He came to her, took her hands in a gentle clasp. ‘Then we’ll find out together.’
‘Together?’
His smile was rueful, tender. ‘Sweetheart, you won’t be the only virgin in that bed.’
For a moment she didn’t understand, and then— ‘Oh.’ She blushed. ‘You haven’t—?’
‘No.’ His hands tightened and he lifted hers to his lips. ‘I haven’t. For better or for worse, I’m entirely yours.’
* * *
Candlelight and warm, fire-lit shadows wove and danced around them as, with soft murmurs and whispers, clothes were discarded, falling unregarded until she was trembling in his arms, clad only in her chemise. His shirt was gone and his chest grazed her breasts, a shuddering pleasure. One large, gentle hand shook on her hip, trailed fire up over her waist and found an aching nipple through the soft linen. She gasped as he caressed it and he stole the sound from her lips with a searing kiss, swinging her up into his arms and walking to the bed to lay her in it.
He watched her as he finished undressing, his gaze hot, turning her bones to honey. Her breath shortened as he pushed off his drawers and slid into the bed with her, pulling the covers over them. For a moment he held back, just gazing at her, and she did not know what to say, what to do. And then she realised. There was nothing to say. Only something to do. Daringly, she sat up, hauled off the chemise and held out her arms. Heat darkened his eyes and he came to her in swift urgency, taking her mouth in a fierce kiss that took everything and promised more.
The world burned in a bright crucible, remade in fire as he felt her soft breasts crushed against him, tasted her need and passion. His hands stroked and explored. Lord! How could skin be so supple, so silken? His fingers shook as he stroked a peaked nipple and he bent his head to taste, to lick and suck gently. Her body arched against him and her soft cry nearly unmanned him as her fingers dug into his shoulders. So many sweet places asking for his possession. His hand slid down, over her hip, pressing between her thighs, finding a heated welcome.
She gasped in shock, stiffening, and he stopped at once, breathing hard. Fear streaked through him. If he’d frightened her, shocked her, he didn’t think he could bear it.
‘Polly...’
‘I don’t know how to please you,’ she whispered.
Please him? If she pleased him any more he’d probably die. But— ‘Touch me,’ he murmured. ‘Just touch me. Anywhere. Everywhere. And let me touch you the same way.’ If he was going to burn he might as well do it properly.
‘Yes.’
He gritted his teeth as her hands moved, explored, a curious finger stroking his nipple so that he groaned. A tentative kiss and lick that nearly shattered his precarious control. He hung on to it and slowly, very slowly, slid his hand back to the springy curls between her thighs. Again she stilled, but then as he stroked gently and took her mouth in a tender kiss, her thighs opened and he found her.
Hot. Damp. And so very soft.
‘Alex?’
His name had never sounded so sweet. He kissed her deeply, feeling her response in a liquid rush on his fingers, finding a spot that brought a sharp cry to her lips and had her hips surging against him, seeking more. Shaken, near to breaking point, he gave it to her, loving her until she was crying and twisting against him.
‘Polly.’ Her name was a ragged groan. ‘Sweetheart, I don’t think I can wait any longer.’ He ached to possess, to be possessed in turn.
Her lips brushed his jaw. ‘Then do not.’
And in the end it was the sweetest, most natural thing in the world. At his gentle urging, her thighs parted eagerly on a sigh he drank from her lips and he was there. Pressing into the loving welcome of her body. His senses reeled at the tight heat caressing him, the silken feel of her body cradling his, her breasts against his chest, the taste and scent of her, and he fought to make this moment last for both of them.
And then he felt it, her body’s innocent resistance, and the slight jerk of pain at his threatened entry, heard her breath catch. He hesitated, shaking, burning, and she cried out, her hips pushing up against him and his body answered her plea, taking her with a swift, gentle completeness.
And they shall become one flesh. He shuddered, lost in wonder. He didn’t know where he ended and she began, if he had taken her or given himself. He didn’t even know if it mattered. They were one. She lay trembling beneath him, her body yielded and he was all hers. Nothing else was, or could be. Here, in this bed, he had everything.
Carefully, his blood burning, he began to move and discovered there was more to have. Far more. The soft gasp of her breath, her body in harmony with his, blood and bone in perfect union as he loved her to the depths of his soul and found the well of giving to be infinite as her love poured back. And there was the earthly joy of flesh sliding against flesh, his body inside hers, held tight and sweet, her frantic sobs that echoed the pounding of his heart, her mouth clinging to his. He could feel the end coming, bearing down on him in bone-shaking glory, but she was still moving, pleading, needing more of him. With a groan, he slid his hand down between their bodies, found the sensitive nub above where they joined, and pressed. She cried out, her body convulsing about him, and he was there with her, the world broken and ablaze as consummation took them.
* * *
Polly awoke, realised she was alone in the bed, and that, judging by an over-enthusiastic rooster, it must be nearly dawn. Rolling over, relaxed and sleepy, she saw Alex, gorgeously, wonderfully naked, putting a couple of logs on the fire. She watched, wondering if the bishop would be shocked to know what a wanton the Rector of Alderford had married. Probably not, she decided. He’d had a distinctly worldly twinkle in his eye as he wished Alex a goodnight...as he’d whispered to her that he had no doubt of it at all...
Alex turned to come back to bed, back to her, and her breath caught as he smiled at her. He looked...not sleepy at all, but extremely wide awake. He got into the bed, pulling the covers snugly over them.
‘Fortunately,’ he said, as he took her in his arms in a far-from-sleepy manner, ‘it doesn’t matter whether that was a nightingale, a lark or just Bill Fenton’s misbegotten rooster—we can stay right here and enjoy ourselves.’
* * *
‘We might,’ Alex murmured some time later, ‘have made a Twelfth Night baby.’ They lay cosily in bed, listening to the world come alive outside in the village street, and Polly was the warmest, sweetest weight imaginable in his arms.
Her breath caught, even as she blushed scarlet. ‘That is a very improper thing to say,’ she said, rather unconvincingly.
‘Nothing improper about it,’ he assured her. ‘Twelfth Night is a traditional time for renewing fertility and tumbling maidens. Not in the woods like May Day, of course, too cold for that. But...’ he glanced up at the greenery swathing her bed ‘...I note that someone has brought the woods to us, so it will probably work just the same.’
‘And that,’ she said severely, ‘is a very wicked, pagan thought.’
He grinned down at her and stole a kiss. ‘It is indeed.’ He kissed her again until she was squirming pleasurably against him. Lifting his mouth from hers, he noted that her eyes were thoroughly dazed. ‘Remember those books Dominic mentioned? I borrowed them from his library,’ he told her, caressing the silken curve of one hip.
‘Oh? What sort of books?’ she asked, wriggling against him in a way that guaranteed his insanity. ‘Like the ones Pippa says you have from Pompeii?’
He choked. ‘Not quite,’ he murmured against her lips. ‘But they were certainly full of wicked, pagan suggestions.’ His mouth drifted lower, finding the sweet, frantic beat in her throat. ‘All about how to tumble maidens. The sort of things a rector shouldn’t even know about, probably.’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘But since you do...’
He rolled on to his back and l
ifted her over him. ‘Since I do...’ he agreed.
* * * * *
Finding Forever at Christmas
Bronwyn Scott
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States and is the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.
For Max and Lara and their family, just because. Who would have thought when we became friends thirty-three years ago at a young-writers’ conference (let’s emphasise young, we were twelve, after all) it would have turned out like this? Actually, I’m not surprised at all. You’re writing papers on Hebrew vowels and I’m writing romance novels and, yep, that sounds about right. Love to you all.
Chapter One
December 21st, 1838
She was home! Catherine Emerson knew it the moment she stepped into the foyer of Deverill Hall as assuredly as she knew her own name. The hall was just as she remembered it: the long oak staircase draped with winter pine, boughs laden with red-satin bows and ropes of gold beads; she breathed deeply, taking in the sharp tang of the outdoors brought inside. It might possibly be her favourite scent. Five years had been a long time to be away.
Of course this wasn’t really her home in the truest sense. Her home was two miles away, where she lived with her mother and father—quietly. The ‘un-quiet’ of the Deverill household was one of the things she loved the most about it. It had been a marvel of her childhood to know a family with not one, but four children in it. Nothing had ever been quiet about Deverill Hall.
To prove it, a loud scream of delight echoed from the top of the stairs, ‘Catherine!’ Rapid footsteps tapped down the steps in a flurry of brightly coloured skirts, announcing the arrival of the Deverill girls. Catherine smiled. Some things never changed.
‘Alyson, Meredith!’ Catherine was caught up in their embraces, all three of them laughing and talking at once. They’d been inseparable in their youth. In the summers she’d practically lived here, running the fields, riding the grass tracks. She’d been such a regular companion, she’d had her own room, even her own pony, then a mare when she’d outgrown good-natured Henry.
‘Look at you! How sophisticated you’ve become!’ Meredith exclaimed, stepping back to take in her ensemble, a deep forest-green carriage dress, cut tight and form fitting in the latest fashion. ‘A white fur muff, too! It’s just exquisite, Catherine. Paris agrees with you.’
‘And engagement agrees with you.’ Meredith’s pale cheeks were aglow with colour, her blue eyes lit like candles. She looked positively beautiful. ‘I am so happy for you and for Marcus.’ Meredith engaged! It was almost too much to take in. She was glad Meredith had written and given her time to adjust to the news.
‘Alyson has news too.’ Meredith elbowed her younger sister and gave her a sly look. ‘You should tell Catherine.’
Alyson, the shyer of the two, blushed. ‘Nothing is for certain, but Jameson Ellis has been calling on me since the summer. I believe he will speak to Father while he’s here for the Christmas festivities.’
‘Oh, how wonderful.’ Catherine smiled, but inside she felt a little piece of her hopes crumble. Both girls to marry! Where would that leave her? She’d been gone and the world she’d left behind had changed. Catherine looked up at the staircase, her sense of homecoming diminished. She’d come here wanting to catch up. But instead everyone had moved on.
She’d known where she belonged in the old world—here at Deverill Hall with her friends, her second family. She wasn’t sure where she belonged in the new. Would there even be room in that new world where she had to share her friends with husbands and babies and whole new families? It wasn’t that she was jealous or that she begrudged the girls any of their happiness, it was just that she’d rather wrongly and unrealistically thought everything would have frozen in time, waiting for her to return.
Alyson tugged at her hand, excitedly. ‘Finn and Channing are both home.’ She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Finn’s latest mistress threw a diamond necklace at him. Apparently, she didn’t like her parting gift.’
‘We aren’t supposed to know...’ Meredith laughed ‘...but it’s hard not to. Finn’s got a cut, just there.’ Meredith tapped a finger along the lower part of her cheek. ‘Come on, Catherine. The boys will die when they see you!’
Or she would when she saw them, Catherine thought, very aware her pulse had speeded up at the prospect. More specifically at the prospect of seeing him, Channing Deverill, the younger brother and bane of her childhood—the secret subject of her adolescent longings. She wasn’t certain exactly when her feelings for him had changed. But one summer day he’d smiled at her from across the picnic blanket and she’d been lost. Then the fantasy had taken hold. She was going to marry him and for ever be a part of the Deverill household in the most legal and permanent way possible. She had it all planned, right down to the dress—she’d wear her grandmother’s wedding gown and he’d wear a blue morning coat that showed off his eyes. There would be flowers, lots of flowers.
As for Finn, she supposed he was still his dark, dour self. It was no surprise his mistress had thrown a necklace at him. She’d probably done it to get his attention. From what Catherine remembered, Finn was more interested in his botany than anything else. Whenever the five of them had gone on summer picnics, it had been Channing who entertained them with wild stories. Finn would wander off and come back with pockets full of samples, spouting Latin phrases as he laid his treasures out on the blanket. Then again, Finn had been five years older than she at a time when a few years’ difference in age had seemed to be a chasm.
The girls drew her into the formal receiving room, their arms twined through hers. The room was full of neighbours and friends and holiday cheer, the mantel hung with an impressive pine swag, a huge fire sending out a welcome warmth from the hearth. ‘Look who we found in the foyer!’ Meredith called out.
All eyes swivelled Catherine’s way, many of which she recognised, but only one pair held her interest. Catherine searched the room until she found Channing’s blue eyes. His face split into a wide grin at the sight of her. Her breath caught as he advanced through the crowd, gently shouldering a path past groups of visitors and guests gathered in conversation about the room. Her memories of him had not done him justice. He was all lean, golden grace. His body moved with a loose-limbed confidence and he was far more handsome than she recalled. Five years had allowed his features to mature; the planes of his face bore a sharp elegance that erased the last traces of boyishness just as she hoped the last five years had erased the last of her gawky adolescence.
She’d imagined this moment for ages: Channing seeing her, truly seeing her for the first time as a woman. It was the stuff of fairy tales, the one thing that made her five years away worthwhile, knowing when he looked upon her next she’d be as poised, as well dressed as the women he associated with when he was up in London. She wasn’t supposed to know, but he had quite a reputation in town for being a lady’s man. Seeing him like this, she had no trouble believing it. Who wouldn’t want to dance with such a fine man or be seen on his arm at the opera?
Catherine favoured him with a warm smile and held out her hands as he neared. She would show him she could be a credit to him. She’d seen the great operas in Paris. She could carry on intelligent conversation in French and English about their storylines and composers.
‘Good Lord, Cat, is that you?’ Channing took both her hands and kissed her cheek, appreciation evident in his eyes. He was indeed impressed by the transformation. But she would not be too easy to catch. Men liked a challenge up to a point. Her friend, Vivienne, in Paris, had taught
her that. Catherine did not hesitate to offer a gentle reprimand.
‘Catherine. You know I prefer Catherine,’ she corrected. Growing up, she hadn’t cared for any of the derivatives that went with her name. But Channing had never divined that.
‘You look beautiful.’ His eyes twinkled at her, making her feel like she was the only woman in the room. ‘Welcome home. Come and meet everyone. I’ll introduce you.’ He gave her his arm and just like that he was forgiven. The fairy tale was beginning. She was on his arm, touring the room, meeting old friends. Catherine’s hopes rose. Maybe there would be a third engagement to announce before the holidays were over.
* * *
Finn Deverill returned to gazing out of the long window overlooking the snow covered garden. The excitement of Catherine Emerson’s entrance was ebbing as people fell back into their conversations. She hadn’t noticed him. He was used to it. Most people didn’t when Channing was nearby. While he was the serious, older brother, Channing was the younger, extroverted brother, full of charm and wit. ‘Never mind,’ one of his great-aunts had told him when he was growing up. ‘He’s not the heir. He needs all the charm he can get. You have the earldom to speak for you.’ Then she’d patted him on the knee in consolation.
The problem was he’d like to speak for himself. There’d been several young ladies over the years who’d been vastly interested in his title, but none who’d been interested in him. Finn rubbed his cheek absently. If his mistress had understood that, things might have ended differently, better. They still would have ended, though.
It galled a bit that Catherine hadn’t noticed him. She’d been part of his boyhood. He would have thought she at least would have noticed him. He’d certainly noticed her and in ways he’d not anticipated.
She’d swept into the room between his sisters like a Christmas flame. The years had tamed her carroty riot of hair into a smooth cascade of deep auburn, twisted elegantly into a knot at her neck beneath that jaunty hat on her head. Time had brought feminine curves to the stick-straight slimness of her once-boyish form. A man’s hand would fit comfortably, perfectly, at the notch at her waist, to say nothing of how a man’s mouth might fit over those kissable, pink lips or how his other hand might cup the swell of a breast presented so enticingly in that form-fitted jacket of forest-green merino.
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