The Viscount's Christmas Temptation

by Erica Ridley

  “What resource misallocations?” his housekeeper demanded hotly. Mrs. Harris had managed the underservants since before Benedict had inherited the viscountcy and prided herself on knowing every inch of the estate.

  He waved a hand. “I’ve no idea, but I cannot overstate the importance of allowing Lady Amelia to offer insightful suggestions.”

  Coombs cleared his throat. “We’re to . . . humor the lady?”

  “Humor her?” Benedict paused. There once was a time when he too thought such a feat was possible. This was no longer a meaningless game—if it ever had been.

  The only prize worth winning was her heart. She was already in possession of his. “No. Please treat her as if she will become your future mistress. With luck, I can make that happen.”

  Chapter Eight

  Amelia clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself not to frown. She, who prided herself on always knowing everything, was unaccountably . . . suspicious.

  Lord Sheffield’s servants were forthcoming and respectful, and the viscount himself had neither abandoned her to her fate, nor was he looming over her shoulder. And yet she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was being evaluated very closely. Not only by him, but by his entire staff.

  The last time she’d called upon the Sheffield town house, she’d been nothing more than a curiosity. Now the servants stared at her with curiosity. Not one had taken their eyes from her as she interviewed this footman or that scullery maid, no matter how mundane the questions she posed. She wasn’t naive enough to believe Lord Sheffield was so impressed with her ability to plan a party that he now wished for her to plan his entire life. For one thing, the party hadn’t happened yet. She couldn’t expect miracles until she’d fully proven herself. Perhaps after Sunday. . .

  “Thank you, John.” She inclined her head to dismiss the coachman and turned toward Lord Sheffield’s butler. “Coombs, if I may have a moment of your time?”

  The butler’s eyes widened at her use of his name.

  She kept her expression bland, as if she had not spent the entire carriage ride frantically flipping through all five journals to commit to memory the names and descriptions she’d managed to capture over the years. It was by no means an exhaustive list—she’d had no occasion to come in contact with his lordship’s laundry maids or private valet—but she had a fine start on a goodly number of footmen, grooms, and other individuals. The names she learned today, she carefully committed to a new shelf in her memory pantry.

  Desserts. Because Lord Sheffield was delicious.

  She forced herself to focus on the task at hand: commit every detail of the Sheffield household to memory and then prove herself invaluable to the household’s future. It had become painfully clear that the only future she wanted was one with Lord Sheffield. Had she honestly thought only a duke or earl would do? That selecting a husband was no more complicated than choosing an appropriate name from a worn copy of Debrett’s Peerage?

  A husband was so much more than a title and a lineage. A husband was an invigorating, infuriating, intoxicating whirlwind of wit and passion and adventure. She could not imagine spending the rest of her life with anyone but Lord Sheffield. To do that, she needed to show him and his staff that they needed her, too.

  Lord Sheffield stepped up behind her as she concluded her interview with his butler.

  She knew he was there, not because his footsteps had betrayed any sound or his butler had so much as blinked an eye, but because her body simply knew when he was near. Her heartbeat doubled. Her breaths came faster—or not at all. Every inch of her skin tingled with expectation, hoping for his touch. If his town house were strewn with half as many kissing balls as currently adorned the Ravenwood ballroom, perhaps Lord Sheffield might have reprised the moment, instead of keeping a respectful distance and . . . glancing at his pocket watch?

  She tried not to grind her teeth. “Late for your bawdy evening, I take it?”

  The wicked glint in his hazel eyes sent a flash of heat to her core. “Eight o’clock. We’re right on time.” He helped her into her pelisse. “Now that you’ve met my staff, what are your recommendations?”

  “My—” Her mouth fell open as she stared at him in shock. “I cannot give recommendations without proper analysis. I have spent the past two hours interviewing dozens of individuals and cannot possibly begin to speculate on reorganizing tasks and schedules until I’ve had a chance to transcribe the information they’ve shared with me and check each servant’s duties and understanding against—”

  He placed her hand on the crook of his arm and spun her toward the door. “When do you think you’ll have that ready? Tonight’s already spoken for in my case, but if you send a report round first thing tomorrow, I shall have a look at it with my morning tea.” He pushed open the door. “First thing meaning eight o’clock, of course. I intend to return home very late, and possibly very drunkenly. It all depends on how the evening goes.”

  So much fire licked through her veins at the thought of how he intended to spend his evening that she didn’t feel the bitter wind against her bare cheeks or the flakes of snow upon her eyelashes. “That’s very nice! I should be at my desk calculating time analyses and drawing schedules while you are up to your cravat in devilry. The exact sort of evening I was hoping for.”

  “Were you? Then you were the right person to call, because there’s nothing I find more tedious than time analyses. Except Lady Jersey. And musicales.” As he handed her into the carriage, his tone turned contemplative. “Although I suppose it could be argued that I get up to as much devilry there as anywhere. How about you, Lady Amelia?” He plopped down on the squab next to her. “When was the last time you were up to your fichu in mischief?”

  “I have never in my life been up to devilry or mischief, because I am far too practical to fritter my valuable time on the sort of nonsense you—”

  “Lean forward.” Something feathered and black fluttered before her eyes.

  She jerked her head back. “What in the—”

  “I said forward, not backward.” He cupped the base of her head with his hand as the feathery object returned to her face. Peacock feathers. Papier-mâché. Eye holes. A mask.

  A mask?

  She stared at him through the almond-shaped cutouts as he fastened the ribbon about her head. “I have no idea—”

  “Of course you don’t,” he said smugly. “’Twould have been a poor surprise indeed if you’d had an idea.”

  “I’m never surprised,” she grumbled. “You bundled me into my pelisse and then up into your carriage—obviously we were going somewhere. But a masquerade?”

  “I thought you were never surprised.”

  She lifted her chin and glared at him. “If you had but asked, I would’ve informed you that I do not attend masquerades.”

  “That is precisely why I didn’t ask.” He tied a brightly colored mask behind his head and grinned at her.

  She tried not to find him devastatingly handsome. “Masquerades are frivolous, scandalous—”

  “Scandalous?”

  “People in costume lose their minds completely. The ‘ladies,’ if there are any, have been known to be free with their favors and dampen their gowns to make them more transparent—”

  “I did bring a bowl of water, in case you wished to blend with the masses.”

  She smacked him on the shoulder. “I should dump it on your head. What will people think when they see me at a masquerade?”

  “They won’t see you. That’s the whole point. We won’t know who they are, either.”

  “Then what use is going? If one cannot catch up with old friends or forge connections with new acquaintances—”

  “Anonymity is its own reward. There’s something to be said for doing whatever you like without fear of judgment. It’s an experience to be sampled at least once in your life.” His eyes glinted behind his mask as he lowered his mouth to her ear. “If you like this one, I can think of a few more not-to-be-missed experiences.
”

  Gooseflesh trickled down her spine. She was saved from having to respond verbally by the carriage rolling to a stop.

  Somewhat saved. Her jaw fell open in disbelief when she realized where they were. “The Duke of Lambley’s house? Are you mad?”

  “He’s a duke, like your brother.” Lord Sheffield leapt out of the carriage. “How can you possibly object?”

  “He’s nothing like my brother! His name is in the scandal sheets even more than yours. Duels in the park, wild curricle races, demimondaines at his soirées . . .” She groaned into her hands. “Please tell me we will not be under the same roof as demimondaines.”

  “That’s the beauty of a masquerade—nobody knows!” He swung her out of the carriage and into his arms. “Tonight, I want you to close your memory pantry and enjoy the moment. There’s no report due in the morning. Or ever. There’s just you and me and an orchestra waiting for us to come and dance.”

  She held on tight as he whisked her from the curb to the front step. There was plenty of time to say no. To tuck herself back into the carriage and return to her safe, predictable world.

  But she’d discovered over the past fortnight that dull predictability wasn’t what made life enjoyable after all.

  Lord Sheffield’s unpredictability was part of what made him so irresistible.

  He hadn’t agreed to her Christmastide schemes because she’d manipulated him into it, but rather, for reasons of his own. He spent the evening with her solely because he chose to do so. Because he’d chosen her over the thousand-and-one other women vying for his time and his heart.

  She allowed the Duke of Lambley’s butler to relieve her of her pelisse, but she would not allow anyone to separate her from Lord Sheffield. She looped her hand around his arm and stood far too close for propriety. The edge of her breast was in constant contact with the hard muscles of his upper arm. Her entire body pricked with awareness.

  With the feathery mask tied before her eyes, she could not cast sidelong glances in his direction. She let herself gaze up at him openly. Drink him in. The breadth of his shoulders in his sharp black coat. The fullness of his lips. Her heart thudded. She was falling hard. She bit her lip, but could not force herself to look away.

  He led her straight into the ballroom, where dozens of masked couples swirled to a languid waltz. A footman approached bearing a tray of sparkling wine. Lord Sheffield motioned the footman away before he could offer them a glass of champagne.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured in Amelia’s ear. “I cannot wait another moment to have you in my arms.”

  Her legs trembled.

  He swept her onto the dance floor. His steps were perfect, his gaze unshakable, his embrace scandalously tight, even for a waltz.

  She let him pull her closer. She preferred the warmth of his arms over a glass of champagne any day of the week. She tried not to think about what she would do once Christmastide had come and gone.

  Would he still think of her after his party concluded? She had not been able to think of anything else for two weeks. The arguments she’d given herself for why they would not suit seemed as flimsy as the lace fichu protecting her bosom. He worked as hard as he played, and now that was suddenly in question.

  His name had been absent from the scandal sheets since the day they’d visited Vauxhall Gardens. At first, she had presumed his lack of exploits was because she had monopolized his evenings. But he’d gone out after that first night at the theatre and again after their disastrous encounter with Lady Jersey. From that moment in the pleasure gardens when he could’ve stolen a kiss, but didn’t . . . There hadn’t been one peep of Viscount S—’s night ventures. As far as she knew, he hadn’t so much as left his town house.

  Until now. Here. With her. Hope flooded her heart.

  The music faded into silence and the orchestra took a small break. Although the waltz had ended, he did not release her from his arms. One by one, the other couples left the floor in search of champagne or darkened corners. Masked revelers lined the perimeter, but only she and Lord Sheffield remained on the dance floor.

  All eyes were on them.

  Masked, she reminded herself as her heartbeat spiked. No one knows who we are. We could be anyone.

  Lord Sheffield tucked a stray tendril behind her ear and cupped her cheek in one hand. “Do you see a kissing ball anywhere?”

  “N-no.” She darted a quick glance about the room. It was decorated as a Venetian masquerade, not as a Christmastide celebration. There was no holly to be found. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I don’t want you to think I have any reason for doing this other than because I wish to.”

  Before she could do more than part her lips in question, he slanted his mouth over hers.

  His mouth was soft but firm against hers. His tongue hot and spiced of sweet tea and lemon. Masked or not, her heart raced at the idea of doing such a shocking thing, here, in front of so many witnesses.

  Yet she had no wish to stop. She twined her hands about his neck and pulled him closer.

  The feathers of his mask tangled with the feathers of her own, and for one rash, glorious second she considered ripping the mask from her head rather than break the kiss.

  She had never had such a foolish thought in her life. Or felt so alive as she did with Lord Sheffield. Or wished so desperately for the night to never end.

  When he lifted his mouth from hers, she felt the loss to her very soul.

  Chapter Nine

  Christmas Eve. Amelia stood at the head of the stairs and surveyed the elegant crush of people swirling below. The viscount was never without a mob of well-wishers. Every face was animated, every mouth smiling. The ballroom might have been transported directly from the Sheffield estate. The kitchen had outdone itself. The orchestra had never sounded finer. The kissing balls were an unqualified success.

  Yet she fought the most appalling urge to wring her white-gloved hands.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d suffered from such an unlikely sensation as nerves. Why should she? Not when she managed everyone and everything she ever interacted with down to the minutest detail. Tonight’s gala was no exception. It was perhaps the most painstakingly orchestrated soirée of her entire career. And while she had no prior history of giving herself over to fun at such gatherings, they had never previously caused her neck to sweat and her stomach to twist . . . until today.

  Viscount Sheffield’s seventy-fifth annual Christmas Eve ball had to be better than perfect. She needed to be better than perfect.

  She was doing this for him.

  A voice came from behind her. “My lady? A note has just arrived for you.”

  She turned her back upon the whirling madness below to behold one of her footmen bearing a small silver tray with a single folded missive. Her fingers shook as she plucked it from the tray. She had absolutely no reason to fear such a small square of parchment, save for its very unexpectedness. This was not the regular post. The only exterior writing was a single word: Urgent.

  With an incline of her head to dismiss the footman, she unfolded the missive and read the contents therein:

  Boo.

  She frowned. Boo?

  Before she could call out to her footman to interrogate him on the missive’s origin, two strong arms encircled her from behind. She bit back a shriek. The missive tumbled from her fingers as her captor spun her to face him. Lord Sheffield. Her lips parted. He covered her mouth with his, searing her. Branding her. Leaving her breathless.

  “Boo,” he whispered in her hair, then pointed a finger at the ball of holly overhead. “Did I surprise you?”

  Growling, she pushed him on the shoulder. “You frightened the stuffing out of me!”

  “So it can be done!” He grinned at her. “I win!”

  She laughed. “Were we playing?”

  “Were you not?” He swung her in circles and stole another quick kiss before setting her at a respectable distance. Perhaps semi-respectable. The twinkle in his eye
s indicated he might kiss her again at any moment. “Thank you. The party is everything you said it would be and more than I ever dreamed.” He frowned. “My sole complaint is that you’re not dancing.”

  “I mustn’t.” She gestured toward the crowd. “I’m working.”

  “You’re not working! You’re standing on the stairs.” He linked her arm with his. “Wouldn’t dancing with me be a tiny bit more diverting?”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I can’t oversee the staff and monitor the guests’ comfort if I’m twirling about with you.”

  “Precisely. When was the last time you let yourself do as you wished, without analyzing or managing? Never?”

  She opened her mouth to agree with him (she could no more cease analyzing than she could stop breathing) when she realized it was no longer true.

  “Once,” she said in wonder. She held herself perfectly still as she finally admitted the truth. The world hadn’t ended just because she’d ceased managing it. She peered up at him from beneath her lashes. “At the masquerade. With you.”

  “Have you enjoyed your time with me?” he asked softly. The unwavering intensity in his eyes gave the impression he might be holding his breath.

  She smiled up at him. “You know I have.”

  “Then let’s dance.” He pulled her back into his arms, his face serious. “Enjoy the moment with me, my love. Not just today, but every day. I want you in my arms for the rest of my life.”

  Her legs trembled. Once again, he’d managed to surprise her. As she twined her arms about his neck, she was struck with the sneaking suspicion that as much as she’d been guiding him into making the party decisions she’d already chosen for him, he’d been just as skillfully steering her down a path of his own.

  “Have you maneuvered me into falling in love with you?” Her voice was teasing, but her eyes surely betrayed all the joy in her heart.

  “It would be impractical for me to be the only one of us in love.” He affected an exaggerated leer. “My next step is to maneuver you right into the marriage bed.”