My Winter Rogue: A Regency Holiday Collection

by Jillian Eaton

“Come to be in your bed?” Pushing himself into a sitting position he leaned back against the tall mahogany headboard and regarded her with a lifted brow. Cool morning sunlight danced across his smooth chest, illuminating his golden skin and the hard rigid edge of carved muscle.

  Rake or not, there was no denying Lord Prescott his handsomeness and Emma’s face flushed a dull, deep red when she caught herself staring at his chiseled abdomen. Dear heavens. Was he wearing pants? She sincerely hoped he was wearing pants.

  “You invited me here,” he drawled. “In fact, you insisted.”

  Emma’s mouth dropped open as her startled gaze jerked away from his stomach and up to his smirking countenance. “I most certainly did not!”

  “You most certainly did. Not that I was complaining.” His grin was pure wickedness. “This is the most comfortable bed I have slept in quite a long time.” He thumped the mattress with his hand, giving her a little jolt. “Not too hard, not too soft. Don’t you agree, Lady Emma?” he asked, his tone filled with sly insinuation that caused Emma’s thighs to reflexively press together.

  Had they… did they… have relations? If they did she couldn’t remember it, although surely she would feel different if they had. She didn’t know precisely how it all was done, but she’d learned enough from Vivian to know that it was painful the first time and there was blood. But she saw no evidence of any bleeding on the sheets and aside from her pounding head she did not feel any lingering soreness.

  “It – it is a very fine bed.” What else was there to say? What else could she say? She wanted to demand that he leave the room at once, but what if someone saw him? It would not matter if they’d been intimate or not. The implication would be more than clear and the scandal that would result was too horrifying to even contemplate. Her reputation would be ruined. Any chance she might have had at finding a respectable husband destroyed. She would never be able to show her face in high society again. Her parents would be ashamed. They might even disown her and then what would she do? Where would she go? How would she feed Hamlet?

  Hamlet!

  With a tiny gasp of alarm Emma sat straight up and threw the sheet aside without a single thought to her modesty. “Where is he?” she said frantically as she scrambled across the mattress on her hands and knees and began tossing pillows and blankets onto the floor in a desperate attempt to find her beloved pet. “Have you see him? Did he get out?”

  “What the devil are you going on about? Who is the ‘he’ you are – I was using that,” Lord Prescott complained when she yanked his pillow out from behind his back. It, too, joined the growing mountain of bed linens piling up on the floor. Once Emma had finished stripping the bed bare she sat back on her heels at the foot of the mattress and buried her head in her hands.

  “Hamlet is my cat! And he’s missing.” It did not strike Emma as odd or even particularly unusual that she would be more upset over the disappearance of her pet than her own ruin. Hamlet was the most important thing in the world to her. He was more important than her reputation. More important than the scandal that would come if Lord Prescott was discovered in her room. More important than anything.

  “You mean that fluffy white ball of fur that tried to suffocate me in my sleep in the middle of the night? I put him in the closet.”

  “You did what?” Emma cried as her head lifted. At that very moment Hamlet decided to release a rather belated – and quite irritated – meow. In a flash Emma was off the bed and had the closet door yanked open. Looking rather cross Hamlet pranced out, gave her a disdainful glare over his shoulder as if she had been the one to lock him away, and trotted over to the nearest window. With one easy leap he settled himself on the sill and promptly proceeded to fall asleep in the sun, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the sound of his contended purrs.

  “Well he doesn’t look the worse for wear,” Lord Prescott commented. “But I am afraid the same cannot be said for you. Might I recommend running a comb through your hair before you leave the room? Wouldn’t want people to talk.”

  A hot, unfamiliar flash of anger bubbled up in Emma’s chest as she whirled to face Lord Prescott. How smug he looked, sitting in the bed like some sort of high and mighty king! This was all his fault, she decided. Yes, she’d clearly had too much wine and as a result her head hadn’t been as clear as it ought to have been, but he’d taken advantage of her! Or at least she thought he had, for surely despite what he’d said it hadn’t been her idea for him to come up to her bedroom. What a ludicrous notion! He was merely trying to cover his tracks and doing a rather poor job of it at that.

  Still, she told herself as she took a deep, calming breath, it wouldn’t do to fly off the handle and start making accusations. What was done was done. The important thing now was to look to the future and decide their next course of action. Preferably one that did not end with her reputation in tatters.

  “Lord Prescott I realize these are… unusual circumstances–”

  “Not for me.” He flashed her a grin as he stretched his arms above his head before clasping the back of his neck. “In fact, I find them quite usual.”

  Emma cheeks flushed bright pink. Was he trying to make this as difficult and uncomfortable as possible? Yes, she decided with an irate glare when she noted the glint of smugness in his devilish green eyes, he most certainly is. The cad. Oh, of all the men she could have found herself in bed with, why did it have to be him?

  “Be that as it may, I can assure you that I have never found myself in such a delicate situation before which is why I must ask for your utmost discretion.”

  “Delicate situation,” he mused. “That’s a fancy way of putting it.”

  “How would you like me to put it?” she said, her exasperation growing by the second. All of her life Emma had been surrounded by men and women who adhered to a certain code of conduct. A code of conduct that did not allow for sly innuendos or inappropriate glances or lewd remarks, all of which Lord Prescott had delivered in spades since the very moment they met! And to think she had kissed him… her skin went hot just thinking about it.

  I am never drinking wine again, she vowed silently. Not for as long as I live.

  Her gaze flicked to the window where the sun was steadily rising into a sky of clear, icy blue. It was still early yet, not quite eight if Emma were to hazard a guess, but soon enough the house would come alive with the smell of baking bread and the sound of sleepy voices as guests were roused from their beds and gradually made their way downstairs. After every dinner party Vivian always hosted a large country breakfast where food and gossip were served in equal measure. Emma knew her appearance would be expected, just like she knew if she did not arrive downstairs in a timely manner Vivian would come searching for her.

  “Lord Prescott,” she began in as firm a tone as she could manage, “I am sure you are aware of the implications that will arise should we be discovered together and the effect they would have on my reputation as a result. Thus I must kindly ask that you leave at once. ”

  Lord Prescott lowered his arms and lifted his brows. “Is that a fancy way of saying you don’t want people to think we made love?”

  Emma thought her face couldn’t possibly turn any redder. How wrong she was!

  “Yes,” she managed to squeak. “That is precisely what I am saying. And since we didn’t–”

  “How do you know we didn’t?” he interrupted.

  All of the color drained from her cheeks, leaving them as a white as the snow blanketing the fields. “I – I had naturally assumed that we… That is to say I – I did not think that… Oh,” she said faintly as she felt her entire world tilt on its axis. “We didn’t, did we? M-make love, I mean.”

  Lord Prescott frowned. “Well you don’t need to say it like that.”

  “How would you like me to say it?” Emma asked as she hugged her arms tight to her body. Beneath the long hem of her nightdress her toes curled inward, equally chilled by a draft seeping in beneath the door and the alarming thought of having
lost her virginity with no memory of it happening.

  “With a little bit more enthusiasm for one thing.” Swinging his legs over the side of the bed – he was wearing pants after all, thank heavens – Lord Prescott unfolded his long, lanky body and indulged in another lingering stretch that hollowed out his abdomen and drew Emma’s eye to a dark shadow of hair that began just below his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his breeches. “Women don’t exactly complain after they’ve spent the night with me.”

  “Did we?” she whispered.

  “Did we what?”

  “Spend the night together. I mean, I know that we spent the night together but did we spend the night together?” She held her breath waiting for the answer and Lord Prescott, looking rather pleased with himself, took his time in giving it.

  “No,” he said finally, causing Emma to release her pent up breath in a loud sigh of relief. “No, we didn’t. After we returned from our walk outside I accompanied you upstairs. It was late and all of the other beds were already spoken for so I shared yours. Nothing untoward happened, Lady Emma.” A flicker of annoyance darkened his brow as he lowered his arms to his sides. “I may be a rogue and a rake, but I don’t usually make a habit of deflowering innocents, particularly unconscious ones.”

  “Then how did I come to be in my nightdress?” she asked suspiciously.

  His mouth curved in a boyish grin. “I never said I was a saint.”

  That much was obvious. Still, given that he could have done whatever he wanted with her and she would have been helpless to stop him Emma supposed she should feel grateful. Or, if not grateful, then at least thankful. Yes. Thankful was a much better word. Even though she would have preferred he left her alone all together.

  Won’t you kiss me, Lord Prescott? I won’t tell anyone. I promise.

  Emma’s eyes widened as her own voice echoed inside her head. Had she really asked him to kiss her? Her memories of last night were still hazy, but she supposed she must have. How utterly unlike her! And yet… and yet deep down, buried beneath layers of decorum and propriety and perfect manners she felt a faint, unmistakable stirring of pride.

  For once in her life she hadn’t sat idly by with her hands demurely folded and her ankles neatly crossed. For once in her life she had been brave. For once in her live she had been brazen. Maybe it had taken a few glasses of wine to get her there, but she had done it! She had kissed a perfect stranger. A completely inappropriate one at that. And now she faced the very real possibility of complete and utter ruination as a result. Emma’s lips pressed together. Whoever said fortune favored the bold must have never had to endure the wagging tongues of high society.

  Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to meet Lord Prescott’s emerald gaze. He truly did have the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. They reminded her of a picture hanging in her father’s study. It depicted the rolling hills of Scotland deep in the midst of summer when the grass was rich and the air tasted of honey and heather.

  She had been to Scotland only once as a young girl, but she hoped to visit again someday. Perhaps she and her future husband could go there on their honeymoon… if she wasn’t plagued by scandal first.

  “Lord Prescott, I realize I am in no position to ask for a favor but I must ask for it anyways.” She paused, giving him plenty of opportunity to do the gentlemanly thing and pledge his silence, but incorrigible scoundrel that he was he merely stared at her, his countenance devoid of expression save a faint twitch of amusement curling one side of his mouth. “Could you – that is to say, will you – promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone? My very life depends on it.”

  Lord Prescott chuckled. “Your life? That is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

  “No,” Emma said firmly, “I do not think that at all. I have a reputation to maintain, Lord Prescott. A sterling one. I understand why a man of your proclivities might not find that very important, but I can assure you my future is dependent on my ability to avoid any hint of a scandal.”

  Turning his back on her he picked up a white shirt that had been tossed carelessly onto the floor and pulled it over his head. “Maybe you should have thought about that before your started going around asking for kisses.”

  “I – I did not go around asking for kisses,” she hissed, her gaze darting to the door to make sure there were no shoes peeking out from underneath it. The last thing she needed was a servant spreading gossip.

  “You could have fooled me.” Tucking his shirt into the waistband of his breeches, Lord Prescott sat down in a chair and began to pull on his boots. “Not to worry, I will not tell anyone.”

  Emma’s knees actually wobbled with relief. “Oh. Oh, thank you my lord. I cannot express–”

  “If you do something for me first.”

  The smile that had bloomed across her face when she’d thought her worries had come to an end abruptly faltered and faded in a frown. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

  He stood up and walked towards her, closing the distance between them in two easy strides and suddenly making the room feel much tinier than it was. She’d forgotten how tall he was. Or perhaps she was merely small. Either way he towered above her, his hard chest and broad shoulders as formidable as a stone wall. Yet when he reached out and touched the side of her face his hand was surprisingly gentle.

  She caught her breath when his thumb brushed along the curve of her jawbone. Expelled it in a quick rush of air when that same thumb traced the soft outline of her lips. “What – what are you doing?”

  His voice was a rumbling purr. “Wondering if you would taste as sweet this morning as you did last night. Should we find out?”

  “I do not think that is a very good idea,” she said quickly. Their first kiss could be blamed on too much wine and poor judgement, but if they kissed in the light of day when both of their heads were clear what would her excuse be? The truth was she did not have one and she could not afford to make the same mistake twice.

  Perhaps if Lord Prescott was someone she could actually see herself marrying it would be one thing, but despite his title he was as unlikely a candidate for marriage as the chimney sweep she passed every morning on her way to Hyde Park. He may have been an earl, but he held none of the other qualities she was looking for in a husband. In fact, it could be said he was the exact opposite of what she was seeking.

  So why was there a part of her that was secretly thrilled at the idea of kissing him again?

  “Because you are a foolish ninny,” she muttered unthinkingly.

  Lord Prescott’s thumb stilled. “Pardon?”

  “Not you, me. I am the foolish ninny.” She frowned up at him. “You cannot kiss me, Lord Prescott. The very idea is ludicrous.”

  “You did not think so last night,” he pointed out.

  “Last night I was – I was indisposed.” That was one way of putting it. “But this morning I am feeling much – what are you doing?” she demanded when his hand casually drifted to the nape of her neck and his fingers found their way into her hair.

  “Kissing you.”

  She tried to pull out of his grasp but the wall at her back left her with nowhere to run and aside from the closet there was no place to hide.

  Emma was trapped.

  Trapped in a net of her own making.

  She could feel it tightening around her as Lord Prescott slowly lowered his head, angling it so their mouths were aligned. They were so close she could see the flutter of his pulse. Smell the sandalwood on his clothes. Feel the heat radiating from his body.

  “We shouldn’t,” she whispered weakly even as she felt her resolve begin to crack and crumble.

  Keeping one hand tangled in her dark hair he raised the other over her shoulder and braced it against the plaster wall. “Your words say one thing but your gypsy eyes say another. Tell me to stop,” he said huskily as his mouth grazed her ear. “Tell me to stop and I shall walk out the door and never bother you again.”

  Emma’s heart was beating
so fast she feared it was going to leap from her chest. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, to leave her alone, to walk out the door and never speak of their indiscretion to anyone, but two very different words came out instead. Two words that would prove to be her undoing.

  “Kiss me.”

  Chapter Seven

  The flames in the fireplace were slowly dying. The coals in the metal bed warmer were all but extinguished. A draft of bitterly cold air seeped in through the window. Another blew in beneath the door. Winter was not an easy season to find warmth, especially in a manor house as large as this one, but wrapped up in Lord Prescott’s arms Emma felt nothing but heat.

  The grip on her nape gentled as he slowly lowered his mouth to hers. She tensed in anticipation, her lashes sweeping down to form dark crescent moons on top of her ivory cheeks. Her stomach knotted, the muscles clenching. Was she this nervous last night? If she had been she could not remember.

  “Easy love,” Lord Prescott murmured, speaking to her as he would a spooked horse or a wary animal. “I am not going to hurt you.”

  There was no reason for Emma to trust him, but she did. No reason for her to believe him, but she did. No reason for her to touch him, but she did.

  Releasing her pent up breath she brought her hands up and pressed them lightly against his chest, fingers spanning across the rough linen of his shirt. He feels so very hard, she thought in awe. Like one of the marble statues in Vauxhall Gardens. The kind that no lady was supposed to look at very closely.

  He did not have the body of a man committed to a life of vice and sin, but one who pursued a great many physical activities such as riding and, given the fading bruise on the edge of his jaw she hadn’t noticed before now, mayhap boxing as well. It was easy to imagine him as a gentleman boxer. He had the height and build for it. As well as the arrogance, she thought with a wry inward smile. And then his mouth gently brushed against hers and she stopped thinking anything at all.

  On a soft sigh Emma slid into the kiss as though sliding into a dream; slow and steady and then all at once. Lord Prescott did not take or demand as she might have expected, but rather gave at his own leisure and when the kiss deepened into something more it was Emma who took it there, albeit clumsily and after a great deal of fumbling for she hadn’t the faintest notion of where to put her nose or her body or her hands.