by Lisa Kleypas
Happiness rose inside her, making her throat tight. “I will. You are exactly what I want.”
He laughed suddenly, and broke the fervent clasp of their hands to fish for something in his pocket. “God help you, then.” He extracted a glittering object and slipped it onto her fourth finger. The fit was just a little loose. Caroline balled her hand into a fist as she stared at the ring. It was an ornately carved gold band adorned with a huge rose-cut diamond. The gem sparkled with heavenly brilliance in the light of the yule log, making her breath catch. “It belonged to my mother,” Andrew said, watching her face closely. “She willed it to me, and hoped that I would someday give it to my wife.”
“It is lovely,” Caroline said, her eyes stinging. She lifted her mouth for his kiss, and felt the soft brush of his lips over hers.
“Here,” he murmured, a smile coloring his voice, and he removed her spectacles to clean them. “You can’t even see the damned thing, the way these are smudged.” Replacing the polished spectacles, he took hold of her waist and pulled her body against his. His tone sobered as he spoke again. “Was it difficult to get the letters from Julianne?”
“Not at all.” Caroline could not suppress a trace of smugness as she replied. “I enjoyed it, actually. Julianne was furious—I have no doubt she wanted to scratch my eyes out. And naturally she denied having had anything to do with Lord Brenton’s death. But she gave me the letters all the same. I can assure you that she will never trouble us again.”
Andrew hugged her tightly, his hands sliding repeatedly over her back. Then he spoke quietly in her hair, with a meaningful tone that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in excitement. “There is a matter I have yet to take care of. As I recall, I left you a virgin the last time we met.”
“You did,” Caroline replied with a wobbly smile. “Much to my displeasure.”
His mouth covered hers, and he kissed her with a mixture of adoration and avid lust that caused her knees to weaken. She leaned heavily against him, her tongue sliding and curling against his. Excitement thumped inside her, and she arched against him in an effort to make the embrace closer, her body craving the weight and pressure of him.
“Then I’ll do my best to oblige you this time,” he said when their lips parted. “Take me to your bedroom.”
“Now? Here?”
“Why not?” She felt him smile against her cheek. “Are you worried about propriety? You, who had me handcuffed to a bed—”
“That was Cade’s doing, not mine,” she said, blushing.
“Well, you didn’t mind taking advantage of the situation, did you?”
“I was desperate!”
“Yes, I remember.” Still smiling, he kissed the side of her neck and slid his hand to her breast, caressing the gentle curve until her nipple contracted into a hard point. “Would you rather wait until we marry?” he murmured.
She took his hand and pulled him out of the parlor, leading him upstairs to her bedroom. The walls were covered with flower-patterned paper that matched the pink-and-white embroidered counterpane on the bed. In such dainty surroundings, Andrew looked larger and more masculine than ever. Caroline watched in fascinated delight as he began to remove his clothes, discarding his coat, waistcoat, cravat, and shirt, draping the fine garments on a shield-backed chair. She unbuttoned her own gown and stepped out of it, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor. As she stood in her undergarments and stockings, Andrew came to her and pulled her against his naked body. The hard, thrusting ridge of his erection burned through the frail muslin of her drawers, and she let out a small gasp.
“Are you afraid?” he whispered, lifting her higher against him, until her toes almost left the ground.
She turned her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of his warm skin, lifting her hands to stroke the thick, cool silk of his hair. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Don’t stop, Andrew. I want to be yours. I want to feel you inside me.”
He set her on the bed and removed her clothes slowly, kissing every inch of her skin as it was uncovered, until she lay naked and open before him. Murmuring his love to her, he touched her breasts with his mouth, licked and teased until her nipples formed rosy, tight buds. Caroline arched up to him in ardent response, urging him to take her, until he pulled away with a breathless laugh. “Not so fast,” he said, his hand descending to her stomach, stroking in soothing circles. “You’re not ready for me yet.”
“I am,” she insisted, her body aching and feverish, her heart pounding.
He smiled and rolled her to her stomach, and she groaned as she felt his mouth trail down her spine, kissing and nibbling. His teeth nipped at her buttocks before his lips traveled to the fragile creases at the backs of her knees. “Andrew,” she groaned, writhing in torment. “Please don’t make me wait.”
He turned her over once again, and his wicked mouth wandered up the inside of her thigh, higher and higher, and his strong hands carefully urged her thighs apart. Caroline whimpered as she felt him lick the damp, soft cleft between her legs. Another, deeper stroke of his tongue, and another, and then he found the excruciatingly tender bud and suckled, his tongue flicking her, until she shuddered and screamed, her ecstatic cries muffled in the folds of the embroidered counterpane.
Andrew kissed her lips and settled between her thighs. She moaned in encouragement as she felt the plum-shaped head of his sex wedge against the slick core of her body. He pushed gently, filling her . . . hesitating as she gasped with discomfort. “No,” she said, clutching frantically at his hips, “don’t stop . . . I need you . . . please, Andrew . . .”
He groaned and thrust forward, burying himself completely, while her flesh throbbed sweetly around him. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, breathing hard, while his hips pushed forward in gentle nudges. His face was damp, suffused with perspiration and heat, his long, dark lashes spiky with moisture. Caroline was transfixed by the sight of him—he was such a beautiful man . . . and he was hers. He invaded her in a slow, patient rhythm, his muscles rigid, his forearms braced on either side of her head. Writhing in pleasure, she lifted her hips to take him more deeply. His mouth caught hers hungrily, his tongue searching and sliding.
“I love you,” she whispered between kisses, her wet lips moving against his. “I love you, Andrew, love you . . .”
The words seemed to break his self-control, and his thrusts became stronger, deeper, until he buried himself inside her and shuddered violently, his passion spending, his breath stopping in the midst of an agonizing burst of pleasure.
Long, lazy minutes later, while they were still tangled together, their heartbeats returning to a regular rhythm, Caroline kissed Andrew’s shoulder.
“Darling,” she said drowsily, “I want to ask something of you.”
“Anything.” His fingers played in her hair, sifting through the silken locks.
“Whatever comes, we’ll face it together. Promise to trust me, and never to keep secrets from me again.”
“I will.” Andrew raised himself up on one elbow, staring down at her with a crooked smile. “Now I want to ask something of you. Could we forgo the large wedding, and instead have a small ceremony on New Year’s Day?”
“Of course,” Caroline said promptly. “I wouldn’t have wanted a large wedding in any case. But why so soon?”
He lowered his mouth to hers, his lips warm and caressing. “Because I want my new beginning to coincide with the new year. And because I need you too badly to wait for you.”
She smiled and shook her head in wonder, her eyes shining as she stared up at him. “Well, I need you even more.”
“Show me,” he whispered, and she did just that.
Deck the Halls With Love
LORRAINE HEATH
Chapter One
Pembrook Manor
Yorkshire
December 1858
STANDING ALONE BESIDE a window a short distance away from the midst of the gaiety, Alistair Wakefield, the Marquess of Chetwyn, slowly sipped the Scotch that h
e had pilfered from his host’s library on his way to the grand salon. He’d known that attending this holiday gathering at the Duke and Duchess of Keswick’s new country manor would be unpleasant, but then he was not in the habit of shying away from the distasteful. It was the reason that on the morning he was to be married, he had encouraged his bride to seek out her heart’s desire. He’d known his being abandoned at the altar would be cause for gossip, that he would be considered weak and inadequate, but he didn’t much give a damn. He believed in love, and he’d recognized that Lady Anne Hayworth had given her affections to Lord Tristan Easton. So he’d willingly granted her the freedom to go, and then with as much dignity as possible he’d set about bearing the brunt of what many considered a humiliating affair.
From his shadowed corner, he now watched Lady Meredith Hargreaves dance with her betrothed, Lord Litton. Based on her smile and the way her gaze never strayed from his, she appeared to be joyous and very much in love with the fellow. Although perhaps she was simply imbued with the spirit of the season. He could always hope.
He knew he should look about for another dance partner. The problem was that she was the only one with whom he wished to waltz. Hers were the only eyes into which he longed to gaze, hers the only fragrance he yearned to inhale, hers the only voice he wanted whispering near his ear as passion smoldered.
It had been that way for some time now, but he had fought back his burgeoning desire for her out of a sense of obligation and duty, out of a misguided attempt to make amends regarding his younger brother, Walter, who had sacrificed his life in the Crimea. Chetwyn was destined to pay a heavy price for trying to assuage his conscience, unless he took immediate steps to rectify the situation. Lady Meredith was scheduled to marry a few days after Christmas. The decorated tree in the parlor, the sprigs of holly scattered about, and the red bows on the portraits that had greeted him upon his arrival had served as an unwarranted reminder that the auspicious morning was quickly approaching, and then she would be lost to him forever.
But if she loved Litton, could he deny her what he had granted Anne: a life with the man she loved?
It was a quandary with which he struggled, because he wished only happiness for Lady Meredith, but he was arrogant enough to believe that he could bring her joy as no one else could. No other gentleman would hold her in such high esteem. No other man would adore her as he did. Convincing her that she belonged with him was going to be quite the trick, as he suspected she’d rather see him rotting in hell than standing beside her at the altar.
Despite the fact that she was engaged to marry, he kept hoping that she would glance over, would give him a smile, would offer any sort of encouragement at all. Instead she waltzed on, as though for her he no longer existed.
LADY MEREDITH HARGREAVES, the Earl of Whitscomb’s daughter, absolutely loved to waltz. Quite honestly, she enjoyed any sort of physical activity. She had loved running, jumping, skipping, and climbing trees until her father had sent her to a ladies’ finishing school, where they had taught her that if she did not stifle her enthusiasm for the outdoors, she would never marry. So stifle she did with a great deal of effort and the occasional slap of the rod against her palm.
But dancing was acceptable, and because she was known for being charming—which was no accident—she never lacked for dance partners. She didn’t care if they were married, old, young, bent. She didn’t care if their eyes were too small, their noses too large, and they stammered. She didn’t care if their clothes were not the latest fashion, their skills at interesting conversation nonexistent. When they swept her over the dance floor, she adored every single one of them. And well they knew it.
It showed in her eyes, her smile, and the way she beamed at them. She made them feel as though they mattered, and for those few moments they mattered a great deal because of the pleasure they brought her. But dancing with a lady did not mean that a gentleman wished to marry her. Because she was also known for being quite stubborn, strong-willed, and prone to arguing a point when most ladies would simply smile and pretend that they hadn’t the good sense to know their own minds.
She did know hers, and therefore she knew without question that Lord Litton was the man for her. He often praised her strong points. He sent her flowers. He wrote her poetry. He danced with her, a daring four times the night they met. Four, when only two times was acceptable. He had told her that he simply couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of her presence.
His inability to resist her was what had led to them being caught the night of Greystone’s ball in the garden in a very compromising situation that had resulted in a rather hasty betrothal. Her father had managed to limit the damage done by ensuring that no one other than he and her brothers knew of the discovery. Litton had been quick to propose on the spot, but then her father could be quite intimidating. As they were discovered before they had moved beyond a kiss, the wedding was not being rushed. Meredith knew Litton was an honorable man. He could have run off, but he didn’t. He stood by her and offered to marry her. She didn’t like the little niggle of doubt that surfaced from time to time and made her wonder if he arranged to be caught. If he did, was it because he so desperately wanted her or her dowry?
As he smiled down on her now, she sent the irritating doubts to perdition and accepted that he was madly in love with her. They would be wondrously happy together. If only her heart would cooperate.
She did wish she hadn’t noticed when Lord Chetwyn had strolled laconically into the room before the strains of the first dance had started. Based upon what had happened in the church earlier in the year, she hadn’t expected him to make an appearance where he would be forced to encounter his former fiancée and her husband. Lord Tristan was, after all, the Duke of Keswick’s twin brother, so Chetwyn had to know that he couldn’t avoid them. But he had cut such a fine figure in his black tailcoat as he had greeted his host and hostess. His fair complexion stood out next to the duke’s black hair and bronzed skin. His blond hair was perfectly styled, but even from a distance Meredith had seen the ends curling. She suspected by midnight the strands would be rebelling riotously, and he would no doubt be searching for some lady to run her fingers through them in order to tame them. She had once considered performing the service herself when they had taken a turn about a park. Thank goodness, she’d not been that foolish. It would have hurt all the more when he began to give his attentions to Lady Anne.
He was now standing in a corner, coming into view from time to time as though she were riding on a carousel, rather than swirling over a dance floor in Litton’s arms. Even when she couldn’t see him, she could sense Chetwyn’s gaze lighting upon her as gently as a lover’s caress. She had once thought that he might ask for her hand. But he had moved on, and so had she.
Litton was as fair, but his hair would not be misbehaving by the end of the evening. She rather wished it would. She longed for an excuse to run her fingers through it, although she suspected he might be rather appalled to know the direction of her thoughts. He did not have as easy a grin as Chetwyn, but his seriousness was endearing. She only wished he would reclaim the passion that had resulted in a near scandal.
“You’ve drifted away again,” Litton said quietly.
“I’m sorry. I was just noticing how the snow is growing thicker beyond the windows.” A small lie, but she rather doubted that he would welcome knowing that Chetwyn was occupying her thoughts.
“Yes, we’re in for quite a storm tonight, I think. I hope we shall all be able to travel home when the time comes.”
“I’m sure we will.”
“You’re such an optimist. It’s one of the things I love about you.”
Touched by his comment, she squeezed his shoulder. “We shall be happy together, won’t we?”
“Immeasurably.”
The music drifted into silence. He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “As your card is filled and you’re gracing other lords with your presence for a while, I’m going to the gaming room for a bit. Just remembe
r the last dance is mine.”
“I would never give it to anyone else.”
Watching him walk away, she could not help but think that she was a most fortunate lady indeed. Then she looked over and saw her next dance partner approaching.
Lord Wexford smiled. He was a handsome enough fellow, recently returned from a trip to Africa. Bowing slightly, he took her hand. “My dance, I believe.”
“Quite. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“Not as much as I have. The last lady with whom I danced is not yet spoken for, and she was quite adept at listing her wifely qualities as though she were delivering a shopping list.”
Meredith was familiar enough with Lady Beatrix’s habits to know that Wexford was speaking of her. Bless Lady Beatrix, but she seemed to think that if she didn’t point out her good qualities, no gentleman would discover them. She had such little faith in the observational powers of the males of the species.
“Did you know that she is so talented with her sewing that she can weave twenty stitches into an inch of cloth?” Lord Wexford asked. “I am sure it is quite an impressive feat, but as I’ve never taken the time to measure and count stitches—”
“My lord?”
Wexford spun around. Lord Chetwyn stood there, extending a small slip of paper toward him, and Meredith’s heart beat out an unsteady tattoo. She had vainly hoped with so many guests in attendance that she might avoid encountering him entirely. It wasn’t that she was cowardly, but she reacted in the strangest fashion when he was near—as though she were on the cusp of swooning.
