Scandal At Christmas - A Christmas Novella
Page 8
He broke the kiss for the shortest of moments to loop the reins of the horses over a low branch, then they were together once more, both growing desperate, his hands driving between the closure of her riding jacket, pushing beneath the heavy wool to shape her waist, her hips, her bottom. Fiercely, he pulled her pelvis up against him, his cupped hands roving lower and down toward the back of her thighs, lower still, until she felt his fingers gently stroking her down there.
Letitia let out a little gasp and pulled away, dropping her hot forehead against his open coat.
“Kiss me like you mean it,” he murmured, his voice husky.
“I don’t know how,” she said in a little voice. “It’s not like I’ve done this before.”
“Then let me show you.” Again, his mouth lowered to hers, and he angled his head so their noses wouldn’t touch, so that their mouths fitted perfectly together, so that he could grind his mouth against hers and force his own tongue against her own, until she was kissing him back with a passion that left her breathless and dizzy.
Snow tingled cold and wet upon her forehead, her nose. She made a little sound of joy deep in her throat and pulling back, rested her forehead against his chest once more, trying to catch her breath. He was breathing as hard as she, and she heard and felt his heart beating frantically beneath his coat. She looked up at him, and he took her face within his hands, gently thumbing her cheekbones as he gazed down into her eyes.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since you ran away back in Norfolk,” he said hoarsely.
“And I’ve been regretting that I ran away.”
“No more regrets for either of us, Lettie.” His gray eyes darkened, crinkling a bit at the corners as he smiled down at her and gently stroked her cheek. “Just gratitude. You’re here. I’m here, and I’m glad of it. Glad that I put down my work, my endless pursuit of rebuilding my fortune in order to relax. To come look at a horse that I still haven’t seen.”
“Maybe there isn’t one,” she said, thinking of how much manipulation had already taken place, and not finding it in her heart to resent any of it.
“Maybe there isn’t. And I don’t care.” He lowered his lips and let them brush her forehead, warming it against the melting snow. “I almost didn’t come, you know. Figured I didn’t have time, couldn’t take or make the time to get away.”
“But it’s Christmas, Tristan.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“Stand here with me and feel the peace and joy of the season,” she murmured, snuggling up against him and feeling his arms tighten around her, his cheek resting against the top of her head until she felt perfectly enclosed within his presence. At home. And in a place where she knew she’d belonged since time began. “Feel it all around us ... in the silence, in the stillness, in the beauty of this deep, quiet world as the snow drifts down around us. Life is not all work and the pursuit of goals, Tristan. Once in a while, we all have to stop to smell the roses ... to note the beauty of this world that God created for us ... to stand in a cold stable and gaze with wonder and joy at the child in the manger.” She bent back and looked up in to his eyes. “Happy Christmas, Tristan.”
“Happy Christmas, Lettie.”
He smiled, bent his head to kiss her once more and at that moment, one of the horses flung up its head and let out a long, piercing whinny, startling them both.
In the split second that it took for Tristan to set her back and firmly away from him, Letitia saw another horse some fifty feet away. Saw the dark blue sea coat, the cocked hat, the anger and murderous fury in her brother’s piercing stare.
Her heart dropped from her throat into her knees.
“S-Simon,” she said weakly.
But he had dismounted and was walking toward them.
He had seen everything. It was too late.
* * *
Simon’s voice could have carried the length of a quarterdeck.
“Letitia!”
He didn’t quite roar, but he didn’t have to; Simon was a commanding enough figure, a man whose authority was ingrained, recognizable, unmistakable to anyone within or beyond his sphere. Letitia flushed crimson and hastily stepped back, her mind whirling from Tristan’s kiss, the shock of being discovered, the necessity of finding a way out of this rapidly deteriorating situation.
“Good morning, Captain Ponsonby,” said Tristan affably. “I know what this looks like and I can assure you that it is—”
“I know what the situation looks like!” This time, Simon actually did roar.
“—as I was about to say, I can assure you that it is exactly what it looks like it is.” Tristan was composed, confident, and if looks were to be believed, not one iota upset or embarrassed by the situation in which Simon had caught them. “I was kissing your sister. I enjoyed kissing your sister, and I would enjoy getting to know her as my wife even better, if you will give your informal consent, Captain, and your father, his official one.”
Not much took Simon aback, but such a declaration was not what he was expecting. Sheepish excuses, yes. Stammered apologies, perhaps. Even an acceptance of the challenge to meet him at dawn that would have been his next demand. But marriage?
“Captain?” prompted Lord Weybourne.
“You barely know her,” Simon muttered, looking from one to the other.
“I know her well enough that I’m certain I would like to spend the rest of my life with her. Isn’t that enough?”
Letitia had been silently watching this tense exchange. Now, she raised her chin and sidled closer to Tristan, her heart topsy-turvy, her senses reeling at the speed with which things were happening.
Marriage?
“What about you, Lettie?” her brother asked. “Have you nothing to say, for once in your life?”
She colored and kicked at the snow with the toe of her boot. “Well ... I rather enjoyed being kissed by Lord Weybourne. And I would be honored to be his wife.”
“This is the most half-baked proposal—and acceptance—I’ve ever heard.” Simon narrowed his eyes, frowning. “That’s it? You two both think you’ll suit because you enjoy each other’s kisses?”
“We both like horses, Letitia said stubbornly. “And he has kept my secret safe. I trust him.”
“What secret?”
“I sneaked out to his estate while we were visiting Lady Ariadne in Norfolk, on the way here. I only wanted to see his horses ... and try to figure a way out of this dreadful house party in which I’m to be married off to the abominable Mr. Homer Trout.”
“What?”
“Homer Trout. Don’t be obtuse, Simon. The skinny, insipid man with the mole on his nose and the bristle growing out of it.”
Her brother shook his head in confusion and impatience. “What nonsense are you talking about?”
“Did you not know? I overheard Mama talking to Lady Adriane. She was telling her that Mr. Trout would be at this house party and that her intention was to see me married to him as I’ve been on the marriage market for three Seasons now, and Mama was despairing of me ever finding a match. She’d had enough.” Tristan extended his hand to her and she took it, grateful for the reassuring squeeze of his fingers around her own. “I do not want to marry Homer Trout, Simon. I never did. I ran off that afternoon in the hopes I could clear my head enough that I could think of a way out of Mama’s plans for me. And maybe even this party.”
“Homer Trout is not at this party. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He is supposed to arrive today. Tristan and I were going to create a ... a little scandal so that Homer would think me too wild and unsuitable and no longer be interested in me.”
“For one thing,” Simon said, raising a hand and ticking off his points on his fingers, “Homer Trout is not at this party,” he repeated firmly. “And he is not going to be. He was never invited and he is already married.”
“What?”
“Mama only told you that so you’d do exactly what you’ve gone and done. Get yourself into tro
uble such that you’d have to get married to someone far more suitable. Someone of your own choosing.”
Letitia’s mouth opened in a silent “O” and beside her, Tristan’s lips began to twitch.
“Secondly,” Simon continued, “you have indeed created a scandal. Mama and her busy-body friends all saw you in the stable with Lord Weybourne, and knew you’d gone out riding with him alone. Mama came and got me and told me to retrieve you.” As Letitia went white, he added, a bit more gently, “Everyone knows, Letitia.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
“Oh,” she said in a little voice, and pressed her fingers to her mouth.
“Thirdly,” he said darkly, “I have learned from Stephen that this little house party was never solely about a bunch of friends and acquaintances celebrating the Yuletide and making merry. It was about marrying off four daughters who have evaded husbands on the marriage mart for the past two or three Seasons. Lord Trent Ballantine has offered for Lady Winifred Grisham. Chalk one up to the four mamas. Now, Lord Weybourne here has offered for you, Letitia. Chalk two up to the four mamas. That leaves just Lady Prudence and Lady Jane, and I would bet every gun on my frigate and the powder to fire them that the four mamas will have their betrothals done and dusted before Boxing Day arrives and we all start making plans to leave.”
Letitia walked a little distance away and leaned against the bay mare’s side. Her head was swimming. Mama, plotting her marriage? The other ladies doing the same with their daughters, her friends?
“This is all rather amusing,” Tristan said at last. “Why is it when you put several females together, the world gets turned on its ear?”
“Because that’s the way females are,” Simon said, as though that fact was obvious. “Not happy unless they’re meddling, manipulating, and marrying people off. My God, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they have plans for me, too. Glad I’m going back to sea. I’d rather take my chances with the French.” He looked squarely at Tristan and then at Letitia. “So now that you both know you’ve been neatly manipulated by Mama and perhaps, Weybourne, even your sister, do you still want to go through with this marriage, or do we have a date at dawn with either pistols or swords?”
“Manipulated or not, it does not change my offer, or my interest in your sister,” Tristan said firmly.
“And you, Letitia?”
“Well, I admit that it rather stings that Mama felt pressed to take matters into her own hands, but it does not change my interest in Lord Weybourne’s suit.”
Simon’s taciturn features relaxed in a reluctant smile. “Well, then,” he said at last, “at least you both have plenty in common. Are you as horse-mad as my sister is, Weybourne?”
“Do ships float?”
“Only until they go aground or get shot to pieces and sunk.”
Tristan, smiling, drew Letitia close. “This ship that will be our marriage will not, to use your analogy, go aground or get shot to pieces. I pledge to you, Captain Ponsonby, that I will love and treasure your sister for all the days of my life.”
“Letitia?”
“For once, I am grateful to Mama for interfering. If she hadn’t waved the spectacle of Homer Trout behind a temptingly closed door, I might never have gone to Tristan’s estate in the hopes of delaying this trip.” She smiled up at Tristan. “If I’ve spent every waking moment, and most of my dreaming ones, thinking of you, does that mean that I’m in love?”
He laughed and pulled her close, uncaring that her brother was standing nearby. “It means that you and I share a similar affliction, because I have found myself unable to think of anyone or anything but you since you sneaked into my stable and won over Amir’s heart ... and in that moment, I daresay, mine as well.”
Around them, the snow whispered down, frosting their hair, melting on their cheeks.
Peace. Joy. Stillness. And the greatest gift of the Christmas season.
Love.
“Turn your back, Captain Ponsonby,” said Tristan, pulling his fiancée into his arms and gazing down at her with his heart in his eyes. “We are about to seal our promise with a kiss.”
Above them, the bough of a pine drooped under the growing weight of the snow.
It wasn’t quite mistletoe, but as Tristan lowered his head and let his lips claim Letitia’s, both of them knew that it would do quite nicely.
That it was, in fact, Perfect.
the end
About the Author:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Danelle Harmon has written seventeen critically acclaimed and award-winning books, with many being published all over the world and translated into numerous languages. She and her family make their home in New England with numerous animals including five dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle enjoys reading, spending time with family, friends and her pets, and sailing her Melonseed skiff, Kestrel II. She welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at Danelle@danelleharmon.com or through any of the means listed below:
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