’Twas the Night Before Scandal

by Christi Caldwell

  “Marabelle, I want you to be mine.”

  “I already am,” she said softly. “Don’t wait.”

  A feral note of hunger rumbled from his chest and he leaned down, kissing her savagely. As he did so, he traced a hand up her leg and to the hot, sweet place between her thighs.

  She gasped with wonder as he found her most sensitive place, a place she barely ever touched herself. With each caress, the room seemed to spin and she felt herself being tossed higher and higher towards something she’d never experienced before.

  Just before finding that unknown, she felt him slip free of his breeches. He rested his hard sex against her slick opening. As he teased her with his hand, he thrust home.

  A cry of pain rushed from her lips.

  But just as quickly as the pain came, the pleasure returned for he didn’t relent in his kiss or his touch.

  She held on to him with all her strength, longing to be one with him.

  He stroked deep inside her, thrusting in and out in a primal rhythm. Her hips rocked against his as if she’d been made to fit him and only him.

  As his body built with tension, she, too, felt herself shatter with pleasure at the pressure of his thumb between their bodies.

  Wave after wave of delight crashed through her. And as she moaned, he called out her name.

  Voice still rough and breath harsh, he rested against her.

  A smile pulled at her lips and she ran her fingers through his hair.

  “You enjoyed it?” he asked, his voice still gravelly with his own release.

  “I have never known anything like it,” she said, unable to contain her amazement at how she felt under him.

  “Then you understand why I didn’t wish to fail you?”

  With his weight resting on his forearms, he stared down at her, waiting for her answer.

  She stroked his cheek and brushed a lock of dark hair from his face. “You must never worry about failing me again, Sebastian. That’s not who you are.”

  “I pray to God, not.”

  She drew him to her. If she held him tight enough, hard enough, perhaps she could erase all the hurt and fear he’d ever known. For she knew without question that Sebastian was a man who needed her love, and she wished to give it, so, she would.

  Chapter 10

  He woke to the feel of her soft body against his and drank in the scent of rosemary. My God, she was a revelation. A harbor of safety. All his life, he’d gone out on rough waters. He’d dared the wind and challenged all that had been set before him.

  There had been no task too great, no feat too daunting. Blade and pistol had been the way in which he’d lived and assumed he would die. . . But now? Now, in her embrace, he longed for something entirely different.

  He longed with an aching need to live out his days in peace until he was an old man. He wanted to be by her side, watching their children’s children playing in the parkland.

  How could such a dream come to him? Him. A man who had forsaken any such desires when he was small. For such desires had been deemed weak. To want heirs, of course, had been correct. To wish to love them and be with them? That was frowned upon.

  But as he quietly propped himself up on an elbow and studied the curve of her cheek, the coils of her long hair, the sweet sway of her body, he felt. . . Changed.

  She stretched, a smile transforming her sleepy face.

  “Good morrow, my husband.”

  Those words were painfully sweet. “Good morrow, my wife.”

  And then she grinned. Grinned in a way he could have only imagined she might have done as a small, gamine child.

  “Today is Christmas Eve,” she exclaimed.

  “So it is,” he agreed.

  “Oh the wondrous things we shall do!”

  “Shall we?”

  “Oh yes!” She stilled then cupped her hand against his cheek. “But first, a kiss. A kiss to start this wonderful day.”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  And he touched her lips softly. There was no wild hunger in this kiss. This kiss was entirely different than any kiss he’d ever known. This was a kiss of peace, of exploration, of breath and kindness.

  It was more powerful than any other kiss he’d known in his life and, without thinking, he pulled her to him. He buried his face against her slender, columned neck.

  A feeling he was unfamiliar with sprang alive inside him. Fear. Fear that he might lose this new, incredible emotion.

  “I am not going anywhere, Sebastian,” she said softly, stroking his back, holding him tight.

  “Of course not,” he forced himself to say as if he wasn’t suddenly terrified of losing her. Losing this only chance at love that he’d ever known.

  Love. My God, He was being foolish. He’d known her for days. How could he even think such an idiotic thing? He was no moon calf. No fool from a romantic novel or play.

  He was made of harder stuff than that. And yet. . . Oh, how he longed to give his emotions free rein.

  Instead, he leaned back, took her hand in his and pulled her naked from the bed. He forced an easy smile, lest she think him maudlin. “Come then, wife. Show me how to make merry at Christmas.

  “With great pleasure, my lord. With great pleasure. But first, I suppose I should put on a gown.”

  He sighed dramatically. “Could we not be druids and dance naked around the fire?”

  She laughed. “Though I admit Christmas does celebrate many of the old ways, I do not think even we could manage such a shocking display without censure.”

  “Ah. Well, if we must get dressed, let me be your lady’s maid.”

  “If you like, though I have a great many buttons,” she warned.

  “I know I shouldn’t admit it, but I am familiar with a lady’s clothing.”

  She tsked. “You are a terrible rogue to say so, but you do not surprise me.”

  He hesitated. “I am glad of it.”

  She arched a brow. “Are you? Why?”

  “Because. . . If I were but a callow youth, we could not be together as perfectly as we are now.”

  “Are you certain?” she asked, her gaze widening.

  “Without any doubt,” he said. He thought back to his young self and winced. “I remember myself as a green boy. Green boys shouldn’t be allowed near inexperienced maids.” He was silent for a moment. “I wish for you to be happy.”

  “I am. I will be.”

  “Come then.” He held out his hand. “To your boudoir.”

  “Where you can kiss my toes?” she teased.

  “If I kiss your toes, I shall have to kiss higher and higher and we shall not leave your room all day.” He took her hand and pulled her against him. “And as you seem to have other plans. . . Perhaps, I will simply have to find other ways to worship you.”

  She glanced up at him. “And if I have no wish to be worshiped at all?”

  “What do you wish?”

  She gave him a cheeky smile like she was about to say something quite silly. But then that look faded from her eyes and she said, “To be loved.”

  There it was. “I– I do not know how to love. I want to.”

  “Come, that can’t be true.”

  “No, it is. I have no idea how it is to be done.”

  “But surely—”

  “Marabelle, I was never taught how to love.”

  Sadness softened her features. “How terrible for you.”

  “Do not feel sorry for me,” he protested. That was the last thing he wished.

  “Come,” she said suddenly, as if she sensed his distress. “We must not allow this to ruin our morning. I have not felt such happiness in a long while. And it is you that have made me thus.”

  He nodded. “Let us speak nothing of it.”

  She hesitated then parted her lips as if she would speak in any case.

  “No,” he said softly, bringing his fingers to lightly rest upon her mouth. “There is nothing to say. Today is about you teaching me how Christmas should be celebrated. And na
ught else.”

  A heavy sort of sadness seemed to dampen her spirits for a long moment. And in that instant, he hated himself.

  He should have lied. Or made some lighthearted jest to her desire to be loved. Yet, he found he couldn’t. Not with Marabelle. Still, it shook him that he had disappointed her. And it occurred to him then, he might spend the rest of his life disappointing her with how little he knew about love. Even if he wanted it so much. Somehow, he managed to keep his smile upon his face. Even as he felt his world turning upside down about him. Everything he’d thought he’d known was spinning away.

  *

  There were many things that Marabelle typically would have allowed the staff to do at Christmas. But it struck her that if Sebastian had never celebrated Christmas, he had almost certainly never known the joy of a city like York at such a time.

  So, they took the hour coach ride into the walled city, sitting side by side, hand in hand.

  He had attempted to sit on the opposite side of the coach, but she was having none of that. For she was in jolly spirits. Now that they had begun the journey to the closeness a husband and wife should have, she was not about to be deterred.

  Sebastian was the kind of man who did not know how to share his feelings. She understood that. But she wasn’t about to let him go backwards in their journey.

  That kiss this morning? My goodness, it had been a gateway to another world! Unlike the wild, raw passion of the night before. It had been tender and full of the sweetest feeling. She could not help but believe he was naught more than a wounded soul who needed someone to guide him to kindness, acceptance, and safety.

  It was a role she was delighted to attempt to fill, for he awoke a part of her that she’d only prayed existed. A part that had been dormant all her life and never given a chance.

  The coach rolled to a stop in the central part of the walled city and she could not stop the smile that pulled at her cheeks. As she turned and looked at her husband, she couldn’t stop her laugh.

  He looked quite startled.

  “Whatever is amiss?” she queried.

  Sebastian cleared his throat and peered out the window. “I am, of course, used to raucous merrymaking.”

  “But for an all too different cause, no doubt.”

  He gave a tight nod. “Yes.”

  “Never you fear, Sebastian,” she cheered. “Come along with me and you shall be in good hands.”

  “I do not doubt it.”

  “I think, perhaps, hot chestnuts to start.”

  He was silent as he bounded down from the coach. Then he helped her to descend.

  The cobbled street was packed veritably shoulder to shoulder with hawkers of wares and buyers. All were collecting items for their feasts and coming days of celebrations.

  A fiddler played happy tunes on the street corner. A few boys were singing nearby, their hats outstretched, hoping for coin.

  Without preamble, she went to them immediately and dug out her reticule.

  She dropped coins into the caps and the small bowl before the fiddler.

  The nods of acknowledgement from the street performers set her heart even more towards Christmas cheer. She hooked her arm in the crook of Sebastian’s elbow.

  He followed her. Whether stunned into silence, she had no idea, but as the sounds and scents of the city surrounded them, she felt his spirits buoy.

  Immediately, he pulled her aside as they passed a small puppet show. He seemed entranced by the small puppets jumping about the makeshift stage with its red curtains.

  A laugh burst from his lips at the antics of the dancing toys and the children watching.

  It was touching to see her husband moved. And she realized then, that likely, he had never been allowed to enjoy anything like it as a child.

  As soon as the performance was done, he joined the applause with as much enthusiasm as the youngest member of the audience. He tossed a coin to the man who had come out from behind the little stage.

  Snow began to fall in light flakes as they stopped before the hot chestnut vendor and bought a small bag.

  “Do you often do this?” he asked as he peeled a nut for her.

  “No, I confess not,” she said, taking the hot morsel. “But I thought we should come and enjoy it. Are you pleased?”

  “Very,” he replied, taking a chestnut for himself. “But I see something I’d like to buy more than anything else on this street.”

  She smiled, pleased he was enjoying himself. “What?”

  He waggled his brows at her. “You shall see.”

  So, she allowed him to guide her through the crowd until, at last, they stood before a man bearing bushels of greenery.

  She laughed again, her cheeks burning with delight and anticipation. “Mistletoe!”

  “Indeed,” said Sebastian. He dug into his pockets and paid the man.

  Sebastian selected several sprigs tied with red ribbon.

  The seller tipped his cap at them, smiling a slightly gap-toothed thanks.

  They wandered along, surrounded by those who were full of the good humor of the day. With a gesture to his purchase, he said, “I shall hang these in several rooms.”

  “Why?” She squeezed his arm, loving the hard strength beneath her hand. “I will kiss you anywhere you like, even without the mistletoe.”

  To her shock, he slowly turned her, lowered his head, and kissed her. Right there. On the street! ’Twas as if he longed to claim her and for the world to see. She wondered if joy was so new to him that he now attempted to seize it whenever he could.

  It was impossible to fault him for it. In fact, she was overjoyed and nearly overwhelmed that he was choosing to show his feelings to the world.

  Cheers and whistles went up around them.

  “That’s right, governor!” one lad called.

  He swung her around, skirts belling out, lifting her toes from the ground. Slowly, he put her back down, still linking his arms about her waist.

  She patted her crimson hood, gasping for breath. “You do take things literally, don’t you?”

  “Should I not have?”

  “You should, Sebastian. For I love your kisses. Now, let us go and buy wine. For what would the evening be without it?”

  “Dearest wife, the only thing I need to celebrate, is you.”

  Those words rang through her and she swallowed, praying with all her heart that he truly meant what he said. For, with each passing hour in his company, she felt more and more certain that her heart had chosen its mate.

  Come what may, she was falling in love with her husband. And just as he tucked her arm around his again, the bells of York Cathedral began to toll on the hour. The bells sang out, ringing a song that had been played for hundreds of years. Her heart and soul were filled with hope and the feeling that, no matter how he claimed to not know how to love, Sebastian Rutherford, the Earl of Gray, was the man destined to love her.

  Chapter 11

  It was a miracle that Sebastian had managed to let his wife arrive home from York with her hair or clothes in any sort of proper state. For it had been all they could do not to make love in the coach on the way home. But they had made it. And now, said coach was traveling from cottage to cottage on his estate.

  Sebastian held her hand, amazed that they’d completely filled the available space with items of goodwill. Bottles of wine, oranges, grapes, cakes, sugared almonds, flowers, toys. Every possible joyous thing that one could think of was overflowing from the coach.

  The majority of it was not for them. For their Christmas feast had already been arranged or so Marabelle had assured him.

  Oh, no. These were for his tenants. Tonight, instead of merely drinking by the fire and eating as he’d assumed, they were bringing joy to others.

  It was a marvel to him.

  His parents had not believed in such things. They’d firmly believed God chose those who would excel and one shouldn’t interfere with God’s plans. The poor were to be left in the gutter, where God had ordai
ned they should be. It was something he’d never understood, had always suffered over, and, in his childhood, he’d had to learn to hide that sympathy.

  Marabelle, on the other hand, seemed to believe that it was the duty of someone borne to privilege to bring hope and help to those less fortunate. Merely inspiring a smile on someone’s face seemed enough to her.

  So, when the coach stopped before the Grants’ small but excellently kept stone cottage, he felt a hint of trepidation. This was not his field of expertise.

  Following his wife with a basket on either arm, he prepared to remain silent.

  But as soon as the door opened, they were exposed to a rectangle of candle glow and the scent of a well-tended fire. They were enveloped in the boisterous noise of children and adults already celebrating.

  “Welcome! You’ll have a glass, my lord!” Andrew Grant called from beside the fire.

  The man hadn’t risen, but his face was welcoming.

  Mrs. Grant bounced a curtsy, waving them in.

  It only took a moment for Sebastian to understand that the reason the man hadn’t risen was almost certainly due to a war wound.

  So, Sebastian bowed ever so slightly to Mrs. Grant. She was a plump but friendly woman with soft blond hair and brown eyes.

  “That would please me very much,” he said, crossing to the fire.

  As Marabelle struck up a conversation with Mrs. Grant, he took a seat on the hard backed but beautifully made chair opposite the wounded man.

  At first, Sebastian felt odd sitting in silence as the fire roared beside them. He felt cold despite the warmth blazing against his legs. Worse, he felt unfamiliar with what he should say or do.

  “Did you know the old earl?” Mr. Grant asked.

  “I had the fortune of meeting him once.”

  “Excellent fellow,” Mr. Grant said brightly, folding his hands over his slightly rounded stomach. “We all miss him terribly.”

  “I have a great deal to live up to,” agreed Sebastian.

  “If you care to live up to him,” Mr. Grant said with no ill humor. “Many wouldn’t even attempt it.”

  There was no hint of concern in the man’s voice. But it struck Sebastian that he held his tenant’s well-being almost entirely in his hands.