Betrothed by Christmas

by Jess Michaels

  “Me? What would they want with a fellow like me? Say the wrong things, what? No, no.” He shook his head. “No place for a fellow. Off you go,” he repeated. “They’re expecting you.”

  She was torn between her anxiety and her desire. But Simon had gone to a lot of trouble for her to meet her idol, and it would be foolish, not to mention ungrateful for her to refuse now. And really, when was she going to have another chance? “If you’re sure?”

  “Are you not?” He turned the question on her. “Is this not what you want for your life?”

  It was exactly what she wanted for her life. And he was a rare man to see that. And to help her get it. “Thank you.”

  “Most welcome. “ He tipped his hat and tossed her that delightfully naughty conspirator’s wink. “Now off you go.”

  She stood there on the side of the lane watching his carriage drive off, until there was nothing for her to do but gather her courage and ring the bell. But she need not have worried—the door was almost immediately opened by a very respectable-looking housekeeper, who queried kindly, “Miss Lesley? Do come in, miss. They’re expecting you.”

  They? Tamsin had expected Miss Baillie alone, but the playwright’s cozy parlor held more than just one of her idols.

  “Miss Lesley, you are most welcome.” A kind-faced older lady in lace and shawls stood to greet Tamsin. “I am Joanna Baillie. I am pleased to meet you and welcome a kindred spirit into our circle. Let me make you known to my friends.”

  Three other women rose to greet her, each more accomplished than the next. Anna Barbauld, the essayist, critic and author of the new type of children’s literature, reached out her hand. “We are happy to have you amongst us, Miss Lesley.”

  “Tamsin, please.”

  “Tamsin, then. Let me make you know to my niece—”

  “Miss Lucy Aiken,” Tamsin breathed. “I am honored. I have read your histories, and have used them as a guide for my own fledgling efforts at a—”

  “— history of the esteemed Countess of Shrewsbury, Bess of Hardwick?”

  Tamsin was all astonishment. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

  “Your aunt, Miss Dahlia Green, is another of our acquaintance.”

  So perhaps she had her aunt to thank for her attendance, too. But that would mean that Simon Cathcart and Aunt Dahlia were acquainted, and had joined forces against Mama, which seemed unlikely. How curious it all was.

  But not as curious and interesting and enlightening as the women around her. The last to be introduced was the most famous, the novelist Miss Maria Edgeworth.

  Tamsin was in alt. “I don’t know when I’ve ever been in such illustrious company.”

  “Oh, we will seem far less illustrious once you get to know us,” was the kind woman’s response.

  The morning flew by with conversation ranging from one more interesting topic to another, along with a very great deal of good sensible encouragement for her history.

  “You must of course pursue that line of inquiry. Lucy will, I’m sure, be happy to write you a letter of reference to Dr. Dain at the Royal Philosophical Society, who will no doubt be able to get you access to the Hardwick and Chatsworth muniment rooms for your research.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I would like that very much.”

  It felt as if no time at all had passed before the housekeeper was back, and speaking to her mistress. “Your pardon, ma’am, but Miss Lesley’s carriage awaits.”

  Simon’s carriage.

  Tamsin was filled with another sort of joy—one that came from more than gratitude.

  “Dear Miss Lesley, I hope you will visit us again. And do bring your manuscript with you, as well as your aunt, dear Miss Green, next time.”

  “I hope I might—I should like nothing more. Thank you so very much for a lovely morning.”

  “It has been a pleasure. Come again! ” Miss Baillie stood and shook her hand. “And do thank our friend for bringing you to us today.”

  “Colonel Cathcart?” Tamsin was relieved to finally be able to say his name, but she hoped that only her admiration, and not her growing attraction and attachment to the man, showed in her face, for she would hate to appear to be nothing more than a calf-eyed girl in front of such accomplished women.

  “Ah, yes, Simon,” and “Such a dear man,” and, “So very like him,” they chorused, but said no more.

  So all Tamsin could say was, “Thank you. Until next time.”

  And hope that there would be a next time. Hope that she had the courage and daring to make it so.

  Chapter 14

  Just as Simon had hoped, Tamsin was glowing with happiness as she clambered into the carriage. “Oh, Simon, how can I ever thank you?”

  Her unprompted use of his Christian name sent pleasure sliding down his veins. Heady stuff.

  “Tamsin.” He gave her mittened fingers a quick squeeze, but did nothing more until the door had been shut and the carriage began to roll down Windmill Hill. “Did you have a pleasant morning visit?”

  Her smile lit the interior of the carriage as brightly as a campfire. “I did not have a pleasant morning visit—I had an absolutely brilliant visit. Oh, I don’t know how I am ever going to thank you for arranging it all. It was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  Despite the fact that he had adjured himself to play his cards close to his chest, Simon showed his hand. “A kiss will suffice.”

  “To thank you?” She was too happy to object to his outrageous suggestion. “Just one?”

  Oh, how he liked the clever ones. “We’ll start off with one and see how you go on.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Simon.”

  It was heaven hearing her say his name with such a smile on her lips—it was like a prayer already working its benefit, easing his heart, bolstering his intent. Especially when she kissed him completely, with hungry lips and playful tongue. She showered her kisses upon him, over and over, with no reserve, no thought of the dreaded press or slop.

  “Tamsin,” he found himself saying again and again, like an incantation, as her kisses filled the strange yawning emptiness he couldn’t quite fill on his own.

  She cupped his face between her small hands and he had to close his eyes against the steady, steely joy in her gaze. Against the potent, sweet shine in her eyes behind her governess-y spectacles.

  “You have no idea what your eyeglasses do to me.”

  “Tell me, then.” Her demand was half question, and half disbelief.

  “They make me mad for you, you intelligent, clever, beautiful woman.” He kissed his way to the bridge of her nose, and placed a buss upon the gold wire of the spectacles. “They make me want to fog your lenses, so the only thing you can see is me.”

  “Oh, Simon. That is without a doubt the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me about my eyeglasses.” She laughed. “Tell me more!”

  “I’ll tell you more, if you’re very clever, and very nice, and say my name, and kiss me again.”

  Her smile was all the answer he needed. But still she obliged him. “Simon.”

  He met her lips with equal enthusiasm, sliding his mouth up the sensitive side of her neck, and she arced her head away, granting him access, sighing her permission. He kissed her with everything he was, every hope and dream, every fear and failure, willing her to want him. Willing her to want more.

  To want to be with him.

  He slanted his mouth across hers, kissing her more deeply, satisfying his lust, or at least trying to. Assuaging his need with her sweetness, blunting his passion with her goodness. He let his thumbs fan along her cheeks, then set one hand at her nape, drawing her closer—as close as possible and still be two people—kissing her with heat and purpose. Everything else faded, until there was nothing but the longing for the feel of her mouth, and the pleasure so bright it all but blinded him.

  Perhaps it was too much for her—she pulled back. But she was still smiling.

  “Now, I’m sorry I didn’t ask for more than a kiss.
”

  She pinked and let out one of those lovely little huffs of laughter. But then she looked up at him with that level, inquisitive gaze of hers and asked, “How much more? How much more is there?”

  It was his turn to laugh. “My dear Tamsin—a vast deal.”

  “A vast deal of what?” she challenged him. “Today I am a bluestocking, and I find that bluestockings are independent and intellectually curious. And quite, quite determined.”

  “You were already quite determined enough,” he said. He never would have met her otherwise. But he gave himself a long, considering moment before he decided to answer the rest of her question. “More involves more kissing and touching—kissing and touching with more intimacy. And in more intimate, more personal places.”

  Two spots of colors bloomed high on her cheeks. “The kissing or the touching?” Her voice had gone very quiet.

  “Both.” His answers up to that point had been a bit teasing, a bit tongue in cheek. Perhaps because he did not want to admit—even to himself—how much he wanted to tell her. How much her wanted to show her. And for that he needed the truth. “To assuage all the tight, aching needs that arise within.”

  Her color rose higher and her voice got even quieter. “And without?” Her gaze dropped to the obvious bulge in his breeches. “That arise like your cock?” She whispered the word delicately, but still it sounded so wicked that it hit him with all the force of a fist.

  A force he would marshal—he was not alone in his need. “And your nipples.”

  She gasped—not in shock, but in pleasure.

  And on that particularly intimate note, the coach drew to a quiet stop on Berkeley Square.

  They sat for a long moment in the still silence, before he cleared his throat and dared to ask the question that was burning on the tip of his tongue. “Do you want to know? Do you want to find out? Do you want me to show you more?”

  She swallowed. “Will it hurt?

  He felt the breath leave his body. What a question—what an unfair world they lived in that she thought she had to ask such a question. “No. I promise you that,” he pledged. “I give you my solemn oath as an officer and a gentleman, and your friend. I will never hurt you.”

  She took another perilously long moment before she took him at his word. “Then yes, I’d like you to show me. Please.”

  The air slammed back into his lungs with all the force of a French cannon.

  But he kept his composure and kept his eyes on hers, honoring her trust while he reached up to the trap, and called his instruction to his batman. “Drive on, Mahoney. Drive on until I tell you to stop.”

  “Sir?”

  “An hour, no more. Spare the horses—just keep them moving and warm in this weather. Steady as she does.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Simon closed the trap with a snap, and reached for the windows. He put up the shades one after another, plunging them into a half-light twilight that dappled the plush interior. “Prepare yourself, Tamsin—”

  “To be surprised?” she finished, echoing his invitation of last night. “I already am—at myself.”

  Chapter 15

  There was that smile—lazy and sunny but full of a sort of slow, focused intent. “You’ll do, my lass. You’ll do.”

  The low words sent her already hectic pulse pounding in her veins. “And what is it we are about to do?”

  “Patience,” he counseled. His voice was the same warm baritone, but his tone was…more commanding. She began to envision him as the military officer he must have been, not the muzzy-headed layabout she had thought him.

  “We are about to do many things. And if you don’t like any of them,” he offered, “or want to stop at any time, you have but to tell me.”

  Everything within her stopped and started and tensed and eased all at the same time. She didn’t know when she had ever felt so breathless and terrified and excited. Because she believed him. “I will, Simon.”

  His smile softened the corners of his eyes. “I am glad. A man can’t seduce a lass properly without her consent. And I do mean to seduce you, Tamsin Lesley, my sweet Miss T. Just so you’re prepared.”

  How she was to prepare herself, she had no idea—she had never been seduced before. Not like this, where his words alone seemed to light her into flame—her skin already felt hot and sensitive.

  But he seemed to be done talking, because he turned to her, and slowly—so slowly that she felt herself taking a long full inhalation as if she might draw him in like a breath—he leaned down to brush his lips against hers.

  The effect of that first touch was instantaneous—she had to be kissing him. She had to be pressing her lips to his and opening her mouth to him. She had to be taking his lapels and pulling him closer. Close enough to loop her arms around his neck and hold him tight, and run her fingers up his nape to comb through his beautiful, unruly, sandy hair.

  “Simon,” she said, because she loved saying the name that echoed around and around her head, day after each more interesting day. Deviously un-simple Simon, who hid so much behind his sunny, baffling facade.

  “Tamsin,” he murmured against her lips, and everything within her, every ounce of her blood and every inch of her skin went hot and tingly with longing. As if her body knew what her mind did not—that she had been longing to hear her name whispered so intimately, as well.

  “Yes,” was her answer. “Yes, please. Yes, yes, yes.”

  He took her words for the permission they were and kissed her in earnest, delving his tongue into her mouth to twine with hers, kissing and kissing until there was nothing else in the whole of the world but his kisses.

  She leaned into him, nestling into the broad warmth of his chest, inhaling the brink, intoxicating scent of his starched linen and polished leather. Drinking in the whisky-warm taste of his lips.

  She closed her eyes to thought, and tipped her head away, giving him access, hoping the exquisitely slippery feelings were leading her someplace…more. “How far, do you think, will we go?”

  “My sweet Tamsin.” He punctuated each word with a kissing nip of the sensitive skin down the side of her neck. “We’re going all the way to heaven.”

  There was such kind confidence in his voice that she could not help but smile. “That would be lovely. I’ve never been.”

  His lips curved against hers. “Then we shall make up for that deficiency by taking the long way ’round.”

  And around she did go—he kissed her again and then picked her up, so her back was to his chest and her legs fell slightly to each side of his thighs, as if she was on an armchair made of man.

  Wondrous, clever, warm man.

  But a man she could no longer kiss. “I want—”

  “Patience,” he counseled one last time before his hands went to the clasp of her cloak. And then stilled. “Perhaps not just yet. Shouldn’t like to overwhelm.”

  She shivered at his words, though she felt breathless and light, buoyed up by his good humor and obvious delight. “I’m not overwhelmed.”

  “You will be—if I get this right.” He let the delicious weight of the words settle upon her, urging her to lean back against his chest. “How do you feel now?”

  “Giddy,” she admitted, feeling the excitement and anticipation rise up against her uneasiness. “And a little achy.”

  “Tell me what aches.” His mouth brushed against the shell of her ear. “Tell me what I need to soothe.”

  Beneath the layers of her clothing her skin seemed to be alive with sensation. Her breasts felt heavy and tight. Her thighs clenched together in unconscious spasm. “Everything.”

  “Right ho.” She felt his smile rumble through him as he nuzzled the skin behind her ear. “I do think I’ll fold this back.” He drew the edges of her cloak over her shoulders, like a curtain parting upon a stage. “For now. Because I want to see you. I don’t want anything in the way while I take down your bodice. I want to see your lovely breasts.”

  Her hands immediately flutte
red up as if she might cover herself. But she didn’t. She wanted this—she had asked him specifically for this. Pretending otherwise was disingenuous.

  But he understood her even if she didn’t—he covered her hands with his own, the broad span of his palm warming her cold fingers before he interlaced them with his, and brought her hand up to his lips for a kiss.

  She half-turned her head toward him, and he caught her in a kiss that relaxed some of the stiffness in her spine. “Simon.” His name was answer and entreaty all at the same time.

  “Yes.” His answer was encouragement. “So lovely,” he murmured. “So sweet.”

  He released her hand to caress her face and kiss her while his other hand swept up from her waist. For one exquisite moment, he cupped her needy breast before rounding to brush the backs of his fingers along the skin above the line of her bodice. “Such beautiful, interesting things, your sweet breasts.”

  She felt herself arching into the warmth and weight of his hand. Her head went back, resting on his shoulder, opening herself to him. Hoping he would do exactly as he did, loosening her neckline and scooping his fingers beneath her stays and linen to touch and tease her tight, aching nipples.

  Tamsin gasped her astonishment and appreciation at the extraordinary contradictory sensations his attentions evoked.

  “Steady on, my lass. Steady.” His murmur echoed in her ear. “Because there’s more. A vast deal more.”

  “I want more,” she insisted.

  “So determined. So curious,” he teased, but his voice held admiration. Or at least no admonition as he pushed her bodice lower so it gaped across her chest, sliding her sleeves off her shoulders so her upper arms were held snug by her sides.

  “Do we leave the stays?” he queried quietly against her ear. “An awful lot of work to lace them back up after, when we only have so much time,” he mused, answering his own question. “When we might just make free of the straps”—he untied the bows securing the straps—“and perhaps tug a bit down on this lovely lawn shift instead.”