Merry Christmas, Mrs. Robinson

by Delilah Marvelle

  “Time? For what? To find another man? Like last time?”

  “No,” Martin tossed back in agitation. “I overwhelmed her. Hell, I overwhelmed myself. In one short night, I tried to do it all, and God save me, I still don’t know if she’ll have me.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t write any more amorous letters.”

  Martin lowered his gaze. “I tried to start one last night. It’s still sitting on my desk.”

  “Burn it, I say. You are done with that. Deliver all of your words in person from here on out. Because you and she don’t need any further misunderstandings.” Christopher lapsed into silence and then asked, “Have you kissed her yet?”

  Martin shook his head. “No.”

  “Did you even try?”

  “Yes, damn you, I tried. She wouldn’t let me. Which doesn’t bode well.”

  Christopher snorted. “That doesn’t mean shite. All it means is that she is a touch more respectable than you were hoping she’d be. Which probably means she also won’t let you lift the skirt until you and she are married. So, sadly, you won’t know if she is even worth shagging until after the fact.”

  Martin almost hit him in the leg. “Don’t talk like that. Lest I break your other leg.”

  Christopher pointed at him. “The problem with you, brother, is that you are too much of a gentleman. Women are inclined to reject men who aren’t assertive. It is in their nature to do so. They want a man capable of expressing his intentions. Which means if you aren’t aggressive enough, you don’t stand a chance.”

  “The problem with your way of thinking, Chris, is that I’m not aggressive in nature. Nor will I ever be.”

  “Do you want her or not?”

  “If you need me to answer that, you haven’t been listening.”

  “Then grab her and show her that you love her. Don’t tell her that you do. Show her. Grab her.”

  Martin rubbed at his jaw. “Grabbing insinuates force. Not love.”

  Christopher stared. “You aren’t getting my point. I want you to call on her. Tonight. Is that understood?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why the devil not?”

  “Calling on her at night, be it Christmas or not, isn’t the respectable thing to do. She is a lady and I am a gentleman. It has always been such and will always remain such.”

  “If you mean to be respectable, I suggest you go to church and stay there. Because if everyone led a respectable life, Martin, there would be a severe population crisis. Go forth and love her, I say.” Christopher shifted against the splinter holding his right leg and winced. “I need cognac. And lots of it. Where the bloody hell is it?”

  Martin leaned over the edge of the bed and mussed his brother’s always-pristine hair. “Try not to panic. A decanter is coming.”

  Christopher shoved away his hands. “Why is it that despite the fact I’m always giving you advice, you treat me like I’m five?”

  Martin smirked. “Because I know it annoys you.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Enter,” Martin called out.

  The footman entered with a silver tray of sliced cakes and a large decanter of cognac with a glass.

  “Forget the cake, Benson,” Christopher told the footman with a wince. “And don’t bother with a glass. I’ll take the decanter. Hand it over.”

  Setting the tray down on the side table, the footman passed off the crystal decanter of cognac.

  Martin pointed at his brother. “For God’s sake, don’t drink the whole thing.”

  “I dare you to stop me. I’m in pain and bedridden without a single woman in sight.” Christopher sat up after several tries. Hissing out a breath, he tossed the stopper onto the tray with a clang and took a long swig. “My leg may be broken, but all I can think about is your neighbor who dragged me out of the snow. When did she move in?”

  “Several months ago.”

  “That woman is stunning. Do you know that? Absolutely stunning.”

  Martin rolled his eyes. “You find every woman stunning.”

  “Maybe I do,” Christopher drawled, taking another swig. “Is she married?”

  “No.”

  “Excellent. I shall have to call on her.”

  “With a broken leg?”

  “A mere complication.”

  Leave it to his brother to think a broken leg was nothing.

  After the footman gathered the tray of cakes, the footman announced, “Your Grace.”

  Martin glanced toward the footman. “Yes?”

  “The butler wanted me to inform you that you have an unannounced visitor. A Mrs. Robinson. Are you at home?”

  Martin scrambled up onto his booted feet from the edge of the bed, his heart pounding. Why was she— “Yes. Yes, I am. Lead her into the study.”

  The footman departed.

  Christopher’s dark brows rose as he eyed the open door leading out into the corridor. “Well, well. Apparently you are far more worried about her reputation than she is her own.” He smirked and held up the decanter toward Martin in a mock salute. “Merry Christmas, old boy.”

  Martin adjusted his attire and shoved back his hair from his eyes. “How do I look?”

  Christopher took another swig of cognac. “I suggest less clothing. It will hurry things along.”

  “This is where I stop taking your advice.” Martin leaned over and snatched the decanter, also taking a swig of the smoky liquid in an effort to calm his nerves. He took one more.

  “Ey, ey.” Christopher reached up and tugged the decanter from his hands. “I need that more than you do. You also don’t want to go to her with cognac on your breath. She won’t take you seriously.”

  Martin paused. “Good point.”

  Christopher glanced up at him. “Your hair is a mess.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Have the valet tend to it and put you into eveningwear at once. Make it a white waistcoat and white cravat. Women love a man in eveningwear. And remember. Don’t let her leave until you get a yes and a kiss. At the very least.”

  Martin eased out a ragged breath. “I can do this.”

  “But of course you can. You can do anything. You are duke.”

  “I am duke.” He said it as if he never realized it before. “I am duke.”

  “Yes. Good. Now just keep saying it. You are duke.”

  “If I keep saying it, she is likely to think me conceited.”

  “You’re not supposed to say it aloud. It’s meant to motivate you.”

  Martin let out a breath. “Right.”

  Chapter Six

  I dream of holding our children and our future.

  When will I be given a chance to meet both?

  —Mister X

  Fortunately, her favorite malachite satin evening gown still fit. Fortunately. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get rid of the nerves that had seized her the moment she had stepped into his house. She had come to end their friendship by accepting his proposal and knew that in doing so, she would have to face the one thing she hadn’t faced in eight years: intimacy.

  Easing out a shaky breath in an effort to calm herself, Jane trailed her hand against the blue silk brocaded walls that were as beautiful as everything around her.

  Whisking around the study that was lit with brightly burning glass lamps, Jane veered toward Martin’s mahogany desk that was always impressively organized, right down to the quill.

  Finding a piece of parchment that had been perfectly aligned against the smooth edge of the large desk, she paused.

  In perfect black ink it read: Jane

  It was a note. For her. She blinked. Did he know she was coming? Or was it something he intended to send? Knowing full well she shouldn’t, she still did.

  She slid the note from the desk and unfolded it.

  Her brows rose. It was empty.

  Jane fingered the parchment and eyed the open doors of the study. How odd. She bit her lip. Setting it onto the desk, Jane leaned toward the bronzed stand to retrie
ve a quill. She hesitated, her fingers brushing over each one. It felt so personal touching his belongings.

  She lowered her gaze to the parchment.

  She was ready for this. She was ready for him.

  Carefully dragging out one of the quills from the stand, she dipped the sharpened tip into the inkwell. She angled the blank side of the parchment toward herself and scribed:

  Please inform Mister X that I still love him, even after all these years.

  I don’t think I ever told him.

  Nothing beyond that needed to be said.

  Setting the quill back into its stand, Jane sanded the ink several times to ensure it was dry, refolded it, then set the missive back onto the edge of the desk. She slowly wandered from one side of the study to the other and back again, glancing toward the open doors. It had already been a good fifteen minutes that she had been waiting. Where was he?

  She seated herself, arranging her evening gown in a manner that would best compliment her figure, and folded her hands. Five more minutes passed. Then another five. Then another five.

  Exasperated, she stood. Maybe she should inquire as to his whereabouts. What if something had happened? Leaving the study, she momentarily lingered in the garland-draped corridor, looking for a footman. None were to be found.

  Upon hearing booted steps heading toward her, she peered down the vast candle-lit corridor. Martin’s tall, broad frame strode toward her, hands in pockets. His dark hair was swept back with tonic and he was meticulously dressed in well-fitted dark evening attire and a snowy white waistcoat and cravat as if he had been entertaining guests.

  Her heart popped. He looked magnificent.

  Pushing out a calming breath, she set her hands on her satin stomacher and closed the distance between them.

  “Merry Christmas, Jane,” he rumbled out.

  His voice seemed huskier. “Merry Christmas, Martin,” she managed.

  His dark eyes slid rapidly down the length of her evening gown before veering back to her throat as if just noting she was wearing the locket. He paused before her. His jaw tightened as he intently met her gaze in the shadows of the corridor. “You look beautiful.”

  Her breath hitched and she suddenly felt like she was sixteen and running naked through a field. It was unnerving. Running naked through any field hadn’t been on her schedule for years. She swallowed and respectfully inclined her head in greeting. “Thank you.”

  They stared at each other.

  Knowing she ought to get to the point of her visit, she quickly said, “I came to inquire about your brother. Is he well?”

  He shrugged. “As well as a man with a broken leg can be. Fortunately, he is young, loves to drink, and therefore will survive.”

  She winced at the thought. “Is he in a lot of pain?”

  “I’m afraid so. He won’t be able to go back to France any time soon, which I will say I’m glad for. I can never get him to stay long. He has a severe case of wanderlust. A broken leg is the only way to keep a man like him in town.”

  She bit back a smile. “So in your opinion it comes as a blessing.”

  “It does. Only don’t tell him I said that.” He lowered his shaven chin against his white silk cravat, searching her face. “You’re wearing the locket.”

  Something about the way he said it felt like he was dragging his finger up the length of her spine. “I am.”

  “And?”

  “And I accept.” That was rather easy.

  “You accept.” He still searched her face. “You don’t seem all that enthused. Why is that?”

  She brought her hands together, knowing full well why. She had to get used to the idea that they would no longer be friends. “Accepting your proposal is going to change everything between us.”

  “Not everything.”

  “I disagree. You will, after all, wish to kiss me and…and take me into your…bed.” She couldn’t believe she was saying it.

  His brows rose. “Is that what ails you? My bedding you?”

  She nodded, feeling her entire face burn.

  “I see.” He eyed her and eventually gestured toward the study. “Shall we take this into the study, Mrs. Robinson? So we might discuss this in private?” Casually rounding her, he strode down the corridor and disappeared through the doors.

  In heart-pounding disbelief, she turned toward the direction he had gone, bringing her hands together. Why was he calling her Mrs. Robinson? They weren’t actually going to talk about kissing and sex, were they?

  As if wading through knee-high waters, she trailed after him. Coming into the study, she glanced toward him. How was it that she had become the timid one in their relationship?

  He gestured toward a chair and strode toward the doors behind her. Sliding them closed, he turned the key, latching the doors shut to ensure their privacy.

  Her stomach flipped. It was the first time he had ever locked a door behind them in all the years she had known him. Apparently, they were going to do more than talk about kissing and sex.

  She hurried to the seat he had gestured to and sat, clasping her hands together to keep them from fidgeting. What if she disappointed him? What if she didn’t kiss him or touch him in the way he envisioned? Oh, God.

  With long-legged strides, he closed the distance between them and settled into the leather chair opposite her. Leaning back, he eyed her and draped an arm against its side, extending a muscled, trouser-clad leg. “How long have we known each other?”

  She tried to ease the pounding of her heart. “Too many years for a respectable woman to count.”

  “I’ll be a gentleman and won’t make you count.” He hesitated, then asked, “Am I allowed to get personal?”

  An ache overtook her throat. “I suppose.”

  He stared. “You suppose?”

  “Yes. I meant yes. Of course. Ask me anything.”

  “I will.” He tilted his dark head, sending combed strands toward his forehead. “Do you find me attractive?”

  Her eyes widened at the blunt question. She wasn’t expecting that. “Given that the doors are locked, I probably shouldn’t answer.”

  “I’m trying to have a conversation with you.” His voice became strained. “Do you or don’t you find me attractive? Would you consider bedding me a nuisance?”

  She plastered her hands against her gown, willing herself not to faint, knowing she was actually having this conversation with him. Him. Martin. “Uh…it certainly wouldn’t be a nuisance. After all, I do find you…attractive…enough.” She was going to say incredibly attractive but decided against it. Enough sounded more respectable.

  He sat up. “Attractive enough?” he echoed. “And what does that mean?”

  He was clearly annoyed. Something she hadn’t intended. “It means exactly what I intended it to mean. That I find you attractive.”

  “No. You said attractive enough.”

  Oh, dear. “I know. But I didn’t mean to—”

  “Am I attractive to you or not?” he pressed. “That is all I want to know.”

  She wet her lips. “Very.”

  “So you would bed me if given the chance?”

  “Yes.”

  His features softened. “Well, good. Because the sort of attraction I have for you shouldn’t even be named. Whilst I was abroad, three women got to know your first name on a regular basis. And I’m too much of a gentleman to tell you how.”

  She couldn’t believe they were talking about this.

  He hesitated. “I take it our conversation makes you uncomfortable?”

  She nodded and kept right on nodding to ensure there wasn’t any doubt as to how uncomfortable she was.

  “Why? We know each other incredibly well and I proposed and you accepted.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But what?” He stared.

  “Well…you…you are…” She couldn’t say it.

  “I am what?”

  A breath escaped her. “You’re Martin. You’ll always be that seventeen-yea
r-old boy in my mind.”

  He slowly leaned forward in his chair, edging toward her. Methodically propping both forearms on his knees, he held her gaze. “You and I have a problem. Because I’m not seventeen anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you? Because how are we to wed and have children, Jane, if you aren’t even comfortable with the idea of my being a man?”

  “I will get used to it.”

  “Used to it?” His eyes darkened. “Excuse me while I try not to get annoyed hearing you say that. I don’t want you to—” He rose and stalked around the desk. “Used to it,” he muttered, taking off his evening coat and tossing it onto the chair. The coat missed and slipped to the floor. Grabbing it up, he whipped it onto the chair to ensure it stayed and swung toward her. “Have you no passion for me?” he demanded, hitting his chest with a thud. “None? Is that what you are telling me? Because I need to know. I’m not marrying a woman who doesn’t feel the same way I do.”

  It was the most animated she had ever seen him be. Mister X had officially stepped into the room. And despite that closed and riled expression, she sensed his vulnerability. One that she herself was feeling. She swallowed and eventually managed, “It isn’t that I don’t have any passion for you, Martin. I do. Half the time, my pulse can’t even control itself around you. Even when we were younger, I felt that way around you. I always have. I simply pushed it aside. I had to.”

  “Then what is it?” he pressed. “What is making you push me aside now?”

  “I simply…I get nervous in allowing myself to submit to you in that way.”

  “Why?”

  And here it was. The truth she had been avoiding all these years. The truth as to why she hadn’t involved herself with any man since Philip. She clasped her hands in an effort not to feel awkward. “The only man I have ever been intimate with—meaning…Philip—was…well, he was overly passionate. In the two weeks I was married to him, it was incredibly daunting.”

  He shifted his jaw. “Daunting? How so?”

  “I don’t know what he was expecting. You men seem to think that because I can stand on a stage and sing opera, I’m capable of anything. Especially in matters of an amorous nature. But I’m not. Stepping onstage to give a performance is one thing and taking off clothes to give another sort of performance is quite the other. When he and I married, barely the second night alone, he was forcing me to do things I wasn’t comfortable doing.”