My Winter Rogue: A Regency Holiday Collection

by Jillian Eaton

  With a soft chuckle Lord Prescott spanned her waist and drew her flush against him. They did not match up perfectly – she was too short for that and he far too tall – but their bodies connected all the same, clicking into place like two puzzle pieces being fit together.

  Her head fell back when he pressed his mouth to the side of her neck and suckled. On a gasp her eyes flew open and then slid to half-mast as he trailed his lips down the delicate curve of her throat to nibble at her exposed collarbone.

  Heat flooded her body, the likes of which she’d never felt before. She was burning from the inside out. Flames spread like wildfire, igniting parts of her body she’d never even known existed. Blood roared in her ears when Lord Prescott brought his hands up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples. He kissed her again, this time coaxing her mouth apart with a teasing slide of his tongue. Not knowing what he was asking of her Emma’s lips parted on instinct and welcomed a new flood of intense sensation when he slid inside.

  She felt drugged on desire.

  Mindless with arousal.

  If this was pleasure her only regret was that she’d not discovered it sooner.

  Her heart pounded inside of her chest, knocking against her ribcage with a steady thump, thump, thump–

  Wait.

  That wasn’t her heart.

  “Stop!” Emma hissed, tearing her mouth free and bringing both of her hands between their pulsing bodies. “Someone is at the door.”

  He slowly lifted his head. “And?”

  “And they cannot find you here! Quick.” Ducking under his arm she raced across the bedroom and threw open the closet door. From his perch on the windowsill Hamlet watched them both with undisguised interest, his yellow gaze darting back and forth. “In here.”

  Lord Prescott snorted. “You have got to be joking. I’m bloody well not getting in there.”

  “Oh yes you are!” Another knock on the door, this one louder than the last, had Emma racing back to his side. Grabbing his wrist she half pulled, half dragged him to the closet. Casting her a dark look he nevertheless ducked inside, squeezing himself between two dresses and a wooden crate overflowing with shoes.

  “It smells like mold and mice in here,” he complained.

  “Be quiet!” She closed the closet door just as the bedroom door swung inward to reveal Vivian standing on the other side of it looking none too pleased.

  “What the devil are you doing?” She strode into the room without invitation. Already dressed for breakfast in a gown of pastel green with white trim at the sleeves and bodice, Vivian looked none the worse for wear despite having easily consumed twice the amount of wine as Emma. “Everyone is downstairs already except for you and Lord Prescott. Have you seen him?”

  Emma could feel the blood draining from her face. Feigning a sudden interest in Hamlet she plucked him off the windowsill and held him up in front of her. Her voice muffled by this thick fur she said, “Lord Prescott? I – I have not seen him since last night.”

  She had never been a very good liar, but thankfully Vivian seemed too preoccupied to notice.

  “He is probably passed out drunk in the stables.” She pursed her lips. “What happened to your hair?”

  “My hair?” There was no looking glass in the bedroom but Emma could only imagine what her hair looked like after Lord Prescott had run his hands through it. “I – I had a restless night.” To put it mildly.

  “Well I shall have Anna assist you in getting dressed. The girl can work miracles with a curling tong. It won’t take but a minute.” She started to leave, only to hesitate in the doorway and glance back at Emma over her shoulder. “If you see Lord Prescott please let me know. Rodger wants all of the guests accounted for.”

  “I am sure he just went home after the dinner party.”

  “I doubt that, darling.”

  Emma felt her stomach drop. Did Vivian know? How could she? Unless she had seen them together. Oh dear. Vivian may have been her very best friend in the entire world, but she was horrible at keeping secrets. If she knew about Lord Prescott then that meant everyone else in the ton would soon know about Lord Prescott and she would be officially ruined.

  “Why – why would you doubt that?” she asked nervously.

  “Haven’t you looked outside? The snow is halfway up the door! No one is coming in and no one is certainly getting out. We’re trapped together, darling.” Her smile was bitterly thin. “For better or for worse.”

  Chapter Eight

  Trapped? No. That couldn’t be right.

  The second Vivian left the bedroom Emma ran to the nearest window and peered out through the frosted glass. To her utter dismay she saw that her friend was right – the snow really was halfway up the door. There would be no way for a carriage to get through it. Even a sleigh would have difficulty. For the foreseeable future she was trapped. Trapped in a house with the one man she needed to be as far away from as possible!

  “I believe you are squishing your cat,” Lord Prescott said mildly as he emerged from the closet.

  He was right. Poor Hamlet’s face was smooshed right up against the cold glass. Turning quickly away from the window Emma gave her beloved pet a kiss on the middle of his furry white head before she carefully set him down on the bed. With a very vocal meow and a flick of his puffy tail he trotted to the middle of the mattress and collapsed onto his side with great dramatic flair.

  “What is wrong with it?” asked Lord Prescott.

  “Nothing is wrong,” Emma said defensively as Hamlet began to lick one of his paws. “And he is not an ‘it’. His name is Hamlet.”

  “Hamlet?” Lord Prescott’s snort of disbelief echoed in the bedchamber. “You named him after a madman?”

  “Hamlet was not mad. He was merely misunderstood.”

  “He stabbed Ophelia’s father to death.”

  Emma frowned. “It was an honest mistake. He shouldn’t have been lurking behind the curtains.”

  “Bloody hell,” Lord Prescott muttered as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Remind me not to stand behind any drapery when you or that cat are about.”

  Despite the litany of problems she faced, the least of which was not knowing how she was supposed to get through the next few days being trapped in the same house as the man she’d shared not one, but two passionate kisses with, Emma’s mouth could not help but curve into a smile. Despite his obvious flaws – of which there were many – Lord Prescott was surprisingly witty. Not many men were. Not really. He was also well versed in Shakespeare if his knowledge of Hamlet was any indication. Another surprise, especially given that he did not look like the sort who read anything, let alone the work of one of England’s greatest playwrights.

  Still it would not do to get too attached, she reminded herself as she pressed her lips together. It would not do at all. Lord Prescott could be the wittiest man in all of Europe and he would still not make a suitable husband. He was far too… disorderly she decided as she watched him shrug into his waistcoat and drape his cravat around his neck without bothering to knot it.

  “Have you seen my tailcoat?” he asked.

  “No.” And then, because she could not seem to help herself she said, “Have you checked the closet?”

  Lord Prescott shot her a look. “Very funny,” he said dryly. “I must have left it downstairs when I was trying to steer your drunken arse up to the bedroom without anyone noticing.”

  “Lord Prescott!” Just when she thought he was beginning to act in a manner befitting a man of his rank and title he had to go and remind her that his reputation as a rake and scoundrel was well deserved.

  “What?” His expression one of boyish innocence he grinned at her and lifted a brow. “I am only speaking the truth. Would you have me lie?”

  “Of course not but you needn’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  She crossed her arms. “You know precisely what I mean.”

  “Aye,” he admitted, “I do indeed. But it’s rather enter
taining to get you all riled up. If you had feathers I imagine they’d be sticking out in all sorts of directions.”

  “Well thankfully for both of us I am not a bird.” Feathers indeed! “Lord Prescott we are going to have to come to an understanding.”

  A suspicious frown replaced his grin. “What sort of understanding?”

  “One of mutual respect. Did you by chance hear what Vivian said?”

  “Yes, I heard every word.” He leaned back against one of the tall mahogany bedposts and folded his arms. “Closet doors are surprisingly thin.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Emma quipped. Her eyes widened. Where had that come from? No doubt Lord Prescott and his derisive witticisms were beginning to have a poor effect on her. The sooner she got away from him the better! Who knew what would happen the longer she stayed in his company? Why, she might even begin to use sarcasm!

  “Since it seems we are going to be living under the same roof for at least another day, I would like to know that you are going to behave accordingly when we are in the presence of the other guests.”

  “Of course,” Lord Prescott said.

  “Really?” Caught off guard by his easy agreement, it was Emma’s turn to look suspicious. “You promise not to act in any way that may be construed as inappropriate?”

  “Not in front of the other guests.” His devilish grin returned in full force. “But I cannot make any promises for when we are alone.”

  Emma’s stomach quivered, as though a hundred tiny butterflies were flapping their wings. It wasn’t a completely unpleasant sensation. In fact, it rather felt quite nice. But that did not make it right. “We are not going to kiss again, Lord Prescott, if that is what you are referring to,” she said primly. “It was an error in judgement the first time and a foolish mistake the second. I will not allow it to happen again.”

  “You say that as if you have a choice in the matter.”

  “I do.” She took a wary step back when he pushed off the bedpost and started towards her.

  “That is your head talking.” There was a wicked gleam in his eye that Emma did not trust. She tried to scramble out of his way, but short of running into the hallway there was nowhere for her to go. They circled one another until he managed to back her into a corner. Planting his large hands on either side of her head he leaned in close, so close she thought he was going to kiss her again, but at the last possible second his mouth brushed the sensitive edge of her ear instead of her lips.

  “But what about your heart?” he whispered huskily.

  “My – my heart has nothing do with this,” she gasped.

  “That is where you are wrong.” He dropped his arms, giving her room to escape which she immediately did. Fleeing to the other side of the bed she stood there trembling, her breath coming in short fits and starts. Lord Prescott watched her like a wolf would a rabbit, his head canted to the side and his eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits of green.

  “You interest me, Lady Emma.”

  “I – I am not trying to.”

  His teeth flashed in a predatory smile. “Which is precisely why you interest me. I will see you downstairs.” And then he was gone, leaving her standing in the middle of the bedroom by herself, wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.

  What in the world had he gotten himself into? Fiddling with his cravat as he made his way downstairs, Will finally ripped it off his neck and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, too agitated to tie it properly. Not that anyone would be expecting him to show up to breakfast dressed as a proper gentleman. No doubt he would get less questioning stares if he stumbled into the sunroom still half-drunk from the night before with his shirt unbuttoned and a buxom blonde on his arm.

  Will scowled. For the first time he could remember he actually found himself bothered by how other people perceived him. Which was a bloody pain in the arse as he’d worked hard on his reputation as a philandering ne’er do well who did not give a whore’s left tit about anyone else’s opinion.

  And now he did.

  It is all her fault, he thought darkly.

  Lady Emma Sterling of the gypsy eyes and fetching blushes and shy stutter. She’d gotten under his skin, she’d heated his blood, and in one night she’d managed to do what no other woman had ever done before her.

  She made him care. About her. About himself. About his future. It was ironic, really. For all of his adult life he’d gone out of his way to avoid women like Emma. Sweet, innocent women who wanted an adoring husband and a grand house and a loving family to call their own. Women who would want him to change who he was. Women who would expect more than he was willing to give. Then he’d tasted Emma’s sweet lips and he had been the one who wanted to change.

  Change into someone more. Someone better.

  A lord his tenants could depend on.

  A son his father could be proud of.

  A husband a woman like Emma could love.

  Here he’d always thought his friends were fools for shackling themselves to one woman for the rest of their lives, but maybe he was the fool for thinking he was better off on his own. What was the point in traveling the world if he had no one to travel it with? He had the freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted to do it, but at what cost?

  When he had laid next to Emma and drawn her into his arms he had known the best sleep he’d felt in years. Mayhap ever. There had been a sense of peace in having her curled up against him, her head nestled on his arm, her back pressed against his chest, her little feet tucked between his calves.

  It would have been easier to leave her. Easier still to take advantage of her. But for once Will had not wanted to do what was easy, but what was right. And for that he had Emma to blame.

  Emma, who wanted nothing to do with him.

  Emma, who saw him for the rake and the rogue he was.

  Emma, who kissed like a fairy princess and smelled like sweet sunshine.

  Bloody hell.

  On a hiss of breath he swept his fingers through his hair, pulling the tousled ends taut. He had spent so long running away from commitment that he hadn’t the slightest idea how to court someone. Emma did not strike him as the sort to be swayed by pretty compliments or bouquets of flowers. She would require far more from him than that. But would he be able to give her what she needed?

  “There you are!” Vivian stepped into the foyer and waved him down with a flick of her wrist. “I was afraid you had passed out in the snow somewhere. Where have you been, Lord Prescott? Not with one of my maids, I hope,” she teased with wink.

  “No,” Will said sharply. Too sharply, he realized when Vivian looked taken aback. Bending at the waist he took her hand and lifted it to his lips, donning the façade of a rakish charmer as easily as other men put on their socks. “Not for lack of trying, of course. Your maids are frustratingly elusive, my lady. To their credit, I suppose.”

  “Yes, well, not always elusive enough I fear,” she said with a bitter twist of her mouth after he had kissed her hand and straightened back up. “I have been meaning to ask you. Did you ever speak with Lady Emma last night?”

  It was a testament to Will’s self-control that he did not so much as blink. “I am sorry, who?”

  “My dear friend Lady Emma Sterling. Shy little bit of a thing with black hair and brown eyes? Talks incessantly about her cat? No? Well, never mind then.” Vivian shrugged. “I only ask because she thought you were looking at her. She must have been mistaken.”

  Was that how Emma was perceived? As a quiet wallflower with a feline obsession? While she did have a strong attachment to Hamlet – which was a ridiculous name for a cat, by the by – he knew firsthand that she wasn’t quite as shy as everyone believed her to be. At least not after she’d consumed a few glasses of elderberry wine.

  Will supposed it just went to show that perceptions were not always based in reality, nor were they set in stone. Would he be able to alter Emma’s perception of him as a womanizing scoundrel? One thing was for certain: he was bloody
well going to try.

  Chapter Nine

  When Emma finally came downstairs she was wearing a morning dress of soft blue and carrying Hamlet in a white wicker basket. If anyone found it odd that she was touting her pet about as if he were a package of sliced ham they did not say anything, but then her eccentricities in regards to her cat were quite well known.

  “Good morning,” she said, adopting her brightest smile as her gaze flicked around the sunroom.

  Awash in natural light courtesy of a long wall of windows, the sunroom was where Vivian always held breakfast after every dinner party or ball. Emma found the room cheerful and bright, if a bit cold, particularly in the middle of winter. Pulling her soft cashmere shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders she did a quick count of the guests sitting around the long oak table with its pretty lace cloth and heaping silver trays filled with sweet smelling pastries.

  By her estimation there were a dozen guests remaining. That included herself, Vivian and Rodger… and Lord William Prescott.

  He was sitting at the far end of the table engaged in conversation with an older blonde woman whose name Emma could not recall. She had promised herself before leaving the bedroom that she would not look at him, or think about him, or remember the heat that had shot through her like quicksilver when they’d kissed… but all it took was one fleeting glance and all of her promises were forgotten.

  Her fingernails dug tiny crescent moon shaped furrows into her palms as she took a seat as far away from Lord Prescott as she could possibly manage which unfortunately, given that she was the last one to arrive, wasn’t very far. Tucking Hamlet beneath the voluminous folds of her skirt she focused intently on her plate. So intently that it took Vivian two attempts at calling Emma’s name before she finally looked up.