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Authors: Theresa Romain

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BOOK: Season for Surrender
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He touched the tip of his tongue to hers, lightly, a caress. A jolt of pleasure shot through her; she pressed her thighs together at the sweet shock of it. Her hands, drifting out of her own control, gripped his fingers yet more tightly and pulled him against her, grinding her needy body like a blade against the stone of his form. He would sharpen her, hone her; there was something sparking in her now, removing her dullness.
She moaned.
No. Too much. She'd revealed too much. As soon as she'd swallowed the sound within her throat, she twisted her hands within his and freed them. When she took a step back, his arms slid free, then dropped to his sides as though boneless.
“Hell of a beginning at going your own way,” he said. He sounded a little foggy.
Louisa bent and retrieved the mistletoe, shaking beads of sleet from it. Carefully, then, she selected a mistletoe berry, plucked it between thumb and forefinger, and tossed it away.
“But . . . that berry is worth a kiss.”
“Which you gave me. I had to pay, didn't I?” She held the mistletoe puppy out to him, and he took it with a frown.
“There was no need.” Even in the dim light, she could read his puzzlement at her daring to toss away any scrap of his attention.
I must. I want it too much
.
Her cheeks felt hot, and she fumbled for words. “Why we should make such a fuss over mistletoe, I don't know. It's only a parasite. It'd be nothing without a tree to grow on.”
“That has occurred to me,” he murmured. He turned back in the direction of the house. “Shall we return to the Hall now, and see how we stack up against the others?”
Only a parasite. Why we should make such a fuss, I don't know.
Mistletoe was much like a rake. But he was more than that—though how much more, she wasn't sure. And as long as he kept her guessing, she had to do the same to him.
Louisa was a sensible girl. She always had been. What had she wanted? A kiss. Had it been pleasurable? It had. Had she covered her slip? Yes, she'd done that, too.
She had gotten what she wanted, then, and there was no reason on earth to feel disappointed in herself for tossing it away, a berry on the ground.
 
 
They were almost the last pair back to the Hall. Amidst the stamping of feet and shaking of cloaks, stacking of branches and waggling of prized bits of greenery, Xavier could see enough of what had been collected to guess that he and Louisa had a fair chance of winning. Those who had collected holly had far fewer berries to boast of, and no one had found as large a mass of mistletoe as he had.
A parasite. Nothing to be proud of.
He squelched the thought ruthlessly. There was no sense in feeling a little bereft at leaving the woods behind, or having Louisa toss his kiss away like a meaningless trinket. Lord Xavier should expect careless pleasures, and he'd worked for a long time to become Lord Xavier.
Right now, he couldn't think why.
Wheeling, the impassive butler who had served Clifton Hall since the previous earl's time, stood snowy-haired and spare in the corner of the high-ceilinged, marble-tiled entrance hall. His slightest gestures and quietest commands directed footmen and maids to take wraps and sort the gathered greenery. It was a tiny wonder of choreography, and Xavier marveled at it for an instant, wondering why he had never noticed it before.
Or why he had bothered to notice it now. Louisa's habit of observation seemed to be contagious.
He pushed through the sloppy mass of his guests until he reached the butler's side. “Wheeling. Christmas morning services are at what hour?”
“At nine o'clock, my lord.” The butler didn't even blink his surprise. His version of a Numbered Expression: a complete cloak over all emotion and thought. He played his role as ably as Xavier did his own.
Xavier nodded and shoved back through the laughing, cloak-shaking group until he reached Louisa. She had slipped to one side of the hall and was standing near a half-round table on which stood a huge majolica vase of hothouse blooms. The ostentatious bouquet nearly hid her from view.
Once he got her attention, he communicated what he'd learned from Wheeling.
Her dark eyes met his, surprised; then she smiled. “Thank you. I'll tell my aunt. Do you think Jane would care to attend, too?”
A slippery urge to keep her smiling must have made him say the next words. “I will make sure she does. I'll accompany her.”
Louisa's brows lifted. “Will you.”
“You could
try
to make that sound like a question,” he grumbled. “And yes, I will. I've said so, and I'll do it. The word of a gentleman is sacred.”
She turned her head, tossing a smile to Jane—just entering the hall with Kirkpatrick—then looked at Xavier from the corner of her eye. “So I have heard.”
That was all. Nothing else. No praise for Lord Xavier for intending to enter a church. Not even a confirmation that yes, he was a gentleman.
Impatient, he turned away. “I'll see you in the drawing room for our reckoning.”
It was a good thing he was so used to playing the role of Lord Xavier. For the next ten minutes, the sly comments and
bon mot
s came to his lips almost without thought. If Mrs. Protheroe's laughter was any indication, he was as witty as ever. If Lady Irving's sharp looks were any clue, he was just as notorious. And if Louisa's silence meant anything. . .
She regretted kissing him. She had thrown away the mistletoe berry, and a goodly chunk of his pride. Now, he could only show her that it mattered as little to him as it had to her.
“You've all been very industrious,” he said with a nod at the neat piles of Christmas greenery that now dotted the formal drawing room.
Lockwood hooted. “Count the berries!”
A chorus of shouts succeeded this, and Xavier held up his hands. “Wheeling has already seen to it. If I might have your full attention, ladies and gentlemen, lovers and fighters, singers and rascals?”
“Rascals?” Jane sounded intrigued. “Do you mean me?”
Xavier ignored her. People began to perch on furniture and nestle on the carpeted floor, all warm and informal. It was as though they'd just had more of the rum punch, and the strong spirits had improved their own.
Or there was something joyful in the air. Anticipation, sweetly crisping every moment.
He unfolded a paper that Wheeling had handed him and held it at arm's length. Penciled scribbles resolved into names and numbers: the quick count the servants had made of all the greenery.
“In last place,” he called, and the hubbub quieted at once. “Lord Weatherwax and Lady Irving, who merely collected a few hothouse roses from the vase in the corner.”
From her chair near the great fireplace, Lady Irving grinned wolfishly. “You're lucky you got that, young fellow. I'd much rather enjoy a sherry than go tramping about in the cold. Eh, Weatherwax?”
“Except for the bit about the sherry”—Weatherwax hiccoughed—“I am in complete agreement, my lady.” He drained a snifter of something so strong, he shuddered as the drink went down his throat.
Xavier suppressed a smile. “Very well. Next, Lady Charissa Bradleigh and Mr. Channing, who collected sixteen inches of evergreen garland.”
That young woman clapped a hand over her mouth as she giggled, and the stuffy Mr. Channing tugged at his cravat and cleared his throat.
“Hmm.” Lady Irving said what they were all thinking.
“Lady Audrina Bradleigh and her mother, Lady Alleyneham, made another team”—and so it continued, Xavier naming off pairs until he got to the last few sets of names.
His eyes skimmed the paper, taking in everything.
Oh
.
A Numbered Expression. Any one of them; it didn't matter. Haughty Certainty, Amused Tolerance, Veiled Disdain . . . Insipid . . . Confusion . . . he had to paste something on his face.
Now
.
“In third place,” he said, trying to ignore a tic beating at the joint of his jaw, “Lord Lockwood and Signora Frittarelli, who collected holly and mistletoe containing one hundred forty-two berries.”
La signora
nodded, her heavy-lidded eyes half-closed, and blew a smoke ring in Lockwood's direction. Lockwood attempted to look gratified.
“And in second place, myself ”—Xavier attempted to look gratified, too—“and Miss Oliver. With a lucky bunch of mistletoe, we collected one hundred sixty berries.”
One hundred sixty-one.
His eyes caught Louisa's over the top of the paper. She gave him a tiny shrug, a tiny smile.
“I won, then!” Jane shrieked. “Kirkpatrick, we won!” She jumped to her feet and grabbed the hands of the baron, who stood with a dazed expression as Jane pumped his hands up and down, shouting her victory.
“One hundred sixty-one berries,” Xavier called over Jane's ruckus. Again he met Louisa's eyes.
She looked glassy, frozen. She'd realized that if she hadn't thrown the berry away, they would have tied for the win.
“You mean to say,” Lockwood said in an over-loud voice, “Lord Xavier did not win a wager?” He rose to his feet with deliberate sloth, shaking and smoothing his coat, looking around to catch as many eyes as he could.
Amused Tolerance spread over Xavier's face, stiff and false as a mask. He folded up the paper from Wheeling and slipped it into a pocket of his coat. “Indeed not. Miss Tindall and Lord Kirkpatrick are to be congratulated.”
Yipping and shouting, Jane was calling, “One hundred sixty-one kisses! Kirkpatrick, think of it!”
The other guests burst into applause and laughter, and Jane started pressing kisses over the face of the dazed-looking baron as Lady Irving began a loud count. Xavier joined in, and others picked up the call, until the whole room was counting and Kirkpatrick was turning as red as a holly berry and Lockwood's comment seemed forgotten.
But it wasn't; not by everyone. Xavier's neck prickled under some scrutiny, and he turned his head to see his cousin watching him with cool blue eyes. Lockwood hadn't failed to notice, and he wouldn't forget. He was more mindful of Xavier's reputation than anyone.
“Snapdragon!” Jane shouted once the flurry of kisses came to an end. “We must play snapdragon, or it simply won't be Christmas.”
“Good game, snapdragon,” agreed Lord Weatherwax. Any pastime that involved lighting a bowl of brandy-soaked raisins on fire was sure to appeal to the old drunkard. And Jane had a thirst for blood—or for watching people burn their mouths on flaming raisins.
“As our winner, my dear cousin, you shall have your snapdragon,” Xavier decided. He'd keep them all occupied into the late hours; too full of pleasure and punch to think about anything but festive revelry.
Before five minutes were up, servants were bustling in with the ingredients of the game, and a new round of hooting and cheering had begun, with Jane at the fore.
Louisa applauded for her friend, looking as though the evening was going exactly as she wished.
And maybe it was, at that. Maybe there was nothing wrong with losing by one. Single. Berry.
For this way, when he kissed her again, she would know it wasn't because a wager required him to.
Chapter 11
Containing No Room
It had been years since Lord Xavier was up early enough to catch the sunrise, though he'd often gone to bed after bidding the sun good morning. And it had been years since he found anything beautiful about the morning except the curve of a hip, the swell of a breast, as he blinked blearily at his occasional bed partner.
This morning, though, he'd awoken alone. He'd gulped coffee, arranged his cravat with fumbling fingers, and dragged himself down to the entrance hall at twenty of nine.
When he saw the group awaiting him, arranged on the marble floor of the hall like living chess pieces, he suddenly felt more alert. Lady Irving and Louisa were there, as he'd known they would be. The countess looked formidable in blues and purples, a wintry swirl of velvet. Louisa wore red under her dark cloak; it tinted her lips and cheeks as ripe as a holly berry.
Jane was there, as he'd ordered. Smothered in peach satin, she looked tired and miserable.
Especially because she was holding Lord Lockwood's arm.
Lockwood? Going to church? Interesting.
And not precisely welcome. Lockwood hadn't abandoned his mischief-making, it seemed, though what he thought he'd do in a church, Xavier had no idea.
Xavier pounded down the stairs, noting the limp hand the marquess raised to his temple. After nodding to the ladies, Xavier said in a voice of infinite concern, pitched low for his cousin's ears alone, “Lockwood. You look as though you've a bad head. Not up too late doing something you oughtn't, I hope.”
“If I was,” muttered Lockwood, “I daresay I wasn't the only one. Please, not so loud on the tiles. Are your boots soled with metal?”
“Your bedchamber is carpeted,” Xavier noted. “If my footfalls are too much for your ears, pray retire to your room and sleep away the morning.”
“Nonsense.” Lockwood's voice gathered a little strength. “I've got scarcely more than a week to send away the bluestocking, if I'm to win our wager.”
“How tedious you are,” Xavier said, forcing himself to keep a low tone. If Louisa heard them: disaster.
“
Moi, mon cousin?
” Lockwood's expression of innocence would have been more effective had he not clapped a hand to his temple again and groaned. “I'm not the one who organized a party of churchgoers.”
I'm not either
, Xavier almost replied out of habit, but he bit his tongue. No point in belaboring the significance of the wager with Lockwood.
That wager on Louisa's presence—ah, damn it to hell. That was hardly a thought one ought to be having on Christmas morning, but he'd almost forgotten the wager. He wished he
could
forget it.
Taking the arms of Lady Irving and Louisa, he escorted them outdoors. Jane was welcome to walk with Lockwood. His aggravating cousins deserved one another.
The church bell rang from the steeple, deep and sonorous, and Lockwood's face went the starchy yellow-white of blancmange at the sound.
The church on Xavier's estate was small and Gothic in style, with a high gable roof and narrow, pointed-arched windows. The building was constructed of the same gray and brown stone that made up the original part of Clifton Hall. A generation later, the back-flung wings had been added to his family's estate, but no one had ever seen the need to enlarge this church for the earldom's tenants.
Probably because the lords and ladies of Clifton Hall had never frequented it much.
When he stepped inside, he was pleased that its structure had remained so untouched. The stone floor was smooth from centuries of wear; a dark and well-worn patterned carpet ran down the nave. The old wood and stone of the walls—arches and buttresses and whatever all these high-reaching sweeps of architectural strength were called—were smoke-dark from candles and tinted faintly red and blue in spots by the lacy stained-glass window over the altar.
It was a chilly building, but a peaceful one. The cold didn't matter as much in here, as though people were warmed by their sense of purpose.
They could have been warmed by their proximity to others, too. People sat shoulder to shoulder and stood wherever there was space. Every pew was crammed full, including the Xavier family pew, high-backed and ornately carved, which stretched across the front of the nave.
Xavier stood uselessly as the rest of his churchgoing party sidled through the doorway and surrounded him. There was nowhere for them to sit, and he wasn't sure what to do next. Which was one of his least favorite feelings in the world.
He countered this with Expression Number Two, Haughty Certainty, and motioned the others from his party to pass him and step away from the cold entrance.
For once, even Jane was silent. Whether from respect or confusion, Xavier wasn't sure.
When they'd come in, the rows of heads had been prayerfully forward-facing. But the party from Clifton Hall was starting to draw notice. Like ripples in a pond, the churchgoers began to turn their heads toward the back of the church with tiny, jerking movements that were probably meant to be unobtrusive.
A cough sounded behind Xavier, and he turned to see a sandy-haired man in early middle age. The man's cassock and surplice proclaimed him the vicar; his sheepish expression proclaimed him in some state of distress.
“My lord. Lord Xavier,” he stammered, sketching a little bow and making his greeting to the others. “My lord, what an unexpected pleasure. The . . . party at the Hall . . . we hadn't . . . that is . . . I'll have the family pew cleared at once.”
He fiddled with the embroidered collar of his surplice. His ears had turned almost purple.
Wintry chill seemed to slap at Xavier again. “Very good,” he said.
The vicar looked relieved at the mildness of his patron's reaction. He looked over Xavier's shoulder, eyebrows raised, eyes bulging, and made a sweeping gesture with his hand.
Xavier turned back to the pews in time to see a gaggle of chastened churchgoers vacate the carved front pew and its environs, threading into any gap they could find in the crowded building.
Damnation. As though he wasn't credited with enough wrongdoing, now his tenants would blame his caprice for splitting their families during Christmas morning services.
But they'd shouldered him from their church. No—
his
church. His church, on his land. His living to grant, yet they hadn't left room for him.
A dark rebellion shot through him as he studied the people in the church. Plainly curious, though trying not to show it. Dressed in their serviceable best: warm, dark wools and linens. All strangers to him, as he was to them.
It shouldn't be that way, should it?
Suddenly, desperately, he wanted to turn on his heel and leave. But he could not, now that they'd made way for him.
Without looking around, he led the way to the front of the church and slid into the now vacant family pew. The half inch of skin between his cropped hair and the stiff linen of his cravat seemed horribly naked.
So he squared his shoulders and prepared for a long ordeal. No matter the effort, he must keep Expression Number Two, Haughty Certainty, in place. To show that he belonged here; that he had a right to lord it over the people who now looked past him to the modest vicar and raised their voices in festive song.
BOOK: Season for Surrender
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