by Lora Leigh
A future without love? Without passion? Without Lucien.
She threw back the covers and reached for her dressing gown.
Foolishness.
Or very great wisdom.
She found she did not care.
She crept down the attic stairs. In the past, she had been grateful for each small telltale creak that might warn her of Howard climbing up the stairs. Now every betraying sound made her teeth clench and her hand squeeze the bannister tighter. She breathed easier when she reached the carpeted hallway on the second floor. Bedchamber doors stretched along either side of the corridor. Downstairs, a clock chimed. Bing bong, bing bong.
Christmas Eve. A night for miracles.
Aimée stopped outside Lucien’s door, her bare toes curling into the carpet. Her heart thumped. Stay or go? Knock or open the door? A rap might bring Lucien. Or it could attract the attention of another guest.
She took a deep breath for courage and opened the door.
Shutting it behind her, she stood a moment on the threshold to get her bearings. A faint light filtered through the open draperies. Of course. Martin was in London. Lucien had no manservant to draw the curtains, to turn down the bed.
She peered into the shadowed recesses of the room. She could barely make out the dark bulk of Lucien’s body on the bed, the pale curve of one bare shoulder rising above the covers.
Her mouth went dry with daring and desire. She wet her lips and whispered. “Lucien?”
A flare of silver light, quickly doused.
Lucien spoke out of the dark. “What is it, mignonne?”
The endearment—her mother’s endearment, spoken in that deep, masculine voice—made her tremble. She straightened her spine. “I couldn’t sleep. You said before . . . If I ever needed you . . .”
I need you. Now and again and forever, you.
She gleamed like a candle in the darkness, slim and pale and utterly desirable.
Lucien almost groaned. Her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders. Beneath her thin nightgown, her dainty feet were bare. He wanted her with a ferocity that would make her recoil, in ways that would shock her, if only she knew.
But she could never know. She had come to him for comfort, not lust. Because she could not sleep.
God help them both.
His body throbbed. Under the covers, he was naked. His dressing gown was across the room. He could not rise to get it without her seeing exactly how she affected him.
Imposing a rigid control on his muscles and his voice, he lifted the duvet, silently inviting her into his bed. They would still be separated by a sheet. He prayed it would be enough.
She drifted toward the bed. Her groping hands slid over the mattress before she slipped in beside him. The stuffing gave under their combined weight, tipping her against him. With a little sigh, she pillowed her cheek on his shoulder. Her warm breast pressed against his side. Her cool, naked feet touched his.
She was under the sheet with him.
He thought he would explode. He forced himself to lie on his back, trying to ignore the scent of her hair and the blood pooling hot at his groin.
She nestled closer, a small, confiding shift, and before he could stop himself he pressed his lips to her hair, her brow, her temple. For comfort, he told himself, and knew he lied.
She raised on one elbow and kissed him, almost missing his mouth in the dark, and he cupped the back of her head and drew her head down.
You. Her mouth was honey and home to him, sweet and welcome.
She opened to him eagerly, feeding his hunger and his soul. He rolled her onto her back, and instead of pushing him away, her arms came around his neck. Her legs parted to receive him. He was cradled against her hips, between her thighs. He rocked against her, finding his place through the fabric of her nightgown, the place that was warm and wet and waiting for him.
Madness. They had to stop. He had to stop them.
He kissed her jaw, her throat, the tender curve between neck and shoulder, and she arched under him, a taut bow. Her nipples thrust against her nightgown. It was easy, so easy, to nuzzle aside the neckline, to discover her small, firm breasts, the delicious hardness of her nipples. Her breathing quickened. Her fingers threaded through his hair as he opened his mouth and tasted. Suckled.
He lifted his head to watch her face. Her lashes drifted open. Her eyes were dark and drowsy. Trusting.
His heart lurched. “Stop me,” he ordered, his voice ragged.
Her brows twitched together. “I don’t want to stop you.”
“You don’t want this,” he said, although it was harder and harder to remember why.
“I want you. I need you.” She gave an impatient wriggle under him. “Lucien, please.”
Only an angel could have resisted her. And he was no longer an angel.
Thank God.
Lucien bent his head, returning her attention to his other breast.
Thank God.
Aimée stretched and sighed as his hands and mouth moved over her, setting off showers of sparks under her skin. She was burning, melting, as he pushed up her nightgown, stroking between her thighs. She caught her breath in embarrassment—so wet—but he only murmured encouragement, his long fingers playing over her sensitive, secret flesh until she arched like a cat under his touch.
“All right?” he asked.
She made a sound he must have taken as assent. One finger slid inside her, then two. She rocked her hips and felt him hard against her, against her hip, between her thighs. He was hard and smooth and very large, and for a moment apprehension tightened her stomach.
“Lucien . . .”
He nudged her legs apart, pushing deeper. The pressure became pain, became sweetness and fire.
Aimée squirmed. Was it supposed to be like this? She felt stretched. Invaded.
Lucien exhaled against her hair. “Relax,” he murmured. “You’re ready. I’ll go slow.”
She moistened her lips as the burning intensified. “Wouldn’t it be better to do it quickly? And get it over with?”
His laughter shook his chest, vibrating against her belly. Her own lips curved in involuntary response. And then he surged forward, his weight pinning her to the mattress as he thrust fully, finally inside her.
Oh. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she struggled to adjust to the fact of his possession, to the feel of him hot and hard and thick inside her. It felt curious and not altogether comfortable.
One flesh, she thought, and relaxed slightly. At least it didn’t hurt anymore.
He held himself still, almost as if he were waiting for something. She wriggled, trying to relieve the pressure, trying to make him move. He inhaled sharply. And then he did move, slowly, out—she felt a definite relief, mingled with disappointment—and in again.
Ah. She swallowed in sudden comprehension. They fit. It was very odd. And altogether wonderful.
Out . . . Her internal muscles clenched around him, protesting his withdrawal.
And in. She gasped.
Their eyes met. His face was hard, intent as he covered her, as he worked her, out and in. He caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, pulling it away from her lips, and she wanted to weep at the tenderness of the gesture. Slide and thrust, out and in, so deeply connected, in touch, in tune.
Out. And in. There was a rhythm to it, she realized, like riding or dancing, both awkward and fluid. He caressed her everywhere, inside and out, until she was surrounded in pleasure, encompassed in warmth. She savored the flex of his arms, his back, his buttocks, the lovely sliding sensations, out and . . .
She hitched her hips, trying to match his pace, desperate to recapture his rhythm, and he pressed deeper, reaching under her to grasp her buttocks, to tilt her for his possession. In. There. She jolted as he struck a different place inside her, setting off chords, sparks, cascading fountains of stars. Her heart flew, her senses soared as they moved together, beat for beat, stroke for stroke. She was panting, trembling, reaching for . . . wh
at? Pushing her legs wide, he thrust inside her, pounded inside her, hard and fast, slick and hot. She shuddered and gripped him tight, the night pulsing and whirling around them, until at last he turned his face into her hair and jerked, convulsed, emptying himself at her center, giving her everything he was.
You, in me. Inevitable. Right.
Poignancy pierced her like a dagger. She closed her eyes at the sweetness of the pain and gave him everything she had, whispering the words against his throat. “I love you.”
Silence settled over them.
Perhaps she slept then. She thought he did. She listened to his deep, even breathing as she drifted, floating on clouds of pleasure, tethered to earth and the bed by the weight of his body and the relaxed heaviness of all her limbs. The mingled scents of sweat and sex hung heavy in the room. In the quiet, in the dark, she allowed herself the indulgence of touching him the way he had touched her, intimate, exploring touches. Her muscles went lax, remembering. She would not regret this, she thought fiercely, whatever happened in the morning. She had him now, tonight.
Her fingers wandered, learning him by feel, rough and smooth, heavy and warm. She imagined him over her, inside her, and her nipples tightened and everything inside her softened and loosened in remembered delight. Her skin flushed. Until her stealthy pleasure roused him, and he woke and rolled with her, and memory and imagination gave way to need and joy.
Lucien woke alone.
The morning dawned clear and cold, the sky heavenly blue, the sun on the horizon glorious gold. Lucien swung open his window, admitting a draft that flowed over the sill and stirred the curtains of his empty bed. The dripping ice and glazed snow captured the light and threw it back in shards of rainbow brilliance.
Christmas Day, when Love was made flesh and the world made new. He had never understood until now. Until Aimée.
Because she loved him.
He could not wrap his mind around it.
Last night she had not asked him for promises or assurances. She had only given, freely, generously, out of love and with joy.
She was merely mortal, fully human. Yet she embraced love and happiness as her birthright.
How would his life be different if he learned to do the same?
He stood naked in the light of day, his skin pebbling with cold, his blood on fire. He couldn’t. Not without her to show him the way. He needed Aimée, all of her, her delicate body and bold heart, her practical mind and generous spirit.
But what did he have to offer in return?
His hand clenched on the windowsill.
In the gray, cold hours before dawn, he had stirred, his body protesting the loss of her warmth as Aimée had slipped from his bed. He lay enthralled, entranced by the curve of her naked buttocks as she stooped to retrieve her nightgown from the floor.
“Where are you going?”
She had turned to smile at him, her eyes liquid. His heart had clenched painfully in his chest. “I must return to my room before the servants are up.”
“Let me go with you.”
She shook her head, one dark lock falling forward to curl around her perfect breast. “It is not necessary. Or wise.”
“I must do something for you.”
Mischief lit her face. “But you have. And I am grateful. For both times.”
She’d said the same thing once before, he remembered. I must be grateful to God or the Fates, who brought you to me again when I was in need.
Lucien expelled his breath in a frosty cloud. If he had not Fallen, would he have found her again? Could he have loved her as a man loves a woman?
And what did it mean, now that he did?
The sun edged over the trees, making the snow sparkle. The rest of the house party would sleep late today in preparation for the ball tonight. But in the village, the church bells pealed and tolled, their bright notes shaking the air, calling the faithful to service.
Lucien stared out at the bright morning, considering the future. Facing facts. Aimée was of noble birth. He had taken her virginity. He could see only one course of action open to him now.
He had to go.
Aimée did not encounter Lucien at all the following morning. She walked alone to church before plunging into the hundred and one last-minute preparations for Christmas dinner and the ball that would follow, approving the pudding and the table setting, supervising the placement of the musicians and card tables, settling the servants’ disputes.
But through it all, she carried Lucien with her, a secret joy hugged to her heart, a trembling anticipation.
Tonight was the ball. She would see him. Dance with him. And then...
But she refused to think of then. Now must be enough. Now, and the memory of last night.
Her cheeks were flushed as she tapped on the door of Julia’s room to help her cousin dress for dinner.
The door popped open. Julia grabbed both Aimée’s hands and whisked her into the room.
“What do you think?” Julia demanded with a little twirl.
Aimée’s mouth dropped open. “I think . . .” She didn’t know what to think.
Julia shook her golden curls, only partially confined by an enormous mobcap topped by an absurd green bow. Her skirts were bright green satin with the wide side panniers that had gone out of fashion ten years ago, her small waist bound by a white apron she must have borrowed from one of the house maids.
“I’m Judy.” Julia picked up one of little Lottie’s dolls and waved it about by the neck. “From Punch and Judy.”
Aimée felt her mouth forming a smile. “I can see that. But . . .”
Her cousin’s eyes were bright, her face tinged with color. “Tom is going as Punch.”
“Oh.” Aimée drew in her breath. “Oh.”
Her knees felt weak. She sank on the edge of the bed.
Julia met her gaze. “I know. This Christmas has not turned out at all the way I imagined. First Harriet falling in the pond—not that I blame you for that, whatever Susan says—and then Susan spending all her time in the nursery, which is most unlike her, and then Howard taking to his room so suddenly. Not that I mind about Howard so much. And then the Misses Whitmore came to call with Tom, and I was saying how I wished that Tom could be my brother, because he’s always sort of there, you know, and he said in this gruff voice that it was a very good thing he was not. My brother, I mean. And then . . .” Her blush deepened. “And then . . . Well, I am dancing the opening set with Tom. And the supper dance, too.”
Inside Aimée, something unfurled and expanded like wings. “But what about . . .”
“My costume? You can have it.”
“Mr. Hartfell,” Aimée said gently.
“You can have him, too. Oh . . .” Julia frowned. “Except he’s not here anymore.”
Aimée’s heart tripped. She was glad she was sitting down. “Not here?”
“He departed for Fair Hill before breakfast this morning. In a very great hurry, Mama said, leaving all his things behind. I expect his servant will return to pack them.”
Aimée barely heard. Her brain was numb. Her face felt frozen. “This morning.”
After she had gone to his room. After she had told him she loved him.
“Are you disappointed? I wondered if perhaps you fancied him. Tom said Hartfell fancied you.” Julia’s pretty face creased. “But I suppose he couldn’t have, could he, if he’s gone.”
“No.” Aimée forced the word through stiff lips. “I suppose he couldn’t.”
He had not said he loved her, she reminded herself. The omission had barely registered at the time. She had felt his love in every touch, with every breath, flooding her soul, imprinted on her flesh.
The room blurred with rainbow colors. She blinked fiercely. She had been very foolish, it seemed.
“Never mind,” Julia said kindly. “If Hartfell doesn’t like you, you’ll find another man who will. There will be plenty to choose from at the ball tonight.”
“I’m not going to the ball,” Aim�
�e said.
How could she dance when her heart was breaking?
“Oh, but you must.” Julia swooped and enveloped her in a scented hug. “I’m so happy, Amy,” she whispered. “I want you to be happy, too.”
Aimée closed her eyes and leaned her head against Julia’s shoulder, overwhelmed by the genuine affection in her cousin’s embrace.
She was loved, after all.
Not by the man she longed for. Not in the way she’d believed.
But just because her heart was broken didn’t mean her life was over. Life, after all, was a gift. Lucien had taught her that. What she made of it was up to her.
Her throat ached. Her eyes burned.
If only it didn’t hurt so much.
Aimée teetered on the stairs of the great hall, off balance in her jewel trimmed heels and glittering wings.
It had required the better part of two hours and the best efforts of the second housemaid to lace her into Julia’s discarded costume. Aimée had sent her regrets for dinner, aware that Lady Basing would be upset at having her table arranagements disturbed. But Aimée had needed time to compose her face and her feelings.
Anyway, she had no appetite.
She shivered as she edged down the staircase. Outside the windows, snow was falling, white on black. Tonight the house would be filled to the rafters with stranded guests.
The weather did not seem to have dampened anyone’s spirits. Strains of music drifted into the hall along with the hum of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter.
Carriage wheels crunched on the gravel outside. Sir Walter and Lady Basing had already joined their guests in the ballroom. But it appeared Aimée was not the last arrival, after all.
She hovered like a butterfly on the stairs, uncertain whether to retreat or step forward to welcome the last guest.
The footmen hurried forward to fling open the door. Cold air swirled. Candles flickered. The butler bowed low.
Two guests. Two men, one a distinguished looking stranger in a many-caped coat that made him look exceptionally broad and tall.
