by Stacy Reid
He tugged her forward. To their misfortune, the cottage had been unoccupied for several months and should be dusty and uncomfortable. He hoped there was no roof leakage. An ominous rumble of thunder shook the sky, and he feared they were in for a winter squall. They clambered up the slight steps, wrenched the door open, and spilled into shocking warmth. Graham’s steps faltered, and he looked down at her. Miss Middleton withdrew her hand from his and stared up at him with wide eyes.
“You have been rather busy with your mischief, Miss Middleton,” he murmured, surveying the exceptionally tidy and toasty room which held a roaring fire. “It seems there is no end to your deception.”
Her affected serenity was momentarily ruffled, then she rallied and replied, “Not deception, surely, it is more gentle encouragement. Quite a different thing altogether, I am certain you would agree.”
He swore under his breath. “Is that the distinction you used to justify your action?”
She pursed her lush lips. “Yes.”
Shameless minx!
The interior of the cottage chased away the chill from the rain, and it had been recently aired and cleaned. The scent of lemon wax was redolent on the air. Pinecones, evergreens, and mistletoes decorated the tight room, and there were fresh linens on the bed. Surprise jerked through him when he noted the carafe of wine on a small table by the windows. There seemed to be marzipan, gingerbread, and cake as well on a large white platter. Good God.
“However did you get the servants to go along with this madness?” They must have questioned her intentions and gossiped amongst themselves.
“My papa usually lamented that I was a silver-tongued devil,” she said with a quick smile and her usual buoyancy. “But I conveyed that these orders were”—her eyes flitted everywhere but at him—“from…you.”
Her impudence knew no bounds.
She strolled over to the hearth, and untied her bonnet, then rested it on the mantle. Then she tugged off her coat and gloves, placing them on the grate near the fire. She did not appear as wet as he’d imagined, but her dress clung in a few damp places. She kneeled and removed her half-boots, revealing white silken stockings. She stood, faced him, then lifted her chin in challenge as if to say, ‘I did it and there is nothing you can do.’
Something primal in his gut stirred, a direct response to that defiance.
Humor lit in her expressive eyes, and her lips curved. “I can see that you want to roar but you are restraining yourself. How admirable that you are not a gentleman to give in to excessive display of emotions.”
How utterly delightful she looked, and he did not miss the guilty flush on her cheeks. Yet he was not angry.
“I am not angry.” Mystifying indeed.
“I am glad to hear it,” she said softly.
He walked over to the fire, never taking his eyes from her. He shrugged from his wet jacket and removed his waistcoat, then also removed his boots, which felt waterlogged.
Her lips parted, and she bit her bottom lip, a nervous gesture, but one that set his heart to pounding. He noted the sprigs of mistletoe and berries hanging from the roof by lengthy pieces of ribbons. She had apparently hoped her mother would be ravished, and Graham knew if his father had ended up here with Lady Danby, what Miss Middleton hoped for would have happened.
The scheming, mischievous minx, he thought a bit too fondly.
“You do realize no matter where you are in this cottage, you will be under a mistletoe,” he murmured soft and wicked.
A becoming flush crept up her slender neck, pinkening her fair cheeks. She grasped something from the mantle, and he noted it was a deck of cards.
“How thoughtful of you to provide some entertainment beyond debauchery,” he mocked.
She cast him a wide-eyed glance. “That was never my intention.”
“Your delightful nose warned you of rain, and you ruthlessly conspired to have two people alone so far away from the estate trapped here. No one will come looking since this squall seems like it will last the rest of the evening, and everyone should be too busy with the planned entertainment to worry about any missing party members. Well played, Miss Middleton, well played.”
He spread his hands wide. “Except, it is me you have gotten here, and I wonder if I should fear for my virtue. You are an odd and improper sort of lady; I cannot fathom your intentions.”
She folded her hands about her middle, canted her head, and stared at him. Though she tried to appear nonchalant, her lovely eyes danced with mirth. “I never expected us to end up here, Viscount Sherbrooke.”
“Nonsense! You should have convinced me more about the wonders of your twitching nose. Now for the next few hours, I shall live in fear of ravishment.”
She giggled, and the sweetness of the sound burrowed into his heart and filled him with a peculiar but welcoming warmth.
She batted her lashes. “You need not fear debauchery from me, Viscount Sherbrooke, I promise your virtue will be intact when we leave here. I will conduct myself most admirably!”
He wanted her. A few kisses, but it would be most difficult to prevent himself from doing more…and there was no understanding between them. Perplexingly, he found himself wanting to make promises. Graham want to woo her and get to know every wonderful detail about Miss Callie Middleton. He governed his needs, for he was not rash in his behavior but meticulous and pragmatic. Yet, she inspired his heart to throw caution to the winds! “Ah…pity that, however, I shall practice gentlemanly restraint.”
Her red, delectable lips formed an ‘O.’
“Whatever shall we do to pass the time?” he crooned, shifting closer to her.
She blushed, wrinkled her nose before gracing him with another pretty smile. “Perhaps we could read or play cards…or just talk. I am frightfully curious about you and have been for some time.”
It was then he noted a few leather-bound volumes atop the mantle. It seemed she had planned a non-lustful manner of entertainment for their parents. How innocent. “I am curious about you as well.”
She sent him a saucy wink. “Mutually assured madness is always welcome.”
Bloody hell, he was charmed.
“We’ve been neighbors for a while but have hardly crossed paths.” This bit she admitted shyly.
“I do not live here at Holliwell Manor. I recently bought a townhouse and a country estate with some investments, which gave me handsome returns.”
“Those properties are not entailed to the earldom?”
“No, I must plan for the eventuality of having more than one child. I would like to afford my daughters or second son with more opportunities than the army or the clergy.”
Mischief danced in her eyes. “Oh, la-la! So, you do plan to marry.”
“Eventually. I know my duty.”
“Is that all marriage is to you? Duty? What about love?” she questioned.
He lifted a shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “It is not a requirement for marriage.”
She scoffed. “I daresay it should be!”
“Why?”
“Surely you jest?”
“I never do about matters of the heart.”
They sat before the small table, and he poured wine in two glasses. She took the drink he handed to her and sipped appreciatively.
“At least you will admit to having a heart.”
He chuckled, genuinely enjoying her rejoinders.
She peered at him over the rim of her wine glass. “Can you imagine spending the rest of your life with a woman you barely liked? Though I wish to marry and have my own home, it would mortify me to marry a gentleman I did not esteem. How can you think to marry without sentiments?”
No, he could not imagine a cold union without affections. His parents had loved each other dearly, and it had almost broken his father when she died. Still, the earl had rallied and was ardently pursuing another union.
“So you wish to marry,” he murmured.
“I daresay I do!”
“Then, why are you sti
ll unwedded?” he asked, wondering if there was something more to it than her lack of dowry.
She hesitated to reply, taking several sips of her wine as if to gather her thoughts. Callisto lowered the glass, and he grabbed the carafe and topped it up.
“I suppose no gentleman of the ton is interested in a young lady with little connections and no money. It would take a rare man to look beyond such deficiencies, and where would I find such a man? Certainly not here in Gloucestershire. I’ve been slowly losing my faith that love is all that is required, and I must perhaps accept I am destined to remain a spinster.”
She seemed embarrassed by her frankness and took a few hurried gulps of her wine.
“And what is your idea of the perfect partner?” he asked, lazily sipping his wine, watching each shift of her animated expressions.
“That he loves me. And that is he kind, considerate…tender and playful.”
Incredulity rushed through him. “That is it?”
“Are those not the best of qualities?” she demanded, looking affronted.
“There are greater considerations to the matter.”
She arched a delicate brow. “Such as?”
“You should require that your beau possesses enough wealth to keep you in pretty dresses and fancy carriages. A townhouse in London, fashionable balls and routs, and a few country homes here and there? My dear, Callisto, love cannot provide for you and any children you might have! You have to be more practical than romantic when hoping for a suitor.”
She had the gall to roll her eyes. “Of course, I wish to be comfortable, and for my husband to be able to provide for his family. But I would prefer to wed a man who loves me with every emotion in his heart than a duke who can lavish me with clothes, homes, and diamonds but does not love me.”
She set her elbows onto the table and rested her chin on her palm. “The ideal partner could love me and be wealthy!” Then she winked at him. “A man such as yourself, but you must be persuaded that sentiments between lovers are as necessary as breathing air!”
Graham laughed, delighted with her. “And how would you convince me of this?”
An unexpected silence fell between them, and her gaze lingered on his lips for shocking moments.
“With kisses perhaps,” she whispered, a crooked smile curving her lips. “You were my first.”
Astonishment had him stiffening. “Your first what?”
Their gazes collided and held for a moment.
“To kiss me,” she whispered.
Something hot and primal stirred in his gut. “I hope I did not disappoint.” The remarkably intimate nature of their conversation did not escape his awareness.
“Are you fishing for flattery?”
“A gentleman’s vanity needs to be stroked occasionally,” he murmured, never taking his eyes from her smile. His heart pounded in a manner he did not understand and may never do.
“I daresay it was beyond wonderful.” Callisto lowered her eyes and blatantly pretended to be intrigued by the array of cakes and gingerbread on the platter. Except the tip of her ears and her cheeks burned a bright red.
Everything inside of Graham collapsed. And I feel like I want to be your last. Yet he did not say it, instead he plucked one of the titles she had selected—Emma, by Jane Austen, opened the pages and read. With a jubilant sigh, she placed both elbows on the table and popped a piece of gingerbread in her mouth, thoroughly immersed in the story he narrated. At times she gasped and held her breath as if she were the one reading. Knowing he had such a captivatingly rapt audience, Graham did something he’d never done before—changed his voice to reflect each character.
This brought such laughter from her, and it rang in the cottage suffusing him with joy.
“Good heavens,” she said, still chuckling. “I know no female who speaks with such a high squeal. I am affronted on behalf of my sex!”
Never had he felt contentment equal to the sensations blossoming through his heart. They ate, read, and laughed. Of course, she gobbled the cakes and gingerbread as she did everything—with zest and her entire heart.
They argued about the last piece of cake which ended with it being shared. He told her of the motions he assisted his father in writing for Parliament, the countless hours of research and preparation it took, and sometimes the worry he felt about whether he would acquit himself honorably to the earldom when he inherited.
“You will!” She had reassured him so ardently. “I can see your mettle…it is one of strength and honor.”
What did he like—horses, restoring a beautiful home, especially if it retains signs of its Tudor architecture, and reading. How happy that had made her for they now had a common interest and the best of them all—reading, declaring that, ‘inside the pages of every book was a whole other world that she could get lost in’.
She also enjoyed dancing. Though she had never danced the waltz despite having learned the steps and form from her papa. During her first and only Season in London, her father had fallen ill, and she had returned to Suffolk, where they had resided. After they had completed the mourning period, she, along with her mother and sister, had to leave their beloved homes so a distant cousin could inherit. There had been no money or time for another Season, as they had directed their efforts on keeping their heads above water without losing their reputations.
As she recounted the tale candidly, Callisto hadn’t seemed to resent her situation but appeared as a woman who understood life at times threw brutal punches, and it was the character of the person which determined if they stayed on the ground or sprung back up with lively purpose.
His admiration for her grew then, and as if it were the norm, he lowered the book, walked around to her chair, dipped into a bow, held out his hand, and said, “Might I have your hand for a dance, Miss Middleton?”
With a wide smile on her lips and merriment glowing from her lovely eyes, she nodded. Now she was in his arms, and the intent way she peered up at him evoked confusing feelings inside him. He wanted to ravish and protect her in equal measures. The duality of those needs clashed painfully inside of him. I’ve never felt this way about a lady before, he wanted to confess. But it seemed premature to do so. What if this warm sensation did not last but faded like ashes in the wind once he was apart from her?
“Sadly, there is no music,” he said.
The longest of lashes flickered, and she peered up at him. “The rain and thunder will do.”
A quick ripple of laughter escaped her as he spun her in a twirl, humming the tune for them.
“Oh, Graham, this is simply wonderful!”
The sound of his name on her lips did marvelous things to his heart. It flipped several times as if it too danced.
“We are standing below mistletoe berries,” he said, bringing them to a stop in the center of the room.
“I fear the servants went a bit overboard in their enthusiasm. We cannot escape them, it seems.”
He skimmed his fingers over her cheek, almost tentative in his exploration. Then he gave in to the clamor in his heart, lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips.
Chapter 9
The rain sleeted down and rattled the door and the small window of the cottage, but she felt frightfully warm. Held tenderly against the Viscount’s chest Callie felt as if she was caged within her own storm—one of brilliant fire and the hottest delight. Graham’s kiss was light, tender, sweet, and her heart tumbled over inside her chest.
“What was that for?” she whispered against his mouth.
“There are mistletoe sprigs all over this cabin,” he replied with gentle amusement. “Wasn’t this the idea when you had them placed?” He possessed such a confident presence that appealed to her beyond measure.
Callie blushed but held his stare. “I meant them for your father, and my mother.”
“Then let’s move away.”
He twirled her off in another direction and then glanced up. “Alas, another one.”
This time h
e pressed a kiss atop her nose, and she laughed lightly, dizzy with the heat pouring through her. The last two hours with him in the cabin had revealed a charming and good-natured gentleman that made her yearn for impossible dreams.
He spun with her again, and when he paused, they both looked up.
“Yet more mistletoe,” she said with a wide smile, but how her heart pounded.
“Did you know it is widely believed that it was the Norsemen and women who first romanticized mistletoe?”
“I did not know that,” she said with a small smile. “But I knew the Celtic druids used it for vitality and fertility.”
“Hmm.” His fingers brushed against the fluttering pulse at her throat, lingering there too long to be an accident. “In Norse mythology, when Odin’s son Baldur was prophesied to die, his mother Frigg—the goddess of love—went to all the animals and plants of the earth to secure an oath that they would not harm her son. But Frigg neglected to consult with the unassuming mistletoe, so the scheming Loki made an arrow from the plant and saw that it was used to kill the otherwise invincible Baldur. The gods were able to resurrect Baldur from the dead to his mother’s delight. The goddess of love then declared mistletoe a symbol of love and vowed to plant a kiss on all those who passed beneath it. That folklore evolved where we fine gentlemen are encouraged to steal a kiss from any woman caught standing under the mistletoe and refusing is viewed as bad luck.”
He touched her elbow, urging her to him, yet his clasp felt gentle and protective.
The thrill he gave Callie amazed her. “I would hate to deny you and endure any misfortune,” she teased.
His dark eyebrows arched, then he spoke in a velvet murmur, “How you delight my heart just now.”
He lifted her chin with a finger. Whenever his blue gaze met hers, her heart turned over in response. Callie’s whole being seemed filled with waiting. His thumb swiped over her lips. The caress was a command. And she parted her lips.
