rosemary is not only for remembrance, but for the replenishment of masculine vigor.”

Miranda felt herself redden all over again.

“It also symbolizes true love and weddings, which makes it doubly significant this Christmas, especially since Isobel and Phineas are not long married either,” her sister persisted.

It was Isobel's turn to blush. “I believe holly stands for health and happiness.”

“And ivy for hope,” Phineas added, squeezing his wife's hand.

“The Yule log will need to be from an ash tree, if possible. Somewhere, Goodwin will have kept part of last year's log. It will serve as tinder for the new one tonight, heralding the arrival of Christmas and celebrating the cycle of life,” Adam explained. “Which is also fitting for a wedding.”

“And we will have mistletoe, of course,” Marianne teased her prim husband. “A symbol of fertility.

“It also represents partnership, and wards off fire, which is useful with the Yule log blazing, and so many extra candles lighting the hall,” he countered.

“Then we shall be all blessed with happy marriages as well as a happy Christmas,” Gilbert said diplomatically, and smiled at Miranda.

Within the hour, everyone was bundled into warm cloaks, mufflers, gloves, and heavy boots to venture out into the cold.

“Is everything well?” Marianne whispered as she handed Miranda a basket for collecting greenery.

Miranda smiled. “Very well indeed.”

“No—discomfort?” Marianne asked. “Disappointment?

Miranda's skin turned to flame, despite the cold wind. “None at all.”

“Then you're entirely happy?”

Miranda looked at Gilbert, walking slightly ahead of them with the gentlemen. He turned and smiled at her, and her heart turned over in her breast, and she wondered how long it would be before they could be alone again. “Perfectly,” she murmured, and hurried to catch up to him.

He caught her hand. “Look—” he pointed. “Mistletoe.” He tugged her beneath the snow-laden branches of an ancient oak tree and waited until the rest of the party passed them. Then he kissed her, and she kissed him, until they were both panting with need, as if they had not risen from their bed only three short hours ago, sated. “I want you again,” he whispered.

“Will anyone notice if we slip away?” she asked, breathless.

“Gilbert?” They heard Phineas calling. “It's your turn at the ax!”

“Duty before pleasure,” Miranda said with a sigh.

He gave her one more lingering kiss. “Waiting will add to the pleasure,” he said. He plucked a sprig of mistletoe and tucked it into the ribbon on her bonnet. “There, now you are perpetually under the mistletoe.” He kissed her again and they followed the footprints in the snow toward the sound of the ax.

Eight strong men stood ready to take turns at hewing the ash tree that had been chosen. Their wives and sweethearts held their coats, and called encouragement.

Marianne's brows rose as Gilbert handed Miranda his coat, and took the ax. “And where did you two go off to?

“We found some mistletoe,” Miranda said merrily, her eyes on Gilbert. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, and she watched the fascinating flex of his muscles as he swung the ax. Had she ever noticed how long his legs were, how his breeches clung to the marvelous male curves of his body? It was a body she knew intimately now. Her breath caught in her throat, her flesh warming under her clothing.

“I have always loved watching Adam at this work,” Marianne mused as her husband took his turn, and for the first time, Miranda understood exactly what she meant.

The log fell to Phineas's last stroke, and the cheer went up. It was bound with ropes and dragged back toward the castle.

Along the way, the ladies gathered holly, laurel, bay, and rosemary boughs. They let the gentlemen lift them so they could pull mistletoe down from the highest branches. There was plenty of laughter and singing and jests as they headed back to the warmth of the castle, and the pleasures of mulled wine, rum punch, and merry company.

Gilbert took full advantage of the mistletoe in Miranda's bonnet, pulling her behind trees and snow banks to steal breathless kisses.

They arrived on the lawn in front of the library just as the war began.

The Countess of Westlake packed a snowball and sent it sailing with unerring aim. It knocked the Earl of Westlake's beaver hat into the snow.

It took his lordship only a moment to retaliate, and the fight was on, the ladies on one side the gentlemen on the other, the air ringing with laughter and shrieks of delight.

A
snowball hit the window of the library with a thump that rattled the glass.

“Silly fools!” Lady Augusta grumbled, looking out at the chaos. “They'll get wet and catch cold, and be too ill for Christmas dinner.”

“Nonsense,” Carrington said, coming to stand beside her. He chuckled. “Young Jamie can throw a snowball! I daresay he'll be a champion cricketer before long.”

“Look at Miranda, a married woman, running about the lawn like a hoyden. She's not twelve anymore! She must learn to behave with wifely decorum,” Augusta said. She looked at her brother. “I thought you were going to be firm with her, see she married properly. The Kelton match was a good one.”

Carrington's eyes were fixed on his granddaughter's rosy face. “Do you see how happy she is?” he asked. “He has no title, no fortune, and she loves him. They're all happy, all my grandchildren.”

“And so are you, you old fool. You're grinning like a monkey!”

He smiled at his sister, put his arm around her shoulder. “Remember when we used to play in the snow on Christmas Eve, Aggie? Who knows how many Christmases we have left to us. I plan to enjoy every single one.”

“You'll see many more, every one noisier than the last. You have two great-grandchildren already. I suspect Phineas and Isobel will give you more before very long, and Miranda, too. There'll be no peace in the house then.”

“Good. I shall crawl on the floor with them, play jacks and cricket, and let them pull my whiskers.”

“All the pleasures of the season,” Augusta chuckled.

“All the pleasures,” Carrington agreed.