Even though he cared about Minerva, and held her in the highest regard, Tristan didn’t wish to give her the wrong impression. Particularly when she was in such a vulnerable state. A confirmed bachelor through and through, he’d never viewed her—or indeed any woman—as a prospective wife. So he simply said, “I only wish things could have been different.”
Minerva’s chest rose and fell on a sigh. “So do I, Tristan. So do I.” Removing her hand from his arm, she moved away and placed her unfinished brandy upon a nearby table. “I fear I’ve been burdening you with my pitiful tale of woe and should go. What’s done is done and the past cannot be unmade. But thank you for being honest with me about David. And thank you for listening.”
Tristan watched Minerva retrieve Delilah’s damning letter and stuff it into her reticule.
“I know I’ve said it countless times, but please remember I’ll always be here if you need me,” he said, hating how useless such a platitude sounded. In reality, he really couldn’t do anything to ameliorate the pain Minerva must be feeling. He tried again. “It’s perfectly understandable that you would be upset. And angry. And even though one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I’m going to say it anyway: David was an ass.”
Tristan was relieved to see Minerva’s lips tremble with a reluctant smile. “Yes. He was,” she agreed.
Tristan accompanied her to the front door. “Will you be quitting Town before Christmas?” he asked as Minerva’s maid emerged from the front parlor and began to help her mistress don her coat, gloves, and bonnet. “I’ve decided to spend the Yuletide season here in London rather than at Ashwood Park.” If Minerva was going to return to Hertfordshire—or journey north to Yorkshire to spend time with her only other relatives, a pair of elderly maiden aunts—that meant he wouldn’t see her for some weeks. And that saddened him.
But Minerva shook her head. “No. The new Earl of Harlow and his young wife have recently taken up residence at Ivywell Hall and I’d rather stay here in London than shiver my way through Christmas in the estate’s dower house.” She pulled on her black kid gloves. “And then, your very sweet sister and her husband have invited me to dinner at their Russell Square townhouse on Christmas Eve.” Her long dark lashes hid her expression as she adjusted the fit of one particular glove. “I’m very inclined to accept.”
For reasons Tristan really didn’t want to examine, his heart leapt at the prospect. “Wonderful.” Julia and Minerva had instantly become firm friends when David had first brought his new bride to Ivywell. “I hope you do decide to come. I will be there too.”
Minerva’s mouth curved and this time, her smile reached her eyes. “Well, in that case, how can I resist? I will send a note to Julia this afternoon informing her that I shall attend.”
“I look forward to it.”
As Tristan watched Minerva’s footman help her to mount the steps of her carriage, he realized that what he’d said was true. He was looking forward to Christmas Eve... But he was almost ashamed to admit to himself, it was for all the wrong reasons.
For try as he might, he suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about Minerva in a wholly inappropriate, wholly sexual way. The sway of her hips, the curve of her derriere beneath her gown, the flash of her neatly booted ankle as she’d entered the carriage had transfixed him. Made his body stir with longing. A longing, which had always been there, but he’d never given himself permission to feel.
It must have been because he’d briefly entertained the thought of having her in his bed if he’d been her husband, not David.
But she isn’t married anymore, Tristan King. Minerva was now a widow and free to take a lover if she wanted to ...
Tristan returned to the drawing room and replenished his brandy. No, he couldn’t do it, pursue Minerva like some randy dog. He respected her too much to indulge in such a dalliance. Because if he and Minerva became lovers, it was bound to ruin their friendship and he couldn’t bear such an idea. Besides, she probably wasn’t the kind of woman who would take a lover, especially someone like him whose tastes in bed sport were far from conventional. As far as Tristan knew, Minerva was a respectable woman and since David had passed away, she hadn’t strayed from the path of decorum. She’d be shocked if she ever found out what he, Tristan, truly craved in the bedroom.
But the way she’d smiled back at him when he’d told her that he would be at Julia’s dinner party. Dare he think that it might have been a flirtatious smile?
What if Minerva was tired of being virtuous? It had been two years since she’d had a man in her bed...
Christ, man. Stop thinking about her in that way.
Ignoring the sting of his split lip, Tristan tossed back his brandy. No matter how many times the lovely Lady Harlow threw coquettish smiles at him on Christmas Eve, he was duty bound to keep his dirty hands off his best friend’s widow. She’d been through enough already—especially now she’d learned about David’s infidelity.
One thing he was certain of, he’d rather cut off his own ballocks than hurt Minerva. And having her in the way he really wanted would surely be unconscionable.
Chapter 2
Fellows House, Russell Square, London
Christmas Eve, 1818
* * *
Minerva hovered on the edge of the opulent drawing room of Fellows House, taking a moment to admire the festive decorations—the garlands of holly, Christmas roses, and mistletoe adorning the white marble mantel, the mahogany wall panels, and the chandelier—and the congenial atmosphere. The Honorable Edward Fellows and his wife Julia—Minerva’s dear friend and Tristan’s sister—had been magnanimous hosts all evening and now that the delightful five-course dinner was over, the party of twenty guests had repaired to the drawing room to continue the merry-making.
Lady Mary Fellows, Edward’s younger sister, was currently playing a rousing rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen on the pianoforte and not a few of the gentlemen were singing along in an enthusiastic, if not altogether melodic, fashion.
A deep, familiar voice by her ear made Minerva’s breath catch. “What can I get you, my dear Lady Harlow? A glass of wassail punch perhaps? Or would you prefer another champagne? Surely not a cup of tea.”
Ignoring the tripping of her heart, Minerva turned to face Sir Tristan, the man of her forbidden dreams. Attired in a perfectly tailored evening coat of black superfine, with matching breeches, a burgundy satin waistcoat, and artfully messy cravat, he was a sight to behold, even with the remnants of a bruise shadowing his cheek. A ton buck in his prime, he really was far too handsome and charismatic for his own good. And hers it seemed.
“Champagne thank you,” she replied, hoping he wouldn’t detect the husky note of desire in her voice. Not responding in an overtly sexual way to Sir Tristan’s innate, potent maleness was a battle she constantly seemed to be fighting of late. “I think if I have any more of your brother-in-law’s wickedly spiked punch, the staff will be unceremoniously rolling me out to my carriage at the end of the night.”
Tristan’s laugh, a rich rumble, made Minerva’s toes curl in her red satin slippers. After snagging two champagnes from a nearby footman, he cocked a dark eyebrow. “I’d be more than willing to be of assistance if you did imbibe a little too much,” he said as he handed her a glass. “And rest assured, I wouldn’t roll you out. I’d carry you to your carriage in a most gentlemanly way.”
Minerva arched a brow back at him. Trading good-natured barbs seemed like safer, more familiar ground than attempting to flirt so she said, “Oh, would you now? I know you’re quite the Corinthian, Tristan, but I’m not the most petite female.”
Tristan’s breathtaking grin widened. “You doubt my physical prowess? That sounds like a challenge, my lady.”
Oh, my. A mental vision of Tristan literally sweeping her off her feet made Minerva’s belly flutter and her heart race. “No, no it’s not a challenge. Besides, I’m drinking champagne so this discussion is quite moot.”
Tristan waggled his eyebrows. “Not if you hav
e too much. Shall I fetch you another glass?”
Minerva sent him a mock scowl. “Sir Tristan King, it sounds like you are trying to lead me astray.”
He leaned closer, his breath coasting along her ear. “Maybe. Just a little.”
Minerva felt a hot blush creep over her entire face. Her complexion probably matched the scarlet satin of her gown. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The mere suggestion of being ‘led astray’ by Tristan had also sent a torrent of lust rushing to her nether regions and elsewhere; her bodice and half-stays suddenly felt too tight and her nipples throbbed.
Heavens above she was a mess. A mess of foolish, aching need. She’d always thought the baronet was devilishly attractive, but since she’d emerged from mourning, it seemed a heretofore unknown libidinous side of her had suddenly woken up. And she didn’t want Tristan to suspect he now had the power to reduce her to a pile of quivering blancmange. Inveterate rakehell that he was, he might flirt with her on occasion, but it didn’t mean a thing. Not really.
He certainly didn’t desire her. How could he? Even her husband hadn’t really desired her...
Pushing aside her sour, self-pitying thoughts, Minerva plastered a smile on her face and gave Tristan’s arm a playful poke. “It’s Christmas Eve, not Twelfth Night, so you can’t assume the role of Lord of Misrule.”
Tristan’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Shame... I think I’d make a rather good Lord of Misrule. Enticing unsuspecting females toward temptation.”
“Hmmm. I think that’s the Prince of Darkness, Tristan.”
“Well I happen to believe there’s nothing wrong with being a little wicked on occasion.” Tristan’s sapphire blue eyes suddenly locked with hers. “In all the years we’ve known each other, Minerva, I’ve never once seen you do anything remotely indecorous. Aren’t you ever tempted to—” He broke off and then swore beneath his breath. “Please ignore what I just said. It was incredibly rude of me.” He dragged a hand through his thick, raven-black hair then gave a dramatic sigh, which had the annoying effect of drawing Minerva’s attention to the rise and fall of his wide shoulders and chest. “The wassail punch has befuddled my brain and I clearly don’t know what I’m saying.”
Minerva’s bitterness returned full force. “I don’t doubt that I’m as dull as ditchwater. It probably explains why David—” She shook her head and discarded her champagne glass on a nearby marble-topped occasional table. Even her favorite wine tasted sour now. “Never mind.”
Putting aside his own glass, Tristan then angled himself in front of her so that his large frame crowded her against the oak-paneled wall and blocked out the rest of the room. “Look at me, Minerva,” he said in a low voice, his tone rougher than gravel. “You are not, and have never been, boring. And don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise. And that includes me. You’d be well within your rights to tell me to sod off.”
Minerva blinked away tears and offered a tremulous smile. “I would never do that—tell you to sod off. But thank you,” she whispered. “That means a lot to hear you say I’m not dull.” Then her breath quickened as she felt Tristan’s fingers tangle with hers, his thumb brushing across the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. What was he doing, holding her hand in such an intimate fashion? And was that fleeting caress accidental or by design?
Frowning, she searched his gaze... which was a mistake. Tristan’s blue eyes trapped hers and for a moment her heart stopped. But when she pulled in a much needed breath, it took off again, pounding, racing so very fast. Too fast. The rowdy performance of Good King Wenceslas and accompanying laughter seemed to fade away and there was only Tristan commanding her attention, filling her senses.
In the flickering candlelight, Tristan’s pupils seemed to expand and the bright blue darkened to indigo. His nostrils flared as if scenting her desire and his gaze dipped to her parted lips. Good Lord, was Tristan going to kiss her? In front of everyone?
Before she could find her voice to protest, his grip firmed on her hand and then he was pulling her toward the double doors that led out of the drawing room, into the entry hall.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice an urgent whisper as she did her best to keep up with him. The polished parquetry floor was slippery and the soles of her new red slippers were too.
“Here.” Tristan stopped in the middle of the deserted chamber. There wasn’t even a footman in sight. “Right here.”
Minerva shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
Tristan smiled. “Look up, my dear Lady Harlow.”
Minerva tilted her head back. Above them hung an impressive chandelier, the delicate crystals twinkling like a thousand stars in the light of the candles. And suspended from that was the largest ball of mistletoe Minerva had ever seen. Threaded with crimson ribbon, the kissing bough’s white berries and dark green leaves gleamed in the candlelight.
Oh. How silly she hadn’t noticed it on her arrival. Her throat suddenly tight with a strange combination of nerves and longing, Minerva swallowed. Even though there could be no mistaking why Tristan had led her to this particular spot, she felt obliged to prevaricate. “What... What are you...? Why are we here exactly?” she stammered.
“Well, because it’s Christmas Eve, I think we should do something to celebrate. Something that’s not the slightest bit boring.” One of Tristan’s large hands cupped her cheek, and he angled her face in such a way, Minerva couldn’t avoid his gaze. He was so close, she could see the dark rim of navy around the edge of his sea-blue eyes. Breathe in his familiar masculine scent and spicy cologne—a potent mixture of cloves, and bergamot, and wintergreen.
“But. But we can’t,” she protested weakly even as her fingers curled around his superfine clad biceps and her hips swayed toward his. Her resistance was dissolving, disintegrating beneath a wave of desire so strong, she almost couldn’t breathe. Could one drown in desire?
He smiled. “Why not? It’s Christmas. And kisses between friends under the mistletoe are permitted, are they not?”
Minerva licked dry lips as temptation tugged her even closer to Tristan. Anticipation unfurled like dark velvet butterfly wings in her belly as his thumb lightly stroked her fevered cheek. If she ignored the niggling thought that this would be more than a friendly kiss—at least for her—he spoke perfect sense. What was wrong with following a harmless tradition? Her eyes fell to Tristan’s wide, perfectly chiseled mouth and when it tipped into his devastating rake’s smile, she knew the battle to say no was all but lost. “Yes. But just one kiss, mind you.”
“Very well.” Tristan’s hand slid to the nape of neck, his long fingers cradling the back of her head. “Just one.”
He drew her against his hard, muscular body and bent his dark head, his attention trained solely on her mouth. “Merry Christmas, Minerva,” he whispered, his breath a soft caress against her lips as her eyelids fluttered closed. And then he kissed her.
He was a cad. A despicable, wicked cad taking advantage of Minerva on Christmas Eve.
She was right, he was the Prince of Darkness, leading her astray like this. He might tell himself he’d carted Minerva off to the nearest kissing bough he knew of, simply because he wanted to cheer her up; David’s infidelity had clearly hit her hard. But that was a lie. It was pure, selfish lust, which motivated him. Once he’d got the idea in his head that he wanted to kiss this breathtakingly gorgeous woman, he couldn’t let it go.
Especially now he held Minerva’s luscious, pliant body in his arms. Her face was turned up to his and her lush red lips, parted in invitation, were a succulent offering. There was no way in heaven or hell he could resist such exquisite temptation. He might be the Devil, but thank God for the gift of mistletoe.
Just one kiss, she’d said. Well, if that’s all Lady Harlow would allow, he was going to make it the longest, slowest, most excruciatingly drawn out kiss he could manage.
Proud bastard that he was, he wanted to make it a kiss she would never forget.
Dipping his head, he use
d his whispered breath to tease Minerva’s lips. To sharpen her anticipation. “Merry Christmas, Minerva.”
As he gently covered her delectable mouth with his, his tongue slid between Minerva’s lips. Tasting. Languorously exploring that delicious silken recess. She was the perfect combination of tart and sweet; champagne and something that reminded him of ripe summer berries, but perhaps it was her own unique flavor.
God, just one single, leisurely kiss was not going to be enough. He knew it as soon as Minerva moaned and her tongue began to dance with his. His head spun. His thickening cock throbbed. His body burned to possess more than Minerva’s mouth.
Exerting gentle but insistent pressure with his thumbs, he dragged her mouth open wider, deepening the kiss, sucking Minerva’s tongue farther into his mouth before his teeth caught her lower lip in a delicate nip. To his delight, Minerva pushed herself against him, her hands tangling in his hair, whilst another breathy moan tumbled from her throat. Did she like it when things became a little rougher and wilder, just like he did?
He needed to stop this searing-hot kiss before someone—either a guest or servant—walked in on them. Before the hungry beast inside him took over and did something completely mad such as delving into the bodice of Minerva’s gown to fondle one of her bountiful breasts. Or he backed her toward the stairs and took her up against the balustrade.
Before he came in his breeches like an adolescent boy.
Somehow harnessing what was left of his crumbling control, Tristan tore his mouth from Minerva’s. Sucking in some much needed air, he gently unwound her hands from his neck and clasped them against his own heaving chest. “That might have been more than one kiss,” he murmured in a voice that was more than a little husky with lust.
My Lady of Misrule: Wicked Winter Nights, Book One Page 2
