A Very Matchmaker Christmas

by Christi Caldwell

  “It’s nearly ripped half through,” she announced.

  “I don’t doubt it.” His stoic reply caused Pru to smile. He was quite humorous, this man. She couldn’t remember the last time a person had made her laugh.

  “May I?” She motioned to his back.

  “By all means,” he said.

  Her infamous penchant for clumsiness reared its dastardly little head just then and instead of stepping around him, Pru lifted her foot and promptly tripped on her skirts, falling into him, and ripping open the front of his waistcoat and shirtfront this time. She reached out to steady herself and found her hand caressing the hard plane of his bare abdomen. She gulped but didn’t move her hand. Instead, she just stood there for a moment, as time seemed to stop completely, her soft fingertips absorbing the pulsing heat from his smooth, hot skin.

  “I beg your pardon,” she finally managed, snatching her hand away in a delayed reaction, as if it had been burned by a hot poker.

  “No, I beg yours,” he said with a devilish grin that made her knees tremble.

  “I ripped your coat even more,” she said dumbly.

  “Seems I’m in the market for a new one as it stands, but regardless, I remain snared.”

  “Oh . . . oh, yes, forgive me.” She promptly righted her skirts and stepped around him, steadfastly ensuring that she did not touch him this time as she assessed the situation at the back of his coat.

  She reached under his jacket, doing her best to ignore both the heat of his body pulsing through his shirt and the intoxicating smell of him, a mixture of soap and smoke and . . . perhaps, evergreen. Or was that the hedge? She shook her head. That was not pertinent at present. She pressed the branch down from his seam carefully so it wouldn’t scratch his skin, unhooking it from the fabric. The branch sprang free and the man stumbled forward. Pru put a hand on his shoulder to stabilize him. He immediately straightened, and Pru snatched away her hand.

  He tugged at what was left of his coat, and bowed at the waist, crossing the arm that still clutched the bottle in front of him. “I believe a formal introduction is in order,” he said.

  Pru blinked at him. “This is inappropriate for a score of different reasons,” she replied.

  “We’re long past inappropriate,” he declared, flashing a smile that revealed a set of perfect white teeth.

  “I suppose that’s true.” And then she saw his eyes. Like the sea after a storm. Deep, gray, intense, riveting. She could stare into those eyes for hours.

  She’d never seen such a physically attractive man before. Handsome ones, certainly, but there was something about him, this particular man, that made her forget all the reasons why she should leave.

  “You owe me your name,” she said wondering yet again when quiet, shy Prudence Carmichael had been replaced by the sort of young woman who said things like, “You owe me,” to overly handsome gentlemen in moonlit gardens.

  He bowed again. “Mr. Christopher Chance, at your service.” He pushed a hand through his dark hair making it stand up in ways that caused gooseflesh to rise on Pru’s skin. She rubbed her arms.

  “I should return to the party,” she said wistfully looking over her shoulder. The strains of the instruments being played in the ballroom drifted through the warm, spring night air.

  “Why are you in such a rush?” he asked.

  “I really should never have left,” she offered by way of explanation. But she had no explanation for herself or anyone else as to why she was still standing here with a perfect stranger.

  “You’re not missing anything in there. I assure you. Nothing truly exciting ever happens in a stuffy ballroom. All the really interesting things happen in places like moonlit gardens.”

  She swallowed. He’d been thinking the same thought as she had. Moonlit gardens. A magical place. The look in his intense eyes coupled with his words served to pour heat down her back like sun-warmed honey. A reply of two words hovered on her lips. Like what? But she could not force herself to utter the two scandalous words. Champagne or no.

  “Besides, you cannot leave yet,” he said. “You’ve yet to share with me your name.”

  Prudence blinked. He was right. She weighed the decision whether to admit to this stranger who she was. Her innate truthfulness won out. “Prudence . . . Carmichael. Lady Prudence Carmichael.” She silently cursed herself for the emphasis she’d placed on her title the second time. That had not been well done of her and she wasn’t entirely certain why she’d said it. Perhaps to emphasize to him (and more importantly remind herself) the difference in their status in order to . . . what?

  What did she expect to come of this brief interlude in the Culpeppers’ gardens? Moonlit or not. Certainly not a proposal of marriage. That was ridiculous. The man straightened again to his full height, towering over her. “Well, Lady Prudence Carmichael,” he said, and Pru winced again, this time at the emphasis he’d placed on her title. “It was a pleasure to meet you. You may have very well restored my faith in the gentler sex tonight.”

  She frowned. Whatever that was supposed to mean. Pru had no idea, but it was obviously time to go. She reluctantly turned to leave.

  “Like what?” There they were. Those two sly little words had burst from her lips before she had a chance to choose them. She turned fully back to face him, holding her breath.

  “Pardon?” His dark brow furrowed.

  “You said a moment ago that all the truly interesting things happen in places like moonlit gardens.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Like what sort of things?”

  This time his brows arched. Both of them. “An entirely imprudent question from someone with your name,” he replied with a nearly leering grin.

  Prudence took a step closer to him. She was only inches from his chest. Oh, what champagne was responsible for. It was positively scandalous. “I’d like to know,” she whispered.

  He bent down and placed the bottle on the ground, then straightened and reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. His long, warm fingers left a trail of heat in their wake. He traced the outline of her ear and pushed a single strand of hair behind the lobe. Prudence shamelessly closed her eyes and leaned gently against his hand. When she opened her eyes again a moment later, she glanced up to see the most intense look in his storm-tossed eyes. He used his slightly rough thumb to gently tip up her chin. His mouth moved lower, lower, toward hers.

  “Like this,” he whispered, just before his lips claimed hers.

  Chapter Eleven

  The kiss had been . . . magnificent. Perhaps life-changing. All right, quite life-changing. Definitely life-changing. It was a kiss that had sparked a thousand prayers. A kiss that had caused hundreds of sleepless nights. Christopher Chance’s mouth had shaped hers, his tongue had stealthily moved in to capture her wits as well as her breath. His hands had come up to claim her cheeks, and he’d forcefully pulled her against his rock-hard body, his fingers pushing up through her hair, his mouth never leaving hers. She’d been breathless, on fire, clinging to him, clutching his lapels, never wanting it to end.

  He tasted like spice and something she suspected was alcohol, bitter but welcome. That, mixed with the heat and intoxicating scent of him, made her feel faint. Finally, his lips had slowed, and he’d rested his forehead against hers. She couldn’t decide whether asking that question had been her biggest regret or would be her fondest memory. Either way, she realized immediately she was never going to be the same again. Lust. That hideous sin, spread through her body like wildfire licking a dry forest. Even now as she stared up at him, chest heaving, body awakening in ways she’d never before realized it had been asleep, she wanted him to touch her again, kiss her again, make her feel like that again.

  One thing was certain. Champagne should come with a note of warning.

  “Like that,” he’d finally breathed against her lips and a panic had seized Pru unlike any she’d ever known before. A small cry escaping her lips, she grabbed up her skirts, turned, and ran back to the party, not stopping unt
il she was out of breath and at her mother’s familiar side.

  Mama looked up and smiled at her, obviously having no idea what her eldest daughter had just been doing. Guilt, hard, ugly guilt tore through Prudence. She couldn’t look her mother in the eyes.

  “Mama,” Pru ventured minutes later after she’d had a few moments to set her breathing to rights, “have you ever heard of Mr. Chance? Mr. Christopher Chance?”

  Mama’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. “Arundell’s heir,” she said without hesitation. “Yes. I heard recently that he’s set to announce his engagement to Mary Anne Larkwood any day now.”

  That had been that. The next day, the scandal sheets had reported that the rumored engagement of Mr. Christopher Chance and Miss Mary Anne Larkwood had been called off. Pru had been racked with a kind of guilt only a true sinner would know, and within the month, Christopher had taken off on a ship for the Far East while Pru was left to alternately pray for forgiveness and scour the papers in search of any bit of news mentioning the man she’d shared such an intimate moment with in the Culpeppers’ gardens.

  Now, they were standing here together, in another family’s gardens, at a very different time of year and he’d asked her if she was afraid she’d be tempted to sin. She slowly drew the blanket away from her face.

  “No. I’m not afraid I’ll be tempted to sin,” she lied, and added the lie to her list of sins for which to pray for forgiveness.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “But immorality or any impurity or greed must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints,” she quoted.

  “Another Bible verse? And in this one, you’re a . . . saint?” He looked like he was about to . . . why, the confounded man looked as if he were going to laugh.

  “Ephesians,” she declared, lifting her chin, which the freezing air immediately found. “And no, I’m no saint, but I’m not like . . . you.” Somehow that had not come out half as impactful as she’d meant it to.

  “I still don’t believe you aren’t tempted,” he replied, poking out his cheek with his tongue.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “Why don’t you believe me?”

  “Because you just told me I’m a sin.”

  “You are,” she shot back.

  He practically leered at her. “And once upon a time, you allowed me to kiss you.”

  She couldn’t deny it. That was true. That was perhaps the worst part of it. She couldn’t even blame him. She’d been a very willing participant in her own downfall.

  “That was a long time ago,” she managed.

  He stepped forward and pulled her toward him by clutching the ends of the blanket. “Not so long ago, Lady Prudence.”

  She looked up at his mouth and realized that if he lowered his head to hers right now, she’d kiss him. Not just allow him to kiss her but actively kiss him. And even worse . . . she wanted to.

  “Why are you so interested in Lord Beasley?” he asked instead.

  It was as if he’d poured ice water over her head. She tugged away. He let her go.

  “Lord Beasley is an extremely eligible gentleman and I find I quite like him.”

  “Really? What do you find so likeable about him?”

  “He’s . . . he’s very . . . well read.”

  “Is he?” Christopher’s mouth quirked up in a sarcastic grin.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s extremely eligible,” she added.

  “You already mentioned that.”

  “Well, he is.”

  “If you say so.”

  “He’s not rumored to be a pirate,” she tossed in for good measure.

  “Ah, yes, that is a boon.”

  “My mother wants me to marry him,” she announced, pressing her toes to the stone floor beneath her so hard they ached.

  “Does she? And what do you want?”

  She opened her mouth to reply and shut it again. Why was this man always asking her questions that confused her? Questions she couldn’t answer.

  He didn’t wait for her response. “Do you want Lord Beasley as a husband?”

  “I . . .” If he hadn’t used the word want it would have made it much easier to answer the question. She hoisted the blanket onto her shoulders again.

  Christopher took another step toward her and tugged her back to him by the ends of the blanket again. She shuddered. She should pull away, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to. Why? Why?

  “Would Timothy Beasley kiss you in a moonlit garden?”

  “I should hope not!” she retorted, the words coming out more forcefully than she meant them to.

  “I will.” His mouth quirked into a sensual smile and he leaned down, his lips mere inches from hers. “You know I will.” He paused. “Do you want me to, Prudence?”

  She swallowed. Her eyes locked with his tumultuous gray ones. She was lost inside of them and she was going to melt. Despite the freezing cold temperature, she was going to drip into a puddle and freeze on the stone floor of the Westons’ terrace. The word no formed on her lips, but she could not force it past them.

  His hands moved under the blanket and wrapped around her back and pulled her even closer. His lips descended. Instead of pulling away from him, she tipped up her head and rose up on her toes. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it!

  His lips, when they touched hers, made her shudder. Her entire body was racked with a chill that had nothing to do with the freezing cold outside of the blanket’s intimate warmth. His tongue forced open her lips, and he took what he wanted. She willingly gave it. Her entire body bucked. He moved his hand down her lower back and pulled her into intimate contact with him. She groaned and her shaking hands moved up to his shoulders. She clung to him to steady herself, reveling in the feel of his muscled forearms and wide shoulders. He smelled like wood smoke and soap. His mouth shaped hers, played with hers. Finally, his mouth moved to her cheek, her ear, her neck and she tipped back her head and gave him access to her bare throat. He eagerly pulled down the collar of her velvet gown and sucked at the innocent skin along the column of her throat. She didn’t even feel the cold.

  “Christopher,” she breathed. The word turned into a small gray puff in the frozen air.

  Finally, he took a long ragged breath and pulled himself away from her. Then, he took a decided step back and for a moment looked as if he was struggling to get himself under control. His hair was mussed, his breathing was heavy, and his eyes looked wild.

  “Why did you do that?” she finally asked in a shaking voice, pulling the blanket back up to cover her vulnerable neck.

  “I suspect it was for the same reason you allowed me to,” he replied.

  He spoke in riddles, this man.

  “Tell me something, Saint Prudence,” he said. “And if you can answer yes, I swear I’ll leave you alone for good.”

  “What?” she breathed, an inexplicable panic gripping her middle at his words.

  “Were you thinking of Beasley when I was kissing you just now?”

  She took her own shaking, ragged breath. It would be simple, so simple to answer with the one word that would send Christopher away for good. She turned her head to the side and stared into the firelight that danced along the windows from inside the house.

  “No,” she whispered. “Not for one moment.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Kent, 2 days before Christmas

  A light snow fell the next morning but fortunately, it cleared before most of the men left for a hunting party. Chance rode out with Stephen Pemberly and most of the other gentlemen. He enjoyed the bracing wind and the fact that he would not be cooped up in a drawing room for at least one day of the house party. He ignored the pointed stares from Simon Ponsonby. Apparently, Stephen had tried to explain to the rigid Naval captain that Chance was, in fact, not a pirate. But, regardless, the man didn’t appear to be in danger of changing his opinion of Chance.

  He didn’t spare the disgruntled captain much of a thought,
however, because Chance was entirely preoccupied. Try as he might, he couldn’t get his kiss with Prudence out of his head. Why was he so drawn to the obviously innocent chit? Perhaps because she was the opposite of him in every way. Someone who respected rules and didn’t get into trouble. Someone who had a loving family and bright future. Someone who wore a cloak of respectability the way she’d worn that fur blanket last night, wrapped tight around her. Yet someone who was obviously game enough to rescue drunken fools from hedges if the need arose. And someone who kissed him with such passion it belied all her oft-quoted Bible verses.

  “She’s the Prince Regent’s goddaughter, you know?” Stephen called from his mount beside him. The two men rode away from the others so their conversation at the moment was entirely private save for the groom and the footman who followed to take care of the guns and dogs.

  Chance didn’t need to ask whom Stephen meant. Obviously Stephen knew exactly who Chance was thinking of. Chance turned his eyes skyward. “No, I did not know.”

  He cursed under his breath. The last thing he needed was to be causing trouble with the goddaughter of the Prince Regent of all people.

  “Jane tells me that Prudence spent a great deal of time praying after she, ahem, last met you. She’s been racked with guilt by all accounts.”

  Chance hadn’t uttered a word about their encounter. “Racked with guilt?” Could that possibly be true?

  “Yes, and I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Jane says she thinks Prudence is interested in Beasley.”

  Chance snorted. “I had already guessed as much.”

  “He’s eligible, I suppose,” Stephen replied with a shrug.

  Chance glanced over at Lord Beasley who was holding his gun out away from his body as if it were the stinking corpse of a dead animal. “That’s one word for him.”

  “I think you frighten her, Chance.” Those words had sounded serious but then Stephen’s mouth cracked into a wide grin. “And who could blame her, what with you being a pirate?”

  Chance groaned. But he spent the next several minutes silently riding and contemplating his friend’s words. With Prudence’s looks and her seeming willingness to sin that night in the Culpeppers’ garden perhaps Chance had assumed too much about her. Oh, he realized she was an innocent and a daughter of the ton, not someone to take a tumble with in a stable like some sort of milkmaid, but he had had no idea he’d been tempting a saint.