Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella

by Heath Lorraine

  Again, she gave the impression of one confused, but then she straightened her lovely shoulders and began making her way from one man to the next, a butterfly trying to determine upon which petal to light, which would be sturdy enough to support her in the manner to which she was accustomed.

  He caught glimpses of her face as she worked the crowd of a dozen men. A shy smile here, a bolder one there. Furrowed brow when a gentleman rested a hand on her shoulder or arm. Fluttering eyelashes as she expertly glided beyond reach without offending. He wasn’t quite certain she understood the rules of the game she was playing. Could she be that innocent?

  Her mother had been the late earl’s mistress. Surely she knew what her mother’s role in his life had been—to warm his bed, to bring him pleasure, to keep him satisfied.

  Sometimes she seemed to have confidence, to know exactly what she was doing. Other times she seemed baffled by the conversation. Still, it was as though she were ticking off a list, speaking to each man for only a moment or two before moving on, never returning to a man once they were acquainted.

  Come to me, he thought. Come to me. Then he shoved the wayward thoughts aside. What did he care if she didn’t notice him? He was accustomed to living in the shadows, to not being seen. The gossamer depths offered protection equal to the strongest armor. No one bothered him there unless he desired it.

  He didn’t desire her, yet he couldn’t deny that he wondered what her skin might feel like against the tips of his fingers. Soft. Silky. Warm. It had been so very long since he’d been warm. Even the fire by which he sat now couldn’t thaw his frigid core. He liked it that way, preferred it.

  Nothing touched him, nothing bothered him. Nothing mattered.

  She matters.

  No, she didn’t. She was an earl’s by-blow on the verge of becoming some man’s ornament. A very graceful ornament to be sure. An extremely lovely one. But she would be relegated to the same importance as a work of art: to be looked upon, to be touched, to bring pleasure when pleasure was sought.

  She glanced around, appearing to be lost within a room that should have been familiar to her. Then her gaze fell on him, and his body tightened with such swiftness that for a heartbeat he felt lightheaded, dizzy. He should look away, tell her with an averted glance that she was nothing to him, that he had no interest in her; and yet he seemed incapable of doing anything other than watch as she hesitantly strolled toward him.

  Finally she was standing before him, her small gloved hands folded tightly in front of her. With her this near to him, he could see clearly that her eyes were the most beautiful blue. No, more than blue. Violet. He’d never seen the like. He imagined them smoldering, darkening with desire, gazing at him in wonder as he delivered pleasure such as she’d never experienced. An easy task if she had indeed never known a man’s touch.

  But just as he had no use for mistresses, so he had none for virgins. He had not been innocent in a good long while. He had no interest in innocence. It was a weakness, a condition to be exploited, a quick path to ruin. It held no appeal.

  She held no appeal.

  He rethought the words in an attempt to convince himself of their truth. But as her eyes bore into his, he was left with the realization that she was not only innocent, but very, very dangerous. A silly thought. He could destroy her with a look, a word, a caustic laugh. And in destroying her, the tiny bit of soul that remained in him would wither and die.

  It was an unsettling realization, one he didn’t much like.

  He watched her delicate throat work as she swallowed, her bosom rise with the intake of a long breath as though she were shoring up her courage.

  “I don’t believe we’ve spoken,” she finally said.

  “No.”

  “May I inquire regarding your name? The other gentlemen were kind enough to introduce themselves.”

  “But then I am not kind.”

  Two tiny pleats appeared between her brows. “Why would you say something of that nature?”

  “Because I am honest, at least.”

  “But surely you have a name. Is it a secret? You steal children from their beds? Rumpelstiltskin, perhaps? I would be hard-pressed to see you as Prince Charming.”

  Fairy tales. She’d been brought up on fairy tales, and she seemed to have no awareness that she was wading through a nest of ogres.

  “Come. It can’t be that horrible of a name. I’d like to call you something.”

  He considered suggesting Beelzebub, something to unsettle her, send her scurrying away, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom he simply said, “Rafe.”

  “Rafe,” she repeated in her smoky voice and a fierce longing fissured through him with an almost painful pricking. “Is that your title?”

  “No.”

  “Are you titled?”

  Perhaps she wasn’t as innocent as he’d surmised. She wanted to ensure that she was well cared for, was going to be particular about whose bed she warmed. He supposed he couldn’t hold that against her. She was on the hunt for a man to please, one who would serve as her protector. She had a right to be particular.

  “No,” he finally answered.

  “I see you’re a man of few words.” She gnawed on her lower lip, which served to plump it up and darken its red hue. He wondered how often she’d been kissed. Had she ever let a man press his mouth to hers? Had a man ever touched her skin, trailed his fingers along her high cheekbones, folded his rough hand around her neck, and brought her in close? “What are your interests?”

  “None that would amuse you.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “I doubt it. I’m a rather good judge of character.”

  “A quick judge, it would seem. I’m left with the impression that you don’t think very highly of me.”

  He slid his gaze over her, admiring the curves, dips, and swells. He couldn’t deny that she was a fine piece, but she would require a certain … gentleness and care, neither of which was in his repertoire of behavior. “I haven’t decided.”

  “Unfortunately I have, I’m afraid. I don’t believe we’d be well suited. I hope you won’t take offense.”

  “I would have to give a care what you thought to be offended. I don’t.”

  She opened her mouth—

  “Evelyn, you’re done here,” Wortham said, suddenly at her side. He grabbed her arm and began madly ushering her toward the door.

  Almost tripping over her small feet encased in satin slippers, she appeared to be attempting to shake off the earl. She was gazing over her bared shoulder at Rafe as though she was determined to have the final word, but she was no match for Wortham’s strength as they both disappeared through the open doorway. It was some minutes before Wortham returned. Rafe was surprised Miss Chambers didn’t barge in behind him. No doubt he’d dissuaded her, so as not to discourage any of the lords from having an interest in her.

  “All right, gentlemen,” Wortham said, rubbing his hands together. “Does anyone wish to bid on her?”

  So that was how he was going to handle the matter, Rafe mused. He’d wondered. He didn’t know why the manner in which Wortham was proceeding caused a chill in his bones. The girl meant nothing to him. It might prove interesting to see what sort of value the other lords placed on her, especially if he could determine a way to use that knowledge to his advantage.

  “I say, Wortham,” Lord Ekroth sneered, “I’ll give you five hundred quid for her, but I’ve a mind to examine her first and ensure she is a virgin as you claim.”

  A round of raucous laughter accompanied the ribald suggestion. Rafe suspected those who laughed the loudest were striving to cover the fact that they weren’t quite comfortable with the direction in which the evening was going.

  “By all means. Each of you may examine her,” Wortham said callously as though he were offering little more than a mare for purchase. “Then I shall entertain further bids.”

  “Excellent. I’ll go first, shall I?” He and Wortham headed for the door.

&nb
sp; Rafe envisioned Ekroth’s pudgy, sausage-like fingers traveling over her silky thighs, ripping at her undergarments, shoving into—

  “I’m taking her.” Rafe could hardly countenance the words that burst from his own mouth with such authority that Ekroth and Wortham stumbled in their tracks, while the other lords gaped at him. Obviously, he’d imbibed a bit more than he’d thought, but it didn’t matter now. The challenge had been spoken, and he never recanted his statements.

  Standing, he tugged on his black brocade waistcoat that suddenly felt far too tight. “If any of you touch her, I shall separate from you the particular part that touched her. Wortham has assured us that she is pure. I don’t want her soiled by your sweaty hands or anything else. Have I made myself clear?”

  “But you were only here to watch, to ascertain”—Wortham cut off his sentence and stepped nearer, lowering his voice—“to ascertain my ability to cover my debt.”

  “When have I ever confided my plans in you?”

  “Then you’ll pay me the five hundred quid that Ekroth was willing to pony up?”

  “I’ll allow you to continue to breathe. We’ll call it even, shall we?”

  “But the terms of this meeting were that she would go to the highest bidder.”

  “What value do you place on your life? Do you think anyone here can match it?” He waited a heartbeat. “I thought not.”

  He downed what remained of his Scotch before striding to the desk, lords leaping out of his way. If he were not a stranger to laughter, he might have at least chuckled at their antics. He found a scrap of paper, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and scratched out the address of his residence. Putting a blotter on it to keep it in place, he turned and headed toward the door. “My address. Have her there at four tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen. As always, it’s been a pleasure to be in such esteemed company.”

  He was in his carriage, traveling through the London streets, before it resonated within him exactly what he’d done.

  “Good God,” he muttered, even though no one was about to hear. What the devil had he been thinking? Obviously, he hadn’t.

  He glared out the window at the fog-shrouded night. His taking her had nothing to do with the fact that she was in effect being abandoned, because she wasn’t. She was being given to someone to care for her. She wouldn’t go hungry, she wouldn’t be smacked about, she wouldn’t have to work until her fingers bled and the small of her back ached so hideously that she feared she might never be able to straighten. She would lie in silk on beds and fainting couches and wait for a man to part her thighs. She would eat chocolates and plump her lips. She would run her tongue around those lips and gaze at her benefactor through half-lowered lids.

  And he was her benefactor. Damnation.

  He should have allowed Ekroth to have her. His fingers weren’t all that pudgy. He could call on him in the morning, barter, let him take her.

  But then he’d appear to be a man who didn’t know his own mind.

  So he was stuck with her. For a time, anyway.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful. She’d never had a man. He could guide her toward pleasing him in the manner he required. She would have no other experience, so she would know nothing different, and therefore she would not be disappointed.

  The possibilities began to have merit. He didn’t have to care about her. He wouldn’t care about her.

  But he could damn well make use of her.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  *

  LORRAINE HEATH wrote her first story at seven, and it involved a fisherman who fell in love with a mermaid. She has since moved on to writing about sexy cowboys and dashing English lords (and sometimes, cleverly, in the same book!). Publishers Weekly says she is a “master of her craft.” She is indeed, and along with being a New York Times and USA Today bestseller, she has won the RITA Award, four Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Awards, and a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Also by Lorraine Heath

  Fiction

  Lord of Temptation

  She Tempts the Duke

  Waking up With the Duke

  Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman

  Passions of a Wicked Earl

  Midnight Pleasures With a Scoundrel

  Surrender to the Devil

  Between the Devil and Desire

  In Bed With the Devil

  Just Wicked Enough

  A Duke of Her Own

  Promise Me Forever

  A Matter of Temptation

  As an Earl Desires

  An Invitation to Seduction

  Love With a Scandalous Lord

  To Marry an Heiress

  The Outlaw and the Lady

  Never Marry a Cowboy

  Never Love a Cowboy

  A Rogue in Texas

  Give in to your impulses …

  Read on for a sneak peek at five brand-new

  e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.

  Available now wherever e-books are sold.

  NIGHTS OF STEEL

  THE ETHER CHRONICLES

  By Nico Rosso

  ALICE’S WONDERLAND

  By Allison Dobell

  ONE FINE FIREMAN

  A BACHELOR FIREMEN NOVELLA

  By Jennifer Bernard

  THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT LADY MARY

  A SUMMERSBY TALE

  By Sophie Barnes

  THE SECRET LIFE OF LADY LUCINDA

  A SUMMERSBY TALE

  By Sophie Barnes

  An Excerpt from

  NIGHTS OF STEEL

  THE ETHER CHRONICLES

  by Nico Rosso

  Return to The Ether Chronicles, where rival bounty hunters Anna Blue and Jack Hawkins join forces to find a mysterious fugitive, only to get so much more than they bargained for. The skies above the American West are about to get wilder than ever …

  Take his hand? Or walk down the broken stairs to chase a cold trail. Anna’s body was still buffeted by waves of sensation. The meal was an adventure she shared with Jack. Nearly falling from the stairs, only to be brought close to his body, had been a rush. The hissing of the lodge was the last bit of danger, but it had passed.

  The wet heat of that simple room was inviting. Her joints and bones ached for comfort. Deeper down, she yearned for Jack. They’d been circling each other for years. The closer she got—hearing his voice, touching his skin, learning his history—the more the hunger increased. She didn’t know where it would lead her, but she had to find out. All she had to do was take his hand.

  Anna slid her palm against his. Curled her fingers around him. He held her hand, staring into her eyes. She’d thought she knew the man behind the legend and the metal and the guns, yet now she understood there were miles of territory within him she had yet to discover.

  Their grips tightened. They drew closer. He leaned down to her. She pressed against his chest. In the sunlight, they kissed. Neither hid their hunger. She understood his need. His lips on hers were strong, devouring. And she understood her yearning. Probing forward with her tongue, she led him into her.

  And it wasn’t enough. Their first kiss could’ve taken them too far and she’d had to stop. Now, with Jack pressed against her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and his lips against hers, too far seemed like the perfect place to go.

  They pulled apart and, each still gripping the other’s hand, walked back into the lodge room. Sheets of steam curled up the walls and filled the space, bringing out the scent of the redwood paneling. The room seemed alive, breathing with her.

  Jack cracked a small smile. “This guy, Song, I like his style. Lot of inventors are drunk on tetrol. Half-baked ideas that don’t work right.” He held up his half-mechanical hand. “People wind up getting hurt.”

  “Song knows his business,” she agreed. “So why the bounty?”

  He leveled his gaze at her. It seemed the steam came from
him, his intensity. “You want a cold trail or a hot bath?”

  She took off her hat, holding his look and not backing down. “Hot. Bath.”

  Burbling invitingly like a secluded brook, the tub waited in the corner. The steam softened its edges and obscured the walls around it. As if the room went on forever.

  With the toe of his boot, Jack swung the front door closed. Only the small lights in the ceiling glowed. Warm night clouds now surrounded her. A gentle storm. And Jack was the lightning. Still gripping her hand, he walked her toward the tub, chuckling a little to himself.

  “My last bath was at a lonely little stage stop hotel in Camarillo.”

  The buckle on her gun belt was hot from the steam. “I’m overdue.” She undid it and held the rig in her hand.

  “I’m guessing you picked up Malone’s trail sometime after the Sierras, so it’s been a few hundred miles for you, too.”

  It took her a second to track her path backward. “Beatty, Nevada.”

  “Rough town.” He let go of her hand so he could undo the straps and belts that held his own weapons.

  She hung her gun belt on a wooden peg on the wall next to the tub. Easy to reach if she had to. “A little less rough after I left.”

  His pistols and quad shotgun took their place next to her weapons. He was unarmed. But still deadly. Broad shoulders, muscled arms and legs. Dark, blazing eyes. And the smallest smile.

  They came together again, this time without the clang of gunmetal. The heat of the room had soaked through her clothes, bringing a light sweat across her skin. She felt every fold of fabric, and every ridge of his muscles. Her hands ran over the cords of his neck, pulling him to her mouth for another kiss.

  Nerves yearned for sensation. Dust storms had chafed her flesh. Ice-cold rivers had woken her up, and she’d slept in the rain while waiting out a fugitive. She needed pleasure. And Jack was the only man strong enough to bring it to her.

  An Excerpt from

  ALICE’S WONDERLAND

  by Allison Dobell

  When journalist and notorious womanizer Flynn O’Grady publicly mocks Alice Mitchell’s erotic luxury goods website, the game is on. They soon find themselves locked in a sensual battle where Alice must step up the spice night after night as, one by one, Flynn’s defenses crumble.