A Lady's Lesson in Seduction (3 page)

‘No?’ He raised his brows, and his smile held more than a hint of mischief. He proffered a cup. ‘Your milk is ready.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’ She took the cup. ‘I’d better go.’ She set the cup down to untie the banyan.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Come with me to feed the hob, and then I’ll take you upstairs the back way. It’s much quicker.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘My pleasure.’ That word again. His warm voice caressed her beautifully, unbearably.

He led her to a pantry and set the manchet and milk on the topmost shelf. ‘Will it be gone by morning?’ she asked.

‘No doubt,’ he said, ‘but skeptics attribute that to rats. It’s an insult to poor Duff, who’s a tidy eater. Not a crumb will remain behind, nor a drop of milk.’

She didn’t know whether or not he was serious, but how sweet to believe for a moment in magic, even if it was childish magic rather than a young girl’s dreams of love.

On the way out, she spied writing carved into the lintel over the door. ‘There’s your motto again.’

‘In every room of the house,’ he said, sounding irritated.

‘It annoys you?’

‘I don’t need quite so many reminders.’ He brought her upstairs by a secondary staircase. At the top, he pushed a door open and peeked through, then shut it again. ‘You’d better take off my banyan now.’ He took her candle and cup while she complied, then returned them to her. ‘Your bedchamber is along the passage to the right, while mine is to the left, third door down. If you should need anything at night again—anything at all—just knock. I’m a light sleeper.’

Was he offering to
bed
her?

No, surely not. He must know she wasn’t that sort of woman.

For a moment, she almost wished she were. No, that was lunacy. She sighed.

He pushed the door open again. ‘Good night, Mrs. Burdett. Sleep well.’

She tiptoed quickly to her bedchamber, opened the door and turned. The door to the staircase still stood ajar, the light of his candle shining through. She went into her room and shut the door behind her.

She slept, but not without thinking about him far too much.

* * *

So far, so good.

Cam felt inordinately cheerful heading toward the orchard the next morning. For the first time in a year, his libido was wide awake, and no wonder. It wasn’t merely that Frances Burdett was pretty—he’d had many pretty women—but he liked her. Liked her a great deal, as a matter of fact, and not only that, she’d consented to come mistletoe-gathering. What a relief that he hadn’t scared her quite away. Perhaps he’d done something right, or at least was well on the way to it, and life would soon return to normal.

Edwin, his usual morose self, stomped along beside Cam. Almeria had giggled and shied away from the prospect of cold, possibly wet feet, so Lady Warbury pressed her and Mrs. Cutlow into making evergreen rings, to which they would tie the mistletoe. Edwin would have stayed to moon over Almeria, but Cam had ordered him not to be such a bore and come along. ‘Everybody moons over her,’ he said. ‘Be different. Stick out from the crowd.’

Ahead of them, Frances—who had borrowed some old boots from his mother and now trod briskly through the snow—listened to the Druid prose about the significance of mistletoe in pagan rituals. The only significance that mattered to Cam was that he would have plenty of opportunities to kiss Frances.

‘Theoretically, we should collect our mistletoe from the oak,’ Mr. Lumpkin said, ‘but not only does Lord Warbury not wish to risk anyone’s life and limb with climbing so high, but there is something different, something special about Warbury Hall.’ He leaned close to whisper conspiratorially, ‘The house has a resident hobgoblin.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Frances said. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

Mr. Lumpkin nodded his approbation and raised his voice again. ‘This thriving orchard is an excellent example of the efficacy of the rites of wassail. Here they celebrate it on old Twelfth Night, which is the seventeenth of January. They frighten the bad spirits away and offer cider to the apple trees.’

‘It sounds like great fun,’ Frances said.

‘What a pity the house party will be over by then, for I’m sure you would enjoy it. The cider from Warbury’s orchards is famous hereabouts.’

‘So is the lamb’s wool, which we’ll have tonight,’ Edwin said. ‘Cam makes the best there is.’

‘With the assistance of every member of the household,’ Cam said. ‘We each take a turn at mashing the apples.’

‘Rather like stirring a fruitcake,’ Frances said.

‘Precisely.’ The Druid lowered his voice again, as if he thought Cam wouldn’t hear. ‘The old lord forbade the communal apple-mashing and the wassail ceremony. Fortunately, the present marquis encourages these traditions. The orchard has done much better since he came into the title.’

Cam came to a halt under an apple tree and took out his shears. ‘Come, Mrs. Burdett. You and I shall start here, while Edwin and Lumpkin take another rank of trees.’ The others moved obediently away.

Cam eyed the boughs above him. ‘Better watch where you stand, Mrs. Burdett. I might feel inclined to kiss you.’

She started and backed away, anxiety shadowing her face. Damn it, had Timothy made her fear a simple kiss?

‘Don’t be afraid. I shan’t do anything you don’t want.’ He swung himself into the apple tree, which bore a mistletoe plant with plenty of berries. ‘Try to catch it when it falls,’ he told Frances. ‘The more berries remaining on the plant, the better.’

Her cheeks were already pink in the wintry air, but her colour deepened as she stood beneath the mistletoe. She caught it neatly and set it in the basket she had brought from the house. They moved several trees along and repeated the process on a second tree and then chose a third.

Cam brushed off the snow from a handy foothold and climbed. ‘But although I can prevent Alan from pressing his unwanted advances on you…’ He reached out and snipped. She caught the clipping, but less deftly than before. He jumped down. ‘You would draw attention to yourself by refusing a quick kiss, if he or any other man should catch you under the mistletoe.’

‘I know that.’ Her brows drew together. Evidently, she would rather avoid this subject. Too bad; it had to be addressed.

‘Plan to keep your mouth firmly shut,’ he said.

‘Oh, I shall certainly do that,’ she retorted, pursing her lips with distaste.

‘Particularly with Alan and Cutlow, who will do their best to take advantage.’

‘I heard you the first time,’ she snapped. ‘Must we discuss this?’

‘I believe we should,’ Cam said. ‘Kissing doesn’t have to be unpleasant, you know.’

‘I never said anything about it being unpleasant.’ She frowned at him, her hazel eyes uneasy. ‘I never said anything about it at all.’

Damn. He mustn’t let her realize how much he knew about her marriage. She’d already suffered too much mortification. ‘No, but you implied it by recoiling from me.’

Her face fell. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.’

Good God. ‘Mrs. Burdett, it’s I who should apologize. I don’t expect every woman to want to kiss me. I should be ashamed of myself for displaying such insufferable conceit.’

‘Doubtless you have good reason,’ she said, colouring. ‘You are an attractive man, and there is a great deal of gossip about your skill in the bedchamber.’

Was that a point in his favour or against him? Regardless, he could use it to his advantage. ‘I am perhaps more patient than other men. More interested than most in discovering what a woman desires.’

Her eyes widened. Good.

‘We men tend to be hasty, you know. In our eagerness to achieve our own satisfaction, we are constantly in danger of forgetting that of our lover.’

Her mouth fell open, giving him a glimpse of a sweet pink tongue before she shut it again. She hunched a shoulder and turned away.

Lumpkin and Edwin were several trees behind in the next row, but not far enough away in this stark landscape of snow and bare branches. ‘If you allow me to kiss you under the mistletoe, I promise you will enjoy it.’

‘You can’t possibly promise that,’ she retorted.

‘And yet, conceited to the core, I just did.’ Hopefully, his smile held just the right amount of friendly admiration.

Evidently not; she sent him a fierce, furious glare. ‘If you must have it, I don’t enjoy kissing.’

‘Not at all?’

‘No.’ She pressed her lips together, as if biting back a stream of complaints.

‘Come now,’ he teased. ‘Surely you’re exaggerating.’

Her voice was low, suffused with passion. ‘You can’t possibly judge how that—that invasion made me feel.’

‘That bad, was it?’ He spied a likely tree and moved toward it. ‘Look at the berries on that one.’ She followed him but halted several feet away, and didn’t approach until he’d climbed the tree. ‘You’re right, I can’t judge, but the general popularity of kissing tells me you were merely unlucky.’ He cut another sprig of mistletoe. ‘Perhaps Timothy was clumsy, or maybe your taste in kissing didn’t match his.’

He jumped down and led Frances toward a gnarled old tree with a wider trunk than the usual and went round it to the other side.

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he said. ‘Come here.’

* * *

Frances stopped dead. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’ His voice drifted seductively around the tree. ‘You mustn’t let an unfortunate experience ruin you for one of life’s great pleasures.’ A gloved hand appeared from behind the tree, beckoning. ‘The mistletoe awaits.’

She shivered and shook her head, which of course he didn’t see. Why had she confessed to not liking kisses? She’d kept such secrets to herself for a whole year, and now suddenly she’d blurted it out.

He was only flirting. Once, long ago, she would have been able to flirt in return. Now hurt and anger boiled up and got in the way. ‘It’s not a good idea.’

‘Why not? You have nothing to lose.’

No, she had everything to lose. Last night in the kitchen, she’d quite liked Lord Warbury, rake or not. She’d enjoyed talking to him. She’d felt comfortable with him and surprisingly safe. Back in bed, under the lingering influence of his warm, masculine scent, she’d even found herself wondering what it might be like to put her arms around him. To feel his arms around her. To be enveloped in all that warmth and heady aroma.

But she knew better than to think about kisses. Dreams were one thing and reality another. If he kissed her, she wouldn’t be able to hide her revulsion, and he would thrust her away in disgust.

‘Now’s our chance. Lumpkin and my cousin are nowhere near.’ He came around the tree again, a sprig of mistletoe in his hand.

What a fool she was; in spite of bitter experience, she
wanted
to kiss him, wanted kissing to be wonderful. How stupid! She was much better off—much safer—as she was.

He kissed the fingertips of his gloves and blew. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

She huffed.

He picked a berry from the mistletoe and dropped it. ‘We’ll make it a very light kiss,’ he said, coming closer. ‘Short and sweet.’

She didn’t trust him; she wanted yet didn’t want—

A flurry of snow tumbled from the branches above, distracting her. He swooped in, dropped a swift, cold kiss on her lips, and drew away—but not far. ‘Was that too unbearable?’ Another mistletoe berry fell to the snow.

‘No, of course not,’ she said, ‘but—’

‘Well, then.’ He took her hand and pulled her around the tree. ‘If you don’t want me to invade you—accidentally, needless to say—you’ll have to keep your mouth shut.’

‘You mustn’t do this—’

‘Of course I must. No talking.’

She gave up, shutting both her mouth and her eyes. It was her own fault for coming to the orchard this morning, but she’d enjoyed their time together in the middle of the night so very much. It was only a kiss.

Nothing happened. She opened her eyes again. He was contemplating her mouth from under his lashes. ‘You have lovely lips.’

Through her teeth, she said, ‘Get it
over
with.’

‘I’ve never kissed a martyr before.’ His lips curled in a lazy smile, and then he pressed his mouth coolly to hers and withdrew again. ‘It requires a more careful approach than we disgustingly hasty men are used to.’ He flicked another berry off the sprig.

She couldn’t help but watch his mouth. What was he going to do, and when?

‘Close your eyes, and whatever happens, keep your lips together.’

This time his mouth lingered on hers a few seconds, then pressed light kisses from one corner of her lips to the other. Kiss. ‘One.’ Kiss. ‘Two.’ Kiss. ‘Three.’

Bite.

She gasped, and desire shimmered like golden light down her spine. He chuckled and gave his branch of mistletoe a rueful look. ‘Can’t bring this one in the basket, or they’ll know what we’ve been doing. On the other hand, it would be a pity to waste the one remaining berry.’

She licked her lip where he’d bitten her.

‘Such a tempting tongue,’ he said.

Anxiety washed over her. All right, it had been pleasant so far—unexpectedly so—but enough was enough. She didn’t want anything more, and judging by the darkening of his eyes, he did.

Another shower of snow landed on them both, followed by the sound of approaching voices. From the corner of her eye, Frances caught a hint of movement above. Had a squirrel knocked the snow off a branch? Shouldn’t it be hibernating in this weather?

Lord Warbury plucked the solitary berry, stowed it in his pocket, and dropped the sprig to the ground. He retrieved the basket and handed it to Frances.

‘More kisses later,’ he said.

* * *

Christmas Eve passed in a flurry of activity. The ladies made garlands and kissing rings, the men hung them, the servants cooked and baked, and Lord Warbury prepared the apples and syrup for lamb’s wool with everyone’s participation. Frances couldn’t help a tiny thrill of delight when he offered her—and only her—a second turn at mashing the apples.

She also couldn’t help wondering when he would kiss her again.

They feasted in the dining room and then descended to the kitchen, where the marquis crowned his head groom King of the Revels, bent the knee to him, and served him lamb’s wool and fruitcake with his own hands. There were games and dancing, a pantomime performed by the three younger men, and roasted chestnuts and apples. She steeled herself to be kissed under the mistletoe by the male guests. Perhaps Lord Warbury had had a word with Alan Folk, for he didn’t try to invade her, merely giving her a friendly kiss. So did Edwin, the Druid and the King of the Revels. Mr. Cutlow, who’d drunk too much wine and lamb’s wool, put his hand on her bottom and tried to stick his tongue in her mouth. She squirmed indignantly away and warned Almeria not to let Mr. Cutlow catch her under the mistletoe. Lord Warbury bestowed kisses upon several giggly maidservants, an equally giggly Almeria, and Mrs. Cutlow, who tried unsuccessfully to cling to him. He didn’t kiss Frances.