Seduce Me By Christmas

by Deborah Raleigh

  A CHRISTMAS KISS

  Without warning, his finger slid beneath her chin, forcing her face up to meet his mocking gaze. “Could it be I have unintentionally offended you? Or is it that you hold me to blame for young Jimmy’s injury?”

  Her heart forgot to beat at his touch.

  “Neither, Mr. Charlebois. I am simply busy.”

  “So I see.” The blue eyes darkened as he lowered his head to brush his lips over her temple. “Butter.” His lips moved to tease at her cheek. “Flour.” He covered her trembling mouth with a tender kiss. “And ginger.” Slowly he pulled back, his slumberous gaze sweeping over her flushed features. “You taste of Christmas.”

  Pleasure as thick and delicious as warm honey slid through her body at his touch. His slender, clever fingers trailed down her jaw, his touch sending jolts of dazzling sensations straight to the pit of her stomach.

  Oh…he was wicked.

  Wondrously, magnificently wicked.

  “Mr. Charlebois,” she breathed.

  “Raoul.”

  All Sarah wanted was to press against that hard body, to part her lips and give in to the potent temptation of his kiss. To drown in his heady beauty, and the artistic skill of his seduction…

  Books by Deborah Raleigh

  SOME LIKE IT WICKED

  SOME LIKE IT SINFUL

  SOME LIKE IT BRAZEN

  BEDDING THE BARON

  SEDUCING THE VISCOUNT

  SEDUCE ME BY CHRISTMAS

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  SEDUCEMEBy CHRISTMAS

  DEBORAH RALEIGH

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  It was a typical London day for late November.

  In other another word…

  Miserable.

  The streets were shrouded in a damp, frigid fog, and had long since been abandoned by the glittering ton who preferred the comfort of their countryseats. Those unfortunate souls who were forced to remain behind huddled near their fireplaces or when pressed to venture outdoors, dashed from one place to another with their heads bent low and their faces covered with heavy mufflers.

  Well, at least most did so.

  Raoul Charlebois, on the other hand, did not huddle or dash. He did not even waddle, despite the icy slush.

  Nature had bestowed upon him a languid, elegant grace that had made him famous upon the stages of London (almost as famous as his stunning cobalt-blue eyes and silver-blond curls that framed his finely crafted countenance perfectly), and with a measured gait he stepped down from his carriage to stroll up the short walk and enter the modest house on Lombard Street.

  It was an elegance thoroughly appreciated by the handful of elderly widows that contributed the lion’s share of tenants in the quiet, growingly shabby neighborhood. Oh, they might later agree that they disdained the arrogant set of his wide shoulders beneath the multi-caped greatcoat, and the sardonic smile that curved his sensuous lips, but peering through the lacy curtains at his magnificent form, there was not a one who could halt their hearts from skipping a beat or a whimsical sigh from slipping between their lips.

  He was…spectacular.

  The sort of gentleman who seemed created for the sole purpose of fulfilling a woman’s fantasy.

  No matter what her age.

  Gloriously indifferent to the avid gazes that followed his every step, Raoul used the key the land agent had sent round earlier in the day to unlock the door. Then stepping into the small foyer, he paused to absorb the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and leather-bound books.

  He smiled, slipping off his coat and hat. With only a little effort he could envision Dunnington waiting for him at the top of the steps, or Ian and Fredrick racing down the long hallway to the kitchen, whooping at the top of their lungs.

  Raoul had been ten years old when his father had sent him to this small town house. At the time he only knew that Mr. Dunnington was starting a select school for boys of excellent, if not legitimate birth. Bastards. And that he was the first student to arrive.

  Not surprisingly, he had been terrified when his father, the Earl of Merriot, had quite literally dumped him on the front stoop.

  It wasn’t that he’d been happy at his father’s grand estate in Cheshire. Lord and Lady Merriot made little effort to disguise the fact he was the one blight on their otherwise perfect life. After all, what leaders of the fashionable world desired to have a bastard underfoot when they were entertaining their influential guests with one lavish party after another?

  Still, he had not known what to expect from the thin, bespectacled tutor who had opened the door to this nondescript house and led him up the narrow steps to the schoolroom.

  Thankfully, it had taken only a handful of days in Dunnington’s presence, not to mention the arrival of Ian and Fredrick (two of his fellow students), to realize that coming to London was nothing less than a miracle.

  Suddenly his days were more than an attempt to melt into the shadows and disappear.

  He had a kind, intelligent man in his life who offered him an unwavering affection and respect he had never before experienced. He had two friends who he bullied and loved and raised as if they were his own brothers. And he had the opportunity to create a career that had not only made him famous, but wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.

  Actually, the only kind thing his father had ever done for him was dumping him on the doorstep of this house, he acknowledged wryly, moving down the shadowed hall to enter the library.

  An hour later, he had the Holland covers tugged off the solid English furnishings and a cheerful fire blazing. Seated in Dunnington’s favorite leather chair, he propped his feet on the walnut desk and sipped deeply from the bottle of brandy he had the foresight to bring along.

  He closed his eyes, the chill slowly easing from his body.

  Yes. This was what he had needed.

  Nothing could bring back Dunnington. Or heal the sense of loss that had plagued Raoul for the past year. But there was a measure of comfort in breathing life back into this house that had been shrouded in darkness for too long.

  And perhaps, someday, he would…

  His vague future plans for the house were forgotten as Raoul stiffened in surprise. Was that the front door?

  He frowned as the click of the door was followed by the slow, steady tread of boots on the floorboards. Damn, it was.

  Who the devil would bother him?

  The weather was nasty enough to keep the old tabbies from barging in to sate their rampant curiosity. And he hadn’t shared his intended destination with anyone beyond his groom.

  Besides, whoever was approaching was making an obvious effort at stealth. As if hoping to catch Raoul unaware.

  On the point of rising to his feet, Raoul’s annoyance suddenly eased as the intruder stumbled, knocking a figurine off a hall table, and muttered a low curse.

  He recognized this particularly clumsy gentleman.

  “Mon Dieu, Fredrick, halt your tiptoeing around and come in before you break your fool neck,” he called, th
e French nurse who had cared for him as a tiny lad leaving her mark on his faint accent even after all these years.

  Turning his head, he watched the slender man step into the library. Fredrick Colstone, heir apparent to Lord Graystone, tossed his greatcoat and hat onto a nearby chair before moving toward the desk.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “You always did have the grace of a drunken sailor.”

  Fredrick’s singularly sweet smile curved his lips, adding to the impression of angelic beauty. As a youngster, Fredrick had detested his fragile features and honey curls that had made him the target of ruthless bullying. Thankfully, maturity had added an edge of masculinity, although he would never acquire that annoying arrogance that came as easily as breathing to most aristocrats.

  Raoul hid a smile as he noted the dust marring the rumpled cravat and ink staining the cuffs of the charcoal-gray coat. It wasn’t even teatime and already his friend was a mess.

  “No doubt my lack of grace explains why I became an inventor rather than a burglar,” Fredrick readily agreed.

  “That and the fact you cannot distinguish a Gainsborough from a nursery school scribble,” Raoul pointed out.

  “True enough.”

  Waiting for his companion to settle in a chair on the other side of the desk, Raoul held up the bottle still clutched in his hand.

  “Brandy?”

  Fredrick reached beneath his jacket to pull out a silver flask. “I have come prepared.”

  “So you have.” Raoul arched a pale, golden brow. “Which begs the question of why you have come at all.”

  “I was passing by and noticed Nico standing guard by the carriage out front.” Fredrick waved a hand toward the bay window that overlooked the street. “If you wish to travel incognito, then you should hire a groom that does not quite so closely resemble a cutthroat.”

  “You were passing by?” Raoul demanded, ignoring the insult to his groom. Nico did look like a cutthroat. Possibly because that was precisely what he had been before Raoul took him on as a servant. “Since when does your route take you through Lombard Street?”

  “I pass by quite often when I am in London,” Fredrick confessed with a grimace. “Ian would claim I am plagued by maudlin sentimentality, but…”

  “There is no need to explain, mon ami,” Raoul interrupted, his heart twisting with that ruthless sense of emptiness. “Not to me.”

  “This morning, however, I came with a purpose.”

  “Ah, then it was not fickle fate that crossed our paths?”

  “Did you know that the house was recently purchased?”

  Raoul took a deep drink from the bottle. “I had heard such rumors.”

  “And by any chance, do you know the new owner?”

  “Intimately.”

  “You?” Fredrick’s silver-gray eyes narrowed as Raoul dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Bloody hell.”

  “Does the thought trouble you?”

  “Quite the opposite. I am delighted to know the house will belong to someone who will appreciate what Dunnington accomplished here.” The unnerving gaze swept over Raoul’s carefully guarded expression. “But I am curious. You already possess an obscenely large town house. What the devil do you intend to do with the place?”

  Raoul glanced toward the towering shelves that were stuffed to the ceiling with leather-bound books.

  “I have yet to decide,” he hedged, not yet willing to commit himself.

  “Then why purchase it at all?”

  “As you said, maudlin sentimentality, no doubt,” Raoul mocked his desperate need to cling to Dunnington’s house. As if the memories that echoed here could somehow fill the hollow ache in the center of his chest. “Or perhaps I am merely becoming batty in my old age, as Nico has kindly suggested.”

  Easily sensing Raoul’s reluctance to discuss the intimate reasoning behind the purchase, Fredrick took a drink from his flask and allowed his gaze to wander around the room.

  “Do you recall the last time we gathered here?”

  Raoul nodded, his mind conjuring the memory of Fredrick and Ian seated near the fire, while he paced the floor. They had just returned from Dunnington’s funeral, then endured the pain of listening to their beloved tutor’s last will and testament being read by the solicitor.

  The shock that had gripped all three of them still lingered.

  “How could I forget?” His short, humorless laugh echoed through the library. “It was a memorable day.”

  “Indeed, it was.” Fredrick grimaced. “Not only were we mourning the loss of Dunnington, but we’d just learned that he had left us each a legacy of twenty thousand pounds.”

  “Twenty thousand pounds that the wily old fox had managed to extort from each of our fathers to hide their deepest, darkest secret.”

  There was a pause as they contemplated that long-ago afternoon, then Fredrick’s expression abruptly softened. A certain sign he was thinking of his beautiful wife, Portia.

  “So much has changed since then,” Fredrick murmured, his voice distracted, as if he were imagining rumpled sheets and a warm woman.

  “Certainly for you, mon ami,” Raoul murmured, pretending it was not envy clenching his stomach in a painful vise. “It is not every bastard who discovers he is heir to a noble title, and a damned fine estate. And, of course, you have been blessed with a wife who is not only très belle, but absurdly devoted to you.”

  “And for Ian as well,” Fredrick added. “Whoever could have predicted the gentleman toasted as Casanova would so happily settle into married life and devote his days to his tedious investments?”

  Raoul snorted. He had shared dinner with Ian and his wife, Mercy, only a week ago.

  “There is nothing tedious in the manner that Ian invests.” He shook his head as he took another swig from the bottle. “I had nightmares after he confessed he had risked near fifty thousand pounds on a shipment of spices from the far East.”

  Fredrick chuckled. “True enough, he is neck or nothing in everything he does. He is fortunate that Mercy possesses nerves that are not easily overset.”

  “He has most certainly been dealt a winning hand when it comes to his wife.” His lips twisted. “Not to mention in his mother and uncle, who I gather are determined to make amends for the past.”

  “They have certainly done their best.”

  “Indeed. Although, I am not certain Ian would have wished for their amends to be quite so…lavish.”

  The log snapped in the fireplace, the heat of the dancing flames battling back the gloomy chill of the day.

  “Ah, you have heard that Lord Norrington is building Ian a grand new country manor house in Surrey?”

  “As well as the sad tidings that it is also to be home to Mercy’s parents.” Raoul shuddered. He had met the Vicar and Mrs. Simpson only once, but that had been more than enough to assure him that he’d rather have his throat slit than live beneath the same roof as the quarrelsome couple. “Mon Dieu. No house, no matter how lavish, would be worth having to reside with those two hideous creatures.”

  Fredrick shrugged. “Unfortunately, when it comes to families, we must accept the bad with the good.”

  Raoul knew that his companion was no longer speaking of Ian.

  “Such as a vindictive stepmother?” he asked, softly.

  Fredrick grimaced. “And a ridiculous buffoon for a stepbrother.”

  Raoul raised his bottle in a mocking toast. “To families.”

  Fredrick readily raised his flask. “Families.”

  They both drank, a comfortable silence filling the room. For a long moment, Raoul allowed his thoughts to drift back to the evenings spent listening to Dunnington read from one of the numerous books that lined the walls, or indulging the boys in a game of chess.

  Simple, uncomplicated days.

  Damn, but he missed them.

  At last aware of Fredrick’s unwavering regard, Raoul turned his head to meet the steady gaze.

  “Is there a reason that you
are studying me as if you expect me to sprout a set of horns?”

  Fredrick continued to stare, unapologetic. “I am wondering if the rumors are true.”

  Raoul’s lips twisted. Over the years he had become accustomed to the gossip that swirled around him. Hell, he had encouraged most of it. A part of his success on the stage was a reflection of his carefully crafted image offstage.

  He was seen only with the most beautiful women. The parties he attended were the most exclusive in London. And he never, ever allowed anyone to see the man beneath the façade that was Raoul Charlebois.

  He was an enigma, a mystery.

  And that was what kept the jaded members of the ton titillated.

  “I find rumors in general to be untrustworthy, but that does not seem to keep them from spreading like a virulent plague.”

  “So, the magnificent Raoul Charlebois does not intend to retire from the stage?” Fredric demanded.

  “That is hardly a rumor, Fredrick,” he drawled. “I made the announcement myself.”

  “Why?”

  Raoul smiled with a rueful flare of humor.

  It was a question he had no answer for.

  At least none that made any sense.

  “The most important talent any actor can possess is an immaculate sense of timing,” he said smoothly. “That includes knowing when to take my final bow. I have no intention of having all of London watch me become a decrepit wreck of a man, deluding myself that I am still in my prime.”