'Twas the Night After Christmas (37 page)

“Why did the reindeer get so big?” Pierce asked curiously.

“So they’ll be like
our
deer.” He gazed up at Pierce. “You know, the ones in the pen. Besides, if St. Nicholas is carrying presents, he needs
lots
of room. A miniature sleigh isn’t nearly big enough.”

“Excellent point,” Pierce said.

Jasper folded up the paper. “So that’s it.”

“What about the rest of it?” Camilla asked in a whisper as she came up to perch on the arm of Pierce’s chair.

“Mama, the Poem is
really
long. It took me all afternoon to write this part out.” He snuggled closer to Pierce. “Okay, now you can read me the real Poem.”

“Oh no, lad,” she said as she picked him up and headed off. “No more stalling. It’s time for bed.”

Jasper cast Pierce a beseeching glance over his mother’s shoulder, and Pierce threw up his hands with a rueful smile. He knew better than to gainsay Camilla when it came to bedtime.

Besides, once the children were in bed . . .

A short while later, he had
her
in his lap as they sat in the drawing room looking at the tree. This one had ribbons and bows and lit candles, as well as a number of new baubles from the London shops. Camilla wasn’t one to spend buckets of money on anything, but she did like a pretty Christmas tree almost as much as his mother did.

He propped his chin on her head. “Fowler informed me today that he is planning to ask for Mother’s hand in marriage. I think he was rather surprised when I told him I’d be delighted to have him in the family.”

“He certainly waited long enough in getting around to it.”

“You know Fowler. It took him six months after our wedding to work up the courage to ask her to go for a walk, and another two months before he progressed to asking her to ride with him. If I hadn’t prodded him into inviting her to accompany him to that harvest assembly last fall, he would probably still be riding with her every day and giving her long, yearning glances at dinner. That man courts at a snail’s pace.”

“Not everyone can court at
your
manic pace,” she teased. “Though I’m not sure I’d call it
courting.
More like a transparent attempt to get beneath my skirts.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” he said with a grin.

“Yes.” She shifted in his lap so she could look up at him. “As did my transparent attempt to reform you.”

“You did not reform me,” he said stoutly. “I reformed myself.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” she asked as she looped her arms about his neck. “I had nothing to do with it?”

“Hardly. Every time I looked at you, my thoughts were decidedly
un
reformed.” He lowered his gaze to her mouth. “They still are.”

“Are they, indeed?” Her eyes gleamed. “Do tell.”

He brushed a kiss over her lips. “ ’Twas the night after Christmas, and all through the place / The only ones stirring were the lord and his mate.”

“That is an awful rhyme.”

“Shh, I’m not done.” He rose with her in his arms, and headed for the door. “They went off to nestle all snug in their bed / While visions of lovemaking danced in their heads.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Is this the naughty version of the Poem?”

“No.” He stared down into the face of the woman who’d become dearer to him than life. Who made his life richer and fuller and decidedly more interesting with each passing day. “It’s the version for men who are in love with their wives.”

She smiled up at him, that same love shining in her face. “Then carry on, sir.”

“And Mama, quite naked, and I naked, too—”

“Pierce!” she cried, half laughing, half chiding.

“Oh, all right,” he said as he carried her up the stairs. “I suppose it
is
the naughty version.”

Click through for a special look at the first delightful romance in the new

Duke’s Men series

ONE MORE KISS

by
New York Times
bestselling author

Sabrina Jeffries

Coming Summer 2013 from Pocket Books

As soon as the innkeeper left, scurrying off to arrange for their dinner, the Duke of Lyons walked over to the ewer, poured some water in the basin, and began to wash his hands.

The silence stretched maddeningly between them. “I imagine that you find the public coaches very dirty, Your Grace,” Lisette said.

“I find traveling very dirty regardless of the coach, Miss Bonnaud.” He dried his hands, then faced her, leaning back against the sturdy bureau that held the wash basin and crossing his arms over his chest.

His unreadable stare made her feel the first tendrils of alarm.

“It is, that’s true.” She walked over to her bag and opened it, determined to appear as nonchalant as he.

“That was a very enlightening performance you put on in the carriage,” he said at last. “I was impressed.”

She didn’t suppose “Thank you” was the appropriate answer. “You pushed me into a corner,” she said defensively. “I didn’t have a choice. We agreed that I would help you find Tristan if you would let me go along. You couldn’t expect me to jeopardize his safety by telling you too soon where he is.”

She shot him a veiled glance. Her voice had grown stronger the longer she talked, but it didn’t seem to change his stance any. He just kept staring at her with a piercing gaze. An oddly compelling gaze.

It was most unsettling. “Because you know very well,” she went on, “that the minute I do, you’ll abandon me and go off on your own.”

“True.”

She gaped at him. He hadn’t even bothered to deny it. “Well, I can’t have that. I have to protect my brother.”

“Do you?” He pushed away from the bureau. “I begin to think you have a darker goal.”

That took her completely by surprise. “Darker goal?” she asked, her blood freezing in her veins.

“When I first met you, I assumed you weren’t part of his scheme. But your play-acting today proved that you are masterful at pretense. How do I know that our entire conversation this morning wasn’t a pretense? That you aren’t leading me away from London at this very moment for some devious purpose?”

Devious purpose
?
Masterful at pretense
? He thought she was some sort of swindler! “That’s a vile accusation! I would never do such a thing!”

“And why should I believe you?” He strode nearer, his face dark with threat. “You’ve proved yourself very good at dissembling. For all I know, you and your brother cooked up this plan together.”

“B-But why? Why would I do that?”

“That’s what I want to know.” He loomed over her. “I ought to have you tossed in the gaol until you tell me the truth.”

“Because I
cry
well?” she squeaked.

“Because you are attempting to defraud me,” he said in an ominous tone.

He was going to throw her in irons, just because she could do some acting in a pinch!

“I swear I’m not doing any such thing,” she said, her heart in her throat. “You know why I insisted on your taking me with you. You do! I don’t know where you’ve got this daft idea that I’m some swindler, but nothing could be further from—”

He started laughing. She gaped at him, now all at sea.

That merely made him laugh harder, and he gasped, “You’re not . . . the only one . . . good at pretense.”

And suddenly she understood. This was revenge for her play-acting this afternoon.

Planting her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “You are a horrible,
horrible
man! How dare you terrify me like that? Why, I ought to —”

He dropped onto the settee, laughing so hard he could scarcely speak. “If you . . . could only have seen . . . your face . . . when I mentioned . . . gaol . . .”

She walked up to hit him on the arm. “That was not remotely amusing!”

“I . . . beg to . . . disagree . . .” he choked out, holding his stomach in mirth.

Glowering at him, she strode over to the ewer, brought it back, and poured its contents on his head.

He jumped up off the settee, sputtering, “What the devil was that for?”

“For making me think you were going to pack me off to gaol, you . . . you . . . oaf!”

“
Oaf
?” he said as he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his face. “That’s the best you can do?”

She narrowed her gaze to slits. “Cretin. Devil.
Arse.
”

He smirked at her. “Careful now. Aren’t you supposed to be a respectable married lady?”

“You nearly gave me heart failure!”

“You deserved it, after all that crying and nonsense.” He mimicked her. “
M-My brother was right. I sh-should never have m-married you!
”

Tossing the empty ewer onto the settee, she crossed her arms over her chest. “The words might have been feigned, but the sentiment is still valid.”

“It wasn’t my idea to do this,” he reminded her.

“And it wasn’t
my
idea to pose as a married couple. Thank God
that’s
pretend.” She headed for the other room.

“Oh yes,” he said irritably as he followed close behind her. “You would hate being married to a wealthy duke who could buy you whatever you wanted and show you the world you so obviously crave to see.”

That he had noticed her love of travel vexed her immensely. She whirled on him in a temper. “I would hate being married to any man who would own me. Who would want to tell me what to do, when to do it, how to do it, and with whom. No thank you.”

He slicked back his wet hair. “Is that really how you see marriage?”

“As a prison for women? Yes.”

“And you see no advantage in it,” he said as he came right up to her.

“None.”

“What about children?”

“My mother had two. She wasn’t married.” Though Lisette would never follow that example, she wasn’t about to admit it to His High-and-Mighty Grace.

He lifted one imperious brow. “And you ended up in poverty as a result.”

“So did my half-brother, and
he
is legitimate. The fact is, in this country, unless you’re the eldest, you inherit at the whim of your father. Marriage is no protection against that, especially if a woman is marrying far above her, as Dom’s mother did.”

“What about companionship?” he prodded.

“I have two brothers who will never abandon me. That’s companionship enough for me.”

“And love?” he asked softly. “What about that?”

She glanced away, not wanting him to see her ambivalence on
that
subject. “Love is the chain men use to hold a woman prisoner. They offer her love and in exchange for her devotion, they give her none. I learned that well from my mother’s example.” Forcing a bright smile to her face, she met his gaze once more. “So you see, Your Grace, I find no advantages to be had in marriage.”

“You’re forgetting one more,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.

“Oh, and what might that be?”

“Desire.”

She fought a shiver at his provocative tone. She hadn’t forgotten that one. She’d ignored it. “Desire is only an advantage for the man.” She’d been telling herself that for years, but it somehow rang hollow when she said it to
him
.

“You can’t be that naive.” His voice was now a low thrum. “Surely your mother enjoyed her nights in your father’s arms.”

“I wouldn’t know. Maman didn’t talk about such things.” Her mother had been determined to act respectably outside the bedchamber, probably thinking that it would convince Papa to marry her. Obviously it hadn’t worked.

“And you? No man has ever tempted you with desire?”

Not to any great extent. Until he had come along. And she wasn’t about to admit
that
to him. “No.”

Something flickered in his face. The thrill of a challenge? Or something darker, more visceral? “Then it’s about bloody time someone did.”

He grasped her face between his hands and sealed his lips to hers.

F
irst, to my critique partners, Rexanne Becnel and Deb Marlowe, thank you for always knowing what’s wrong even when I can’t put my finger on it. And Deb, thank you for finding the secret door even when I painted myself into a plot corner!

Thank you, Becky Timblin and Kim Ham, for keeping me sane during the months and months of insanity.

This book wouldn’t even have been conceived without my agent, Pamela Ahearn, who has always encouraged me to push beyond my comfort zone.

And I can’t do anything without my wonderful editor, Micki Nuding, who didn’t even blink when I said I needed another month to finish. Thanks, Micki, for understanding that sometimes characters need time to come into fruition.

Most of all, thanks to Rene for enduring all the chaos with stoic grace. You’re the best!