His Mistress By Christmas (23 page)

“Not mine.” He shook his head vehemently. “It was their idea. Well, Bianca’s, really. But I said it was wrong.”

“And yet?”

He shrugged helplessly.

“Not merely wrong, dear man, but not especially clever. It took all of what? The length of dinner? For me to discover I was married.” She shook her head. “You should have told me what you and your sisters were up to.”

He blew a long breath. “Or not have deceived everyone in the first place.”

“That, too, might have been wise. But, as I don’t have brothers and sisters, I don’t know what it’s like to want them to think well of me. And having a mistress here, when they were expecting a wife, might have been distressing.”

He snorted.

“I can see where Bianca’s scheme would be most appealing. However, it’s long been my observation that telling the truth initially is much easier than having to confess to a lie.”

He scoffed. “Do you think so?”

“This is not the time for sarcasm, Sebastian,” she said firmly. “And while honesty does have its place . . .” She waved a dismissive hand. “What’s done is done.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you can’t tell them the truth now.”

He stared in confusion. “I can’t?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would upset everyone and ruin Christmas in the process.” She moved closer and rested her hand on his arm. “That is not how you want to spend your first Christmas back with your family.”

He stared down into her brown eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying there’s no need to tell them we aren’t married until after Christmas. Your family is delighted to have you again in their midst. Perhaps the best gift you can give them is a practically perfect Christmas. In your new house. With your”—she rolled her gaze at the ceiling—”new wife.”

Surprise widened his eyes. “You?”

“Unless you have another fraudulent new wife on the premises.”

He tried and failed to hide a smile. “No, just the one.”

“Excellent answer, Sebastian.” She blew a long breath. “And, given as you still have a look of stunned confusion on your face, I am further saying, for purposes of clarification, I am willing to go along with this deception until after Christmas.”

“This is not what I expected.”

“Good.” She smiled up at him. “I do so hate to be expected.”

Without thinking, he pulled her into his arms in a gesture easy and natural and right. This was where the blasted woman belonged. How long would it take her to realize that? “Why are you doing this?”

“Oh dear, that is a difficult question.”

Although, she didn’t pull away.

Veronica thought for a moment. “If you had asked me to pretend to be your wife before we came, I would have been most indignant and refused. Even if I had known upon my arrival that this would happen, I would not have gone along with it.”

“I had no idea this would happen when you arrived,” he said quickly.

“I know, which is a point in your favor.” She paused. “It’s been somewhat chaotic all day with arrivals and greetings and all, but amusing as well. Your family has been most welcoming and friendly. They strike me as very nice people.” She slid her arms around his neck. “The opinion of your family is obviously important to you. Therefore it is important to me.”

His gaze meshed with hers. “Is it?”

“It is.” Her brow furrowed. “You sound surprised.”

“No, just pleased.” He stared down at her. “And that’s why you’re going along with this?”

“Well . . .” She sighed. “You are a rather nice sort.”

“Is that all?” His gaze searched hers.

“And I do like the way you write.”

“I see.” She was still in his arms, her body pressed against his, warm and soft and irresistible. He lowered his head and ran his lips along the curve of her neck. “Anything else?”

“Oh . . .” She moaned softly. “You’re somewhat famous, I suppose.”

“You don’t care about fame,” he murmured against her skin.

“No . . .” Her eyes closed and her head fell back. “You can be quite pleasant and gracious. . . .”

“My brother thinks you are too good for me.” She tasted of heat and desire too long denied and promises yet to come.

“I might have heard something like that,” she murmured.

“He’s right, you know.” He trailed light kisses to the base of her throat.

“Yes, well . . .” She gasped. “Possibly.”

He pressed her back against the wall. His lips moved lower to caress the curve of her breast revealed by her bodice. “This dress is entirely too low for a wife.”

Her hands clutched at his lapels and his shoulders. “I’m not a wife.”

“Then it’s too high for a mistress.” Her scent of flowers and spice enveloped him, claimed him. “Will your door be locked again tonight?”

“You noticed?” Her words were barely more than a breath.

“I did indeed.” He kept one arm around her waist; his other hand inched her skirt up.

“We shall see.” She sagged against the wall. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“What can I do to persuade you?” His fingers found the smooth silk of her stocking-covered leg.

She shivered. “I thought you had rules against seducing the woman you wished to marry.”

“As far as everyone is concerned, I am married. And a man should always seduce the woman he is married to.” He drew his hand up her leg until he found bare flesh. “Frequently and with a great deal of enthusiasm.”

“You do realize the kitchen is just steps away and a servant might pop through the door at any moment.” Her breathing was labored; her chest rose and fell against his lips. She was every bit as aroused as he was. “It wouldn’t do at all for them to catch Sir Sebastian kissing Lady Hadley-Attwater. They would be scandalized.”

“Ah yes, we wouldn’t want to embarrass the servants.”

“They are difficult to replace.” She could barely gasp out the words.

“Still, it’s my understanding that it is permissible for a man to kiss his mistress in his own house.”

“You can’t have it both ways.” She drew a deep breath, then another. “And that, my dear man, is called having your cake and eating it, too.” She kissed him quickly, the barest whisper of her lips across his, brushed away his hand, and pushed out of his arms. “You said it yourself. Until after Christmas, you don’t have a mistress.” She straightened her skirt, smoothed her hair, and smiled in an altogether wicked manner. “You have a wife.”

Veronica’s hand rested on the key to the door between her room and Sebastian’s. As much as she didn’t want to lock the door between their rooms, the whole idea of making Sebastian want what he couldn’t have was working nicely. Why, the man had practically seduced her in the kitchen corridor tonight. And she had come very close to letting him. Which, of course, was what she had wanted from the start. And, dear Lord, she did want him. But something had changed. Something too vague and elusive for her to put her finger on, but something nonetheless. She sighed, turned the key in the lock, then started for her bed. No.

She turned on her heel, yanked the key from the lock, tossed it in the bottom drawer of the dresser, then covered it with clothes. Not that hiding the key would remove temptation—she knew where it was, after all. Still, searching for it in the dead of night, when dreams of him overtook her common sense, would prove difficult, if not impossible. Dreams that left her with a longing to be in his arms, and a sweet, awful aching need only he could ease. If the blasted man had cooperated in the beginning, this wouldn’t even be an issue. She would, no doubt, be in his embrace right this very moment, having a delightful time. Now, it seemed wise not to leap into his bed too quickly.

What had happened to her? She extinguished the lamp and collapsed onto the bed, her mind struggling to find answers to questions she still didn’t quite grasp.

She had wanted to be Sebastian’s mistress because she didn’t want marriage and all that came along with it. She wanted to keep her independence; she wanted to maintain control of her finances and her life. That was all well and good in theory. But Portia was right. There was much she hadn’t considered.

She hadn’t considered that this evening, in the company of his sisters after dinner and later, when the gentlemen had rejoined them, she would not mind being Lady Hadley-Attwater. Indeed, she might possibly have enjoyed it.

Nor had she considered what it would be like to be in the midst of a group of people who cared for one another without question or condition and didn’t hesitate to tell you what they thought was best. Oh, her father and aunt and grandmother cared for her. But her aunt and grandmother were great believers in independence, in choosing one’s own path. She couldn’t recall them ever offering advice on matters of a personal nature. Certainly they had strong opinions on very nearly everything, but when it came to what Veronica should do with her life, they encouraged—no, expected—her to make her own decisions. Nor could she remember ever asking for their help. As for her father, he was quiet and pleasant and lived quite happily in his books and his collections of whatever had happened to strike his fancy at the moment. He, too, had let her make her own choices.

She hadn’t considered that living a life of independence meant that she would be alone. Bianca’s words still rang in her head. Independence paled somewhat when coupled with alone. And if she was independent, wouldn’t Sebastian be independent as well? If she was not to be trapped with one man for the rest of her days, as Bianca had said, wouldn’t he be just as free to leave as she? She had thought all along about
her
freedom and
her
independence, but didn’t the pendulum swing both ways? She hadn’t considered the possibility of his choosing to leave her. Of her living her life without him.

And she hadn’t considered the man himself. If she were to make a list of those qualities she wanted in a man, he had them all. He was amusing and kind and clever. Arrogant and, at the same time, not entirely sure of himself. And he was not the least bit perfect, which might well be the most endearing trait of all.

And he loved her. He’d said all those things about her to his brothers. He wanted to die with his hand in hers. Her throat tightened.

She hadn’t considered the possibility of falling in love with him. She hadn’t wanted love. Hadn’t thought she’d know it again, and yet here it was. Confusing and uncertain and a warm comfort around her heart.

She rolled over and curled around her pillow. Damnation. She hadn’t known what to do since the moment she met him. And, blast it all, she did hate it when Portia was right: she hadn’t given this mistress idea due consideration.

No matter how many times she punched her pillow or covered her head with her blanket, she couldn’t block out the questions lingering in her mind.

This was their first Christmas together. Was she willing to accept that it could be their last?

“I never thought I’d enjoy things like this,” Evelyn said thoughtfully.

“They do seem to have a fondness for trudging along in the out of doors.” Veronica pushed her hands deeper into her fur muff. “In the cold.”

“I didn’t mean that.” Evelyn laughed.

She and Veronica trailed behind Miranda, Bianca, and Diana. Diana’s two nannies walked off to one side. In the distance, Sebastian and his brothers traversed the grounds, vanishing and reemerging over the rise of the rolling, snow-covered hills or the small stands of trees. The children bounded along beside them like eager puppies, gathering boughs of evergreen and holly and long, trailing vines of ivy. They filled the huge baskets their father and uncles carried, so later all could be used to decorate the house.

Shouts and laughter, from children and adults alike, drifted back through the crisp December air.

It had been late morning by the time everyone had arisen for the day. They turned to Veronica, as hostess, for direction as to the day’s activities. While she was well versed on ways to pass the time for guests at a house party, this was a family Christmas gathering complete with children. Somehow, croquet or lawn tennis or archery did not seem appropriate. Besides, it was bloody cold. Bianca came to her rescue and pointed out that nothing had yet been collected with which to decorate the house. And an hour later, here they were, tramping through the cold.

“I meant all this excitement about Christmas,” Evelyn continued. “The preparation and anticipation.”

Veronica raised a brow. “You didn’t do this as a girl?”

“No,” she said simply, then paused as if debating whether or not to say more. “I have no family to speak of. My parents died when I was very young, and I was left the ward of a distant relative, now deceased. I spent most of my girlhood in boarding schools.”

“I see,” Veronica murmured.

“It wasn’t at all unpleasant. One doesn’t miss what one has never had.” Evelyn slanted her a smile. “The schools were in France and Switzerland. There are worse places to be.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Veronica chuckled. “I have always liked Switzerland. My husband”—she caught herself—”my first husband and I spent our Christmases there. It was quite lovely.”

“It is lovely, but it’s not like this.” Evelyn scanned the scene spread out before them. The men and children had disappeared over a low rise. “This looks like an illustration from a Christmas story or a card.” She shook her head in a wry manner. “And I sound like the overly sentimental greeting.”

“Not at all.” Veronica looked around. “I was thinking much the same thing myself.”

“This is my third Christmas with the family. It makes them all children again, even Adrian, who is the least childlike man I know. I thought he was quite proper and even a bit stuffy when I married him. I should have seen him at Christmas.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“Oh my, yes. I would have married him even sooner, although that probably wasn’t possible.” She laughed. “I suspect that’s why they like all this festivity. It brings them back to the carefree days of their youth. Before any of them had known loss or heartache or disappointment.” Evelyn slanted a glance at Veronica. “I hadn’t expected this, either, you know.”