His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  Lucas scowled up at the ceiling before throwing her a rueful glance. “I’m sorry to have brought you to such a ramshackle house, Phoebe. I’m sure it was not what you expected.”

  “I do not mind at all,” she said truthfully. “I was just a bit surprised.”

  What little she had seen of the manor was spotless, but it was clear that something had been amiss for a long time. Carpets were faded and threadbare, furniture was worn, and in some of the rooms she had spied the wallpaper peeling back, exposing mildew and damp. The neglect spoke volumes about her grandfather’s state of mind in the years preceding his death, and that saddened her.

  With a heavy sigh, Lucas sat down on a low armchair in front of the chimneypiece. “Still, I could have wished for a better homecoming for my bride.”

  Falling into a brown study, he stared into the flames.

  Putting down her glass, Phoebe pulled her wrapper tight against the chill and came to him, gingerly sitting on the creaky footstool at his feet. “I knew there were some problems, but why did you not tell me conditions were so bad?”

  He reached to gently stroke her hair, the wry smile returning to his lips. His touch soothed her, even as tingles of awareness shivered through her body.

  “I didn’t want to scare you off. If you knew how bad it was, you might have run screaming back to America.”

  “Lucas, you know very well I was not raised in the lap of luxury, and I am certainly not afraid of hard work. In fact, I welcome it.”

  She hesitated, then carefully placed her hands on his knee. “If I can help you restore the manor and the estate to order, then I will be less of a burden to you.”

  His body seemed to turn to stone under her fingers. His face did, too, although his eyes blazed with a dangerous heat. Then, so quickly she barely saw the movement, his arms lashed out and circled her waist. Alarmed, she squeaked out a protest when he swept her up in a rush and plunked her onto his lap. She grabbed the front of his shirt to steady herself.

  Warm, calloused hands captured her face as he brought her close. Her heart stuttered as he studied her with an intense, heavy-lidded stare.

  “Phoebe, you are not a burden to me, and you are forbidden to say that again. Do you understand?”

  Butterflies danced in her stomach, but the raw sexuality in his eyes set off another kind of fluttering lower down—one that eagerly anticipated his touch. That was odd, since he was clearly annoyed with her, but she suspected another emotion—the one that made her quiver—also drove him.

  She found herself unable to resist temptation’s dark urgings. She flicked her tongue out, dampening lips gone suddenly dry. His gaze fastened on her mouth.

  “And what will you do if I do not obey you?” she challenged in a breathless voice.

  One hand left her face to slide down her spine to her rump. Through the delicate cambric of her night rail and wrapper, his hand felt huge and hot and wonderful. She squeaked again when it slipped underneath, settling her more comfortably in his lap.

  When he removed it a moment later, her eyes widened in startled amazement. Something else nudged her bottom, and it also felt huge and hot and . . . wonderful, too.

  When she wriggled against it, he drew in a sharp breath. He held her steady as he dipped his head, his mouth brushing over hers in a moist, teasing press of lips. Phoebe clutched at him, sighing with pleasure, but he broke the kiss all too soon.

  “I will show you, Wife, what happens when you don’t obey my commands. Especially in the bedroom.”

  Underneath her fingertips, his heart thumped with a strong, rapid beat. Hers did, too, as he came back to nuzzle her mouth with tempting kisses, his hand stroking along her jaw. Down that hand went, over her neck, her collarbone, and finally settling on her breast. He cupped it, fondling the nipple, and she thought her heart really just might beat out of her chest.

  With a helpless shudder, she curled into his teasing fingers. His other hand spanned her back, supporting her. He held her steady as he played with her breast, gently rubbing and tweaking the nipple until it contracted into a hard, aching bead. When he grasped it with the tips of his fingers, pulling gently, she felt an answering tug in the deepest part of her body. And between her legs, in that hidden, intimate place, she felt a hot slick of moisture.

  Clutching the edges of Lucas’s shirt, Phoebe broke away from the kiss. She stared at him, panting and disoriented by the rush of sensation. He stared back, his gaze hot and slumberous, and that look made her shiver again.

  “What is it, love?” he asked in a deep, low voice.

  Carefully, she spread her fingers across his chest, taking comfort in the solid strength of him. She was hot and muddled, excited and scared, not knowing whether she wanted to wrap herself around him or run away. “I feel rather strange. My body . . .” she trailed off, unable to express what she felt.

  The hand stroking her back reassured her. The seductive smile he gave her did anything but. “What you feel is natural, Phoebe. Your body is getting ready to accept mine.”

  She bit her lip. He seemed to like that, if the flare of heat in his eyes was any indication.

  “How . . . how is it getting ready?” she asked.

  It might be an indelicate question, but she truly wanted to know. This morning, as she changed in preparation for the journey to Kent, Meredith had spoken to her about what would happen on the wedding night. Phoebe had formed a general idea, of course, but Meredith’s frank, calmly delivered description left her gaping at the details, too embarrassed to ask the questions that might have cleared up her resulting confusion.

  “I know this is all very disconcerting,” Meredith had said in a soothing voice, “but you mustn’t worry too much. Lucas will do everything he can to make you comfortable.” Then her cousin had given her a sly grin. “Well, more than comfortable, actually. Just trust that he will take care of you, and everything will be fine.”

  It was the trust part Phoebe was having trouble with.

  She had ducked her head when she muttered her question to him, but he tipped her chin up so he could inspect her face. “Do you really not know?” he asked, his brows arching. “Did no one ever tell you?”

  “Lucas,” she said between clenched teeth, “my mother died when I was fourteen, and my father a few years after. Who do you think would have explained the precise mechanics to me—my brother, George?”

  A quick grin flashed across his face. When she scowled at him, he dropped an apologetic kiss on her lips. “I’m sorry, Phoebe. I should have realized the problem. Well, you may have noticed that a man’s . . . ah . . . appendage tends to grow quite a bit larger when . . . stimulated.”

  His stilted explanation had her rolling her eyes. “I am quite sure you do not usually refer to it as an appendage. That sounds quite distasteful.”

  He laughed. “You’re right about that.”

  “Just tell me what you call it, please. In simple language.”

  “Well, I suppose I would call it my cock,” he said in a rather strangled voice.

  “Your cock,” she said, rolling it around on her tongue. She wriggled again, just to test if what he said was true.

  It was. It had grown even bigger than it had been just a moment ago.

  “Jesus, Phoebe,” he gasped, looking pained. “Sit still before you cripple me.”

  She peered into his glazed eyes. “Did I hurt you, Lucas? I am so sorry.”

  He closed his eyelids, as if gathering himself. His cheekbones were flushed a dark bronze, and he seemed to be clenching his teeth. “Not precisely, my dear. But it would be best if you not move around too much at this juncture, or we might find our evening coming to a rather ignominious end.”

  She frowned. What did he mean by that?

  And just like that, her courage deserted her. She had too many questions, too many fears, and this was all too sudden and overwhelming for her to absorb. In so many ways she hardly knew the man who was now her husband, and the idea of turning both her physical and emotion
al self over to him had her at sea.

  “Perhaps we should not do this,” she said. “It has been a very long day, and you must be exhausted.” She started to slide off his lap, but he caught her, holding her in place.

  “No, my love,” he said in a gentler voice. “You’re not going anywhere.” He studied her with a sharply perceptive gaze that made her want to squirm.

  “Lucas,” she started, her voice trembling.

  “Phoebe, are you afraid of me?”

  “N . . . no. Not of you, exactly. It is all this,” she said lamely. She waved her arm in a circle, as if that explained everything.

  “Of sex?”

  She winced, too humiliated to admit it.

  He wrapped his arms around her, cuddling her close. Grateful to escape that penetrating gaze, she huddled against him with her head down. He held her like that, waiting for her to recover her voice.

  “I know it seems silly of me,” she said, her voice muffled in his shirt. “But I do not really know thee very well. Nor thee, me.”

  He let out a husky laugh that vibrated through his body and into hers. “Love, I know you very well. I know you are a sweet, kind person and a beautiful woman.” He nudged her upright, forcing her to look at him. “And I’ve wanted you from almost the first moment I met you. That has not changed, I can assure you.”

  The devilment in his gaze made every part of her body tingle. Still, she found that hard to believe, especially since she had been a pale, sick-looking creature those first few days after they met.

  “Truly? Even looking like an old, sick crow?”

  He smiled. “You could never look like a crow. Phoebe, love, would you like me to show you how much I want you?”

  His gentle request for permission began to unravel the coil of fear in her gut. And left her feeling rather foolish. After all, Lucas was her husband, and she had vowed to honor and cherish him, body and soul. She loved him, too. To withhold herself seemed somehow sinful. As if she was closing herself off from him and from the sacred promises she had made before God.

  She gave him a tentative smile. “Yes. I would like that.”

  His sea smoke eyes seemed to lighten and a mischievous grin tugged at his mouth. “Thank God. Stand up, love, and let’s get this robe off so I can properly show you how much you tempt me.”

  Blushing, she clambered off his lap. Lucas sat up and spread his legs, gently tugging her to stand between them. She could not help glancing down, caught by how large the bulge pressing against the fall of his breeches appeared to be.

  He gave a deep chuckle, and she yanked her gaze back up to his face.

  “Do you remember what it’s called?” he asked with a wicked grin.

  Phoebe rolled her eyes, refusing to be bested by him. “It is called your cock.”

  He tugged her closer, gently gripping her legs with the inside of his muscled thighs. “Very good. I predict you’ll be an able pupil.”

  Then he unbuttoned her wrapper at the throat and down over her chest. When he eased it open, he let his fingers brush her nipples. They tingled to life once again, drawing into rigid points that thrust through the thin material of her night rail.

  Lucas pushed the wrapper off her shoulders to the floor, then cupped her breasts with his hands. The sight of his long, tanned fingers shaping her through the delicate white fabric brought a whimper to her throat.

  “I very much like these,” he murmured. “So plump, with beautiful, rosy tips.” He pulled the fabric taut so they could both see the dark outline of her nipples through the fabric. She drew in a shaky breath as the stiff points throbbed with anticipation.

  As if he read her mind, he leaned forward and flicked his tongue over one nipple. Sensation arced through her, and she rose up on her toes. “Lucas,” she choked out, grasping his shoulders.

  “Mmm. So sensitive. I suspected as much.”

  Then, so slowly it made her heart pound, his fingers moved up to her neck to undo the laces of her night rail. When her breathing grew shallow, his gaze came up to look at her. His eyes held an understanding she did not expect from so tough and formidable a man.

  Leaning in, he pressed a brief, tender kiss on her lips. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

  She nodded, trying to smile back. She must have failed rather miserably, because his fingers stilled.

  “Do you trust me, Phoebe?” He voiced the question calmly, without any irritation. He exuded confidence, and the sense that when he made a promise, he would hold to it. If he promised to take care of her, then he would.

  Her body relaxed under his hands. “Yes, Lucas. I do trust you.”

  He rewarded her with a slow, seductive smile that devastated her senses. His gaze fell once more to his hands as they finished untying her bodice. Carefully, he eased the garment down her shoulders and arms, over her breasts, finally pushing the bunched material around her waist. His calloused hands caressed her skin, and he touched her with a reverence that brought a sting of tears to her eyes.

  “Like cream and silk,” he murmured. “I’ve been waiting to touch you . . . to feel you under my hands.”

  She watched, fascinated, as his hands trailed over her shoulders, tracing the lines of her body, raising goose bumps in their wake.

  “And these,” he murmured, tracing a finger over the swell of her breast. “So full, so soft.” He touched her nipple with one finger, rubbing gently. It contracted into a hard, aching point. She moaned as the goose bumps on her skin turned into shivers of delight.

  His gaze, scorching hot, lifted to meet hers. “How could I not want these, Phoebe? Your breasts are so damn pretty I could feast on them for hours.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Feast on them? Her knees turned to mush, and she had to grab his shoulders to remain upright.

  A husky laugh rumbled up from his throat, and then he returned his attention to her breasts. Capturing them in his big hands, he kneaded until her flesh felt heavy, becoming more sensitive the longer he played with them.

  And play he did, especially with her nipples. He gently pulled on them with the tips of his fingers, then brushed his calloused palms across them, over and over again. They burned with sensation, and a pleasure so sharp it almost pained her. With each brush, each gentle twist, her nipples grew harder, rosier, and so hot she longed for more. But more of what?

  More of Lucas, a voice whispered in her head.

  She drew in a shuddering sob and her breasts quivered, rising and falling with her panting breath. He growled, dipping his head to plant a kiss and then a lick on the white swell of one breast, just above the nipple. The wet heat of his tongue made her knees buckle, and he had to hold her upright between his thighs.

  “Lucas,” she moaned, investing his name with a desperate plea.

  His eyes almost closed as he inhaled the scent of her skin, then brushed his bristle-roughened cheek against her nipple. That sent a bolt of sensation soaring through her, piercing her to the core. Her inner muscles seemed to spasm, throbbing with a liquid heat. “Oh, my,” she gasped, her eyes opening wide.

  His gaze, heavy-lidded and predatory, flicked upward.

  “Do you like that?” he asked. His voice was so deep, so husky, it made everything in her flame hotter. “Do you like it when I do this?” His fingers captured both nipples, and he gently tugged them into aching points.

  “Yes,” she sobbed, clutching at his shoulders. The muscles under her fingers felt like bands of iron.

  “Do you want more?” he growled.

  Desire rolled through her, beating thickly in her veins. She did want more, more of whatever it was he could give her. It was more than wanting. It was a need that charged her with a restless energy only he could assuage. “Yes,” she panted. “Please, Lucas. I need more.”

  He made a deep, masculine noise and his hand clamped across her bottom, nudging her forward. Then his mouth came on her, swift and sure, and she suddenly understood what he meant by feasting. Sucking hard on her nipple one
moment, licking across it with a hot stroke of the tongue the next. One hand gripped her bottom to hold her firmly in place, but his other hand was busy, too, kneading one breast while his mouth devoured the other.

  Phoebe writhed under the lash of his tongue, snared by sensation. She felt undone, not herself, and exposed in every way possible. But even as she clutched at the edges of reason, she sensed he would keep his vow. Lucas would keep her safe in his strong arms, as she gave in to the feelings rushing through her.

  He swirled his tongue over her nipple, then gave a hard suck, one so intensely pleasurable it wrenched a thin shriek from her throat. She froze, aghast at herself.

  Lucas blinked and looked up at her. When he took in her expression, he let out a hoarse chuckle.

  “Sweetheart, it’s fine. You’re supposed to make noise when you enjoy it.”

  She stared at him doubtfully, still holding his broad shoulders in a death grip. “But now everyone will know exactly what we are doing.”

  “They would have deduced that in any event. It is our wedding night, after all.”

  She groaned and closed her eyes. “You must think I am a complete hen-wit.”

  His hands came to her waist, stroking her. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

  The genuine admiration in his voice made her smile, even though she did not yet open her eyes.

  “Truly?”

  He gave a dramatic sigh, and she raised her eyelids to catch his grin.

  “I suppose you need more convincing, don’t you?” he asked.

  She touched his cheek, and he turned to kiss her palm. Love for him, so strong it took her breath, pulsed through her, as did a flash of understanding that she wanted him more now than she had ever wanted anything.

  Needing a moment to recover from the breath-stealing emotion, Phoebe tilted her head, pretending to give the question serious consideration. His eyes, warm with amusement and understanding, glittered back at her.