Noel's Wish

by Donna Lea Simpson

  But he would have to be unbelievably devious to do that, would he not? She glanced up at him from under her lashes. The flicker of the fire cast a ruddy glow over his handsome countenance. What a lucky woman Celia Montrose had been. Even though he had made it clear theirs was a marriage based on friendship more than love, his amity would be worth more than many men’s amour.

  He caught her look and the warmth of his return gaze blossomed in her heart. Never had she felt so close to a man. His hand went to his pocket, and this time she was not surprised when he pulled out a berry and presented it to her.

  “How long do you intend to keep this up?” she asked, finding she could do nothing but smile at him, though she knew she ought to be angry, or insulted that he would casually kiss her like this.

  “As long as I have berries,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  He must have looked like that as a boy, she thought, looking at the rumpled dark hair and quirked mouth. So would his sons look, if he had had any. “You have kissed me on my foot, on my mouth three times, and on my hand. Where else do you intend to claim a kiss?” she asked.

  Only when his grin deepened into a sensuous, smoldering gaze did she realize the danger behind her innocent question. She swallowed. She had to say something to divert his attention. But it was too late. He moved closer to her, leaning toward her with a look that was softening into something she had never seen in any man’s eyes before. Gently, he kissed her on the neck just behind her ear and tugged on her earlobe with his teeth, setting her pulse racing and her thoughts spinning wildly out of control. It seemed that when he touched her she was no longer her own woman; he could toy with her senses and soften her until she was a puddle of heated desires. It wasn’t her! It just wasn’t, and it had to stop.

  Why was he doing this to her?

  “You are so beautiful, Ann. Why have you never married again?”

  She stiffened. “That is an impertinent question!”

  “I like being impertinent.”

  There was that lazy, sensual grin again, and it gave her the same quivering thrill in her stomach every time. She stiffened her backbone and drew herself up as much as possible considering her undignified position. “You do it well,” she observed wryly.

  He chuckled and said, “I think you are even more beautiful when you get huffy.”

  Exasperating man!

  She rolled the berry around in her hand. It was firm and white and glowed like a translucent pearl. The others he had given her she had tossed away or discarded somewhere. She glanced down at the small round troublemaker. “Why?” she asked, hearing her voice echo in the parlor as if it were a stranger’s.

  “Why? Why what?”

  She held up the berry, turning it in her fingers. “Why are you doing this? This elaborate scheme, all for some kisses? I would not think you a man who would need to resort to trickery for that. Many women would be eager to kiss you.”

  He caught her hand in his and kissed the tips of her fingers and the berry too. She opened her mouth to protest but he held up his hand. “I know; that was not in the bargain. Why don’t you try it?”

  “Try what?” He was talking in riddles.

  “Give me a berry and take a kiss.”

  She gasped. “I-I-I . . .”

  “Try it! Are you too frightened?”

  Infuriating man! “I will! Take this berry, Charles Montrose!”

  He took the berry from her and glanced coyly up at her from under his long dark lashes. “La, my lady. And now you will demand a kiss from me!”

  She smothered the laughter that welled up in her at his imitation of a coquette. She moved toward him, kneeling on the soft rug, kicking the folds of her skirt out of the way. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and lowered her face toward his. He closed his eyes and she found herself seeing things from a different perspective.

  His lips were inviting, slightly parted, and he moistened them with his tongue. She took her kiss. She felt him sink back, and by the time she was midway through the kiss found herself lying on top of him on the floor. He was a big man, and she could feel the muscles and sinews of his body through the thin fabric of her skirts before she lost herself in what she could only imagine was a kind of delirium.

  His hands caressed her waist and then moved around to her back as she deepened the kiss when he opened his mouth to her. She felt, nestled against her in the V of her thighs and body, something hard that her body cupped. He moved his hips and she gasped at a surge of desire through her dormant body.

  His big hands roamed, down her back and to her bottom, cradling her buttocks and squeezing with gentle strength. Hunger overwhelmed her as she felt him stir, pushing her up with a powerful movement that lifted her whole body on his. And still their lips were joined, sealed, as she dared to touch her tongue to his mouth. His response, another thrust with his body, rocked her, the intensity of her answering push against him shocking her into some semblance of normalcy.

  She rolled off of him and scrambled to her feet. How could she have allowed herself this shameless abandonment? What was she thinking?

  He lumbered to his feet and towered over her, his brown eyes glittering strangely in the firelight. “Ann, Ann! Come, sit back down.”

  He moved toward her and she backed up. “No! Charles, stay away from me. That should never have happened, that, that . . . whatever that was! That wasn’t me!”

  His low chuckle was soft. “Oh, yes, it was. That was you on top of me, kissing me, moving on me.” He reached out, but she evaded him.

  “No, it was not.”

  Her words were uttered with a chill finality, and he straightened, sighed, and his smile died. “Ann, I never thought to say these words again, but I see no option. Marry me.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Marry? You?” In twenty-eight years never once had a request taken her so aback. Even being kidnapped had not amazed her like this, if she had heard him right.

  “Yes. Marry me, Ann.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I need to tell you? You were there just now.” He took her hands in his. “We’re good together, Ann. And then there is Mossy.”

  She shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness in her mind. “Mossy?” It was all she could do to repeat his words in the form of questions.

  “Yes, Mossy. You love her, don’t you?”

  Of course she did, with all her heart. How many people had she loved in her life? It was a sad question, one she had never had occasion to ask herself before. She supposed in some involuntary way she loved her family, but that was not the kind of love she was wondering about. How often had she felt love steal over her in imperceptible degrees, taking over her heart and mind? Only now. And all in two days!

  He patiently awaited her answer, and she stared at him, her fingers flexing in his warm grasp. This was ludicrous! “I do love Mossy, but you are asking me to marry you!”

  “Well, you can’t marry her, can you?”

  His wry grin infuriated her. For him this was a grand game, and she was one of the playing pieces—though not the queen, more like a pawn.

  “And I cannot marry you!” She jerked her hands away from him.

  His grin died, and she was glad. A burning core of anger was threading through her body, and she was grateful. It crowded out other painful feelings. Would she only ever be asked for her hand to be useful to someone? Charles Montrose only wanted her to marry him so he could gallivant to the Continent with a clear conscience, knowing a woman who would be a mother to Mossy was there to care for her and raise her. He would marry her, make love to her, and then take off for foreign countries. It was abominable, and she would not have believed it of him if he hadn’t made such a nonsensical offer. All of the kissing and talking and laughter had been offered with but one aim in mind.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Why not?” Her voice was raising to a screech, and she reined in her emotions with difficulty. At least that smug grin was off his face, his too-hand
some, ever-smiling face. She took in a deep breath, and with all the dignity she could muster when she felt like crumbling into a ball and crying, she said, “You are not right for me; I am not right for you. Good night, Charles.”

  She turned and left the room, not stopping until she reached her bedchamber, where she dismissed Ellen so she could lay on the bed and cry. At twenty-eight years of age she had done something as foolish as any maiden of sixteen could. She had fallen in love with a cad.

  • • •

  In the weak morning light of Christmas Eve day, Ann’s carriage moved out of the stable at a sedate pace, and she gazed out of the window, taking one last look at Russetshire Manor as she left. On the table beside her bed were two letters: one for Charles and one for Mossy, the one for the child folded around her silver locket, her Christmas gift to a little girl who could never be hers but would be the daughter of her heart forever. She would pray that by leaving she was giving Mossy her best chance at keeping her father at the manor. He would have no sop for his conscience, no easy way out.

  Good-bye, little Noël. Good-bye, sweet Mossy. Good-bye, Charles, beloved.

  • • •

  Weary and morose, Charles sat and stared into the fire in the parlor, remembering back just twenty-four hours. He had sat with Ann on the rug his feet now rested on, kissing her ear and teasing her. And then he had dared her to give him a berry back and take the initiative. It had surprised him when she did, and he thought it surprised her too. But when she had kissed him, and they had fallen together down onto the soft rug, her pliant, shapely form pressed down on him, he had wanted nothing more than the right and the privilege of carrying her up to his bedchamber and removing her clothing, one silky piece at a time, and lying with her in his big bed, touching her everywhere until she was shivering with desire. He wanted to make love to her and then lie with her until dawn peeked through the curtains on Christmas Eve day. He wanted to be laying with her again when Mossy raced into their room to share her joy of another Christmas morn the next day, and every day after that.

  He wanted to marry her.

  The thought had come to him suddenly, and just as impulsively he had asked her. Perhaps that was his mistake. Her rejection should not have surprised him, but she had been horrified by the very idea of marriage, he thought, not just marriage to him. What had her married years been like? He remembered Reginald Beecham-Brooke slightly, though the man was older than he, and he had heard the stories; there was some scandal attached to him, whispers that the sport he took in London brothels involved some unsavory aspects. It was said he needed to get angry to become aroused. Disgusting, if it was true.

  He should have approached Ann delicately, given her some time, not rushed her. And now what? She had made her feelings plain, and he had no excuse to follow her. He didn’t even know if she had gone on to Bath or back to London, and he didn’t know the last name of this woman Verity, her friend.

  He buried his face in his hands. The day had started with the realization that Noël was missing. Mossy had been distraught and had raced through the house crying and calling for her pet. It was not until about eleven a.m. that they had thought that perhaps the kitten was in Lady Ann’s room.

  Immediately, Ruston had raced to her room, followed by Mossy. What they found behind the carefully closed door was an empty wardrobe and two letters. His had simply said that for reasons she did not feel he needed to know, she must reject his kind offer.

  Mossy’s had expressed how Ann would never forget a little girl that she would want for her very own, if she could ever be blessed with such good fortune. Your father loves you very much, it had continued. Take care of him, and always know that if you ever need me, I will be there for you. A silver locket had been enclosed, with the instructions that she would like Mossy to wear it always.

  It had been a long, dreary day after that, for Noël seemed to have disappeared completely, and with Lady Ann gone too, Mossy was distraught. At seven she had gone to bed and had cried herself to sleep as her father watched, helpless to soothe her pain. He had been sitting for hours now, unable to think, unable to do anything. Such profound depression was unlike him and he frowned into the fire, wondering what was wrong with him. So the kitten was gone and Mossy was sad. He would get her a new one and she would forget soon enough.

  It was Lady Ann’s defection that was destroying him. He missed her. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a berry, one of the fifteen or so he had left and had not allowed Cobb to throw out. He thought over his acquaintance with Ann, brief though it had been. Far from being the Lady Ice of London gossip, she was the warmest, most beautiful woman he had ever known. He had seen her eyes alight with so many kinds of . . . of what? Of love. She loved Mossy, she had said so, and had repeated it in her note to his daughter.

  But he had seen another light in her eyes, and it had been when he kissed her. She had glowed, evanescent with a lovely flame that torched his body with heat and touched his soul with longing. Longing for her . . . yearning to have her near him always, so he could spark a permanent light in those gorgeous eyes, one that would not extinguish when sad memories came to haunt her.

  She had made him see that home was where he belonged. His daughter needed him and, yes, needed her, the mother she had never had and the mother he had thought never to give her. The truth was so simple and so profound.

  He loved Lady Ice.

  His heart throbbed with acceptance. It was true. He swallowed hard. Was it too late? Would he never be able to kindle the love light in her eyes and prove to her that loving did not always bring pain?

  A noise behind him made him start and he turned in his chair.

  A ghost!

  But no, not a ghost. Lady Ann, standing in the shadows holding something close to her.

  He stood and strode toward her.

  “I . . .” Her voice trembled and she cleared her throat. “I found him in my bag. He was in my sewing bag, and I knew Mossy would be so sad, and I couldn’t bear the thought of that, so I had to bring him back, even though I was ever so far away and—”

  “What are you talking about?” Charles heard his own voice, harsh with suppressed emotion.

  Ann held out her hands. Noël was curled there, sleeping. He didn’t take the animal.

  “I have to go,” Ann said. “Please, take him to Mossy. She must be frantic, and I just couldn’t bear—”

  “Ann!”

  She stopped talking but would not meet his eyes. He put one finger under her chin and pushed it up. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a berry and showed it to her. She shook her head but did not say anything.

  “Please, Ann. Just once.” He lowered his face to hers and poured his heart into the kiss he gave her, his first given with the knowledge that he loved a woman. When he stepped back, he could see the dazed surprise on her face.

  “Why . . . ?”

  He put his hands on her cloaked shoulders and pulled her close, careful not to crush the kitten. “Because I love you. I didn’t know it until just now, but I love you.” He resisted asking her if she loved him. He wanted her to know that he gave her his love freely, without needing anything in return.

  Her eyes welled, and one tear trickled from the corner. “Are you sure?” She sounded disbelieving, as if it was a trick.

  “I’m sure,” he said gently.

  “I love you too. I wasn’t sure at first if that was what I was feeling but it was, and I love you. I was so afraid to come back, once I knew. I was so afraid . . .”

  He put one finger on her lips. “You mustn’t ever be afraid again. Ann, marry me. Not just to be Mossy’s mother, but to be my wife.”

  His words spread a budding, quivering tendril of hope into Ann’s heart. Not just to be Mossy’s mother? He wanted her for himself? Just to love?

  He kissed her again and again—no berries exchanged this time—and she felt his love on his lips and in his whispered words and in her heart.

  “You found him!” Mossy, tear-reddened eye
s wide, raced into the room. “You found him and you came back!” She threw her arms around the two adults, standing so close together in the dying firelight.

  Noël awoke, mewing his displeasure at the jolting.

  “He was in my sewing bag when I left, the little devil!” Ann’s voice trembled with love. She knelt in front of Mossy and gave over care of the kitten.

  Charles knelt beside her and gave her a conspiratorial glance. “Mossy, how would you like it if Lady Ann was to live with us always?”

  “Always?”

  “Always,” Ann answered. “Would you . . . could I be your . . .” She could not say it. The words were too precious and the answer too important.

  “Sweetness, you have never had a mother, except for the one in heaven.” Ruston smiled over at Ann. “What if Lady Ann was to marry me and live with us and be your mother?”

  “Forever?” Mossy’s voice held a note of awe. Noël yowled just at that moment, and Mossy broke out laughing. “Noël says yes! Noël says that was what he planned from the beginning! That is why he got into your bag, so you would come back!”

  Ann and Charles gazed at each other in bemused silence.

  “I didn’t know how I was going to find you,” Charles said. “I don’t have your friend’s last name, and I didn’t know how long you’d be in Bath, or even if you would ever want to see me again!”

  “I was so afraid!” Ann admitted. “Too afraid to even tell myself the truth, that when you asked me to marry you, I wanted to say yes, even though I thought you just wanted a mother for Mossy so you could go back to the Continent and not worry about her.”