A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  ‘When did Miss Little leave?’

  ‘Some weeks ago,’ Amelia dismissed uninterestedly. ‘You must be cold and hungry after your journey, My Lord, allow me to go down to the kitchen and prepare you a light repa—’

  ‘How many weeks ago?’

  ‘I am sure that there will be some of the thick stew and freshly baked bread left over from my own supper—’

  ‘How many weeks ago, Amelia?’

  She looked up at him through the curtain of her long lashes. ‘There really is no need for you to raise your voice, My Lord,’ she reproved softly.

  His young ward was, Gray realised, attempting to be everything that was sweetly innocent. Attempting—because after her earlier behaviour he was not fooled for a moment! Believing her to be other than who she was, Gray might have made a mistake in taking her in his arms, but there had been no doubting Amelia’s warm response!

  ‘Perhaps if you were to answer my question I would not feel the need to do so?’ he came back mildly—and just as insincerely! ‘Perhaps,’ he continued grimly, ‘if you had written to me at the time of Miss Little’s departure the situation here would not have become quite so dire as it is!’

  Her eyes widened indignantly. ‘I trust you do not consider me to blame for the servants having departed?’

  ‘No,’ Gray allowed. ‘Only for choosing not to inform me of it.’ He was fully aware of who was to blame for the state of things at Steadley Manor. As he was also aware of the debt of gratitude he owed to Daniel Wycliffe for bringing those problems to his attention. Gray knew he owed the other man an apology at the earliest opportunity …

  ‘I did not—My Lord, there is blood upon the sleeve of your greatcoat!’ his ward gasped, her hand rising to her mouth in alarm, and a look of fascinated horror in those wide and incredulous blue eyes as she stared at his left arm.

  Gray glanced down uninterestedly at the blood-soaked sleeve. ‘That is what usually happens when one has been shot, Amelia.’

  Cheeks that were already smooth and pale as alabaster became even paler still as all the colour drained from his ward’s beautiful heart-shaped face. ‘I—You—Are you saying that I—that I aimed true … ?’ Her breasts rapidly rose and fell as she breathed deeply and erratically.

  Gray’s mouth twisted ruefully as Amelia reached out blindly to rest a steadying hand upon the banister. ‘You did not shoot me through the heart, as you threatened to do, but I do believe I have received a flesh wound upon my left arm that may need some attention. I trust you are not about to swoon, Amelia?’ He frowned darkly as he noticed the way his ward had begun to sway on her slippered feet.

  Amelia was very much afraid she was about to do exactly that!

  Except …

  The look of impatient disgust she detected on Lord Grayson’s rakishly handsome face as he scowled down at her was enough to bring her back to her full senses.

  For Amelia to pinch herself at the realisation that Lord Gideon Grayson was actually here, at Steadley Manor, at last.

  Wonderful as her sense of freedom had been after Dotty’s departure, Amelia had recently begun to grow a little tired of languishing alone here in Bedfordshire. Now that Lord Grayson was here she certainly did not intend behaving like a complete ninny by fainting at his feet. Bad enough, surely, that after all the years of waiting for this moment she had actually shot Lord Grayson within minutes of first meeting him!

  ‘Certainly not, My Lord,’ Amelia assured him briskly. ‘I was merely overcome for a moment, that is all. We will go to my bedchamber—’

  ‘For what purpose, might I ask?’ He lowered dark and reproving brows.

  She gave him a frowning glance. ‘Only because there is a fire alight in there to warm you and to ensure that you do not suffer from shock as well as loss of blood.’

  The only shock that Gray was suffering was in finding that this seductive young woman—and she was most certainly a woman, and not a child!—was his ward. A woman he had held in his arms only minutes ago. Intimately.

  ‘The water remaining in the jug following my own ablutions should still be tepid, at least.’ She ignored Gray’s scowl as she moved to his side and placed his uninjured arm across her shoulders before picking up the candle to light their way.

  Amelia Ashford was definitely a plucky little thing, Gray acknowledged with reluctance. Not that it had ever been in any doubt, after the way she had faced him down with a pistol earlier—and actually succeeded in pinking his arm, too!

  Gray had been vaguely aware, following the retort of the pistol, of a little discomfort in his left arm, but as it had only been slight—like the stinging of an angry bee—he had as quickly dismissed it. It was, however, starting to hurt like the very devil now that he had been reminded of it!

  Damn it, if any of Gray’s male acquaintances in the ton—heaven forbid any of his friends amongst the St Claire family!—ever learnt that he had been shot and wounded by his delicate slip of a ward, he would never live it down. Would find himself the butt of their jokes for years to come.

  He attempted to extract his arm from about those slender shoulders. ‘I assure you it is only a flesh wound, Amelia—’

  ‘A flesh wound that needs to be bathed and bandaged.’ She continued to doggedly guide his progress along the shadowy hallway.

  ‘I am perfectly capable of walking unaided,’ Gray snapped in his irritation with the idea that Amelia seemed to have acquired that he in any way needed her questionable assistance.

  Damn it, he was only eight and twenty—in the prime of his life—not some decrepit old man incapable of walking simply because he had received a graze upon his arm from a pistol shot. Besides, he had received and as quickly recovered from wounds that had been much more serious than this one …

  ‘I am sure that you are, Lord Grayson,’ that honeyed voice soothed patronisingly. ‘I am merely endeavouring, as you do not know the way, to guide you to my bedchamber.’

  Good God, after holding her in his arms earlier, the last thing Gray wanted was to go to this young woman’s bedchamber! The marriage between her mother and Gray’s brother might have been of short duration, and the couple now both passed away, but Amelia had still been Perry’s stepdaughter. And, with no other relatives alive to care for her after her mother and stepfather had died, Gray had become—still was—her guardian.

  A guardian who was only too aware of her beauty and her powers of seduction!

  And Gray was only too aware now, as he attempted to distance himself, of the soft delicacy of her flesh beneath his arm and hand, the warmth of her body pressed so close alongside his own … !

  ‘This really will not do, Amelia—’

  ‘We have arrived now, My Lord.’ She raised no further protest as Gray at last managed to wrest his uninjured arm from across her supporting shoulders, and instead reached out to push open the door to her bedchamber.

  A room Gray could not resist glancing into as he found himself filled with a curiosity to know if Amelia’s bedchamber would be as feminine as the woman herself.

  It was.

  Curtains of golden velvet hung at the two long windows, the furniture was of a pale cream and delicate in design, and the matching four-poster bed was draped in white satin and lace, with half a dozen matching pillows plumped up at its head. Pillows which Gray instantly knew would be a perfect foil for the spread of Amelia’s loosened gold hair—

  Gray drew himself up sharply. ‘It is simply not done, Amelia, to invite a gentleman into your bedchamber!’

  Her eyes widened at his cold vehemence, before those long dark lashes once again lowered to conceal the expression in the depths of those blue eyes. ‘I have invited my guardian into my bedchamber,’ she corrected huskily. ‘And surely if that man is a gentleman, and intends behaving as such, then there can be nothing wrong in a woman inviting him into her bedchamber … ?’

  Gray could not think of one gentleman of his acquaintance—several of them married!—who would be capable of behaving the gentleman if t
he lush and kissable Amelia were to invite them into her bedchamber!

  ‘Besides, My Lord, you are injured,’ she continued practically.

  Injured, yes. Incapable of feeling male desire, no!

  ‘Suffering from a wound that I inflicted,’ she added with a pained grimace.

  There was that, Gray accepted slowly, and he found himself unable to resist the appeal of those sea-blue eyes as she looked up at him so prettily. ‘Very well, Amelia.’ He sighed. ‘But I will remain only long enough for you to bathe and dress my wound.’

  ‘You are very forgiving, My Lord,’ she told him.

  Forgiving or not—ward or not—Gray was still very aware that apart from the cook, Mrs Burdock, he was apparently completely alone in the house with Amelia Ashford. Completely alone in her bedchamber with the beautiful and seductive Amelia. A woman who had already caused his arousal to throb and ache once this evening …

  Despite her earlier protestations, Amelia was less sure as to the correctness of Lord Grayson being in her bedchamber once he had removed his ruined greatcoat—Amelia doubted that amount of blood could ever be removed!—his superfine, his waistcoat, and finally his shirt, before then sitting down upon the side of her bed so that she might tend to the deep graze on his arm.

  She had never seen a man unclothed before, but even so Amelia was certain that Lord Gideon Grayson was a very fine specimen indeed. She had already guessed as much, of course, when he had held her in his arms earlier, but she could be left in no doubt now, when confronted with this much naked male flesh … !

  Hard and lightly tanned flesh that showed the evidence of several scars.

  ‘Have you fought many duels, My Lord?’ Amelia allowed the tips of her fingers to move lightly across the scars on his back and chest, and a puckered and circular blemish on his shoulder that looked as if it might have been caused by a bullet wound. There were several more vicious scars across his back and torso that might have been inflicted by a sword.

  Lord Grayson shot her an irritated glance. ‘Why should you assume I have fought any?’

  Because Amelia knew that Gideon Grayson, rather than joining the army, as a second son might be expected to do, had instead allowed his older brother to take up arms in defence of the family name, whilst he continued to live the life of the rake in London. Becoming involved in such exploits and scandals there that tales of his many mistresses and excessive gambling had even reached them here in the wilds of Bedfordshire.

  Surprising, then, how tanned his skin was. How broad and powerful his shoulders. How the muscles of the bareness of his back, chest and stomach were so perfectly defined they rippled every time he moved. How that chest was covered in a light dusting of hair as dark and curling as that upon his head …

  He smelled divine, too—like the outdoors. Earthy, and somehow untamed. And something else. Something indefinable. Something Amelia found wildly—deliciously—alluring.

  Amelia met his gaze boldly. ‘Perhaps my assumption is based on the fact that you did not hesitate to take an unknown woman into your arms earlier—’

  ‘I believe you have cleansed my wound enough, Amelia!’ Lord Grayson scowled his displeasure as he shifted sharply away from her.

  Amelia gave a guilty start as she realised that she had ceased bathing his arm long ago, and had instead been running her fingertips lightly over his scarred torso. Fascinated, simply enjoying the sensation, and watching as the muscles rippled beneath that tanned and taut skin each time she did so.

  She turned away to wipe her hands upon the towel. ‘I will need to go downstairs and collect clean bandages.’ Her cheeks were flushed, her gaze lowered to avoiding meeting his piercing grey one as she turned away to place the soiled cloth into the bowl of water before carrying it back to the washstand.

  Giving Gray a perfect view of the outline of her voluptuous breasts, her slender waist, and curvaceous hips and thighs, as the light from the candle placed upon the dresser was reflected through the thin material of her nightgown and robe.

  The last ten minutes of being tended by his ward had been torture such as Gray had never experienced in his life before. Minutes when he’d had to sit on the side of her bed, completely unmoving, as Amelia stood so close to him that he had been aware of everything about her.

  Her breath had been a warm and scented caress against his sensitive flesh. Her long and silky hair like spun gold as it hung loosely about her shoulders and down the length of her spine, on one memorable occasion caressing the bareness of his own shoulders and back as she’d tilted her head the better to tend the graze upon his arm.

  And he had been all too aware of her complete nakedness beneath the nightgown and robe as she ran her fingers lightly across his back and chest. His breath had caught in his throat as the firm and creamy swell of her breasts had moved repeatedly within his line of vision, allowing him to discern the size and shape of them. Once again he had been aware of the stirring, hardening, of his own body, and had found himself unable to look away from the tips of those breasts as they’d pressed against the diaphanous material. Tiny twin buds, as tempting and dark as ripe berries—berries that would be sweet and juicy against his lips—

  Gray stood up abruptly. ‘I will see to bandaging my own arm.’ His voice was a harsh rasp as he glowered across the room at her. ‘I believe, Amelia, that you have caused me enough discomfort for one evening!’ And in ways Gray did not even wish to even think about. If he did then he might decide not to leave her bedchamber at all tonight!

  She blinked at his vehemence. ‘I doubt you will be able to manage alone—’

  ‘I have managed alone for eight and twenty years, Amelia. I believe I will be able to do so one more night, at least!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I advise you to go to bed and sleep, Amelia,’ Gray instructed her coldly, even as he gathered up his blood-sodden clothes from the back of the chair where she had placed them earlier, to hold them firmly in front of the revealing bulge of his arousal. ‘No doubt the two of us will have much to discuss come morning.’

  Amelia could only stand and watch as Lord Grayson strode from her bedchamber without sparing her so much as a second glance, his roguishly handsome face set into cold and forbidding lines as he closed the door decisively behind him.

  Chapter Four

  ‘By all that is—! What on earth are you about now, Amelia?’ Amelia was startled into turning her head sharply towards where her guardian stood in the doorway of the breakfast parlour as she knelt in front of the hearth, careful to keep her coal-blackened hands well away from her pale lemon gown as she sat back upon her slippered heels.

  Lord Grayson appeared very large and imposing as he completely filled the parlour doorway. And, although there had been no mention the evening before of his valet having accompanied him, the white linen he wore was impeccable beneath his superfine, with a silver and black waistcoat beneath, and his legs long and muscular in buff-coloured breeches.

  As so often happened in the cold month of December, despite it being a crisp and icily cold day outside, the sun was shining on the snow that lay several inches thick upon the ground. The brightness of that sun now shone through the parlour windows, and allowed Amelia to see Gideon Grayson in the clear light of day.

  And to see that he was even more incredibly handsome today than he had appeared the previous night!

  The darkness of his hair fell in soft and fashionable waves onto his forehead and against the hardness of his cheeks, and those chilling grey eyes returned her gaze piercingly from beneath lowered dark brows. His sculptured mouth appeared both firm and sensual above a grimly arrogant jaw.

  Lord Grayson was not just handsome, Amelia decided. He was wickedly, magnificently so!

  ‘Are you quite well this morning, My Lord?’ Amelia’s voice sounded as huskily breathless as she felt.

  Gray supposed he was as well as any man could be when he had been shot in the arm the evening before, had proceeded to hold in his arms the one woman in the w
orld he should not have so much as touched, and then spent a sleepless and uncomfortable night in a bedchamber that had not only been cold, because the fire he’d tried to light had refused to draw, but in which the bedlinen had also been as damp as Amelia had predicted it might be.

  His arm also hurt like hell this morning. A dull and painful throb not unlike the discomfort he had suffered because of his inappropriate arousal the night before!

  Damn it, Gray had promised himself he would not think again of the way he had held Amelia the previous evening—or of the time he had spent in her bedchamber, of how sensually alluring she had appeared to him as she’d tended to his arm. Of the light and enjoyable caress of her delicate fingers against his flesh. Of how his arousal had throbbed as he gazed upon her body through the thin material of her nightgown and robe.

  He especially did not want to remember how his arousal had continued to throb and ache long after he had climbed between those damp and deuced uncomfortable sheets upon his bed … !

  ‘I asked you a question, Amelia,’ he reminded her brusquely.

  ‘I thought I would light the fire in here so that the room would be tolerably warm by the time you came down for your breakfast, My Lord.’ A questioning Amelia pushed up from her knees to stand before him, a slight and delicate figure in a woollen gown of the palest lemon.

  She had confined that golden hair into a riot of gleaming curls this morning, but she looked no less beautiful because of it, as several of those wispy curls fell across her creamy brow, her lightly flushed cheeks, and her long and elegant nape.

  It was a delicacy of appearance completely at odds with the feisty woman who had confronted Gray with a pistol yesterday evening before claiming to be his wife!

  Gray’s mouth twisted mockingly. ‘How solicitous of you, my dear.’

  ‘I thought so, too, My Lord.’ Sparkling blue eyes returned his gaze impishly.

  Gray’s gaze narrowed he strode into the parlour, his frown of irritation deepening as he took in the irrefutable evidence that Amelia had obviously become accustomed to lighting her own fires in Steadley Manor—these past few weeks, at least. ‘Why did you not write to me weeks—no, months—ago, Amelia, and tell me of the conditions under which you have been living at Steadley Manor?’