Steamy Winter Wishes

by Callaway, Grace

  “Not so fast.” Marianne raised her brows. “What about you?”

  Emma’s heart gave an uncomfortable stutter. “What about me?”

  “We are all airing our laundry,” Marianne said. “Don’t you want to take the opportunity to do so as well? To start the new year off on the right foot?”

  Emma knitted her brows. “I would, but I don’t have anything to share.”

  “You’ve had a busy year,” Marianne reminded her.

  Strange, Alaric said the same thing.

  Emma took a breath, trying to put aside her list of to-dos and recall all that had happened in the past few months.

  “That is true, I suppose.” Frowning, she said, “We had the scare with William…but he is doing much better now.”

  William, her one-year-old, had had a mysterious fever and cough that persisted for a few weeks. Emma had spent most of the time by his bedside, not sleeping a wink.

  “Thank goodness for that,” Marianne said quietly.

  “The other children have been a handful,” Emma admitted after a pause. “Livy especially. Although she is only twelve, she is a girl who knows her mind and follows her own counsel.”

  “I wonder who she gets that from,” Tessa said with a chuckle.

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Her papa, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Marianne said drolly. “On top of all that, Ambrose told me about the two cases you helped him with this year.”

  “They were trifling.” Emma waved a hand. “Matrons who needed help locating some lost jewelry. I conducted a few interrogations and voilà. The cases nearly solved themselves.”

  “I am tired just listening to your accomplishments,” Bea said wryly. “And here you are hosting this grand event for all of us. You must be exhausted.”

  “You do look a bit tired,” Tessa said.

  Although Tessa’s comment was no doubt well meaning, Emma found it vexing. Why does everyone think I am tired?

  To prove otherwise, she marched over to the hearth and began sweeping the ashes. As her mama had oft said, idle hands were the devil’s tools. Emma found work calming.

  “Everything is fine, really,” she began.

  At that moment, the door opened, and Alaric stepped in. He was still dressed for the hunt, and even after thirteen years of marriage, Emma felt a warm tingle at how commandingly virile he looked. Before he met her, he’d been a confirmed rake sought after by all the ladies, and there were still moments when she couldn’t believe that this tall, dark, and wickedly handsome duke was all hers.

  Alaric’s silver green gaze went from her face to the broom in her hands to the rest of her apron-covered person. Then he surveyed his study, taking unerring note of the things that had been changed. Finally, her husband’s eyes connected to hers, and the coolness in those pale green depths sent a quiver down her spine. His look told her that they would be having a discussion later.

  Being a well-bred gentleman, however, he greeted their guests with cordial grace.

  “Pardon, ladies.” He inclined his dark head. “I did not mean to intrude.”

  “How could you be intruding, sir? This is your study, after all,” Marianne said pleasantly. “We are the ones who should be apologizing.”

  Tessa was trying to discreetly shove the feather duster beneath the chair with her foot while Bea cast a nervous glance at the bookshelves she’d rearranged.

  Not wanting her friends to get caught in the crossfire, Emma spoke up. “It is my fault. I asked them to help me tidy up the study, as part of redding the house.”

  “We do retain servants for that purpose.” Alaric’s tone was mild; the look in his eyes was not. “You have plenty of other things to do. A houseful of guests to host, for instance.”

  “There are various activities to keep everyone occupied this afternoon.” She lifted her chin. “I thought I would take this time to neaten things up in here.”

  After a pause, he said without inflection, “You will, of course, do as you please. I must change. Please excuse me, ladies.”

  With a curt bow, he left.

  In the awkward silence that followed, the ticking of the long case clock was nearly as loud as that of Emma’s heartbeat in her ears.

  Marianne cleared her throat. “Perhaps you should go speak to him?”

  “There is no need. Everything is fine,” Emma said.

  Inside, she was filled with bewildered frustration. On top of everything else she was trying to manage, now she had an annoyed husband to contend with… She forced down the sudden heat behind her eyes, turning instead to the task of cleaning the hearth. It was easier to face a dirty grate than her friends’ sympathetic faces.

  “Are you certain?” Tessa asked doubtfully. “The duke looked, um, a bit perturbed.”

  “He will get over it.” Emma started raking up the ashes to distract herself from her whirling hurt. “Shall we discuss the plans for this evening? I have a new parlor game planned…”

  2

  Later that afternoon, Wickham Murray cradled his infant daughter in his arms. “Is my poor little Clementia still hungry?”

  She cooed at him, her wide lavender eyes as mesmerizing as her mama’s.

  He stroked her downy cheek. “Unfortunately, I am useless for that.”

  “I just finished nursing Tia. She cannot possibly want more,” his wife said from the bed.

  Bea lounged against the pillows in the flannel robe she wore when nursing. Which meant…she was naked beneath. Being a considerate husband, Wick had planned to let his wife nap before supper but now amended his plan.

  He slanted his wife a wicked look. “Tia is my daughter after all, and we Murrays are known for our prodigious appetites.”

  Seeing the blush that rose on Bea’s beautiful face, Wick decided it was time to ring for the nurse. After the good woman obligingly collected her charge, he locked the door and headed toward the bed. He settled upon it, pulling Bea into his arms.

  She snuggled against him, and he relished the tranquility of the moment. Outside the window, snow started to fall, dusting the woods and pond in the distance with sugar-like drifts.

  He gazed at his wife. “What a beautiful sight.”

  “It is a treat,” she agreed. “Emma says that it is a particularly severe winter, and even the pond has frozen over.”

  “I’m not talking about the snow.” Winding a strand of his wife’s white-gold around his finger, he smiled at her. “But that is pretty too.”

  Her lavender eyes sparkled. “You are a flirt, Mr. Murray.”

  “Only with you, sweeting.”

  He kissed her. He’d meant it to be a tender kiss, but when the minx parted her lips, he had to take a more thorough taste. He rolled her onto her back, pressing his tongue deep into her mouth and his stiffened member against her sleek thigh. She sighed, her robe parting and revealing her plump breasts. The swollen globes with their enlarged pink peaks were an erotic contrast to her willowy figure, and a primitive part of him responded to this new lushness which he’d had a hand in bringing about.

  He lowered his head to her bounty, swiping his tongue over the areola. The sweet trace of milk brought a rush of lust to his veins. He suckled, grunting in pleasure as warm fluid squirted onto his tongue.

  “Wick,” she said breathlessly. “That is wicked.”

  “I know.” He lifted his head, flashing her a devilish grin. “If you don’t want me to deprive our babe of her meal, then I shall have to find something else to eat…”

  He kissed his way down his wife’s belly, her gasps of pleasure filling his ears. After he feasted his fill, he tore off his clothes and joined his body with hers. Staring into her pleasure-dazed eyes, surrounded by her snug heat, he let the ripples of her climax wring him of his own.

  Panting, he collapsed onto the bed, pulling her against him.

  “I was going to let you nap before supper,” he murmured.

  “Liar.” She circled his nipple with a delicate fingertip. “You planned to debauch
me all along.”

  He yawned. “Tupping can be a first-rate sedative.”

  “Not for me,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You know that.”

  He did. He’d always found Bea’s post-coital energy charming.

  “Since you let me have my way with you, we can do whatever you want now,” he said magnanimously.

  When her expression grew somber, he guessed what was on her mind. His ability to read his wife’s thoughts, and vice versa, had continued to grow over their year of marriage. It wouldn’t be long, he thought with wry humor, before they were finishing one another’s sentences.

  “How was Hadleigh during the shoot?” she asked with care.

  Wick inwardly cursed his wife’s brother for causing her pain. At the same time, he felt a stab of empathy for Hadleigh: he knew what it was like to have made grievous mistakes. To carry the burden of shame and regret and to long for redemption. In Wick’s case, he’d found his absolution with Beatrice.

  In Hadleigh’s case, redemption still seemed a long way off. Wick didn’t think Bea’s brother was a bad man at the core—Hadleigh had, after all, come to Bea’s rescue during her adventures last year—but the fellow did seem…lost.

  “Your brother was himself,” Wick said honestly. “Crapulous and withdrawn.”

  “I do wish he would drink less,” Bea burst out.

  Wick thought privately that drink might not be Hadleigh’s only vice. While Bea’s brother was blessed with the family’s good looks, he had a gauntness that Wick associated with opium users. Years of dissolute behavior had also aged Hadleigh beyond his twenty-four years.

  Not wanting to add to Bea’s worries, Wick said quietly, “Your brother has demons, and only he can decide how to manage them.”

  “I know.” Bea’s gaze darkened. “But I wish his wife were a better influence. I have my personal reasons for disliking her, as well you know, but they fade in comparison to the harm she is doing Hadleigh. She is the reason they are the scandal of the ton. The way she plays on his jealousy, goads him to wild behavior, and manipulates him…it makes me quite ill to think of it.”

  “Then don’t.” Wick framed his wife’s face between his palms. “Your brother is a grown man and must live and die by his own decisions.”

  Bea sighed. “I do wish I could talk some sense into Hadleigh, but after the years of estrangement, our relationship doesn’t allow for that. I don’t know how to talk to him anymore.”

  The sadness on her face tightened Wick’s chest. If there was anything he could do in service of his beloved’s happiness, he would do it. Without hesitation.

  He cleared his throat. “Would you like me to?”

  “You?” Bea looked startled. “What would you say to him?”

  “Probably something along the lines of, would you care for a game of billiards?”

  His wife snorted. “That is the advice you’re going to give him?”

  “Sweeting, gentlemen don’t have heartfelt tête-à-têtes. We drink, gamble, and play sports together. What I can offer your brother is a healthy version of that camaraderie. At the very least, it will be better than him brooding on his own and drinking in the corner.”

  “Thank you.” Smiling tremulously, she kissed his jaw. “Have I told you how much I adore you?”

  “Not today.” He slid his hand between her thighs, and the feel of her warm, flowering flesh brought renewed heat to his loins. “But you could show me…again.”

  “Wick, we have to change for supper…”

  When her words melted into a moan, he smiled against her lips. “I’ll make it quick.”

  3

  Two days before Hogmanay

  “Papa, is Aunt Emma a queen?”

  Ambrose Kent smiled at his six-year-old daughter Sophie. She had her small mittened hand tucked in his, her blonde curls peeping out from beneath her cap. Her fur-trimmed navy wool coat was a miniature replica of the one worn by Marianne, who held Sophie’s other hand. The three of them were enjoying a leisurely morning stroll through the snow-dusted grounds of Strathmore Castle.

  “No, poppet,” he replied. “Emma is a duchess, not a queen. Why do you ask?”

  “Because she lives in a castle,” Sophie said, her amber eyes wide. “And Uncle Alaric has as many servants as a king.”

  Chuckling, Ambrose exchanged a look with his wife over their youngest child’s head. Out of the mouths of babes…

  “Would you like to live in a castle one day?” he asked.

  Sophie appeared to think it over, swinging her hand in his. Then she shook her head. “I don’t care where I live…as long as it is with you, Mama, and Edward.”

  His daughter’s innocent words caused an unexpected pang in Ambrose’s chest. Gazing down at Sophie’s angelic face, he had a sudden irrational desire to freeze time. To keep her and his family exactly where they were and preserve this moment of happiness.

  Hoots and laughter broke Ambrose’s reverie. When he saw the group up ahead, he smiled.

  Silly of me to try to freeze a single moment, he thought. When other perfect moments are around the corner.

  It appeared that an impromptu snowball fight was taking place, with females on one side and males on the other. Leading the charge for the ladies—unsurprisingly—was his sister Violet, her caramel-colored eyes lit up with delight as she pelted her husband Richard Murray, Viscount Carlisle, in his brawny chest. Their three young sons groaned at their mama’s prowess while Carlisle simply began to gather together a massive snowball, a wolfish gleam in his eyes.

  Ambrose’s sister Polly giggled helplessly as she and Ambrose’s oldest daughter, Rosie, were cornered by their husbands.

  “Don’t worry, Pols,” Rosie said, tossing her blonde curls. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  Her husband, Andrew Corbett, exchanged a look with Polly’s spouse Sinjin Pelham, the Duke of Acton.

  “She’s right,” Corbett said with a sigh. “I cannot hit my wife with a snowball.”

  “See?” Rosie turned triumphantly to Polly…and that was her mistake.

  In the next instant, Corbett snatched her by the waist and gently pressed the handful of snow he’d been hiding behind his back into her face. Rosie looked so comically shocked that Ambrose had to stifle a laugh.

  “But I can give her a proper face wash.” Smiling, Corbett bent and kissed Rosie on the nose whilst she sputtered.

  Polly made a run for it, her golden-brown curls bouncing. Acton stalked her with determined strides, while their son shouted, “Hurry, Mama, or Papa will catch you!”

  “Sophie, come play!” The shout came from Miranda, the Corbetts’ eldest who also happened to be Sophie’s bosom chum.

  “May I?” Sophie looked at her parents.

  “Go on,” Ambrose said. “Just watch out for your Carlisle cousins. They’re a bloodthirsty lot.”

  As Sophie scampered off to join forces with Miranda and her cousin Olivia, Emma and Strathaven’s eldest, Ambrose put his arm around Marianne’s waist. She rested her glorious blonde head on his shoulder. In the distance, he saw his sister Thea walking hand-in-hand with her husband, the Marquess of Tremont, their twins racing over to join the raucous snowball fight.

  Holding his wife, watching their family play around them, Ambrose knew life did not get better than this. He was grateful for all the blessings he’d been given and, of late, had been thinking about how he wanted to enjoy them fully. Things changed so quickly, and he wanted to make the most of every precious moment.

  “Where do you suppose Emma is?” he said idly. “Apart from supper, I’ve hardly seen her all week.”

  Marianne lifted her head from his shoulder. “She’s probably still redding the house. Frankly, I’m a bit worried about her. The poor dear has been working herself to the bone to make this holiday enjoyable for everyone…except for herself.”

  Ambrose frowned. “Come to think of it, she does look a bit tired.”

  “Yesterday, Beatrice, Tessa, and I tried to talk her into delegating some of
the work, but she seems determined to do it all herself.”

  “That sounds like Em.” Thinking of the years when he’d been the breadwinner and Em had managed their siblings and the house, he said with a pang of regret, “Since she was barely more than a child, she has shouldered much responsibility. She is used to managing everything, and I suppose it is a hard habit to break. For a stretch, Christmas, in particular, was a difficult time. My policeman’s wages barely put food on the table, let alone much of anything else. It was always Em who found ways to make the holidays fun for our younger siblings.”

  “I know, darling. But that time is over,” Marianne said. “Emma deserves to enjoy herself.”

  “You are right, of course. I will speak with her,” Ambrose decided. “See if she’ll listen to her older brother.”

  “If she will be guided by anyone, it is you. And Strathaven, of course.” Marianne gave him a wry look. “Although His Grace looked none too happy to find the four of us tidying up his study.”

  “I don’t blame the chap. A study is a man’s private sanctuary,” Ambrose said with feeling. “After the maid goes through, I can never find anything.”

  Marianne aimed her gaze heavenward. “Harry takes after you, apparently. Tessa was remarking upon his tendency to, shall we say, accumulate.”

  Amused, Ambrose said, “I am beginning to suspect that your bonding session with the ladies involved more than a few complaints. What else did you talk about?”

  “What goes on between ladies stays between ladies.”

  “Very discreet, I’m sure.”

  “Although…if you’re going to have a chat with Emma, you might have one with Harry too, once he arrives.” Marianne lowered her voice. “Tessa believes he is losing interest in her.”

  “That is absurd.” Ambrose looked for his sister-in-law; she was chatting with Thea and Tremont, while trying to hold onto her and Harry’s rambunctious toddler Bartholomew. “Harry is head-over-heels in love with her. I have never seen him so content.”

  “What is obvious to others may not be obvious to oneself,” his wife said sagely. “The poor dear was quite distraught.”