A Rogue's Christmas Kiss (Must Love Rogues)

by Eva Devon

“It doesn’t matter,” she protested honestly.

  “Kiss me,” she said again.

  His hold tightened at the nape of her neck and then his mouth was upon hers.

  There was nothing gentle about it. If she had thought he would be as gentle as the opening notes of the song he had played, she’d been mistaken.

  Oh no, he kissed with darker strokes. More powerful caresses.

  He dragged her to him and held her as if he wished to make her at one with him.

  He devoured her.

  And she loved it.

  My God, she did.

  Her mouth opened to take more of his kiss. And kiss after kiss sent her flying high into an ecstatic drunkenness.

  Transported was the word he had applied to them in regards to his rendering of Beethoven’s music.

  Well, he was just as intoxicating as any composition.

  The feel of her body crushed against his hard chest drove her mad with longing. Drove her to cling to him. To let go of any sort of reason.

  For it seemed this evening, though they knew each other not at all, they were both lost to raw emotion. Emotion which threatened to rip them both apart then, dare she hope, bring them back together as one.

  Suddenly, he tore his mouth from hers. His face was a mask of amazement and something else. Something she couldn’t name.

  “I. . .” His voice was gruff now, barely audible with his need.

  “Yes?” she urged, still holding tight to him. Still waiting to be taken away by his kiss.

  “Not tonight,” he whispered. “Soon. But not tonight.”

  Those last words were punctuated by the quick removal of his hands from her person. He turned and walked away, the sound of his booted feet marching from the room.

  Lord Sebastian Rutherford, The Earl of Gray, her husband, left her standing paralyzed by their passion without so much as a backward glance.

  Chapter 5

  The healing bliss of sleep and Sebastian had never been on particularly good terms. Now, it seemed they were veritable enemies. The long hours had passed with the devil on his back. The sun had only just risen, touching the snow-laden trees and moors with a golden glow.

  How in the hell had she stolen away his reserve so entirely?

  Bloody hell, but she’d stolen away his defenses!

  In all his life, no one had ever made him feel so raw. She knew almost nothing about him. No details. No history. Yet, she had somehow managed to be as moved by music as he was and that had somehow opened a door.

  He only prayed a walk after breakfast through the frigid north country morning air would restore his senses.

  Some men were at ease with everyone around them. He envied these men. He would never be one of them. No matter how hard he tried, he always knew there was something wrong with him.

  Something which his companions would eventually see.

  If he was careful and kept his true self hidden behind his calm, cool exterior, then all would be well. He would never have to feel the pain he’d felt throughout his childhood as he’d learned over and over again that he was not acceptable.

  Oh no, his parents had ensured that.

  He headed down the wide stairs and wandered through the brocade-lined halls until the scent of rashers and coffee wafted towards him.

  Divinity beckoned and he easily found the breakfast room. Its windows overlooked the back garden.

  “Good morning,” his wife said brightly from the opposite end of the table.

  He nearly stumbled as he crossed the threshold.

  “You are awake?” he asked quite stupidly.

  “The sun is up,” she said as though that explained everything.

  “And therefore, so are you.”

  “Exactly so,” she replied cheerfully. “I find that as soon as the sun rises, I must shake off my bedclothes. Winter is dark enough without eschewing the brighter hours.”

  “I see.” He couldn’t quite muster her enthusiasm for he had yet to have his first cup of his favorite beverage.

  “I’m glad you are up,” she said as she pushed aside a periodical of some sort. “I was uncertain as to your own hours. Bachelors, they do say, sleep all hours.”

  “I’m not that kind of bachelor.” He surveyed the sideboard, eager to fill his plate.

  “What kind were you?”

  “The productive kind. I also don’t need a great deal of sleep,” he informed her as he took up a blue porcelain plate.

  “Nor do I.” She took a sip from her cup. “I know there are those who are veritable cats. Sleeping the day away. I can’t. I can’t take a nap to save my life. Even as a child.”

  He laughed at her barrage of commentary. Was she nervous or always so vivacious? “My nanny did insist I attempt to nap in the afternoons.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  He took a silver spoon and took a portion of eggs from the silver server. “She told me I was the best rester she’d ever cared for.”

  Marabelle let out a buoyant laugh. “We are two of a kind then.”

  He wondered. She certainly wasn’t what he thought she might be. “You are far too respectable for that.”

  “Am I?” Her nose scrunched as she contemplated his comment. “I suppose I should be glad.”

  “But you’re not?” He added rashers and a kipper to his plate.

  “I’d always hoped to do more than simply run a good house, organize the village fete and take care of the tenants. Though those are worthwhile pursuits.”

  Suddenly, he recalled something the Duke of Huntsdown had told him. “It’s not enough for you?”

  Her face grew a trifle guarded. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He’d made some rather sweeping assumptions about her. He’d assumed she longed to marry an earl, to keep her position, to do as all other society ladies did.

  But she’d had the chance to marry a duke. Yet, she hadn’t taken it. Did that mean being a countess was not her first choice? How did he ask why she’d married him? It wasn’t the sort of thing one could ask before coffee had been partaken of.

  So, he spooned mushrooms onto his painted plate and then headed for the table, eager to add toast with butter to his breakfast.

  Before he sat, he poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot.

  She stared at him as though he were a barbarian who was about to eat with his fingers.

  He supposed he shouldn’t have poured his coffee so unceremoniously but he wanted it now. He needed it now. And bloody hell, it was his house, his table, his silver pot, his cup, and his coffee. He didn’t have to do things exactly as they were supposed to be done.

  So then he sat, brought the steaming cup upward, closed his eyes and took in the heavenly aroma. He sipped and a shudder of pleasure ran through him.

  “Marvelous,” he purred.

  “Thank you. There are no coffee houses near. And Papa loved his coffee.” She draped her napkin in her lap, clearly having just selected a plate for herself. “I pride the servants on their ability to make a superior cup.”

  “All one needs is a collection of news sheets and one might as well be in an excellent establishment of the noble bean.”

  “Oh, would you like The Times?” she asked before she lifted the broad news sheet from the table.

  He blinked and laughed.

  “What amuses you?”

  How did he say what he’d surmised without offense? At last, he told the truth, “If you must know, I assumed they were publications for a lady.”

  “Is The Times written for men?” She blinked then gave him a mischievous stare. “I had no idea.”

  He didn’t miss the dry note to her voice.

  “I feel I have offended you.” That was what he’d hoped to avoid.

  “I did think you irregular, which pleased me, but I see you are like the others.” She smiled and drank her coffee with surprising affability. “Your observation was most regular for a man. That ladies only read publications about lace and such.”

  �
�And novels.”

  “You don’t read novels?” she scoffed with dramatic aplomb. Whereupon, she gave him a pitying glance. “How very sad.”

  “I enjoy novels greatly,” he amended quickly. “Perhaps, we should all avoid assuming that such things are ruled by gender.”

  “Very wise,” she agreed.

  He sat at the opposite end of the table. The head. The place the earl was meant to sit and his appetite dimmed as the weight of it came down.

  Drinking his coffee, he studied his wife and considered.

  She ate with gusto. Something he was not accustomed to in the ladies he’d known. English ladies on the continent were a bit sniffy when it came to dining. She seemed to adore eating her toast covered with marmalade.

  As she spread a goodly bit of butter on what had to be her third slice, she said, “You’re coming, are you not?”

  The innocent question smacked of some hidden trap. “Where?”

  She gave him a stunned look. “To find the Yule log.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to reply of course not but then he recalled her request. That he at least attempt to enjoy Christmas. Was this part of that? Would he be failing her if said no?

  Almost certainly. For once, in years, it mattered to him. He’d always feared disappointing his parents. Once they’d died, he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t be concerned about the expectations of others. But for some inexplicable reason, he hated the idea of disappointing Marabelle in this.

  Even if it meant partaking in Christmas frolics, something he would usually find shudder inducing.

  “Of course, I will go. I have made a promise after all.”

  Pleasure flushed her cheeks and something else softened her piercing gaze. Relief. It had to be relief.

  “I’m very glad.” She fidgeted on her chair, put her toast down then took a swallow of coffee.

  “Do you wish to say something?” he asked, hoping she’d be out with it.

  She nodded, took another swallow, then leaned forward. “We must abandon ceremony, you and I. We must be free with each other and stop all this proper nonsense. Especially if we are to get an heir.”

  He choked on his coffee and coughed.

  “I say, it isn’t that shocking,” she protested before she sat a little straighter. “We are married.”

  “You’re a lady,” he reminded, hoping beyond hope that would end this most unexpected conversation.

  “I am. It’s true.” She frowned. “But being a lady can be very limiting in terms of conversation. Can we simply not be frank with each other? After last night. . . I think it best.”

  What could he say? Very little, by God. Not if he didn’t wish to hurt her feelings. And apparently, he didn’t wish to. “If that is what you wish.”

  “Good,” she replied triumphantly. “It is. Are you planning on staying here?”

  The wind knocked out of him in that punch of a sentence. “You were not jesting.”

  “Not at all,” she agreed. “Will you be staying at Northly? Do you plan on being a true earl or will I be doing your duties?”

  The frankness jarred him. He was unused to such discussion from anyone besides men and, well, shopkeepers. And truthfully, most people avoided such directness.

  He placed his fork and knife down. “If you must know, I do not intend to stay in England.”

  “Will you take me with you when you go?” she asked.

  This time, he was lucky not to have the coffee anywhere near the vicinity of his lips. “Take you with me?”

  “Yes,” she said, all seriousness now. “You see, I had always hoped to have adventures. But it seems that duty has called my name, instead.”

  “The adventures I have are not suitable for a—”

  “Lady,” she finished.

  “Exactly so,” he replied, fortifying himself with more coffee and praying that this would now all end.

  She sighed.

  A degree of discomfort settled in his stomach. “You’re disappointed.”

  “Yes. But we needn’t worry about that now. It’s something to discuss further down the road.”

  He fought a wince. “Must we discuss it further?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He leaned back in his chair. He wondered if anyone had ever told her that she was formidable beyond all measure and should consider leading a battalion and abstain from hosting parties.

  But then, wasn’t that exactly what she was now attempting to say? She didn’t wish to be the hostess of balls and be the dutiful countess.

  Was the old earl rolling in his grave at this exchange?

  Almost certainly.

  She took a last unladylike gulp of her coffee, pushed back from the table and grinned. “Now, are you ready to go and find the Yule log?”

  He cringed. “Surely you send servants.”

  “I weep for your lack of imagination, indeed I do. If we left everything to servants, life would be very dull, indeed.”

  As Sebastian stood, he wondered what sort of upbringing she had to create such undaunted optimism. The opposite of his, no doubt. So, he gestured to the door, unwilling to argue further. “Lead on then, my lady. Lead on.”

  Chapter 6

  Marabelle charged through several inches of snow which had fallen throughout the previous day and night. A gamut of emotions danced within her.

  Christmas had always brought her the greatest happiness. The choosing of a Yule log was an event that had always been full of festivities. In fact, she’d invited the Duke and Duchess of Huntsdown to join in the excitement of the outing.

  In the country, an excuse to go for a long walk was always a welcome thing.

  After all, what was life without dogs bounding about and long walks with a good hot drink when one was done?

  Well, it would be nothing without company to share it and the good conversation such company brought.

  Now, though, she felt a bit of trepidation.

  Her husband, undaunted by the snow, strode forward in discussion with the Duke of Huntsdown. She’d rather envisioned conversing with him herself, but the day wasn’t over yet.

  They left the meadow and headed into the woods that covered the parkland to the north.

  The boughs of ancient trees, swimming under snow, towered overhead.

  This was beauty. This was something which could repair the soul. After all, if this forest could survive hundreds of years of change and still remain majestic and awe inspiring, surely she could overcome her own personal losses.

  So, she took a deep breath of the chilled air. She tucked her hands into her fur muff a little deeper.

  The duchess slowed her pace and came in to step with Marabelle. “I’m so glad you invited us. James does get so caught up in the running of his estates and government that sometimes it’s difficult to remind him to enjoy life.”

  “I cannot tell you how glad I am you could come. It will ease. . .”

  Olivia gave her a knowing look from under her fur-lined hat. “The newness of it?”

  “He doesn’t like Christmas,” Marabelle whispered.

  Olivia gaped. “How is such a thing possible?”

  “I deduce his parents were about as warm as the snow beneath our boots.”

  “Oh dear.” Olivia frowned. “You and I were so fortunate in our respective parents. James’ parents were most affectionate, as well, as far as I can tell.”

  “It certainly seems to have affected him,” Marabelle agreed. “He loathes England, too.”

  “My goodness. Is he actually English?”

  “His lineage does confirm it.”

  Olivia leaned in a little closer and said quietly, “And according to James he was a most loyal soldier for the crown. Participated in most dangerous missions, don’t you know.”

  She stared at her husband’s broad shoulders, wondering how much he had borne without help from others. “I suppose you’d have to be cold as steel for that.”

  “I think for the sort of thing, he did.” Olivia bit
her pink lip then added, “Yes.”

  “What was that?” Marabelle prodded, eager for any gossip about her husband she could find.

  “James, of course, wouldn’t say. But he did say that the fellow was not a regular soldier and that without him, there was a good chance the war would have been lost.”

  “I admire him very much, you know.” Marabelle shook her head. “I can’t explain it. But he is rather inspiring, even if he isn’t the nicest fellow in the world.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “My dearest, I have come to realize that nice is terribly overrated. Nice people do very little with their lives, it seems to me. Oh, I’m not advocating cruelty. But I sometimes wonder, especially with us ladies, if our preoccupation with being nice doesn’t prevent us from leading much fuller lives.”

  Marabelle couldn’t agree more. But at present, she had something else at the forefront of her mind. “I wish I could help him to love Christmas. It’s so much a part of me, in truth.”

  “Why is it so important to you?”

  Goodness. Why was it so important? “I suppose I feel if he could like Christmas then. . .”

  Olivia reached out and squeezed Marabelle’s arm with her burgundy gloves covering her hands. “He might like you?”

  She nodded.

  Olivia winked cheekily. “Oh, I think he likes you.”

  Marabelle snorted. “Desires me, you mean.”

  “My, my,” Olivia said. But then she nodded. Her dark curls bounced about her cheerful face. “Yes, I suppose so. But don’t you think it might be both?”

  “I don’t know. He’s most strange,” Marabelle confessed. “And I do wish him to like me.”

  “Understandable, given that he’s your husband.”

  “My dear Olivia,” Marabelle sighed. She tried not to feel a bit of dread as she pointed out, “I cannot tell you how many married couples give not a whit for like or dislike.”

  “Their loss is greater than they will ever know.”

  “My parents loved each other,” Marabelle said abruptly.

  “Mine did as well,” Olivia said, her voice deep with emotion. “And you’d like the same for yourself?”

  Marabelle sucked in a breath, wrenching her gaze away from the men walking before her and stared off into the forest. “I long for it, truth be told, but he seems so. . .”