Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  Except—she wanted more. The silky robe and undershirt—all of those seemed like an excessive barrier, even though she knew the thought was ludicrous.

  His fingers brushed against the buttons of her nightgown, and the space between her legs tightened further. She rolled her body against him, trying to alleviate the pressure, and he groaned.

  “That gown better come off,” he growled, undoing the buttons and pulling the material up.

  “I—”

  For a moment the idea seemed dreadful, for he stopped kissing her, and her body was cold when he busied herself with her gown, instead of pressing her as close to him as possible.

  He swooped the material over her head. She was naked. Before him.

  She shifted, self-conscious.

  But his eyes flared, and he stroked her cheek with reverence. His hand trailed down her body, skimming over the curve of her chest, moving to her nipples. He pulled her toward him and kissed her again, this time more forcefully, as if he wanted to meld his tongue with hers. He pulled her back, staring at her, and an open smile spread over his face.

  “I’m happy. I’m so happy.” His husky voice caused pleasure to shoot through her body again.

  He pressed his lips against her neck, and his wet tongue circled and sucked on her skin. His hands moved to her bosom. He rubbed her nipples into tight peaks, and she rocked harder against him.

  “You’re wearing too much,” she murmured, and he shot her a cocky grin.

  “Thought you would never ask.” He moved to undo his robe, but then his gaze fell on his lap, and he seemed to hesitate.

  Her heart swelled. It was the leg. He was worried about it. She gave him her best smile and touched the material. “May I see it?”

  “It’s not much to look at,” he said, and he gave a little laugh that caused another pang to beat against her heart.

  “Every part of you is wonderful,” she said solemnly, and raised his nightshirt. She didn’t want him to feel like he had to hide any part of him. Not now. Not after this.

  She’d seen the wooden leg before. The bottom was as thick as the man’s other foot, similar to a shoe, allowing him to balance. She traced her fingers over the carved curves. A round joint lay an inch above the bottom of his foot, in the space between his heel and toes, and she wobbled the lower part of the foot. It creaked slightly, and she giggled.

  He pulled her upward. “I’d rather you focused on the parts of me I can actually feel.”

  She laughed, and they kissed again. His hands rubbed her back, and he pulled her toward him, pressing his warm, wet lips to her neck, forming his own trail of kisses. Ecstasy swished through her, and he followed the slopes of her curved waist and thighs with his strong hands.

  “Percival.” She moaned his name. She’d never experienced this before, but now the thought of stopping, of not feeling him here beside her, was unimaginable. He brushed his hands nearer her mound, and her body tightened, as long, elegant fingers swept toward her. He delved his fingers into her silky, most private curls, and she writhed beneath him.

  She wanted—more. She wanted—him. Her body quivered at his every touch, at every flash of his brilliant blue eyes, which stared at her in awe.

  “My darling,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her chest with increased rapidity and desperation.

  He swooped his finger along her bosom, and she trembled. He moved his lips to her crests, immersing them in the hot splendor of his mouth. Every part of her body seemed to exult in the force of his tongue on her.

  And then—his hands traveled lower, and oh goodness, they were venturing into a place no one had ever journeyed to.

  His fingers delved into her flesh, brushing over her tightest, innermost peak.

  “I—” She gasped underneath the blissful force of his attention. He ran his fingers over her core, quickening his pace as if to send her far away, into new realms. She squirmed and writhed. And then the tempo of her breaths increased, pleasure crescendoed through her. Nothing could ever be the same.

  His lips spread into a cocky grin, and he kissed her cheeks and mouth. His manhood pressed into her, and she reached for it tentatively. She caressed the velvety sheen of his thickness. He put his hand over hers and guided her. She brushed her fingers against tight, round ballocks, experimentally exploring the man’s body. Then she moved back up his rod, sweeping her fingers along Percival’s sturdy length. She circled the top, and beads of salty liquid dripped from him.

  “Don’t stop.”

  She smiled and then moved her fingers back down his length.

  This time she increased her pace, remembering her own blissful sensations earlier, and he groaned.

  “Just like that,” he murmured. “Just like that.”

  She continued her speed, swooping her fingers up and down his rigid length. He tightened his grip on her other hand, and his gasps soared through the tiny room. Creamy liquid gushed forth from his rod, and he shuddered. His eyes flickered shut, his cheeks darkened, and his chest rose and fell. A masculine scent filled the room, and he pulled her toward him. She lay against his chest, still rising, still falling. Strong arms caressed her, and for this moment, she felt wonderful.

  “I want so much to happen between us,” he said.

  The tips of her lips moved upward, but her heart heavied. After the ball, he would depart for London to his true life. She swept him closer to her, but that action could not stop his inevitable departure, and soon she would only be left with memories.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The coach halted, and music from the festivities streamed through the windows. Percival crept down the steps. His breath quickened as he turned to Fiona, and he gave her a short bow before extending his hand to her. “My darling.”

  There was nothing feigned about his words, and his heart swelled when Fiona’s cheeks pinkened. She slipped an ivory-gloved hand into his, and he beamed.

  By Zeus, his heart shouldn’t pound with such force at the mere touch of her satin-ensconced skin. But heaven help him, that flicker drew up a hoist of delightful images. If he had his way, he would be ordering the driver straight back to Cloudbridge Castle.

  From the anxious look Fiona directed at the manor house, he wasn’t the only person who didn’t want to be here, despite the fact this was clearly the place to be. Glossy coaches parked before the manor house, and sounds of people filled the crisp air.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go after all,” Fiona said.

  “Nonsense. We made it this far.” Percival smiled down at her, enjoying the sensation of her gloved fingers pressing against his arm. “And you need to speak with this marvelous baron of yours.”

  Tomorrow he would go to London. He’d speak to the dowager and explain he couldn’t marry Lady Cordelia after all, and that he would not propose to her.

  Perhaps he’d only known Fiona a few days, but he’d spent more time in her company than with any other woman. She understood him more than any friend, and her body was far more enticing. He had half a mind to stroll around the garden with her, his wooden leg be damned, and propose to her before all the gossips in this God-forsaken county she fretted about.

  Perhaps the dowager would not be happy and perhaps she would even comment on his lack of dutifulness. Percival might not make the choices her son would have made, but he’d try his very best to be a brilliant duke and manage his estate well. He’d always make sure the dowager’s needs were taken care of, and that would have to suffice.

  Yes, after a quick jaunt to London, he could start the rest of his life, the one he’d always heard the great poets laud, but never thought actually existed.

  “You’re smiling.” Fiona slipped her hand into the nook of his arm.

  He nodded. “I’m thinking of something pleasant.”

  She chuckled. “I gathered that. Care to share?”

  He shook his head, his lips still spread up. “It’s a surprise.”

  Romance might be a new thing to him, but he was certain a woman didn’t
want to hear he was in love with her on a crowded path. Those sorts of moments should be confined to places with candlelight, roses, and a great deal of privacy. Those sorts of moments were to be treasured forever.

  They strode up the path. The place was every bit as grand as Fiona had said it would be. Roman Gods and elaborate stone vases perched on the facade of the Georgian manor house. A long, man-made lake stretched before the building, and even though ice filled the lake instead of water, and any birds and ducks that used to frequent it had long departed for more sensible destinations, the manor house still retained an impressive allure.

  They sauntered into the house, and Percival grinned. Fiona was on his arm, and life was wonderful.

  Everyone changed into their slippers, and they strolled past rows of boots of mainly differing sizes of Hessians, into the ballroom.

  Mistletoe and holly hung from the ceiling. Red ribbons were tied around each candlestick, and oranges and pine cones mingled together in silver bowls. Fiona had told him the ball would be elaborate, but he hadn’t expected this.

  Everything was impressive and perfect. A footman offered him a drink, and Percival took a deep sip of negus, smiling as the hot liquid, filled with spices and citrus, swirled down his throat, warming him as effectively as if he’d swallowed fire.

  Eight hour candles cast golden light from the comfort of gilded candelabras. A fire blazed in the huge marble fireplace situated in the center of the room.

  Musicians played up-tempo music in a corner, their heads tilted as their violin sticks jostled up and down in furious beats that created marvelous music. A large section of the ballroom was devoted to dancing, and men and women formed intricate patterns. He stared at the rapidly changing kaleidoscope of silk and velvet.

  Men wore black suits, and women wore pastel-colored gowns. Jewels sparkled from the women’s necks and chests, as if they had chosen diamonds and rubies to mask their cleavage. Silver punch bowls, embellished with flowers and leaves, dotted the room, leaving no one in need of an excuse for merriment.

  Fiona smiled. “I told you it was elaborate.”

  “How on earth did the baroness manage to emulate the best of London?”

  “I’m sure her life’s work is emulating the best of London.” She tipped her head to the ceiling. “Or the continent. She had a famous Italian painter come all the way from Venice to decorate the ceiling.”

  Gods and goddesses perched on fluffy white clouds, staring down at them.

  Percival shook his head. Likely they wouldn’t approve of the fact that he was feigning to be somebody else’s fiancé.

  The ballroom was thick with people. Silk-gowned women danced beside black-suited dandies and Corinthians. Women of all ages cast their gazes in his direction, likely assessing his marital status and potential as a suitor, if not for themselves then for their daughters. Their pleasant gazes wavered when they spotted his wooden leg peeking from his trousers.

  He’d thought he was going to some local ball—but this, Lord, what if someone recognized him?

  Fiona’s posture was stiffer than normal, and her lips were pursed into an unyielding line. She glanced around the room. But from the manner in which her hands tightened around her reticule, creasing her long white gloves, she probably wasn’t merely in awe of the crown moldings. “I’d forgotten how much I despised this.”

  He nodded, even though there didn’t seem much wrong with a ballroom filled with helpful-looking footmen holding silver platters of drinks and appetizers, long tables topped with even more food and drink, and up-tempo music.

  “I hope Grandmother’s fine.” Fiona bit her lip. “She didn’t look that well when we left.”

  Percival didn’t want to agree with her.

  His grandparents had all passed away, and he hadn’t even had the benefit of any close relationships with them. He supposed that unfavorable comparisons to his cousin didn’t really count for a close bond, however instructional his grandparents had intended their unsought advice to be. His brother Arthur had escaped much of their condemnation, perhaps because they’d grown feebler, but more likely because there was never much chance he’d be tasked with the dukedom. And Arthur had of course always been ridiculously charming, as had Percival’s younger sisters.

  He wouldn’t allow her to be unhappy. “The servants will call you if there’s any need to return,” Percival assured her. “She has a whole swarm of people looking over her. She seemed more excited about the ball than you. Come, you need to get some stories to bring her.”

  He leaned toward her, and for a moment he almost pecked her cheek, before he had the good sense to halt himself. That action would be inappropriate for an actual fiancée, much less a pretend one. He may have vowed to himself that Fiona would always have a place in his life, but that moment hadn’t been formalized yet.

  “THERE HE IS—LORD MULBOURNE!” Fiona swiveled her head toward Percival. “He’s made an appearance. I almost believed he wouldn’t be here. I must—”

  Percival smiled. “Go ahead. Dazzle him. I know you can. Your ideas are marvelous.”

  Fiona spread her lips into a wide smile. “Th-thank you.”

  The phrase did not suffice in crediting him with everything he had done, but it would have to do for now. The words hardly conveyed the burst of emotion that blazed through her when she thought of him. The man toppled all her pre-conceptions of the ton. He’d defended her to her uncle. He’d even stayed longer with her, refusing to journey to London from Harrogate. He’d cared about Grandmother. He even . . . he even seemed to care about her.

  He wasn’t simple handsome. The man was magnificent: intelligent and far kinder than he desired to display. She forced away the strange flutterings that beat against her chest with frequency whenever she dwelled on him.

  The ball was everything she hated, everything that had impelled her retreat from society, and yet it hardly seemed to be the hellish spot she’d imagined it to be.

  Some women whispered, and though they might be gossiping about her and her unlikely attendance, they might not be.

  “Excuse me . . .” A woman halted her. The woman’s eyes peeked from an ornate oriental fan. “Your clothes—”

  “Yes?” Fiona paused, bracing herself for some insult, though she doubted that even the harshest one would affect her very much.

  “It’s lovely.” The woman smiled.

  “Lovely?” She repeated the word.

  “You look quite beautiful. You must give me the name of your dressmaker.”

  “Oh.” Warmth spread through Fiona. It didn’t matter whether the woman thought her beautiful or not, but pleasure still coursed through her nerves. “Thank you. You look lovely as well.”

  She peered over the crowd. Madeline’s husband, the baron, stood in the corner of the ballroom. No one else had approached him, and the man seemed content to fix his gaze on the various dancers as they leaped and jostled through the patterned dances, the women’s gowns swishing and the men’s brightly colored waistcoats shimmering.

  “Lord Mulbourne!” She called out, and he turned to her.

  “Miss Amberly.” His eyebrows lifted somewhat, and Fiona sighed. Everyone was right. She could have been more social. It wasn’t good for the husband of her former best friend, the husband of her very own cousin, to express shock at their meeting. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  “You too.”

  “You’re looking well.”

  She smiled. “I’m feeling well.”

  “Ah . . . The merits of youth.”

  She nodded, but for the first time it occurred to her that this man, the one whom Madeline had boasted so much about, was perhaps not perfect. Perhaps he was not the ideal match Madeline prided herself in making, and perhaps Madeline had made her own sacrifices to follow the rules of the ton. Lord Mulbourne was rather on the wrong side of thirty-five, and grey speckled his thin hair, the pale flecks emphasized by the man’s ivory cravat.

  “Are you looking for my wife?” He smiled polit
ely.

  “No!” Fiona stammered, and then took a breath, forcing her voice to remain calm. “I mean—I wanted to speak to you, though I must speak to Madeline at some point, for I must thank her for this delightful party.”

  “She mentioned it was a struggle to get you to accept her invitation.”

  Fiona offered him a sheepish smile and peered around. Though there were some clear couples at the ball, there were also groups of unmarried women sitting on the outskirts. Perhaps they were wallflowers, but despite the term and its decided bluntness and absence of flattery, the women seemed to be enjoying themselves, chattering and sipping mulled wine. “Then I was a fool.”

  “Is that what you came to tell me?” Amusement filled Lord Mulbourne’s voice.

  “No—” Fiona smiled. “I wanted to speak with you about something quite different.”

  He raised his eyebrows, and Fiona forced her voice to not shake. “I rather believe I’ve discovered a Roman palace buried beneath an apple orchard at Cloudbridge Castle.”

  Lord Mulbourne tilted his head. “That is rather an incredible statement. Or perhaps not so incredible.” He swung his gaze around the room. “Where is my dear wife now?”

  Fiona shook her head. “I’ve come to speak with you. Not her.”

  “I see.” Lord Mulbourne nodded, but his smile wobbled somewhat, and the easy rapport between them seemed to have all but disappeared. “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand—”

  “I do,” Fiona hastened to add. “I understand perfectly. I’ve read everything you’ve written about Classical Civilizations.”

  “You have?” Lord Mulbourne’s face seemed a trifle paler than before, and he craned his neck again to peer out over the crowds. His hand flickered up. “There she is.”

  “And your work is brilliant,” Fiona added. “Absolutely brilliant. So very insightful.”

  Lord Mulbourne relaxed his shoulders somewhat as he gazed at his wife. “I’m pleased.”

  “As you know, much talk is devoted to digging up Roman sculptures and bringing them over here. Now that Napoleon is gone, it’s of course once again easy to get to Italy.”