by Lisa Kleypas
“We will be decorating the trees after dinner, and then we will play some games. The townsfolk will come tomorrow afternoon to partake of holiday refreshments and we must present them with the best Christmas trees they have ever seen.” Mrs. Green’s normally disapproving expression was practically beatific. “As happens every year.”
Jamie leaned over to whisper in her ear. They were seated in the large room the trees had all been brought to, theirs occupying the place of honor right in front of the fireplace. “If it happens every year, then how can they be the best they’ve ever seen?”
Sophronia stifled a giggle. “Perhaps you should be the one to bring up that incongruity to her. I don’t think she thinks very well of me, given our circumstances.”
“For which I am devoutly grateful,” Jamie replied, a sincere look in his eye.
The servants, under Mrs. Green’s watchful eye—and commanding voice—dragged in all the decorations deemed essential for the trees: candles, ribbons, apples, colored paper, dolls, sweetmeats, and walnuts. At first it seemed as if there were far too many things to fit on the trees, but since their tree was so enormous, it was just enough.
“Goodness,” Sophronia breathed, as she stood back and looked at the sight.
It was impressive. The candles had all been lit, casting a golden glow that seemed as bright as the sun. The trees’ branches were bedecked with all the treasure, and Sophronia glanced around at the other guests, all of whom were wearing the same enchanted expression.
It was lovely. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, think that in half an hour or so the candles would be snuffed. For right now, this was enough. Enough that she was here, drinking in the sight, feeling the charm and the warmth of the season.
Not to mention the charm and the warmth of her fake betrothed, who looked even more gorgeous in the candlelight, the flickering lights making shadows on his face, highlighting the strength of his cheekbones, the dark intensity of his gaze.
Oh, Sophronia, you are in so much trouble. And this will all be a distant memory in a few months, and then next Christmas you’ll recall it, hopefully with a warmth and a pang of something to be cherished.
“WHAT GAMES WILL I be winning at this evening?” Jamie said, viewing the company. Mr. Green was tucked in the corner, drinking a second or third glass of port; the viscountess and her daughter were seated on the sofa, talking about a ball they’d been to where the viscountess’s daughter had been, as usual, the prettiest thing there; the vicar had buttonholed Sophronia and was talking animatedly about her father and his own collection of books; and Mrs. Green and her daughter were discussing what to serve to the villagers the next day.
“I like the game Alphabet Minute,” Miss Green offered with a hesitant smile. Jamie returned the smile, thinking how difficult it must be to be Mrs. Green’s daughter.
“I do, as well,” he said. He glanced around the room. “Does everyone who wishes to play know how to play?”
Sophronia shook her head. “I do not, but I don’t have to play.”
“Don’t be silly,” he replied. “It’s simple. We choose a topic, and then we begin to discuss it, only we have to start each sentence with the next letter in the alphabet. So if we start at the letter G, the next person has to say something beginning with H, and so on.”
She still looked puzzled, but shrugged. “I will figure it out, I suppose.”
“Yes, you will.” His Sophy was clever, she would catch on quickly.
And when had he come to think of her as his Sophy?
“What topic shall we choose?”
Mrs. Green had the answer, of course. “Christmas, naturally. Mr. Archer, you shall begin. The choice of letter is yours.”
“Merry Christmas, everyone,” he said. He nodded to Miss Green. “The next letter is N.”
“‘No room at the inn’ is what Mary and Joseph heard on their journey.”
“Or was it that there was no groom at the inn,” Sophy said, shooting him a mischievous glance.
Well played, he thought, smothering a grin.
“Perhaps we will all get our heart’s desire,” the viscountess’s daughter said with a sly look.
“Queen Victoria might issue a proclamation,” the viscountess said.
“Really?”
That was his mother. He was proud she had come up with something so quickly.
“So when you mention the queen, you should also mention her husband.”
“That’s Prince Albert, is it not?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Now it seemed everyone was joining in the game, without regard for whose turn it was. It was actually fun to watch their faces as they thought of a sentence for the letter, and Jamie felt as though he finally understood why a house party of this sort was enjoyable. Not that he wished to do it all the time, but it had its appeal—the camaraderie of good conversation, company, and an overriding belonging to the season that made him feel relaxed, and as though he might not jump out of his skin at any moment.
Or, he thought as he glanced over at her, that was just Sophy’s influence.
He had been a gentleman the night before, and while he wasn’t precisely regretting that—well, never mind, he was, but he knew it was the right thing to do.
But if she said she wanted to explore further, then who was he to stand in the way of adventure?
He’d just have to let her make the next move in the game.
Cunctation:
1. Procrastination; delay.
2. The inability to pronounce certain consonants.
3. A confused state of mind.
Chapter Fourteen
WHAT WAS THE protocol for visiting a gentleman by yourself in his bedroom?
Scratch that, there wasn’t any such thing. At least not that she knew of; perhaps she should have befriended the viscountess’s daughter. It seemed as though she knew far more about such things, the male and female thing, than Sophronia did.
Although nearly anybody would know more than Sophronia, so that didn’t signify.
She drew her wrapper around her, tying the knot to close it as she slid her feet into her slippers.
It was nearly one o’clock, and the house had been quiet for over an hour. The games had continued all evening, and they had been fun, she had to admit, but she kept wishing everyone would just get tired so she could get on with what she wanted to do.
With him.
Even thinking about it made her breath catch—and here she was thinking about actually doing it? What if she was unable to breathe entirely? What if she expired in his bedroom from lack of oxygen, and he had to explain to everyone how she came to be there and then she really would be dead, and Mrs. Archer would be sad and Mrs. Green would be delighted and—and—
“Breathe, Sophronia.” He’d said that to her when they were just embarking on this masquerade. It was good advice then and it was good advice now.
She stepped into the hallway, thankful that his bedroom was only a few doors down from hers. It was dark, and she didn’t want to end up sprawled on the floor because she’d missed her footing.
That would be even awkwarder—for her, at least—than expiring in his bedroom. And yes, she knew that wasn’t a word.
She reached his door without either fainting or falling, and counted it as a victory already. And then she raised her hand to knock, but the door whooshed open, and she was pulled inside.
“I was hoping,” he began, before lowering his mouth onto hers.
She twined her arms around his neck, remembering to breathe through her nose, wanting to burrow up into his skin and get submerged in him, his warmth, his scent, his size.
He ran his hands down her back, then right under her buttocks, lifting her off her feet and pressing her to his chest. She gasped, and he chuckled, walking backward before lying down on the bed with her still on his body. As though she weighed nearly nothing.
“I’ll smush you,” she said, when she was able to lift her mouth.
He smirked at he
r, his hands still on her arse, his blue eyes alight with what she very much thought was delighted pleasure. “Of course you won’t,” he said. “Haven’t you learned by now that I am much stronger than I look? And if I do say so myself, I already look awfully strong.”
His tone was so smug and sure of himself she had no choice but to be amused. And to be certain she wouldn’t crush him in her ardor.
“Now what are you doing visiting my bedroom at such a late hour?” He grinned, and she couldn’t help but grin back. “Maybe that is the topic for an Alphabet Minute game.” He kissed her briefly. “What are you doing here, Miss Sophronia?”
X. The next letter was X, which he knew, the competitive wretch. “Ex-amining the betrothed,” she replied.
He shook his head, but didn’t challenge her. “You like what you see, then?”
Zed. Whose idea was it to play this game when she could be kissing him? “Zounds, how could I not?” She shifted so she could splay her hand on his chest. His remarkably broad chest.
“A wise choice, my lady,” he replied.
“But why are you still talking when you could be kissing me?” There, it was out in the open.
“Consider it done,” he replied, pulling her to him so their bodies touched nearly everywhere.
SHE WAS HERE. He’d nearly given up hope that she would come, but here she was. He was relieved he had decided not to chase after her—this would be her choice, not his, just as her wanting a cottage in a small village somewhere was her choice, as well, and it was within his means to give it to her.
But meanwhile, before all that, there was this. The gift of her.
He relished her kiss, plundered her mouth with his tongue as his hands roamed over her curves—she was slender, yes, but she had all the right curves, and those curves fit perfectly in his hands.
She was caressing his chest, running her palm over his nipples, making him want to groan and laugh all at the same time.
And have wonderful sublime sexual relations with her, but that went without saying.
Only he should say something, shouldn’t he? It wouldn’t be honorable to just assume something because a dressed-for-bed woman had appeared at one’s door in the middle of the night?
Damn it. “Are you sure about this?” he said, murmuring into her ear.
She stilled and buried her nose in his neck. Please say yes, please say yes, he thought.
And then she licked his skin as her palm continued her travels on his chest, down his side, and at his waist. So close to right there it was maddening and wonderful and excruciating all at the same time.
“Does that answer your question?” she said, accompanying her words with a low laugh.
“Absolutely,” he replied, taking her and flipping her onto her back, swallowing her noise of surprise with his mouth.
Part of him—no surprise which part—wanted to just take her, slide his hand up her leg, taking her night rail with it, exposing what he fully anticipated to be long legs.
He’d never been with a woman who was this tall before. In fact, he’d never been with a woman who was this smart, who was this remarkable, who was able to soothe him while at the same time making his heart race and his throat tighten and do other things to other parts of his body.
No surprise which part there, either.
But this wasn’t just about him, and it would all be so much sweeter if he took his time.
She was gazing up at him, a warm, sensuous look on her face, less like a goddess now and entirely like a woman. A woman who knew what she wanted, and thankfully, what she seemed to want was him.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked in a husky voice.
Well, he could answer that. “You.”
She laughed and swatted his arm. “We have so much in common, I was thinking about you, too. Namely,” she continued, arching an eyebrow, “when you were going to get on with it.”
That was so entirely unexpected he burst out laughing. He didn’t think he’d ever laughed while engaged in all of this sort of activity—a new experience for him, as it would be a new experience for her. Albeit not the same new experience.
“Get on with it?” he repeated. “If you have somewhere to be, please do let me know, and I will hasten the activity.” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, and she grinned.
“I don’t have anywhere to be, but I believe you do,” she said, winking at him. Winking! That was even more unexpected than her urging him to just get on with it.
And he didn’t know if he should get on with ravishing her, as he dearly wished to do, and it seemed she did, as well, or if he wanted to stop and laugh until he cried.
Definitely a new experience.
SOPHRONIA HAD NEVER felt more daring in her life. Which made sense, since she had never been so daring in her life. Not just coming to his room clad in her night rail and wrapper, but encouraging him to—to do things she very much wanted him to do to her.
His expression when she urged him to get on with it was delightful—so surprised, and almost affronted that she would dare to issue a command.
“You appear to be this—this regal vision, all elegance and, and regality.”
She was touched by his compliment, even though he’d repeated himself.
“But you’re not that at all,” he continued, leaving Sophronia to wonder just what he was going to say. “You’re”—he put his hand on her cheek, his thumb on her mouth, his gaze on her face—“you’re clever and impudent and ready for an adventure.” He smiled and stroked her mouth. “And I am happy to provide it for you.”
And then he kissed her, but he didn’t just kiss her, because that would be too weak a word for what he was doing to her. He was imprinting her, claiming her body as his own with every touch. And currently he was touching her waist, his fingers splayed so they were nearly touching her breast, an occurrence she didn’t realize had been entirely lacking in her life but now she didn’t know how she had lived without it.
Touch me there, she wanted to say, only her mouth was occupied, kissing him back, learning his taste and smell and feel.
She had somehow wrapped her arms around him and was stroking his strong, solid back, pulling him into her, even though he was practically on top of her already.
His—that part was pressed into her, a hard, quite fervent reminder of what was going to happen, or else she would actually expire.
She heard herself moan, low and deep in her throat, her whole body feeling as though it had been zapped with an electric current. Only the electric current was named Jamie, and she hadn’t been thoroughly zapped quite yet.
This was the Christmas gift she had really wanted when she thought she wanted a kiss. This—this ownership, this entire subsumption into feeling, not thinking at all.
Even though she was thinking. But all she was thinking about was him.
Oh, God, and now his hand was on her breast, his finger rubbing her nipple, causing spirals of a slow, sensuous heat to curl through her body. And his other hand—well, that was drawing her night rail up, his palm on her shin, her knee, her thigh, and then—
She couldn’t help but gasp as his fingers reached there, and he broke the kiss, the expression in his eyes both fiercely desiring and concerned. “Are you—is this all right?” he asked, speaking in a ragged voice.
“Mm-hm,” she replied, knowing that actual speech might be beyond her. At this moment, at least.
“You’re so ready for me,” he murmured, his fingers touching her, finding her wet, which would have embarrassed her if she hadn’t been so thoroughly determined not to be embarrassed.
Not at this moment, at least; later on, then she could be embarrassed, when she was an old spinster living with her chatty maid in a cottage somewhere. But she would also be able to look back at this whole thing and be delighted that she had been bold enough to say what she wanted, and to get it.
“I am ready.” She spoke against his mouth. “So why don’t you get on with it?”
He hal
f laughed, half groaned, and she stopped being able to think as he pushed her legs apart and something that was not his hand was at her entrance, and it felt wonderful, if entirely frightening, and made her breathless in all sorts of ways.
Aubade:
1. A jelly made with quince.
2. To lean back.
3. A song or poem greeting the dawn.
Chapter Fifteen
HAD SHE THOUGHT before she might die if he didn’t do all this to her?
Now she had to wonder if she would die because he had—of pleasure, of overwhelming emotion, of just feeling glorious and as though the first part of her life was in muted shades of gray, and now the world was colored in the most vivid of hues.
Yes, it hurt at first, and it definitely felt as though it wouldn’t entirely fit, but Jamie was patient, even though she could tell it was a strain.
And then, eventually, he thrust home, and she felt him all the way inside, sending echoes of pleasure through her body.
It wasn’t just mindless pleasure, either; that is, she felt mindless, but he was mindful, moving carefully and clearly concentrating on how she was feeling, and what felt good.
My goodness, did it feel good.
And it felt as though it were building to something even better.
“That’s it, love.” He kissed her hard and fierce, and then lowered his head to her neck, his grasp tightening as he continued to thrust, in and out, in a maddeningly wonderful rhythm.
She felt it start to pick her up and sweep her away, knowing it was impossible to stop, not that she would be idiotic enough to stop it at all.
“Ohhh,” she said as she felt the escalation making its inexorable way to somewhere, she had no idea.
And then it was as though that same electric current sparked through her, shooting tendrils of pleasure through her entire body, making her boneless and subject to all her feelings and emotions.
She half opened her eyes and saw his smirk of satisfaction, and then he got a look of intense concentration on his face as he increased his rhythm, pushing harder and faster until all she could feel was him, thrusting deep, hearing the sound of their bodies crashing together, his grunts and moans which managed to sound intriguing and not ridiculous.
