by Carla Kelly
Cassie hugged her daughter. ‘So do you.’
Diana raised her arms and Cassie picked her up and bussed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you for helping Diana dress, Lucy.’ With the ease of long practice, for Clifford had not believed in spending coin on a lady’s maid or governess when he had a wife to make herself useful, she tightened their lacings and brushed their pretty hair until it shone. ‘Red or blue ribbons?’ she asked.
‘Red,’ Lucy decided. ‘To match the holly.’
Cassie smiled at Diana. ‘Dearest?’ Cassie did not make the mistake of taking her youngest child’s choice for granted.
‘Red,’ Diana said, as usual following her sister’s lead.
‘Will the church in the village be full of candles, the way the one at home was?’ Lucy asked as Cassie tied a bow over her left ear.
‘I would expect so, but, dear heart, walking a mile in the depths of winter with no one to accompany us is not a good idea. Instead, we shall light our log and sing our carols here.’
‘Will we have to go home?’ Diana asked, a quiver in her voice.
Cassie hugged her tight. ‘I don’t know.’ Not if she could possibly avoid it. ‘Shall we go down and await our guest?’
The girls clattered down the wooden staircase ahead of her. Flutters invaded her stomach. It seemed no matter how she tried to remind herself that Mr Royston was no more than a guest for dinner, her body had other ideas. No doubt she wasn’t the first widow, or yet the last, to consider entertaining a gentleman with more than her company, but she feared she might be making a dreadful mistake.
The girls had barely perched themselves on the chairs in the parlour when a sharp knock came at the front door. Heart fluttering madly, Cassie went in answer.
And there he stood, his chocolate-brown hair dusted by snowflakes, his smile hesitant, his green eyes dark with caution, as if he, too, harboured doubts about the wisdom of this evening. And yet he looked so handsome with the light from the parlour spilling over him, so large, so very male, her mind went blank as her body hummed with pleasure. ‘It is snowing.’
He bowed. ‘It is. Good evening, Mrs Melford.’ He tilted his head in question.
Heat scalded her cheeks. ‘Please, come in.’ Once inside, she took his coat, hat and gloves.
He bowed in the direction of the girls. ‘Good evening, Miss Melford. Miss Diana.’
Such lovely manners.
The girls, bless them, inclined their heads and dipped their knees as she had taught them. ‘Good evening, Mr Royston,’ they chorused.
Diana shot across the room and grabbed his hand. ‘Come and see the table. It has holly and everything.’
Cassie couldn’t quite believe her eyes. Shy Diana had decided he was safe, which said a great deal about Adam Royston.
The man made a great laughing show of allowing himself to be pulled into the kitchen and was assiduous in his praise of the table decorations. ‘Something smells delicious,’ he said, his eyes twinkling at Cassie.
‘Dinner,’ Lucy announced. ‘We are to have vegetable soup and beef stew and custard tart.’
‘That sounds positively wonderful,’ he said. ‘I have to admit I am sharp set after my walk in the snow.’
‘Is it snowing hard?’ Cassie asked to fill a pause.
‘A few flakes on the wind. Not settling.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement. ‘Except on me.’
She smiled at his teasing. ‘Please, everyone be seated. Mr Royston, if you would take the place of honour at that end.’
Adam held out a chair for each lady in turn and they sat.
‘Lucy,’ Cassie said. ‘Please say grace.’
* * *
Replete beyond words, Adam stretched his legs before the hearth. Simple it might have been, but he could not remember when he had enjoyed a meal more. His contentment had nothing to do with the food, which had been plain, hearty and tasty, thank you very much, Mrs Melford. Above all, he had enjoyed the company of a warm-hearted woman and her two lively daughters.
Cassie was a treasure. Loving. Gentle. Kind. Yet full of fun. And her body, so magnificently lush he had trouble keeping his hands to himself.
He frowned at the flames in the hearth. This afternoon, for the first time in a long while, something inside him had come alive. He had actually enjoyed himself. Forgotten duty, forgotten responsibility and felt happier than he had in years. Without knowing it, he’d missed that feeling. Badly. Perhaps his parents were right, it was time to move on with his life.
What, and forget Marion? He could not. Would not.
The sounds above his head, the sounds of children readying for bed, the sounds of a mother caring for those children, slowly diminished. Sounds that should have been his, but were not. That was part of the reason he’d avoided Portmaine Court and his family. It reminded him too much of what he had so carelessly thrown away. Instead, he wandered from property to property on Portmaine business. Keeping himself busy. Keeping himself marginally sane by being useful.
Footsteps tripped lightly down the narrow staircase, followed by a view of a pair of prettily turned ankles and finally Cassie’s sweetly smiling face.
He rose to his feet and his body tightened as that particular smile struck him low in his gut. It was a long time since a decent woman’s smile had made his body stir with such enthusiasm. He was usually too busy thinking of ways to avoid their company in case they decided to pursue him in earnest. A proper gentleman would kiss her cheek, compliment her cooking, thank her for her kindness and trek out in the wind and the snow. But this evening he wasn’t feeling much like a gentleman. Not even close. He wanted more.
She gestured for him to sit, but instead he took her trembling hand and gazed down into her extraordinarily expressive eyes. ‘The girls are settled?’
She released a long breath. ‘Yes. Diana is already asleep.’ Her expression became serious. ‘I had a wonderful time this evening. You are so kind to the girls.’
Only one reason would get a red-blooded male to play spillikins with a couple of schoolgirls after dinner. Getting closer to their mama. He wouldn’t be merely not good, he would be a thoroughgoing scoundrel if he took advantage. ‘Thank you for a most delicious dinner. I enjoyed myself immensely.’ He spoke the truth, when a dalliance required innuendo and lies. ‘I will treasure the memory.’
He saw when she realised he was saying goodbye. And the disappointment in her face wrenched sharply at something in his chest.
‘Of the singing, no doubt,’ she said, her voice teasing, but her gaze suspiciously bright.
Inexplicably, his throat tightened. ‘Especially the singing.’
Fingertips on her cheeks, aware of the softness of her skin, the delicate warmth and the scent of roses, he turned her face up. Waited one heartbeat and yet another, for the smallest sign of protest, then touched his lips to her full luscious mouth. She melted into his kiss, encircled his shoulders with her arms and returned his gift with undeniable enthusiasm.
A pang caused his breath to hitch.
Regret that there would not be more than kisses if he was indeed still a gentleman.
Slowly, carefully, he put his arms around her, drawing her inward, caressing her back, learning the length of her spine, the dip of her waist, the way her ribs expanded and contracted, pressing her lovely full breasts against his chest. She was a bundle of feminine charm, this woman in his arms. Enthusiastic and...lacking in any sort of female wiles or defences. She was all that was good and wholesome in the world, like beeswax candles and the honey she had put in his tea after dinner. And for a man whose recent interactions with women rarely involved kissing, the feel of her lips on his was blissfully erotic.
Whatever gentlemanly inclinations he might aspire to slipped from his grasp.
* * *
Cassie loved his heavenly kis
ses. A feast for the senses. Dizzying.
Never before had she been so much as tempted by a man. The thought of where such temptation might actually lead had her going hot and cold in terror mingled with longing. Certainly there had been none of this heady passion in her marriage.
Did he sense her fear? He held her carefully against him, tenderly, giving her not the slightest alarm. Letting her know she could break free any time she wished. She should wish. A kiss under the mistletoe was one thing, but this was very different. This was the opening move in a dance of which she had little knowledge, except to recognise the tune.
She pressed a hand flat against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers and his strength. He could crush her if he had a mind to do so, but she had no fear of that. Nor would he decimate her with cruel or disdainful words.
Intimacy with this man would be a memory to cherish, since she had decided for the girls’ sake she would never wed again. How could she exchange them for the doubtful privilege of becoming a man’s chattel, to be tolerated only as long as she was of use?
Slowly, reluctantly, he broke their kiss and gazed into her eyes. An unspoken question. Her face heated. Training warring with temptation. Inside she trembled, knowing he would not do anything without her permission. He began to withdraw.
Fingers shaking, she pressed her hand against his cheek. The delightful warmth of him infused her with courage. She leaned into him, kissed him back, tentatively at first, brushing his lovely mouth lightly with her lips. His guttural growl of approval gave her the courage to taste him with her tongue. His lips parted and, heart thumping, she delved deeper. He tasted of wine and honeyed tea. The scent of him, something darkly spicy, sandalwood, filled her nostrils and she inhaled deeply, savouring a perfume she would remember all of her days.
He encircled her in his arms, tangling his tongue with hers, until she could no longer think of anything, only feel the blood humming in her veins, the tingling in her fingers and toes, the heaviness in her breasts.
The hand on her back moved in circles, comforting and caressing. The other caressed the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, in respectful delicious strokes. Never had she felt so female, so womanly, so sensually alive. So desirable.
He drew back with the slightest of sighs. Resignation. Regret. He gave her a small half smile. ‘As pleasurable as this is, you strike me as a woman not in need of added complication. You deserve far more than I have to offer. I’m sorry.’
Idiot. He was too kind to hurt her feelings with the truth. He didn’t want her in that way. A well-set-up man like him no doubt had all sorts of women with whom he could choose to be intimate. He’d come to dinner out of politeness and she, an ungainly lonely widow, had thrown herself into his arms. He must think her so pathetic. The cold chill of shame spread outwards.
She pinned a bright smile to her lips. ‘I will bid you goodnight, then.’
She bustled about, fetching his hat and gloves from the peg behind the door. ‘You must be looking forward to seeing your family. It is always good to be with loved ones during the holidays,’ she babbled, urging him towards the door. ‘I don’t expect I will see you again, before you leave,’ she said briskly, ‘so I would wish you a safe and pleasant journey.’ She risked a glance at his face. His expression gave nothing away.
He took her hand and bowed low. ‘Thoughts of you and your kind welcome into your home will keep me warm on the journey, Mrs Melford,’ he murmured as he brought her hand to his mouth. He brushed her knuckles with warm dry lips. She drew in a quick startled breath and he let her hand go.
‘Mrs Melford. Cassie—’ He shook his head. ‘Please, give my best wishes to Miss Lucy and Miss Diana.’ He stepped out into the night. Snowflakes whirled around him. And then he was gone, nothing left to show his presence but large bootprints in the snow. Those, too, disappeared quickly.
Her heart thundered in her ears with embarrassment at how forward she’d been. She had shocked him with her wanton behaviour. By seeking more, she had lost his friendship.
Regret was an aching sadness.
Chapter Four
Overnight, the countryside had turned pillowy and white while the skies continued to threaten more snow. Cassie picked her way to the potting shed after spending the morning with the girls on their lessons. Forcing herself to think of nothing but the task at hand, she took down the candle racks, avoiding a glance at the mistletoe hanging from the beam. She separated each pair of candles by cutting the wicks in the middle. Against her will, her mind wandered back to the one person she should not be thinking about. The sweetness of his kisses. His honourable behaviour in light of her brazenness.
Any woman would count herself lucky to be married to Adam Royston. She suffered a pang at the thought of him taking a wife. She had no right to think that way. No reason, either.
She glanced out of the window at Diana and Lucy scampering about in ankle-deep snow making what they had ambitiously named a snow dame.
She heaved a sigh. Had Adam—no, she really should think of him as Mr Royston—got away to an early start? The ache of longing in the centre of her chest was sadness at knowing their paths would never cross again, but she did not blame him for not calling in this morning. Their parting the previous evening had been strained to say the least. Still, she could not help hoping he’d arrived home safely. During the long hours of the night she’d come to terms with his rejection and her respect for him had grown. A scoundrel would have taken advantage of her loneliness. And yet she had the feeling he, too, was lonely.
She shook off her fit of the doldrums and carefully wrapped a pair of candles in brown paper and tied them with string. The batch must be ready for Mr Driver when he came at the first of the year. Hopefully he would get a good price for them, since she and the girls would need a new place to live.
She didn’t want to leave. But Adam’s warning must not be ignored.
‘Mama!’ Lucy came running into the potting shed. ‘There’s a man coming up the garden path.’
Adam? Her heart clenched. Joy sparkled through her veins. He had come to bid her farewell after all. Oh, how could she face him? How could she not, when seeing him one last time would give her so much pleasure? A painful pleasure.
Lucy clenched her hands together in front of her chest, her eyes wide. ‘I think it’s Herbert.’
Cassie’s heart stopped, then staggered to life with an unsteady rhythm. ‘Herbert?’
Lucy made a face of distaste. ‘I think so.’
‘Take your sister indoors and remain upstairs.’
Lucy dashed off.
Heart pounding in her ears, Cassie removed her apron and strode for the door. As she opened it, she almost collided with the stocky man standing on the threshold. The brown scarf wrapped around his neck and pulled up over his chin, exposed only the skin of his wind-reddened cheeks, drawn-down sandy eyebrows and his distinctive retroussé nose.
Her stomach fell away. She took a breath. Squared her shoulders. ‘Herbert,’ she said coldly. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
Herbert slowly unwound his scarf, looking about him. He gave her a rueful smile. ‘Is that any way to greet your only stepson? How are you, dear Lady Cassandra? At last I find you.’ He wagged a reproving finger with a teasing smile. ‘Good wheeze that, changing your name. Took me for ever to track you down.’
Too bad he had succeeded. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Come now. I know you were on the outs with me and Bridget over a trifle, but there’s no need to cut up so stiff.’
He sounded so placatory, it gave her a sensation of dread in her stomach. ‘I don’t call your wife locking Diana in her bedroom and threatening to beat Lucy a trifle, Herbert.’
He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. ‘Bad form. Bridget should not have flown into a temper. It won’t happen again.
I promise.’ He gave her a blinding smile. ‘Now, pack up their things and come along. We’ll rent a carriage, be off in the shake of a cat’s tail and all be comfortable at home in a trice. What do you say?’
Comfortable was not how she would describe the Norton household beneath Bridget’s autocratic rule. But Herbert seemed genuinely sorry for his wife’s behaviour.
While he waited for her answer, Herbert strolled around her little shed, poking a finger among the things on the table. He picked up a pair of candles ready for wrapping and tossed them from hand to hand. ‘Did you make these yourself?’
‘It is how we have been supporting ourselves this past year.’
‘Very industrious, dear Stepmama. Not the sort of thing one generally expects of a lady.’ He tossed them again. Fumbled.
She gasped.
He managed to catch them before they fell to the granite floor. ‘Oops,’ he said with a smile that bordered on sly. He put the candles down with exaggerated care. ‘Wouldn’t want to break them.’
Wouldn’t he? Her nape prickled.
He turned to face her full on. ‘Ready to go? Tally ho, what?’
He thought he was a gentleman, but compared to Lord Portmaine’s steward, Adam Royston, he was nothing but a caricature.
‘I should have thought you would be glad to be rid of the expense of keeping us,’ she said, holding her ground. ‘You were always grumbling about the cost.’
His shoulders stiffened. He hated resistance. ‘I am their brother. Their legal guardian. Of course I am not glad they’ve run off. How do you think that makes me look? The Vicar...’
Understanding dawned. ‘Old Mr Pettigrew wants to know what became of us, doesn’t he? Poor Herbert.’ Vicar Pettigrew had been a friend of his father’s and not backward in his criticisms of Herbert’s wild behaviour. He would see it as his duty to haul Herbert over the coals if he thought he’d neglected his duty to his sisters.
‘Nosy old buzzard,’ Herbert said. He gave her a wheedling smile. ‘What do you say, old thing? Bury the hatchet and come home?’
