Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella (3 page)

“Of course, you’re right. It’s just that she didn’t look as happy with him as she did with you.”

He chuckled. “Now I know you’re biased. She was quite put out with me the entire time we were dancing.”

“I was put out with Tristan a good bit of the time after I met him, but it didn’t stop me from falling in love with him.” Rising up on her toes, she bussed a quick kiss over his cheek. “I wish you luck with your endeavors here.”

As she wandered away, Chetwyn decided that his best course for the moment was to enjoy another glass of Scotch. He was heading toward the doorway when Wexford stepped into his path, his nose red, his cheeks flushed, his eyes radiating panic.

“Who the devil was she?” he asked. “I never saw anyone. She’s no doubt wandered off and is in danger of freezing to death by now. We must cease the music, form search parties, call out the hounds.”

“Steady, old chap,” Chetwyn commanded, placing his hands on Wexford’s shoulders, attempting to calm him before damage was done. “There was no woman.”

Wexford blinked and stared at him as though he’d spoken in Mandarin. “Whatever do you mean?”

Obviously the man’s ability to reason had frozen while he was outside. “I wrote the note. The entire thing was a ruse as I wished to dance that particular dance with Lady Meredith.”

“You sent me out in the cold? For a dance? Why didn’t you just ask, man?”

“Would you have stepped aside?”

“That is beside the point.” Wexford held up a finger. “I shan’t soon forget this, Chetwyn.” With that ominous warning, he stormed off.

Considering Wexford had once shot a rhinoceros, Chetwyn considered himself fortunate that the veiled threat was quite mild. Then he saw a young lady grinning in the doorway. “I don’t suppose it would be my good fortune to discover you’re deaf.”

With a giggle, she shook her head and disappeared into the hallway. Lovely. More fodder for the gossip mill.

“H
e sent Lord Wexford out into the storm so he could dance with you,” Lady Sophia said.

Meredith had come to the retiring room to regain her calm because it was too early to retire to her chambers. She found herself surrounded by Ladies Sophia, Beatrix, and Violet.

“Terribly romantic,” Lady Violet said.

“Terribly selfish,” Lady Beatrix insisted. “Wexford could have died.”

Meredith wondered if she was hoping for more than a dance from the fellow. She wondered if she should tell Lady Beatrix that she shouldn’t strive so hard to impress men with her litany of accomplishments, then wondered if things might have been different if she, herself, had tried harder with Chetwyn—if she had thrown a fit in the garden instead of giving the impression that she could hardly be bothered by his change of heart. Was she as much to blame for their diverging paths as he?

“Perhaps we shall have a duel at dawn,” Lady Sophia said, her voice rife with excitement.

“Between Chetwyn and Wexford?” Meredith asked.

“I was thinking more along the lines of Chetwyn and Litton. I daresay it is one thing to dance with a lady, an entirely different matter to go to such great lengths to do so.”

“My dance card was filled. He wanted a dance. Make no more of it than that.” Even now she should be in the ballroom fulfilling her obligations. Perhaps she would claim a headache.

“It’s no secret his family coffers suffer for want of coin. His father made some ghastly investments, from what I hear. He needs an heiress with a substantial dowry. He lost Lady Anne—”

“You say that as though he misplaced her,” Meredith interrupted, impatient with the conversation. Standing quickly, she shook out her skirts. She wanted to be more than her dowry to some man. Was she to Litton? She was no longer as sure. “I’m returning to the ballroom.”

It was nearing midnight, the last dance would be soon, and she was anxious to see Litton, to have him wash away any lingering evidence that Chetwyn had danced with her. But she waited for him in vain, stood among the older matrons whose hips no longer allowed them the luxury of dance. Her only consolation was that Chetwyn wasn’t about to witness her disappointment. She wondered if he’d taken his leave. She could only hope.

T
he residence had grown quiet, the only sound the wind howling beyond the windows. Sitting alone in a chair by the fire in the billiards room, Chetwyn savored his Scotch and reminisced about the first time that he’d set eyes on Merry.

For more than a year he’d been in seclusion, grieving the loss of his brother. Finally, the Season before last, Chetwyn had taken the first step out of mourning by attending a ball. He had felt as though he were a stranger in a strange land. All the finery, the food, the laughter, the gaiety—did any of them deserve any of it when so many had died?

Suffocating in that overly flowered ballroom, attempting to talk about weather and theater and books, had made him feel as though his clothing were strangling him. He was merely going through the motions of being present, wishing he’d not been so quick to return to Society.

And then his gaze had landed on Lady Meredith. He was struck with the romantic notion that she was the sort over whom men fought wars. He’d desperately wanted to release her raven hair from its pins. The pink roses that adorned it matched the ones embroidered in her pale pink gown. It had draped off her alabaster shoulders, enticing a man to touch them. She was talking with three other ladies, and then she tilted back her head slightly and laughed. The glorious tinkling had wafted over to him, and for the first time in a good long while he didn’t feel dead, didn’t feel as though he had been buried alongside Walter. He was ever so glad that he was alive to hear such sweet music.

As though noticing his regard, she looked at him with eyes of clover green, and he had to take a step back to maintain his balance. The force of her was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Initially, he attributed it to being out of the ballrooms for so long, but he slowly came to realize that it was simply the power of her.

Throughout the Season, he danced with her at every opportunity, strolled with her through gardens and parks, sent her flowers and sweets. She returned to her father’s estate for the winter. Chetwyn returned to his, but he’d been unable to forget her. She was more than a passing fancy.

Then in early spring a soldier delivered a letter from Walter, long after he was gone. The man hadn’t posted it for fear it would become lost on the journey from the Crimea. Walter’s words had shaken Chetwyn to the core. As he lay ill, he must have known that the Grim Reaper was hovering nearby, because he asked Chetwyn to promise to ensure that his betrothed was happy. Chetwyn, numbskull that he was, had thought the only way to ensure Lady Anne’s well-being was to marry her himself, so he’d held his growing feelings for Lady Meredith in check. When the next Season was upon them, he turned his attentions to securing Lady Anne’s happiness while Lady Meredith slipped beyond reach.

He had no right to ask her for forgiveness, no right to ask for a second chance. She had moved on with her life, she had found another. It was time for him to do the same, to stop living in the past, to stop focusing on what might have been—

If he’d not been so insistent on restoring his estates to their former glory.

If he’d not been hoarding his coins for that purpose rather than giving his brother an allowance so he could live the life of a gentleman.

If he hadn’t purchased Walter a commission so he was forced to live the life of a soldier.

If he hadn’t read Walter’s final letter and allowed it to skew his perspective and overwhelm him with remorse.

It mattered little to him now that Walter had once commented that he enjoyed being in the army, had felt he had gained purpose. He had died as a young man, while Chetwyn would no doubt die as an old one. And without Merry at his side.

He downed the contents of his glass, reached for the bottle he’d set beside the chair, and refilled the tumbler. As the room was beginning to spin and his head was feeling dull, he knew he should be abed, where in sleep he would dream of Merry, of her raven hair and green eyes and the way she had once smiled at him as though he could do no wrong. Yet he had managed to do wrong aplenty.

He barely moved when he heard the door open. Slowly shifting his gaze over, he wondered briefly if he’d already fallen asleep, because there she was in a much simpler dress than she’d been wearing earlier. No petticoats. Possibly no corset. It was designed for comfort, not company. It could also be discarded in a flash if a man were to set his mind to removing it. He had imbibed a bit too much because he was already envisioning the joy he would experience in giving all those buttons their freedom.

Her braided hair fell past her hips, her slippers were plain. Nothing about her was intentionally enticing, and yet he was thoroughly beguiled.

She glanced around warily. He held still, waiting for the moment when she would see him. Only she didn’t, and he realized the deep shadows and the angle of the chair hid his presence from her. She swept her gaze around the room once more before returning to the door and closing it with a hushed snick.

He wondered if she was waiting for Litton. Chetwyn thought that if the viscount came through the door, he might very well lose any semblance he had of being a gentleman. He wouldn’t stand for it, watching them behave as lovers. It could be the only reason for this late-night tryst, and dammit all to hell, she appeared to be anticipating it. Her eyes took on a glow, her smile was one of someone doing what she ought not to be caught doing. Dear God, help him, but he wanted to kiss those lips, he wanted to be doing things with them that
he
ought not to be doing.

She wandered over to the billiards table and scraped her fingers over the baize top as she slowly walked its length. Against the taut cloth, her nails made a faint raspy sound, and it was all he could do not to groan as he imagined her trailing those fingertips over his chest, circling around his nipples, pinching, leaning in—

She stilled, and his thoughts careened to a stop as though she’d heard them. She glanced over her shoulder, and he feared that he had made a sound. He wasn’t quite ready for her to know that he was there. Again, he wondered if she was meeting Litton, if she was going to stretch out on the table for her lover. Would he unravel her hair and spread it across the green? Would he worship her as she deserved to be worshipped?

Chetwyn imagined removing her slippers, kissing her toes, then taking his mouth on a slow, leisurely journey up her calves, over her knees, along her thighs—

Christ! If he carried on with these imaginings, he was going to be unable to stand when Litton showed. If the rumors being bandied about were true, he’d compromised her once in a garden. He wouldn’t hesitate to do so here, long after the stroke of midnight, when most were abed and no one was about to interrupt. Chetwyn flexed the fingers not holding the glass. He rather fancied the idea of introducing his fist to Litton’s nose.

She fairly skipped over to the rack on the wall and selected a cue stick. Mesmerized, he watched as she tested its weight, twirled it between her fingers, and carried it over to the table. She gathered the balls, racked them; then, cue in hand, she leaned over, presenting him with a rather enticing view of her backside. A tiny voice urged him to stay where he was, to enjoy the unexpected gift of her arrival, but it was such a small voice, easily ignored, and he could enjoy her so much more if no distance separated them.

Unable to hold back his anticipation, he unfolded his body and crept over to where she was carefully positioning her cue. When he was near enough to smell her rose fragrance, he leaned in and whispered in a low, sensual drawl, “You’re doing it all wrong.”

With a startled yelp, she flung herself backward, her head smacking soundly into his jaw—

And the world went black.

W
ith her heart pounding, her entire body quaking, Meredith dropped to her knees, more because of their weakened state than the man sprawled on the floor. Had she killed him? Dear God, her father abhorred scandal, and she couldn’t think of anything that would set tongues to wagging faster than murder. She could envision herself traipsing toward the gallows with her father berating her the entire way for bringing shame upon the family.

“Chetwyn?” She placed her palm against his cheek, felt the stubble prick her tender flesh, and fought not to compare it to the stiff baize over which she trailed her fingers only moments before. She much preferred the warmth of his skin and the bristles that were thicker than she imagined and a shade darker than his hair. He should have appeared unkempt. Instead he looked very, very dangerous, and something that greatly resembled pleasure settled in the pit of her stomach. Why didn’t she ever feel this liquid fire that spread into her limbs when she was in Litton’s presence?

She leaned lower and inhaled Chetwyn’s bergamot fragrance mingled with Scotch. She considered pressing her lips to his, just for a taste. How often—before he had shifted his attentions to Lady Anne—had she longed for a turn about the garden with him that would have resulted in an illicit kiss? It was her shameful secret, her dark fantasy that in a shadowed part of a garden he would cease to be a gentleman, and she would no longer act as a lady. She had wanted so much with him that she hadn’t wanted with other admirers. She wished he hadn’t come here, that his presence wasn’t reminding her of all her silly imaginings. She wanted to marry Litton, to be his wife, his countess eventually—after his father passed.

Yet, if she were honest with herself, Chetwyn stirred something deep within her that Litton had yet to reach. And that acknowledgment terrified her. Would she make him happy if her thoughts could stray so easily to another?

As he groaned, Chetwyn opened his eyes wide, blinked, and rubbed his jaw. “You’ve got quite the punch,” he muttered.

Now that she saw he was going to be all right, irritation swamped her. “You have a jaw like glass. None of my brothers would have gone down that easily or that hard. It’s a wonder you didn’t shake the foundation of the residence. What the devil were you doing here, sneaking up on me?”