Charmed at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 1)

by Claire Delacroix

  Perhaps that was why she’d bonded with his aunt’s ward. Two outcasts, neither what society expected them to be. Until Lady Mallory had arrived, Nicholas had thought Tressa Teague to be Felicity’s only friend.

  So it was not a surprise to find Tressa at Tetbery. What was surprising, however, was where she came from.

  She emerged from an arched ivy-covered door; cut out of the stone wall that he’d previously assumed was part of the rear drawing room on the first floor. Yet he had no memory of this door from his four summer visits.

  Tetbery, he cursed silently but vehemently. It was always something at Tetbery.

  Tressa looked to make sure no one was around, and then studiously rearranged the ivy covering the wall to loop in with the ivy upon the door—thereby hiding the door from anyone’s sight, unless they knew what to look for.

  Nicholas slinked closer, feeling ridiculous as he made sure to hide behind potted plants and large trees in the garden, so that Tressa would not see him. She had never been fond of him, and he suspected she’d just come from meeting with Felicity. No doubt her opinion of him would have lessened even more by his plan to take Felicity from Cornwall.

  A plan he was no longer so certain was as altruistic as he claimed.

  Thankfully, once she’d seen to the ivy, Tressa stalked off deeper into the garden, never looking in his direction. She moved with purpose, as if she too knew exactly where she was supposed to be.

  What was it about Bocka Morrow that seemed to give its inhabitants such freedom from the doubts that clutched at his throat and churned his stomach?

  He’d been raised to believe money solved all problems. Neither Felicity nor Tressa had any real fortune to their name, yet they’d always been self-possessed. Certain of who they were. Unwilling to change to please someone else.

  He didn’t know how that felt—to be accountable only to himself. Even as a boy, he’d known that someday he’d inherit not just the dukedom and the Wycliffe properties, but Tetbery too. Tenants on these lands depended on him, as people depended upon on him to pass laws in the House of Lords that would help them.

  And he’d failed at that.

  Every mistake he made had consequences for others.

  He waited until Tressa disappeared completely from sight before stepping out from behind the trees. He half-expected to not see the door when he approached—it would not be the first time his eyes deceived him at Tetbery.

  But there it was, hidden amongst the ivy. This close, and knowing precisely what to look for, he made out the shape of a red slatted door, the paint chipped off at the bottom to reveal the aged wood. The door had clearly been there for a long time. Possibly since the earliest days of the estate, if the tall, winding oak that grew next to the door with its branches draping across the top was any indication.

  After a quick glance about to make sure no one was watching, he pushed the ivy back from the door. Thus uncovered, he wrapped his fingers around the rusted iron handle and pulled. At first, the door resisted, as if it sensed he was not welcome here.

  “Look, door,” he muttered, tugging on the handle again. “This is my estate. I could have you destroyed, you know. I’m sure the gardener has an axe—”

  Apparently threats worked with Tetbery, because the door swung open.

  “Thank you.” He felt foolish as soon as the words were out of his mouth. This was what Tetbery did to him: he started to believe in nonsensical fantasies, like doors being alive.

  Shaking his head, he stepped onto the other side of the door. And promptly regretted it, for the door swung shut behind him, without him touching it. As if by its own volition.

  Swathed in darkness, Nicholas gulped down his rising dread, reminding himself that he could not truly be in danger. After all, Tressa had just left here, distinctly in one piece.

  That did not comfort him. Tressa met danger head-on with an aplomb he found as intimidating as Felicity’s straightforward if-that-then-this logic.

  He slipped his hand in his greatcoat pocket, letting out a sigh of relief when his fingers closed around his tinder box and a bit of candle. Opening the tinderbox, he lit the candle with flint and tinder. He took a gander at his immediate surroundings, now visible in the orange flame.

  He’d expected to find himself in a storage closet of some sort, probably a gardener’s shed. He had not expected packed dirt and stone walls and a ceiling almost right above his head. He moved forward, holding out the candle in front of him.

  A long staircase rose out of the depths, with a railing along the side. He could not tell from this distance where the staircase ended—it seemed to go up and up, far longer than his range with the single match.

  He looked about, finding a candle set into a sconce on the wall. That was reassuring—somewhat, for it meant that this cavern was regularly used. He lit the candle, looped his fingers around the brass holder, and started up the stairs.

  As he climbed upstairs, he held the candle out in front of him, his gaze darting from left to right. The farther he climbed, the warmer he became; the chilly air from outside faded, replaced by a more tolerable heat. The walls had become more standardized: no longer mottled stone and dirt, but instead wood planked. He must be in the manor now.

  Then he was at the top of the stairs. He leaned in close to the door, trying to hear if anyone was on the other side. There was a rattling, like glass hitting other glass, and then a tapping. But no voices.

  Summoning up his courage—and telling himself it was absurd to be frightened on his own estate—Nicholas opened the door.

  To a room that was the stuff of his nightmares.

  One wall boasted a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, double-stacked with books bearing titles like Alchemical Interludes, The Matter of the Brain and the Body, and Verisimilitude in Actuality. A long cabinet was pushed up against the opposite wall, with seemingly hundreds of drawers, all clearly marked with tiny labels. Atop the cabinet were shelves nearly toppling from the weight of many glass bottles, and boxes of various plants and herbs he could not identify.

  But it was the specimens clustered atop the long mahogany table stretching almost the full width of the room that concerned him the most. Skeletons of rats, cats, and maybe even a bat or two—he couldn’t be certain. As if that was not disconcerting enough, there were the spidery plants Felicity had gathered yesterday, spread out next to other glasses with various viscous substances.

  Damnation. He’d ended up in Felicity’s laboratory.

  He had forgotten—purposefully—about this godforsaken place. Nothing good had ever happened to him here.

  He took a step back, and then another, hoping he could dive into the tunnel before Felicity appeared. He’d discuss this laboratory with her later, in a place where there weren’t jars on the end of the table that contained…devil take his soul, those looked like organs.

  “Get out.”

  The command made him jump. He spun around, almost smacking into Felicity. He had no idea where she’d come from. Not from the tunnel, that was sure, and he didn’t see a door anywhere else.

  “You can’t be in here.” Felicity pushed past him, taking up a stance directly in front of the table.

  He breathed a little easier, because she’d positioned herself in front of the strange jars. “I can go anywhere I want. My estate, remember?”

  She scowled at him. “Not here. This doesn’t belong to you. It’s mine, and only mine.”

  The fierceness in her voice took him aback. Once again, he got the sensation that he was in over his head. “What is all of this?”

  “My work.” She turned, still blocking the jars, to place a pear-shaped glass container onto the burner. “And I have much of it to do, so you need to leave.”

  He almost agreed, so eager was he to get the hell out of this room. But if he was going to truly do what was right for Felicity, he had to endeavor to understand her.

  He was not at all influenced by the fact that her round backside was framed lusciously by her black gown,
or that her red hair had fallen from its coiffure to trail down her back, those silky strands calling out for him to touch them.

  Damnation.

  Before he could stop himself, he’d not only visualized cupping her rear in his hands, but what it’d feel like to have that taut arse grinding against his member. His cock twitched, so undeniably appealing was the image.

  Whatever she was lighting in that burner had clearly affected his senses.

  She turned back around, her frown deepening further when she saw him. “I don’t have time for this, Nicholas.” Her hands fell to her hips again, and he followed the movement, a certain part of his anatomy stirring eagerly at the thought of gripping her hips with his own hands.

  He let out a long breath of air, trying to steady his racing mind. None of this was helpful.

  “Tell me what you’re doing,” he said, in his most encouraging tone. She used to love talking about her experiments.

  “Right now, I’m brewing tea.” She moved over slightly, and indeed, there was a teacup off to her left side. “And wishing you’d find someone else to pester.”

  He ignored her last comment. After all the work it had taken him to get up here, he wasn’t leaving. Not until she agreed to consider going to London with him and Georgiana. “This is the same laboratory you had when we were children, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “You wouldn’t leave then, either.”

  “I should think you’d like that,” he said, arching a brow at her. “I’m consistent, and you do so hate change.”

  “I do.” For a second, pain flitted across her face—then it was gone, and her expression was back to its usual blandness. “Perhaps I dislike you more than change.”

  He didn’t know why that stung him so, when she’d said far worse to him over the years, and vice versa. “I see.”

  His face must have shown his hurt, because after taking the bottle off the burner, Felicity gathered another empty cup. She placed the bottle of tea on a tray along with the two empty cups, and carried everything to the front of the lab, toward the tunnel where he’d entered. To the right of the door, there was a small table and two stools, and she set the tray down there.

  He followed her, grateful to be farther away from her specimens, and for her inclusion. She poured tea for both of them. He hesitated—the cup had been awfully close to those jars—until she rolled her eyes at him.

  “It is clean. I know what is in every single one of these beakers, and I assure you, that’s only ever been used for tea.” As if to prove her point, her hand snaked out to snatch the cup from his hand.

  Except instead of stealing the cup from him, their hands brushed. It was the slightest of touches, skin upon skin for only a moment, yet it was enough to send a spark through him.

  And apparently through her as well, for she jerked her hand back. The tea almost sloshed onto the table, but he righted the cup in time.

  Her brows furrowed. She stared at his hand, then at his face, and then back at his hand. “That is curious.”

  He took a long sip of tea, debating if he ought to ask her what she meant. Given how easily she’d brushed off Lady Mallory’s eye color change, he did not think he wanted to know about something so odd that even Felicity would find it strange.

  “Perhaps I do not hate you more than change, after all.” She pronounced this in the same way she’d always lectured him, slow and deliberately, each word enunciated perfectly. “Perhaps Mallory was right, then.”

  Chapter 8

  The tea had allowed her to maneuver Nicholas away from the most secretive parts of her lab, but he still asked too many questions. Felicity had been wracking her brain trying to think of a way to distract him further, when their hands touched—and there was that bizarre bolt through her.

  Like lightning.

  That was how Tressa had described her attraction to Matthew Kent. She’d said the passion between them was all-consuming.

  Suddenly, Felicity knew exactly how to distract Nicholas. She didn’t feel passion for him—she didn’t feel passion for anything, except bringing back Margaret—so the experiment would have to be modified to accommodate for that lack, but she supposed kissing would still do the trick.

  She’d never kissed anyone, but it seemed simple enough. Certainly with fewer steps than building the Philosopher’s Stone, and she’d already half-managed that.

  Nicholas set his cup down, motioning to the many shelves and books. “What is all of this, anyhow? What are you working on that’s so urgent? Perhaps I could help.”

  Felicity closed the distance between them. “Never mind that. There’s a different experiment I’d like your help with.”

  “What’s that?” Nicholas’s eyes widened as she put her hand on his shoulder.

  She did not blame him for his surprise—she’d never initiated such contact with him before. Not like this. That’d been a mistake, because his muscles damn near rippled under her touch. She cataloged the firmness of his body and the way her heart sped up as she touched him, reminding herself to add it to her notes later.

  But now she had to proceed to the experiment. She drew a breath to steady herself. Considered closing her eyes, and then decided that was illogical, because what if she missed his lips? Eyes wide open, Felicity rose up on the balls of her feet, and let her lips brush against Nicholas’s.

  There! She had kissed him.

  A second later, she pulled from him, weight going back down on the balls of her feet, studying him for a reaction. Now what? When did the distraction happen? He didn’t seem very affected—he kept staring at her, slack-jawed, eyes wide.

  Experiment failed.

  Fine then. She’d inform him he had to leave, and if he didn’t agree, she’d…she’d chase him out with the burner. Or something.

  Except, as she watched him, contemplating this, a sea change occurred over his features. She was not good at reading expressions, but even she could tell this was different. She could practically feel the tension crackling in the air.

  Then he tugged her to him, holding her so near she fell against his hard, muscular chest. She ought to protest, because she had not begun this contact. Yet the words wouldn’t leave her mouth. Her breath came faster, and there was a rising heat within her.

  She liked him being this close.

  That was unusual, indeed.

  She had no time to examine that sensation. Because in the next instant, Nicholas’s fingers slid underneath her chin to tilt her head up, and then his lips smashed down upon hers.

  It was nothing like the kiss she’d given him. She had obviously not received proper instructions from Tressa. Because this, this must be a kiss. Even she, who remained resolutely determined to never feel passion, could recognize the danger of this.

  Because kissing was something more than simple pressure of lips. Whatever Nicholas was doing—whatever scientific process he was working upon her lips—was too good. Too perfect. Oh heaven’s bells, his mouth slanted so perfectly over hers. She seemed to know intrinsically where to place her hands, to press her palms against his shoulders, steadied by his strength.

  Just when she thought she’d got the hang of this—when she too was kissing, like he’d showed her—his tongue darted out. She opened her mouth because that seemed like the only response he could possibly be wanting, and he rewarded her indeed by using that tongue to do devilishly wonderful things. All previous assumptions that tongues were only good for humble things like drinking tea or eating crumpets went out the window, proved to be incomplete by his new assertion. The dance of his tongue against hers was a far better use.

  She’d have to make note of that, too.

  His lips left hers, and she let out a murmur of protest. But this was the one area where he seemed to know more than she did—because now his tongue had moved to that little spot underneath her ear, which she certainly hadn’t realized could feel so deliciously wonderful. And there was a very intriguing hard bulge between his breeches, that when she shifted to rub against,
she felt the loveliest sensation between her thighs. So much so that she let out a little whimper of appreciation, which only seemed to spur him on.

  Now, his hands moved downward, to cup her breast. Tressa had spoken about this—but she had not mentioned it would make all logic fly so soundly from her head. She knew her desire to lean into him was a common reaction to his increased proximity, but she couldn’t think of a plausible explanation for why she longed to confide in him about her struggles to reanimate Margaret.

  Felicity ought to be thinking of how she could move him out of the laboratory.

  She ought to be ending this.

  Instead, she moved against his hand, urging him closer, wishing that there was not the voluminous black bombazine between them. His thumb against her nipple sent a shock through her—she could only imagine what it would feel like without these clothes.

  And she wanted to feel that.

  She wanted to be close to him. To experience passion.

  That thought startled her so much she jumped back from him. Passion meant emotions, and decisions based not on logic, and an upset to her routine. So much had already changed in the last six months. Death had already taken the best parts of her life; passion would not get the rest.

  Nicholas didn’t follow her—he stood there, his breathing ragged. That hard part of his anatomy—erection, she supplied, reminding herself that correct terminology must be used for factual representation—made the fall of his trousers look quite tight.

  “Felicity,” he said, starting to come toward her.

  But if he did that, she’d kiss him again. What had started as a method of distraction had left her more frazzled, and questioning everything she’d just experienced.

  She backed up, almost running into the table where she’d tried again and again over these last six months to create an Elixir of Life for Margaret. Palingenesis through the Philosopher’s Stone was noted in several alchemical texts, but no one seemed to know how it had been achieved.