The Girl is Not For Christmas: A Christmas Regency Romance Novel

by Emma V. Leech

  The earl gave a snort. “I’m all ears, but for heaven’s sake call me King, everyone else does, and this conversation is so damned inappropriate already I don’t see what harm it can do.”

  “Very well, King. My aunt holds a lavish New Year’s Eve house party every year. The event runs for several days, and it is my intention to go there to find a man who will marry me. I will set my sights on someone less likely to be besieged with marriage-minded young women. An older man, perhaps, or one most ladies would find disagreeable for some aesthetic reason, or someone in trade. I’m really not the least bit picky, providing he is kind, and willing and able to help my nieces and nephews. I understand my aunt invites all sorts to her parties, so I hope there will be a few options. I won’t have long, however, for if my brother realises where I am, he will come after me.”

  The earl said nothing, indeed he barely blinked, so Livvy ploughed on. “I must make some suitable man so besotted with me, in a short amount of time, that he will propose. I flatter myself that I am not such a dreadful prospect, even if I have no dowry. Please do not think me entirely foolish. I do realise it is a ridiculous plan and likely doomed to failure. I am desperate, though, and this is my only chance. I must take it. I must at least try.”

  King stared at her. He looked appalled. She waited, giving him time to gather himself and give her an answer.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Well, what? I still don’t have the faintest notion what you want from me.”

  “Oh,” Livvy replied, realising she hadn’t exactly spelled it out. “Forgive me, I thought it obvious.”

  “I haven’t the least idea why!”

  Livvy huffed at his indignant tone. “Well, look at me,” she said, holding her arms out as the wind made her skirts billow about her. “I’m hardly suited to seduction, am I? I need help, King. I need your help. Teach me how to be, how to talk and flirt, how to make a man want me. I don’t need him to love me, only to want me enough to offer for me. I know there must be a knack to it, and you must have seen it in action countless times. Not every successful courtesan is a great beauty, are they? So teach me, teach me how to make a man wild with passion, for I haven’t the least idea how to begin. I’ve never even been kissed. Not once! I must remedy this if I’m to have a chance.”

  For a moment he just gaped at her.

  “Well? Say something,” she pleaded.

  “You’re stark staring mad.”

  “Why?”

  He gave a bark of laughter and strode away from her, shaking his head, before apparently thinking better of it and stalking back again. “You can’t possibly think that I… that I would….”

  He didn’t seem to be able to put it into words and walked off again.

  Livvy waited. He couldn’t get off the beach in that direction, so he’d have to come back again. He did.

  “Miss Penrose,” he said, his tone suggesting she had tried his patience to its limits. “I am a guest in your brother’s house. He was kind enough to take me in, and we both know he quite likely saved my sorry carcass. If you think me so utterly morally bankrupt as to seduce his sister whilst under his roof in such circumstances, then I… I….”

  He threw up his hands, apparently lost for words.

  “But you aren’t seducing me,” Livvy cried. “That’s the whole point. You are helping me, teaching me. To seduce someone you need to persuade someone to do something they wish for but know is wrong. I don’t wish for this, I need it. I must have it! I need you. Please!”

  Somehow, during her impassioned little speech, she had moved closer and clutched at his lapels. Now he put his hands to her wrists and tugged her hands free, taking a step backwards.

  “No.”

  Livvy stared at him. Something about her words had made his eyes grow dark, and instinct told her that was a good sign. She would not give up. Knowing she was putting herself quite beyond the Pale, she gathered her courage, grasped his lapels once more, and kissed him.

  For a moment he was perfectly still, no doubt stunned stupid by her outrageous behaviour. She quite understood the reaction. She was stunned herself, and not the least bit surprised when he once more broke away, putting distance between them.

  “Hell and damnation,” he cursed, staring at her. He was breathing hard, more colour in his cheeks than she’d seen since she’d met him, though that was likely the cold wind on the beach producing the effect. “You are out of your damned mind if you think I would… with you.”

  His tone was scathing, and for the first time it occurred to Livvy that she’d made one crucial mistake. She had assumed that a man of King’s reputation would have no qualms about putting his hands on any woman. Yet she had observed herself that he was a handsome fellow. Women would desire him, without a doubt, so there would be no reason for him to waste his time dallying with a female who not only had no experience but could not pretend to be considered more than passably pretty. No doubt the women he associated with were Cyprians, beautiful creatures well-versed in all the ways of pleasing a man. Why on earth would King risk his friendship with her brother to dally with some dull, provincial old maid? He was right, she had been out of her mind.

  The realisation brought shame and embarrassment, and a surge of colour rose to her cheeks.

  “Of course,” she said in a rush. Mortified and wishing now to be out of his company with all haste, the words tumbled out in a jerky, staccato fashion. “You’re correct, naturally, it was quite… I never considered that you… that you wouldn’t want….”

  Her voice quavered and, to her horror, her eyes burned with tears. Worse than that, now she saw regret in his eyes. Sympathy. Oh, no. Not that. She could not bear it if he pitied her. What on earth had she been thinking? As if he could help her… as if kissing him would make the least bit of difference.

  “It’s of no matter. Forgive me, my lord. I… I must beg you to forget that… that I….”

  She couldn’t say another word. She was going to weep and so she must get away. Now. At once.

  Livvy turned on her heel and hurried away. Humiliation filled her chest, making it hard to breathe, and she could hardly see for the tears blurring her vision. She stumbled on a rock, her foot twisting beneath her, and cursed, righting herself again, but suddenly a strong hand gripped her arm.

  “Wait! Livvy, wait, damn you.”

  Livvy shook her head.

  “Oh, please let me go,” she said in despair. “I shan’t bother you again, only please—”

  “No, damn it, you started this. It’s your own bloody fault.”

  “What…?”

  Whatever it was she’d been about to say, the words died in her throat as she was pulled into his arms. He pressed his mouth to hers, stealing her breath, making her head spin as sensation overwhelmed her. His strong arms banded about her, holding her tight against his body. It gave her the oddest sense of security, which was ridiculous when she’d likely never been in such danger in her life. She didn’t care. It was marvellous. His lips were soft and warm, and then his tongue traced along her bottom lip and everything feminine in her quivered with longing. Oh, yes, he was good at this. Livvy opened her mouth a little, sensing that was what he wanted from her, and his tongue swept in and… good heavens.

  She was lost, beguiled by the heat and the slick slide of his tongue as it caressed hers, and then, quite abruptly, it was over. He lifted his head, his expression inscrutable, and Livvy dared to meet his eyes.

  “You are, without a doubt, the most troublesome female I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter,” he said, sounding deeply aggrieved.

  Livvy nodded. “I don’t doubt it.”

  He made a harrumphing sound but no move to release his hold on her, which was a good thing. Livvy wasn’t entirely certain her knees were up to the job at present.

  “You do realise that, in all my years of wickedness, this is likely the most reprehensible thing I’ve ever done? And that’s your fault, Miss Penrose, make no mistake. I tried to do
the right thing, but… but then you went and cried, you infernal creature. I ask you… what is a man to do when you use such underhand tactics?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” she said, with more of her usual asperity. “I tried very hard not to. Only I suddenly saw how ridiculous I was being and… and one doesn’t like to consider oneself entirely undesirable, no matter all proof to the contrary. It was rather a blow to my pride.”

  “What proof?” he demanded in outrage. “What possible proof can you have for such a statement when you’re stuck out here in the back of beyond, with hardly a soul for miles around, let alone a red-blooded male with enough sense to see what’s right in front of him?”

  “Oh, King,” Livvy said, feeling a little dazed. “I do believe that was a compliment.”

  King frowned and let her go. Livvy staggered without his arms to hold her up, and was dismayed to realise she regretted the loss of his touch. A shiver ran over her. It was suddenly much colder without the warmth of his body against hers.

  “Nonsense,” he said briskly. “I was merely pointing out how idiotic you were. Nothing complimentary about it in the least.”

  As he seemed a little touchy about it, Livvy just gave a meek nod of agreement. There was no sense in upsetting him when he seemed to have resigned himself to helping her, kissing her. And that had been a compliment, and the way he’d kissed implied he wasn’t just saying it. She was not undesirable after all. Oh, no doubt she didn’t compare to his usual companions, but as they were all the way back in London and she was here… well, she may as well take it for what it was.

  “So, you’ll help me, then?” Her heart gave an erratic and hopeful thud in her chest.

  King sighed and gave her a narrow-eyed glance. “Frankly, I’m not the least bit convinced you need the help.”

  “Oh, but I do,” she said at once. “I could never have been so dreadful as to kiss anyone else, but you don’t matter.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Sensing she’d offended him again, Livvy hurried to explain. “I only mean that… that you don’t like me, and I don’t like you, and so… it doesn’t signify if you think I’ve done something outrageous, because you already think me a dreadful creature.”

  “Hmph.” He folded his arms and glowered at the sea.

  “If you were a man I wished to ask to marry me, I could never be so direct. He’d think me a strumpet or… or a fortune hunter. I suppose he’d be right,” she mused before shaking her head. She’d not think of that. “The point is, I must recognise that he wants to kiss me, at least. Then I say… no, not before we’re married, and there we have it.”

  “Do we?” King muttered, sounding unconvinced.

  Livvy nodded, hoping to encourage him. “I assume I must flirt with him, and perhaps even imply I might invite such liberties, but frankly it always seems like dissembling and I’m no good at that.”

  “You astonish me.”

  She tutted at his dry remark.

  “I am being honest with you, so you understand the difficulty.”

  King pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a deep breath. She wondered if he was counting to ten like she did when her patience was being tested.

  “Very well,” he said. “I shall help you, but we’d best get back before you’re drenched for the second time in as many days. Those clouds look ominous. If you can slip away, you may come to my room this evening, and we shall discuss it further.”

  “Oh, thank—”

  “Don’t. I haven’t finished. You will be discreet, damn you, and if we are discovered, you will tell your brother you knocked me over the head, drugged me, and forced yourself upon me. Are we clear on that point?”

  “Perfectly clear,” she said soothingly.

  “Hmph.”

  He looked so disgruntled she thought she ought to make him feel better. “You are very kind to take the trouble, my lord.”

  “No, I am not,” he retorted at once. “I’ve sunk beyond reproach, lower than a worm’s belly, to consider… to think of… with you. With an innocent… Oh, damn me to hell. I’ll see you later.”

  Livvy watched him go, admiring his long legs as he strode away from her. She knew he did not wish for her company in his present state of mind, and she did not wish to jeopardise their imminent rendezvous. So Livvy let him go and did not follow until he was out of sight, humming merrily to herself all the way home.

  Chapter Eight

  9th December 1818.

  A whip or tar and feathers, rats, calves’ feet, and pussy cats.

  King strode back to the house, muttering to himself the entire way. He was out of his bloody mind. They’d be caught. They were bound to be. Even a brother as ridiculous and incompetent as Boscawen had to see what was right under his nose. He might be a selfish twit, but he no doubt loved his sister, misbegotten female that she was. Then there would be… what? A demand that he married her? Not if Boscawen had any sense. King had pockets to let. His father would be enraged if he married to disoblige him, and would likely disinherit King for good. There was nothing he could do about the title and the entailed property, but the family money could certainly be disposed of elsewhere. He could only imagine his father’s glee in doing so. Perhaps pistols at dawn, then, but Charlie was a rotten shot and King was better than most, so that would be a stupid thing to do too. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what he’d done, either, as that would ruin Livvy and then Charlie would never get her married off. No. There would be no repercussions for him other than Charlie’s fury and disgust, and yet another stain on his soul, which he could ill afford. That was really quite enough. He ought to have told her no. He ought to turn around this instant and march back to her and tell her he’d changed her mind.

  But he wasn’t going to.

  King groaned. He really was reprehensible. Not only because he would not tell her no, but because he didn’t want to tell her no. There had been something quite marvellous about the prickly Miss Penrose becoming all pliant and willing in his arms. It had stirred his blood in a manner he had not experienced since… since….

  Well… Ever.

  This was another good reason men of his sort did not dally with well-bred young ladies. They were dangerous on too many levels.

  King walked into the house, hung up his own coat as the loquacious Spargo never seemed to be about to do it for him, and went up the stairs. He ground to a halt on the landing as a piglet trotted past him. It was wearing a bonnet from which only its snout was visible.

  The child Livvy had called George followed in its wake. The boy was bare-arsed except for a colourful scarf, which was draped about his shoulders, and he had two fingers stuck in his mouth. He withdrew them with a soft popping sound and gestured to the pig.

  “Gog,” he said.

  “You can see it too, can you?” King asked, a little wary.

  George nodded. “Gog. Oof, oof.”

  “Thank Christ for that,” he muttered, before adding, for the sake of accuracy. “Actually, it’s a pig. Er… oink, oink.”

  George frowned and shook his head. “Gog.”

  “As you like,” King replied with a shrug, and watched the boy follow the piglet farther down the hall. “That’s an interesting outfit you have there. Isn’t it a bit draughty about your nether regions?”

  “’Ot,” George replied succinctly. “Too ’ot.”

  “Yes, I can quite understand the benefits.” King nodded but felt compelled to point out: “But you can’t just stroll about with your pego on display. It’s not done. The ladies take offence.”

  “Pego?” George asked with an enquiring tone.

  King pursed his lips, aware he might have spoken a little rashly.

  “Best not say that word to your aunt.”

  George grinned. “Pego.”

  “Yes. I see. It runs in the family,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “Well, run along then. The pig went that way.”

  “Gog,” the child said, with a stubborn glint in his eyes. He
snickered, and toddled off after the pig. “Pego!”

  There was no escaping the fact that this was a bloody madhouse.

  “I ought to be horsewhipped,” King announced as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

  Walsh looked up from the coat he was brushing without so much as a blink. “Very good, my lord. Would you like me to do it now?”

  “Or perhaps tar and feathers? What do you think?”

  Walsh’s brow crinkled a little as he considered. “Tar and feathers is a terribly messy business, sir. Not to mention that it takes a good deal of preparation. If it’s all the same to you, I prefer the whip.”

  “As you like. I shouldn’t wish to put you to any trouble,” King groused, flinging himself down in the chair by the fire. The wind gusted outside and a plume of smoke billowed down the chimney, filling the room.

  “Needs sweeping,” Walsh observed with a tut.

  “The whole place needs pulling down and its occupants consigning to Bedlam.”

  “Might I observe you seem a trifle out of sorts, my lord? Am I correct in supposing that Miss Penrose caught up with you at the beach?”

  King glowered at his valet in consternation. “You faithless cur! Do you mean to say you sent that she-devil after me?”

  Walsh frowned and stood a little straighter. “I would not say I sent her, sir, merely that she was quite determined to speak with you and, seeing as you are staying under the same roof, it seemed inevitable that she would eventually. I assumed the beach would give you a greater chance of escape or evasion, should you wish to employ either tactic.”

  “What a load of cobblers!” King exclaimed, knowing his valet well enough to realise when he was pulling a fast one. “I ought to horsewhip you. I might have known I was being conspired against. I suppose you’re in on it too, are you? Et tu, Brute?”

  “I do not know to what you are referring,” Walsh replied with all the offended dignity he could muster.

  “All I wanted, Walsh, was a place to rusticate in peace. Stay here, you said, just the place, you said. Far from society, fresh sea air and no excitement. Bah!”