The Earl's Wagered Bride: Christmas Belles, Book 1

by Cerise DeLand

  Curiosity and admiration for him nagged at her. “What did I do?”

  “Licked your lips. You do that when you’re excited.”

  “Is that so?” She must be careful of that from now on.

  “And you tap your toes on the floor when you worry.”

  “Really.”

  “Tonight you’ve not had very good hands but then you’ve spent more time contemplating my eyes and lips than your cards.”

  Words escaped her.

  He sat back, his rakish pose all masculine allure. “I’d rather kiss you, too, than play this game.”

  She got a huge lump in her throat and couldn’t swallow it away.

  “It’s your turn, my dear. Play your card,” he said, his voice a soft sweet urging.

  Flustered, she stared down at her hand. Blind, she threw one down. An Ace.

  “There. You see.” He fanned his remaining cards upon the marbled inlay. “You’ve won.”

  She inhaled. Success. She could scarcely believe it. All that money. Hers.

  “How would you like your winnings?”

  “Cash.”

  “Very well.” A grin played at the corners of his mouth. “When?”

  “Tomorrow...today is Christmas. Tuesday? Wednesday?”

  “I’ll go into town. Perhaps you’d like to come with me?”

  “I trust you to bring it to me.”

  He barked in laughter. “Use it right away, will you?”

  “I will. I’ll arrange it tomorrow.”

  He pushed back his chair. His expression hidden from her by his rise to his feet, she felt a chill between them.

  “Will this hurt you? The estate?”

  His brows high, he examined her. “I doubt it. I would not have wagered what I could not afford to lose.”

  “Thank you.” She went to him and took his hand. “I will always be most grateful. Not only for the funds but that you saved me from revenge.”

  “Revenge, was it? Against whom?”

  “Hallerton. Riverdale. Lord Smithson and Lady Hawkright.”

  “Why them?”

  “My father’s nemeses. They played him and he lost time and again. I wished to win a bit of the money back and shame them if I could. But, revenge did not taste so sweet. Not against Riverdale that first night. You were right to discourage me.”

  “I see.” He sighed, sadness lining his handsome mouth. “Glad I did a good deed.”

  “You hate me now.” Overwhelmed by his dejection, she raised his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Please don’t.”

  “I never could.” He watched her with a reverence she’d never witnessed upon a man’s face. “The opposite. I carried you with me to Spain and France. After George died and we were so open with each other, I saw you wherever I went. I saw you laugh when we won a battle. Cry when my men did. Heard you tell me what card to play to win a game. Inhaled your fragrance in my dreams. I think sometimes I could find you on a crowded street, or in a castle far away, wherever you are, wherever you go. Find you were I blind.”

  His sentiments flew through her like butterflies of spring. Bright, airy promises of life to come.

  “Oh, Griff.” She stretched up and put her lips to his.

  He clamped her close, his mouth a brand of desperation. The warmth of him, the reassurance of his existence, his welcome of her advance swept away her fears he’d hate her for this game, his loss. But he was not so petty. She was not so grand.

  “I’d never hurt you,” she said and kissed him once more because she’d never have the chance again. “And I don’t want to lose you.”

  On a groan, he picked her up into his arms and strode with her to her bedroom and her bed. He settled there bedside her, his hand in her hair, his mouth persistent. She urged him closer, her body aching at the affection she’d so rarely had lavished upon her. But he was ravenous, skillful with lips that tasted and sipped, hands that roamed and caressed, brushed and demanded.

  He undid the ties of her robe, pushed down the bodice of her gown. The hot shock of his lips upon her nipple had her arching up to him, offering herself for more.

  “Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Don’t leave me.”

  He pulled away her gown, his big warm hands over her breasts, cupping, kneading, lifting her to the succor of his mouth. She moaned, burnt to her core with his possession. And she had to have him naked, too.

  He stood to strip and came back to her, all sculpted rippling skin and muscle. Hardened by war, softened by desire, he was the man she wanted in her arms in her bed and yes, in her body. And no other man could take his place.

  She ran her fingers over his shoulders, down his chest, his tight ribs, hips and the rigid shaft that she stroked.

  He pushed her hand away.

  “Don’t deny me, Griff. Wanting you always, I’ve never thought to have you. Not like this. And now I beg you to give me yourself.”

  “Darling, this is so wrong.”

  “No. No, never. If you can take me with you for years in your fantasies, take me here in my bed. Let me have that as recompense. Reality,” she said, a hand to his cheek, a communion with his sultry blue eyes, “will be so much more delightful than a dream.”

  He caught her by the nape. “Listen to me. If we have this, my darling, we will have more. Love. Marriage. Children. A home for you with me.”

  Aflame with the sorrow that she’d never be able to desert her sisters for this fantasy with him, she smiled at him and pretended what he promised could be. “Make love to me.”

  He kissed his way down her torso, gentle and measured. Sliding between her thighs, he took his time and teased her, his shaft hot and hard along her folds. “There’ll be no one else for you but me.”

  “There never was,” she whispered.

  And he slid inside her, stretching her, filling her. Making her gasp with his size and thrill to his possession, she caught her breath. He waited, patient, spreading kisses on her cheeks and capturing her lips in one raging kiss as he sank to the hilt. She reveled in his claim and tilted up her hips to meet him and make her own demands.

  He was hers. She, his. For one perfect moment.

  She lay in his arms, boneless, replete, and smiled at him. Slivers of dawn pierced her draperies. The candles that had lit her sitting room flickered, casting only a few pale shadows over his face. His gaze caressed her as his hands did.

  “Are you well?” he asked, his grin displaying a concern that mixed health with ribald curiosity. They’d made love twice more, insatiable delights that made her hungrier than when they began.

  “Very.”

  “Happy Christmas.”

  “And to you.” She snuggled closer to him. The fragrance of his cologne, his musk and their mutual ardor mingling in an intoxicating brew.

  He stroked her spine. “I must go.”

  She kissed his shoulder, one arm around his waist, one leg over his. They were tangled together like seasoned lovers.

  With one finger, he pushed tendrils of her hair from her cheeks. “Please listen to me. I must tell you I’ve never been attracted to any young woman. Not to flirt with. Not to court. Nor have I ever considered marriage to anyone.”

  His statement made her shiver with satisfaction. “That’s wonderful.”

  Gentle Griff. “So tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Why, my darling, have you never had a beau?”

  “The truth?”

  He nodded once.

  “I never wanted any of them.” I realized it yesterday, the day before. “But only you, I think. Always you.”

  “Nor did I want any other young woman.” He brushed his thumb along her lower lip. His comfort, his care, her desire roared back into her like a storm and she clutched him closer. He held her, his voice sure and strong. “Marjorie, this visit home, these days with you have taught me a lesson I should have learned years ago. The reason I want no other young woman, the reason I see only you whenever I think of what a fine young
woman should be is because I want only you.”

  He pulled back, lifted her chin and said, “I love you, darling. I’m asking you to marry me.”

  Everything all at once. Passion. Love. Marriage. All the fine men he was to her. Tormenter. Friend. Protector. Lover. Now could he be husband as well?

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  But he slanted a finger over her lips. “Don’t answer me yet. Think. Take your time.”

  “Griff,” she called to him as he rose and searched the floor for his clothes. “I must—”

  “Decide, Marjorie. Today.”

  That was a tall order. She could not desert her sisters. Yet she could not accept Griff’s proposal without abandoning them. “And if I can’t?”

  He pulled on his breeches and linen shirt, then shrugged into his banyan. “I must return to Paris within days. I go with you or without you. Tell me. Today.”

  Yes, of course.

  “And then there is this.” He extracted from the lining of his robe a long ivory letter which he placed upon the rumpled bedclothes “Open it. Consider the possibilities before you answer me.”

  “But—” She scrambled to her knees, her nakedness forgotten. “Wait.”

  “Darling, you tempt me. But I fear I’ve done enough these past few hours. Let me go before I’m back in your bed and the consequences we share mean you cannot choose to be free of me.” He breathed heavily, his eyes drifting down her body. “Even at that, you must realize we might still have repercussions neither of us intended.”

  She knew. She’d worried for moments, only moments as he made love to her.

  “Won’t you wait?” she asked him as he headed for her sitting room. “Tell me what’s in there?”

  He paused, looked over his shoulder at her and smiled with regret. “It’s a Christmas present.”

  The money? No, it could not be.

  She hated her interest in it. He’d never given her a gift. Not for birthday or Christmas. He hadn’t had to. He’d given himself, his companionship, his teasing, buoyant, laughing self.

  She darted from the bed, fished for her robe and drew it on to run after him. She caught him at the door to the hall. “Why not allow me to receive it and thank you? Why give this to me now?”

  He was all sorrow and exasperation. “After making love to you until I cannot breathe or think or see beyond this moment? You naked and me craving you even though you reject me?”

  “I don’t.”

  He looked away and pulled open the door. “Perhaps you are kinder to postpone it.”

  She reached up and sought his mouth to kiss him. In a flash of acceptance, he hauled her close, then set her from him. All too soon, he walked away.

  A sob rising in her throat, she fell back against her door and hurried to her bedroom.

  Tearing at the vellum, she had it open. But the print was so fine, she had to hunt for her spectacles. She’d left them. Where? Where?

  Upon her dressing table, she found them and strode to the windows. She pushed aside the draperies and stood with the first warm rays of the sun falling over her.

  “Oh, Griff.” She caught back tears as she read the paper once then twice again.

  In his precise handwriting were a few lines.

  “‘Griffith Edward Lorian Harlinger, earl of Marsden, grants Marjorie Eleanor Craymore of Brighton, England, the house at 4 Pritchard Street, Lewes with all rights of house, contents and land. This in perpetuity to her and her assigns. To also include: stable block at rear. Repairs to thatched roof, to be paid by Marsden forthwith. Date of this decree: December 24 Year of Our Lord, 1815.’”

  “A house.” She swayed on her feet. “Mine.”

  Chapter 10

  Quickly Griff escaped her arms, if not his dismay over her quandary. He’d done enough. Too much. He would not persuade her more and prayed that what he’d done, how he had succumbed to his desires for her, had not compelled her to marry him in a sense of moral necessity. He wanted her. He preferred to marry her out of her love for him, but not out of duty. Choice. Her choice, only.

  Yet, if she conceived, then he’d gladly marry her. Make her take him. For he would not have her shamed. Marjorie, like her sisters, had suffered enough. Had not each of them decided to try to ameliorate the sins of their father for their mutual good?

  Noble. Each one.

  Would that he had been as noble. Worthy of her.

  Rounding the corner, he detected the silk of Bee’s gown upon the runner. She’d drifted back into the niche in the wall, attempting to hide from him. Well, he could guess where she’d spent the night. Frankly, he applauded her for it. Alastair, afflicted with terrible head injuries and headaches, had needed the woman he loved last night. It was right and proper of Bee to help him surmount his agonies. Right for anyone who loved another to do that for the one they cared for above all others.

  Would that Marjorie could see that.

  But Bee was scared to death of censure. Staying the night with a man not her husband was grounds for gossip, ridicule. She would bear no more shame. Not from him. Not this morning. Or any day.

  He glimpsed her, one eye shut tight, the other open on him as she accidentally elbowed a Grecian urn behind her and it tapped a precarious tune on its base.

  "How is he?" he asked her on a whisper as he passed.

  "Better," she croaked.

  "Go. Here comes Simms."

  Simms was rounding the first landing.

  Griff turned, puzzled that she’d not sped onward to her room.

  Instead she gave a little wave to the butler.

  Simms knew where she’d been?

  Griff chuckled in spite of himself and hurried onward. The man knew everything. Even where I spent the night?

  “I’m to fetch the Countess," he heard Simms say to Bee. "And the earl. Is he decent?"

  Ha! So the man did know!

  "Give him a minute,” she said with a laugh.

  “Ah,” crooned the servant as Griff spun and met his gaze. “I can.”

  “Do come in,” offered Griff as Simms reached his own door. “You need me?”

  “I do, my lord.” He shut the door with purpose. “We have a visitor.”

  “At this hour? On Christmas morning? Who is it?”

  “A Customs official, Sir Henry Torrens.”

  “Customs?”

  “He asks to speak to you, her ladyship, and to His Grace the Duke of Kingston.”

  “Alastair. Of course.” This business of Bee identifying a smuggling ring had been the issue plaguing his friend and the reason he’d ridden into Brighton the other day. “Get me Walters quickly. I’ll dress and come down. Give Torrens coffee. Breakfast. Anything he wants. You’ll awaken my mother, please. The duke, too.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Within minutes, Griff strode into the Yellow drawing room, Alastair beside him.

  “I apologize for the early morning intrusion, my lord, madam, Your Grace. We have evidence to arrest the culprit in this Brighton ring,” Torrens announced when all stood before him. His bailiff stood behind him. “Your help, Your Grace, the other day was most useful.”

  “What news?”

  “One of your guests, my lord, is our man.”

  “Dear heavens,” Griff’s step-mother fanned herself. She’d thrust her wiry silver hair inside a purple turban and shrugged into a red silk banyan. Bleary-eyed from the previous night's festivities, she’d complained upon entering the parlor how she’d been so rudely awakened at an ungodly hour. Once informed of the reason for this unusual intrusion upon her privacy, she licked her lips. Griff knew well the imp in her delighted that she’d have such a notorious incident to relate to her friends. “How truly awful.”

  “Who is it?” Alastair asked Torrens.

  “Lord Carlson.”

  “Oh, my!” His mama raised both brows. “Well, well.”

  “How do you propose to get him down here, my lord?” the man asked Griff.

  “The easiest way. Simms, p
lease tell Lord Carlson we wish his presence for a special event.”

  Simms stood, his mouth twitching with suppressed delight. “As you wish.”

  With a spring in his step, off he went.

  “A man called from his bed on Christmas morning does take his sweet time about his ablutions, wouldn’t you say?” Griff paced before the fireplace. He wanted done with this tawdry business. He had a woman to convince to marry him, for God’s sake.

  “Twenty minutes,” fumed Alastair with a glance at his pocket watch.

  “We don’t want him to bolt,” said Torrens.

  “He’s shaving and dabbing on his favorite cologne,” said Griff’s mama with a little wrinkle of her nose. “I’d want to look my best, too, before I disappeared.”

  “Forever,” added Alastair.

  The double doors thrust open. Simms nodded sharply to the assembly and stood aside for Carlson to enter.

  “Good morning. My, a wonderful group.” He surveyed those in the room but halted when he came to Torrens. Wary, he ignored him and cast a look of noblesse oblige to Griff. “Thank you for asking me to breakfast.”

  Griff approached him. “You won’t be thanking us, Carlson, when you hear what this gentleman has to tell you.”

  With that, the Customs man stepped forward and announced he was arresting Carlson on charges against the Crown.

  “What?! Absurd!” he blustered. Then turned on Griff. “Do you allow such insults to your guests in your own home on Christmas morning?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “On what evidence? Tell me!”

  “A witness to your treachery, sir.”

  “Oh? Who might that be?”

  “We have no need of that person here this morning.”

  “Bring her down!” Carlson demanded.

  Griff checked Alastair’s eyes. Carlson was such a careless criminal, he couldn’t even hide his own knowledge of who might have testified against him. His slip sent a shockwave through the others. Alastair stepped toward the man.

  “Get Belinda Craymore,” Carlson ordered Simms.

  "Lord Carlson!" Griff’s step-mother frowned at the man. "My niece will not be disturbed at this ungodly hour of the morning."

  Carlson fumed. "I will not stand here accused of such treachery without the person declaring her evidence to me personally."