An Affair Before Christmas

by Eloisa James

  They were talking that hard.

  Chapter 48

  Poppy wasn’t herself. She wasn’t the meek, silly daughter of Lady Flora. She wasn’t the kind of person who could be screamed at, or told what to do.

  She was more likely to scream. And tell people what to do.

  She felt powerful. She let Fletch carry her into the room because it felt good to be in his arms, to be carried about. As soon as they were in the bedchamber, she pulled free. She had to control the night.

  She walked away from him slowly, leaned back against the bedpost so that her breasts arched forward. Fletch was standing next to the door and what she saw in his eyes made her heart beat even faster.

  It was working.

  But she had a plan, a plan that Jemma and Louise had drilled into her upstairs, and she wasn’t going to deviate from it now. Not after practicing it twice, even after Isidore fell on the bed and went to sleep, complaining that no man was worth all the energy.

  So she let her lips curls into a sleepy, inviting smile. “I hear,” she said, “that you’re tired of your spouse.”

  “I—”

  But she didn’t let him answer. “Bien,” she said. “Because as it seems, I am in the same position.”

  “You are?”

  He sounded stunned. She lifted both hands above her head to the bedpost, feeling the deliciously free, wild sense of her breasts against the frail ruffle of her bodice. She could hear Fletch breathing. He didn’t look like the sophisticated sleek duke now. His eyes were gleaming.

  “Poppy…” he said slowly.

  “Monsieur?”

  She brought one hand down to trail down her throat and then across her chest, just as Jemma had showed her. “It’ll drive him mad,” Jemma had said. “Men love it when a woman touches her own flesh.”

  “Maybe I should send my husband a painting of me,” Isidore had said drunkenly from the bed. “Doing that.”

  Poppy let herself smile at Fletch, just enough to make it clear that she was in charge.

  “Why don’t you come closer?” she purred.

  He was before her in one bound.

  “No touching!”

  He held up his hands. The smile in his eyes made her shiver, and she could feel herself getting warm and shivery between her legs. “Jen’y touche pas, madame,” he said.

  But she had to be sure he understood, be sure that he knew. “A woman like myself,” she told him, “has demands.”

  “Yes?” He came a step closer. “Tell me.”

  She let her hand close over her breast and dropped her head back. She could feel her entire body tingling now, longing for the touch of his hand. In the days since she’d made her discovery in the inn, she’d explored her own body. She knew what she liked…and she knew just what she’d like him to do, though the very thought made her feel as pink in the face as Isidore.

  “Tell me,” he demanded. There was a fierce wildness in his voice that made her tremble with excitement.

  It was hard to be explicit. Embarrassment momentarily strangled her, stripping away her French cover. But then she looked at Fletch, and it was Fletch, her darling Fletch, standing in front of her. The only thing she really wanted was for him to touch her. And then—for her to be able to touch him.

  Looking at him made her steadier. What she wanted was just what he wanted. Just like that a whole hot flush swept over her body. “I want to touch you,” she said. Her voice was quiet and steady, but she wasn’t whispering.

  Without taking his eyes from hers, he wrenched off his coat. She leaned back against the bedpost again. She felt all the power of desire making her taller, making her more beautiful, making her lips shine and her body voluptuous.

  Fletch’s shoulders were powerful and muscled. He pulled his shirt out of his breeches.

  “Go on,” she said. To her embarrassment it came out as a croak.

  But there was a smile playing around his lips too. “But what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to take your shirt off.”

  His smile made her shiver. He pulled up his shirt slowly, so she saw his rippled stomach, and then the golden muscles on his shoulders. It was odd how she saw it all different now. She had always thought he was pretty before. He wasn’t pretty.

  He was…

  She wanted to lick him. Luckily he couldn’t hear that thought, though she felt her face getting even redder.

  “And now?”

  But she was done. She couldn’t possibly ask a man to remove his breeches. Even though…she could see a bulge there and she—

  She shook her head.

  He walked forward another step so they were almost touching. “That’s all right,” he whispered, reaching down and feathering a kiss across her cheekbone. “I didn’t want to take my breeches off. I just want to kiss you.” He was nuzzling her lips, kissing her so sweetly that her knees trembled. “There’s no need to—”

  “Take them off!” she barked, pushing him back. She couldn’t be this close to him, not when he smelled so good. She was losing her focus. Losing her Frenchness. He wouldn’t desire her if she turned back into her docile little self and just let him do things. She had to stay in control.

  He stepped back, looking a little surprised, but then pleased too. “Immédiatement!” she added, just to get the message across.

  He grinned at that and started playing with his waistband. Pulling it down a little. That was something she loved about him, the way his hips were so lean and there was a little hollow there. She wanted to lick it too. She didn’t know how she knew about that hollow, because she never consciously looked at him, but she did. Fletch pulled his breeches down, and farther down.

  Poppy felt a little faint. She’d seen him a hundred times at least. Especially after he started insisting that they make love with all the candles lit, and she had to lie on top of the covers. She’d seen him. She never thought he was grotesque and hairy, the way her mother had described.

  But she’d never looked at him and felt her whole body start to tremble either. He was large. And smooth. And he had his hands on his hips, so it looked like his whole body was just—

  That. There.

  “And now?” he said, his voice all deep and teasing, as if they were talking about bits of sugar.

  Her mind reeled, trying to think what to say next. How could she stay French, be French, so he wasn’t bored? What would a Frenchwoman do next?

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him and really the only thing she wanted was for him to—

  That couldn’t be said. It was horribly vexing. She couldn’t think of anything.

  “Sweetheart?”

  He started to say something and his eyes were so sweet and kind that she knew she’d already failed. He was looking at her and seeing stupid old Poppy, not a sensual Frenchwoman with kohl all around her eyes.

  “No!” she snapped.

  He stopped, but he didn’t look quite so happy. Poppy took a breath. She had to find herself again, find the plea sure in it. She was failing, she knew she was failing—she pushed the thought away. It was probably time to go to the bed. That was what she should do.

  “I would like you to lie down,” she said. Thankfully, she didn’t have to modulate her voice: it came out all provocative and husky on its own.

  “Wouldn’t you like me to undress you first?”

  She froze for a moment. Would a Frenchwoman let a man undress her? She couldn’t remember whether Jemma had said anything about it. At some point they had all been laughing so hard that she could hardly hear the advice.

  “A Frenchwoman always undresses herself,” she stated.

  He grinned so that must have been the right thing to do. Then he flung himself onto the bed, as cool as a cucumber. He propped his head on his arms and crossed his legs. But Poppy had trouble looking anywhere other than his…his waistline. She wet her lips and his hips rose just a little bit as she watched.

  She did it again and he made a curious sound.

>   So she let her tongue play with her bottom lip. He was watching her with the sleepiest, most delicious expression she’d ever seen. She was doing it right. She knew she was doing it right. A little rush of exhilaration swept through her.

  “It’s so hot in here,” she said, low and sultry. That was one of the lines Jemma told her and it sounded just right, even though Isidore screamed with laughter from the bed and said Jemma sounded like a three-penny whore.

  Then she just pulled her neckline wide and eased it down over her shoulders. Fletch was sitting up now. He looked like a dying man seeing a drink of water.

  Poppy licked her lips again and then slipped the dress down a little further. And a little further…

  “Oh darling, you’re killing me.” He said it with a half groan, and Poppy felt heat flash from the tips of her ears to her toes.

  “Mmmmm,” she said, pulling her sleeves a bit lower.

  Her breasts were free now. He was looking, so she looked down too. They looked very nice, plump and warm. She knew what they felt like in her hands. But what she wanted was to feel his hands on her breasts.

  She met his eyes and saw her own desire reflected there.

  “Poppy,” he said, “could you please come to the bed now?” He sounded hoarse. It sounded to her as if the Frenchwoman had conquered him, and she could probably let him take over now. Which was good because—

  That was the moment when she discovered that the neckline had gone down just as far as it was going to go—to her elbows. She tried to pull out an arm and couldn’t.

  “You’re trapped,” her husband said, sounding delighted. He swung his legs off the bed.

  It wasn’t French to get trapped in one’s clothing.

  And yet—

  Fletch didn’t even try to get her free. He just stood in front of her without touching her—couldn’t he tell what she wanted?—and kissed her. His mouth was sweet, like sin and honey and everything she’d ever wanted in life.

  He didn’t open his lips though, and that’s what she wanted. By a moment later Poppy was feeling half-crazed. She couldn’t raise her arms. But he wasn’t touching her. He was just kissing her without—just rubbing his lips against hers.

  So she finally had to do it herself. Like the daring Frenchwoman she was, she ran her tongue along the line of his lips. He tasted sweet, like a man. A little spicy.

  Kiss me, she thought. Kiss me.

  His lips softened but they didn’t open. There was just a gleam of humor in his eyes, and something else, something possessive and dark that made her shiver.

  “Kiss me,” she finally whispered. “Fletch—”

  And he did it. Just like that, one hand came to the middle of her back and pulled her towards him. Her breasts came to his chest, and his mouth opened, sweeping inside hers.

  “Do you like that?” he said.

  She was breathing too hard to answer, pressing against him, feeling the aching tips of her breasts.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “What do you like?”

  He wouldn’t kiss her again until she said it, so she did. “Kiss me again, Fletch.” Her voice sounded as if she was begging, and a pulse of humiliation went through her, but then he started kissing her and it didn’t matter, none of it mattered…

  He put his hand on her cheek and let it drift down, down to her neck and she was shrieking inside. Why didn’t he touch her?

  She would say it: touch me, but it was too bold. And he was kissing her. Then she realized she wanted to touch him and she couldn’t because of the stupid dress, so she started struggling with it, wiggling while still kissing him.

  He pulled back and stared down at her. There was something different in his eyes: slumberous and intent. He was looking at the Frenchwoman, Poppy thought with a little throb of anxiety. What would she do next?

  But he took the decision out of her hands. “La liberté,” he whispered. Put his hands on her neck, drew his hands down, down over her breasts. She shivered, and he cast a trail of fire down to her waist. Then with one quick wrench he ripped the delicate fabric in half and it fell to her feet.

  “Very nice,” he drawled.

  Poppy nearly covered her breasts with one hand and her private parts with the other—just in time she remembered that she wasn’t herself. She was French. Instead, she stretched, all the way above her head. Her whole body was tingling, feeling pink and ready for—

  Him.

  He was smiling, so she just went by instinct, turned to the bed and climbed onto it. His hand brushed over her bottom and she thought she heard a little groan, like a curse. She lay down slowly and then turned over.

  He was there, on the edge of the bed, his eyes dark. “What would you like now, madame?”

  “Kisses,” she said, stretching again. She’d discovered that if her hands were over her head her breasts looked bigger.

  He crawled toward her and she couldn’t take her eyes from his. She was shivering all over. He swung a leg over hers and she was trembling so hard she was afraid he would see so she put on her French smile and said, “Monsieur?” Which happened to be the only word she could think of.

  “Poppy,” he said, and then his mouth came to hers. It was like a gift. They’d kissed hundreds of times before, years’ worth of brisk kisses and longer kisses, but never like this. Never when her desire met his, when his mouth tasted like the sweetest nectar. Never when she—not he!—pulled him against her body.

  “Do you want the candles snuffed?” he whispered into her neck.

  Poppy wasn’t listening. She’d discovered that even running her fingers over the muscles in his back made currents of desire sing in her blood.

  “The candles?”

  “Hush,” she whispered. And then: “Kiss me again.”

  Finally, some time later, with a gasp: “Harder!”

  There were so many discoveries. That laughter was part of it all, the way Fletch laughed when he was kissing the sweet slope of her breast and she thought he might make better use of his time.

  “You told me that I should tell you what I want,” she said, catching her breath. And then with a little moan, “Oh—”

  Fear was part of it, too. Because Fletch was laughing and panting and afraid, all at once. Afraid it was some sort of a dream that had caught him waking, because the reality of it was so much better than all those dreams he’d had. She twisted under his hands and sobbed a little, and even screamed, but she was so Poppy at the same time. She told him one thing, and then forgot and started her own explorations. And when he tried to push her back into place so that he could minister to her, and drive her mad with desire as he planned, she got fierce and before he knew it, he found himself flat on his back with his little wife doing her best to drive every logical thought out of his body.

  “I meant—I want to—” he gasped, his body arched at the feeling of her soft lips kissing him everywhere, even biting him, tasting him, exploring him.

  “Quiet,” she said, and he humored her (all right, he lost his mind for a while), until finally he flipped her over and didn’t entertain any more objections. Just feasted himself on her sweet apples of breasts, memorizing the way she squealed when he used his teeth, just a little bit, the way she tasted when he kissed his way down her body.

  Until neither one of them could stand it any more, when she was sobbing for his possession, and fire was raging in his legs—and yet he was afraid, afraid it wouldn’t be right, she wouldn’t like it—

  Afraid—

  She pulled him down onto her curvy velvet little body and said in her fiercest tone, “Fletch, if you don’t make love to me right now—” But then she arched against him and seemed to lose track of her threat.

  And just like that, he forgot his idiotic worries. By some miracle, some Christmas miracle, he had their wedding night back. It was their first time.

  He rubbed against her, teasing her, kissing her.

  She started scolding him again, his sweet little shrewish wife, and so he final
ly took her face in his and kissed her while he sank into her…the first time, the best time, the only time.

  Poppy looked up at him and to her horror, felt tears coming to her eyes. French seductresses didn’t cry while they were making love. She knew that. She sniffed and tried to think French thoughts, but then her own Fletch kissed the tears away and drove into her again and then she stopped worrying about tears and Gallic attitudes. It was all she could do to catch the rhythm and join the dance.

  At first it felt like some sort of frustrating game in which she was behind on the count. Fletch was moving, deep and strong and steady, and she was twisting under him, trying to get that pressure, the pressure she wanted—

  When suddenly she realized that she was doing it again. She was letting him lead the dance, bring everything to the table. A little arch in her back and a surge back at him and, oh God, the pressure was there, it was delicious, it was building. He made a low sound in his throat and his head fell back.

  It was Fletch and Poppy. Not just Fletch, and not just her.

  The tears came in earnest this time, because how could she not? Their bodies were moving in unison, hard and sweaty and real. Fletch was saying things about love too. They were hoarse, and breathless, but real.

  She was moving faster, closer to him, tears in her mouth when he was kissing her no, they were kissing each other—and then faster, until she couldn’t think, until with a shuddering cry, she let go and flew into perfect, perfect pieces. Sweaty, messy, dirty pieces.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 49

  The next night

  “Christmas Eve night,” Villiers said. He could hardly hear his own voice, it was so low. He didn’t bother to think about what that meant: he knew. Every exhausted bone in his aching body knew. And accepted it. “Will you read me that story again?”

  Somehow this slight girl with the long nose, this intelligent, wrathful old maid of a virgin had become the only person he wanted to see at his bedside. Earlier that day Benjamin’s widow, Harriet, had sat with him and he couldn’t remember what he wanted to say. Until he finally said he was sorry.

  Harriet cried, but he didn’t know why and couldn’t summon up the strength to care.