No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella

by Megan Frampton

  The knock came just after Maria had gone, leaving Sophronia in blissful anticipation of a comfortable book, a warm fire, and an hour before she thought she should try to be in bed.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Green’s dictatorial ways extended to telling her guests when they should be tucked up in their rooms, and the lady insisted everyone get a good night’s sleep since the holiday tree-hunting expedition was likely to be strenuous.

  Sophronia didn’t argue since it meant more time away from the lies they were telling, and Mrs. Archer, whom Sophronia found she liked more each time they were together.

  Yes, the woman was talkative, and somewhat silly, but she had such a good heart, and she loved her son so much, even if she didn’t entirely understand him.

  It made Sophronia feel even more terrible that she and Mrs. Archer’s son were lying to her face, and she knew that Mrs. Archer would be devastated when she learned that Sophronia had died. Even though it hopefully wouldn’t be true.

  But that wasn’t answering the door, was it?

  Of course she knew who it was on the other side; it wasn’t as though there was anyone else at the house who would be knocking at eleven o’clock at night. She walked to the door, tightening her wrapper but still feeling dangerously underdressed.

  Not because he would necessarily get carried away, but because she would. She definitely had not expected that kiss to be so . . . meaningful. Important. Wonderful.

  Yes, many words for describing one thing. As seemed to be the case when she thought about him, or that, or how this holiday was both the most wonderful and the most painful one she’d ever had.

  She pulled the lock and opened the door, stepping aside to let him in. He wasn’t dressed for sleeping, as she was, but he was more casually clothed than before—he had removed his cravat and coat, and wore only his shirt and trousers. He had his hands full with something, but she didn’t notice that, because she was too distracted—now that his cravat was off, she could see his strong neck and a few tufts of hair peeking over the collar of his shirt.

  Those hairs made her feel all sorts of new and strange feelings.

  “What are you doing here?” Because she was fairly certain he wasn’t here so she could admire the hair on his chest.

  He grinned and held up what was in his hands—two glasses and a bottle of wine. “I’m here to strategize how we’re going to win the tree-finding contest tomorrow.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “And for that we need wine?”

  He shook his head and strode past her to place the wine and glasses on her bedside table, then sat down on the bed. Her bed. “The wine isn’t for strategizing, Sophycakes, it’s for fun.” He paused, then a sly grin twisted his lips. “We do know how to have fun together, don’t we?”

  Sophronia immediately felt her face turn not pink, but thoroughly and absolutely red. She doubted a sunset at the end of a summer day was more red than she was at this moment.

  He was watching her, and his grin turned into full-out laughter, but not as though he was enjoying her discomfiture, but as though he was gleeful about it all. About his being here, and them together, and their kiss from earlier before.

  She could do this, hadn’t she vowed to give herself permission to have fun? She went and plopped next to him on the bed, the motion pushing them together. “Well, open that bottle, then, and let’s strategize.”

  He didn’t think he had ever laughed so much in his entire life. His Sophronia—not Sophycakes, she’d informed him in a mockingly supercilious tone—turned out to be even more fun when he was alone with her.

  That is, even more fun when he was alone with her and not kissing her. He still thought kissing her was just slightly more fun than making elaborate plans to lure their competitors to a sparse bit of forest. Not that they knew where said sparse bit of forest was, nor how they would succeed in luring the others there, but they had a stupidly fun time talking about it.

  “And then, when you’ve done your job and brought them to where they’re all somewhere else, I’ll fell the best tree and drag it back to the house.”

  She looked at him askance. “All by yourself?”

  Jamie felt the sting of masculine pride. “You don’t believe I can handle a tree on my own?”

  She took the last swallow of her wine, and he poured her another glass. “No, I don’t.”

  He reached for her glass and set it on the table, then took her hand and put it on his bicep. And flexed.

  At which point, her eyes widened, and his masculine pride was assuaged. But now other parts of him wished to be assuaged—namely, to have her run her hands all over him, not just on his arm.

  “Uh,” she said, not letting go. If anything, squeezing harder.

  It was difficult to keep his muscle flexed for so long, but if it kept that wondrous look on her face, he’d do it.

  “Have I rendered you speechless?” he asked, feeling rather at a loss for words himself. Mostly because his mouth would prefer to be doing something else.

  She scowled and dropped her hand from his arm, but then launched herself at him, knocking them both over onto the bed. She lowered her mouth to his and kissed him, this time with much more finesse than the first time.

  His Sophycakes was a fast learner, it seemed.

  He allowed her to take what she so obviously wanted, opening his mouth to let her tongue in, reaching his arm across her body and letting his hand rest just below her breast on her rib cage. Although that was not, technically, what she wanted, but he figured that if he wanted it, it was a likely thing she did, as well.

  And oh, how he wanted it.

  Clothed in her sleepwear, she was less unapproachable goddess and more . . . approachable. Although that was an inane thought, given that they were each doing plenty of approaching at this very moment.

  She twisted so she was nearly underneath him, her hand caressing his back, her other hand in his hair. He felt her softness everywhere, and it was more amazing than he would have imagined.

  So amazing, in fact, that he had to stop before it was too late, and they were betrothed in truth.

  He reluctantly broke the kiss, hearing their gasping breaths in the otherwise silent room.

  “What is it?” she said, a dazed look in her eye.

  He knew how she felt.

  “If we don’t stop, we might never stop, and then—” He paused, not quite sure how to phrase it.

  “You’ll feel worse about killing me off?” she said in a dry voice.

  He laughed, albeit somewhat uncomfortably. Being with her had ameliorated his restless spirit, for certain, but he still felt the pull of the unknown, of continually moving so he didn’t have to settle down. Or be anything more than he was.

  Was that enough? Would it always be enough?

  Or was there something more? Something . . . different that was possible?

  Images of his father, how he’d just sat on the sofa and drank wine—rather as Jamie was doing tonight, although on a bed, not a sofa—crowded his brain, making him acutely aware that this might lead him to that very same dissatisfied spot.

  He rolled over onto his back, his body immediately regretting the loss of her. Well, his brain did as well, but his brain also shied away from that fact.

  “It’s just I don’t wish to—” he began, only to have her cut him off.

  “I know. I wouldn’t think you meant anything by it.” She gave a half laugh. “Besides which, it was me who made the first charge. None of this,” she said, and waved her hands in the air, “means anything. I know that. It’s just”—and he heard how her breath caught, and his throat thickened—“it’s just that it feels so wonderful.” She laughed softly. “And wondrous, and amazing, and all sorts of other words I’ve likely never heard of.”

  He rolled onto his side, propping his head in his hand. She turned her head to look at him, and t
hey were so close, he could see her brown eyes had flecks of green and gold within, and there was a very faint mole on her eyelid.

  He wanted to kiss that mole. And everywhere else on her face.

  “I feel the same way,” he said softly, surprised to find it was true. He’d never been with a woman who intrigued him as much when he was not doing inappropriate things with her as when he was.

  “But I know I can’t have you forever,” she said. “Nor would I want to,” she added quickly, once again stirring up Jamie’s masculine pride. “I know you are restless, and I—I just want a place to belong.”

  He wished he could give that to her. But he knew himself, and what’s more, he knew what she wanted—a cottage somewhere, a cottage he’d promised he’d give her when they’d entered into their bargain.

  That sounded like slow death to him—staying in the same place, knowing the same people, seeing the same things.

  It was better this way. It was.

  He looked at her for a moment longer, then got off the bed and stood, gazing down at her. Her face was still flushed, her lips red and swollen, and he wished he were enough of a cad to take what she would likely give him, if he coaxed her.

  But he wasn’t, and so she wouldn’t, and therefore he should go before the temptation of her outweighed the honor of him.

  “Good night, Sophronia,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked quickly out the door, before he had the chance to change his mind.

  Uhtceare:

  1. The next-to-last toe.

  2. The combination of juniper and mint, used as a remedy for toothache.

  3. Anxiety experienced just before dawn.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sophronia flopped back on the bed, feeling all sorts of new, interesting, and very difficult emotions. At the same time.

  Why did he have to be so honorable? Why couldn’t he just make the decision for her, push her to where she secretly wished to be?

  The one man with whom she wanted to be inappropriate, and he turned out to be an honorable, considerate man. Of all the stupid luck.

  She had to laugh at herself, of course, because if she didn’t—well, if she didn’t, she’d cry. And she did not want to cry. Not only because crying felt so maudlin, but also because it would make her eyes puffy, and her nose red, and Mrs. Green would likely notice and comment and send her daughter scurrying after Jamie to try and comfort the poor dear.

  And then he’d end up compromising Miss Green, and have to really marry her, not just be pretend betrothed to her.

  So crying was not on the agenda.

  It had felt so wonderful, being kissed by him. She’d liked how he felt, as well, his muscles, his back, his mouth on hers.

  And now she was back to wishing he weren’t so honorable.

  But if he were so honorable he wouldn’t have thought of this devious plan in the first place—she wouldn’t be here, they wouldn’t have met, and she’d be in the country tending children and chickens. So maybe it was her?

  No, she knew it wasn’t that. He seemed to have a perverse sense of honor, one that made him try to please his mother (in the short term, at least), but wouldn’t have to do anything unpleasant for himself. And it was clear he thought being tied down permanently was thoroughly unpleasant.

  Whereas she had to admit that if the person tying her down permanently was him, she would find it very pleasant indeed.

  And that was what she had decided earlier, wasn’t it? Even if it was temporary—and that wasn’t an if, it just was a fact—she would very much like to find out what it would all be like. She could be a respectable spinster when she and Maria were at the cottage.

  During this most festive season, she wanted to be festive. She knew now she couldn’t depend on him to do the wrong thing, so she was going to have to.

  She was going to have to seduce him.

  Happy Christmas, indeed.

  There would be no seduction today, however. For one thing, it was too cold outside to engage in any proper seduction, and secondly, Jamie was too competitive to get sidetracked by anything that might prevent him from winning.

  “Over here, Sophy,” he called. They had been the first into the forest, and he’d had the foresight to equip himself with a sturdy saw and some rope so they wouldn’t waste time getting help to drag the tree in.

  “Sophronia,” she muttered, following the sound of his voice. The wardrobe he’d gotten for her didn’t include clothing suitable for tramping about in the cold and the snow, so she was already damp and cross.

  And since she couldn’t achieve her own ends, now that she’d decided on them, she was even more cross. But it wasn’t as though she could say, “Excuse me, James, but would you mind taking advantage of me over by this tree here? Yes, it is inappropriate and scandalous and cold, but I’ve come to realize that this is what I want for Christmas, and you are the only one who can give it to me.”

  She wished she could say that, but she also suspected that the aforementioned cold and snow would reduce the pleasure she found in it, and if she were going to ruin herself, she wanted it to be enjoyable, at least.

  “Look, this has to be the best tree out here,” he said in an enthusiastic tone of voice as she made her way to him.

  It was definitely a tall tree. Perhaps twice his height, and that was saying something. Its branches were thick and full, and it didn’t take much imagination to see the tree would be gorgeous decorated with garland, candles, and ribbon.

  Or whatever Mrs. Green deemed appropriate to decorate a tree with. Thank goodness she didn’t take issue with Prince Albert’s importation of the custom, since Sophronia did love the tradition.

  She’d have to keep it up next year, when it was just her and Maria.

  Although she wouldn’t have six feet plus worth of strong male to haul her tree back for her. She’d have to get a gentle shrub or something.

  “Are you certain we can bring it back by ourselves? Oughtn’t I go get some help?” Sophronia couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice. It was a very tall tree.

  “And risk someone else finding something that would suit just as well, and they would win the contest?” He sounded outraged. “No, we can do it, didn’t I prove that last night?”

  Oh, right. By taking her hand and placing it on his bicep, which was hard and large and made her feel all sorts of prickly things inside.

  “You did.” No need to express her continued doubt. He would likely just hoist the tree over his shoulder to prove her wrong.

  “Bring the saw over, I’ll have the tree down in no time.”

  Sophronia handed him the saw, then watched as he started the process.

  A half hour later, he was in only his shirtsleeves, his hair was tangled and damp, and he was still sawing.

  She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a gloriously visceral sight in her life.

  “There,” he said at last, just in time for her to jump out of the way. The tree landed with a thump, sending whirls of snow flying up into the air.

  “Now all we have to do is get it back to the house.”

  “Good thing that’s all we have to do,” Sophronia commented dryly.

  But she had to admit she was wrong—gloriously, sweatily, strenuously wrong.

  He dragged the tree while she walked alongside, holding his jacket and cravat. She felt awash in his scent, a warm, strong aroma that just seemed essentially him.

  He’d rolled his sleeves up, and she couldn’t stop darting glances at his forearms—strong, of course, and sprinkled with brown hair.

  “Let’s sing, shall we?” he said, startling her out of her perusal of said arms.

  “What? But don’t you need your breath to—?”

  He shook his head in mock outrage. “You doubt me, Sophycakes. I can drag a tree and sing at the same time. I am very talented.”


  She had to laugh at that. “Fine, then. What shall we sing?”

  “A holiday carol, of course. Have you no imagination?”

  I’ve got plenty, she wanted to reply. Enough to think about what it would feel like if you wrapped me in those strong arms of yours and kissed me senseless. And did other things I know about, but am too embarrassed to discuss even in the confines of my own brain.

  “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen,” he began to sing, and of course he had a lovely voice, all resonant and rich and thrilling.

  She joined him, not nearly as shy about singing out loud because it was with him, and he just made her feel so comfortable, even though he also made her feel all prickly and odd and wanting.

  “Yes, your tree is definitely the best, Mr. Archer.” For once, Sophronia didn’t begrudge the woman’s definitive way of speaking. It was a few hours later, and Jamie had unfortunately had a bath and gotten properly dressed again. The rest of the party had returned, each team having retrieved a tree for Mrs. Green’s inspection.

  None were as large or as robust as theirs. Of course. Because none of the team members was as large or as robust as Jamie himself.

  “And you may take anyone you wish under the mistletoe,” Mrs. Green continued. Jamie glanced her way, a mischievous look in his eye. “Except for your own team member,” she added, and Sophronia wanted to laugh at how startled he looked at that, and he looked at her again, only this time it was in shock and a mild expression of horror.

  “Mrs. Archer, do come and stand just here,” Sophronia said, taking the older woman by the arm and guiding her under the mistletoe.

  Jamie met her gaze and smiled, a thankful, relieved smile that made her feel all warm and useful.

  “Oh, but what about the other young ladies?” Mrs. Archer expostulated, even though she went to the correct spot willingly enough.

  “None are as deserving of a holiday kiss as you, Mother,” Jamie replied smoothly, looking down at her fondly. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, then shot one last thankful look at Sophronia.

  “And now that is done, we will all go rest for a bit and then meet again at dinner. We will have the tree decorated, and then we can play some more games and sing carols.” Mrs. Green looked directly at Sophronia. “We all need to look our best.”