Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella (8 page)

“I took liberties that night I should not have taken. I’ve been trying to spare you any further gossip.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So you did tell people about the kiss in the garden.”

He shrugged. “Only as a precaution.”

“Against what?”

“Your father changing his mind and thinking that it didn’t matter, that our marriage was not in order.”

She gave a light laugh. “Since he’s withdrawn the dowry, that’s not likely to happen, as he knows no one else will have me now.”

He grabbed her arms, jerked her. “What are you talking about?”

Not a lie, she told herself, but a small test. “My father has decided, based upon the recent worry I caused him, that I shall not come with a dowry.”

Releasing her, he plowed his hands through his hair. “I won’t have it. We discussed the settlement. Granted, we haven’t signed the papers, but I was depending on that dowry to cover my gaming debts. I shall have a word—”

“Don’t bother,” she said. “I shan’t be marrying you, with or without the dowry.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Have you been testing me? You silly girl, I’ll tell everyone what happened in the garden. Your reputation will be ruined. No one will have you.”

“I think you may be wrong on that score.” At least she hoped he was. But even if he wasn’t, as she walked from the room, she realized that she’d been spared making a grave mistake.

“—twenty stitches per inch.”

Chetwyn tried to look impressed with his present dance partner’s sewing skills, but the truth was that Lady Beatrix’s words merely collided together as they bombarded his ears and made no sense. He’d heard that Merry had recovered from her ordeal and would be coming to the ballroom before the night was done, so he was trying to distract himself. A part of him wished desperately that he had stayed by her side at the castle. It would have ensured she became his wife.

But he didn’t want her forced into something she might not want. He just didn’t know where he would find the strength to stay away from her once she married Litton. But stay away he would, because the last thing he wanted was her unhappiness.

“Pardon me.”

At the tap on his shoulder, he came to an abrupt halt and almost forgot to breathe. Merry stood there in a striking red velvet dress with white trim. She smiled at him, and this time his heart nearly forgot to beat. Then she turned her attention to Lady Beatrix.

“Forgive me for interrupting, but a gentleman asked me to give this to you,” she said, holding out a slip of paper.

“Oh.” Lady Beatrix took it, unfolded it, and read it. She blinked her eyes. “Who gave this to you?”

“He asked me not to say. He wanted to remain a bit mysterious, I think. But I am given to understand that he is quite impressed with your sewing skills.”

Lady Beatrix brightened. “Indeed. I knew some gentleman would eventually appreciate them.” She looked at Chetwyn. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I must see to this.”

“By all means. Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

Lady Beatrix gave a tiny squeal before hurrying from the room.

Chetwyn studied Meredith. “What have you done, Merry?”

“I wanted to dance with you.”

“Well, then, allow me the honor.”

Taking her in his arms, he swept her over the dance floor. “Who was the note from?”

She smiled. “Me, of course. It said only, ‘Meet me in the library.’”

“At least she’ll be warm.”

Her smile grew. “And not alone. I saw Lord Wexford going in there on my way here.”

He laughed. “Jolly good.”

She blushed. “Who knows? Perhaps something will come of it.”

Tightening his hold on her, he asked, “And what of us? Will anything come of us?”

“I’m not quite sure. It depends on you, I suppose. You should know that within my pocket I have a slip of paper for every lady you intend to dance with tonight. I want all of your dances.”

“You shall have them.”

“You should also be aware that Father threatened to take away my dowry if I didn’t marry Litton. I suppose he knew I had reservations and thought to dispense with them. I don’t know if he’ll carry through on his threat.”

“I’ve told you before that I don’t give a damn about your dowry.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t love Litton. I never did, but he seemed a pleasant enough sort, and he made me feel appreciated. I thought I would be content with him, but then I discovered something I wanted more. Just a few moments ago, I cried off with him. He plans to tell everyone about the tryst in the garden. I shall be ruined.”

“Lovely chap. I shall introduce him to my fist later. But right this moment you do know that the best way to stop gossip is to give people something far more interesting to talk about.”

She nodded. “I never stopped loving you.”

His heart contracted, then expanded, and he thought it might burst through his chest. “That’s good, because I have loved you from the night we met, and I shall love you until the day I die.”

“Then kiss me now.”

And he did. He stopped dancing, folded his arms around her, and lowered his mouth to hers. He heard the slowing of feet, a few gasps, some chuckles, a clap or two. Yes, they would be the talk of high society. But he wasn’t quite done.

Breaking off the kiss, he held her warm gaze for but a moment before going down on bended knee and taking her hand.

All dancing halted. The music stopped.

“Merry, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, my marchioness, the mother of my children? Will you be my love for as long as I draw breath?”

Tears welled in her eyes, as she pressed a trembling hand to her lips. “Oh, Chetwyn, yes, of course.”

Taking from his pocket a ring with small emeralds that matched her eyes, he slipped it onto her finger. At her stunned expression, he couldn’t help but smile. “I told you, Merry, that first night that you were the reason I was here. Happy Christmas, my love.”

Standing, he kissed her again as a rousing cheer went up from those who surrounded them. As her arms closed around his neck, he pulled her in against the curve of his body and held her tighter. It was going to be a very lovely Christmas for them both. The first of many.

Read on for a thrilling peek at the final book in
the Lost Lords of Pembrook trilogy,

LORD OF WICKED INTENTIONS,

by
New York Times
bestseller Lorraine Heath
from Avon Books,
May 2013

An Excerpt from

LORD OF WICKED INTENTIONS

T
he invitation came because of a debt owed. Owed to him. All debts were owed to him, while he owed no man anything. Not his friendship, not his loyalty, not his kindness. And certainly not his hard-earned coin.

But the Earl of Wortham, a man of little
worth
, Rafe Easton thought snidely, did owe him a good deal of coin, which was the reason that he was allowed into the earl’s magnificent library. He wondered briefly how long it would be before it was stripped of all the former owner’s prized possessions. The late earl had left his son with little, and what remained had been quickly gambled away in Rafe’s club.

The man wanted his credit extended, and so for tonight he pretended a friendship with the Rakehell Club’s owner.

Drinking fine Scotch that the earl could scarce afford, Rafe lounged insolently in a chair near the fireplace while the other lords mingled about, chuckled, chatted, and downed far too much liquor. They were a randy lot. He could sense their eagerness and anticipation hovering thickly about the room.

The young earl had a sister, although he didn’t recognize her as such. No, more precisely, she was the late earl’s daughter, born on the wrong side of the blanket. But at his father’s deathbed, Wortham had given his word that he would see to her care, and that was what tonight’s gathering was about.

Finding someone willing to see to her care.

Wortham swore she was a virgin, and that knowledge had some of the lords salivating, while others had sent their excuses. Rafe didn’t give a whit one way or the other. He did not bother with mistresses. They tended to cling, to desire baubles, to lead a man down a merry path only to eventually grow weary of the bed in which they slept and seek another.

He didn’t do anything that even reeked of permanence because anything that hinted at forever could be snatched away, could leave him,
would
leave him. Even his gaming establishment—he took no pride in it. It was simply a means to coins in his pockets. It could be taken away, and he could walk from it without looking back, without a measure of regret. He had nothing in his life that meant anything at all to him, that would cause him the least hurt if he should lose it. His emotions ran on a perfected, even keel, and he liked it that way. Every decision he made was based on cold calculations.

He was here tonight to watch these lords make fools of themselves as they vied for the lady’s attention, to measure their weaknesses, and to discover means of exploiting them.

He’d heard that his brothers had been invited. That was a waste of ink on paper. They were both married and so disgustingly devoted to their wives that he couldn’t see either of them straying, not even an inch. But then, what did he truly know about his siblings?

They’d finally returned to England two years later than they’d promised, Tristan a few months earlier than Sebastian. Rafe’s man had been waiting and ensured they made their way to the gaming hell. Rafe had greeted their arrival with little more than a glass of whiskey. He’d provided them with rooms and food until they’d secured Sebastian’s place as duke. He’d seen little of them since.

His choice. They invited him to join them for dinners, for sailing, for Christmas. He declined. He didn’t need them cluttering his life. He liked things exactly as they were. He was his own man, responsible to no one beyond himself.

From somewhere down a hallway, a clock began to chime the hour of nine. Conversations ceased. The lords stilled, their gazes riveted on the door. Sipping his Scotch, Rafe watched through half-lowered lids as the door opened. He caught sight of a purple hem and then—

He nearly choked on the golden liquid, as he fought not to give any reaction at all.

He suddenly had an acute understanding of why Adam was so quick to fall from grace when confronted with the temptation that was Eve. Wortham’s sister was the most exquisite creature Rafe had ever seen. Her hair, a shade that rivaled the sun in brilliance, was piled up to reveal a long, graceful neck that sloped down to alabaster shoulders that begged for a man’s lips to make their home there. She was neither short nor tall, but somewhere roughly in the middle. He wasn’t exactly certain where her head might land against his body. The curve of his shoulder perhaps. She was not particularly voluptuous, but she contained an elegance that drew the eye and spoke of still waters that could very well drown a man if he were of a mind to go exploring within their depths.

Which he wasn’t. He was content to appreciate the surface. It told him all he needed—all he desired—to know.

Glancing around, she appeared confused, her smile uncertain, until Wortham eventually crossed the room to stand beside her without looking, as though he was with her. Two people could hardly appear more different. Wortham stood stiff as a poker, while she was composed but emitted a softness. She would be the sort to touch, hold, and comfort. Rafe almost shuddered with the realization.

“Gentlemen, Miss Evelyn Chambers.”

She dipped elegantly into a flawless curtsy. “My lords.”

He’d expected her voice to be sweet, to match her smile, but it was smoky, rich, the song of decadence and wickedness. He imagined that voice in a lower pitch, whispering of naughty pleasures, curling around his ear, traveling through his blood. He imagined deep, throaty laughter and sultry eyes, lost to heated passion.

“Visit with the gentlemen,” Wortham ordered.

Again, she gave the impression of one confused, but then she straightened her lovely shoulders and began making her way from one man to the next, a butterfly trying to determine upon which petal to light, which would be sturdy enough to support her in the manner to which she was accustomed.

He caught glimpses of her face as she worked the crowd of a dozen men. A shy smile here, a bolder one there. Furrowed brow when a gentleman rested a hand on her shoulder or arm. Fluttering eyelashes as she expertly glided beyond reach without offending. He wasn’t quite certain she understood the rules of the game she was playing. Could she be that innocent?

Her mother had been the late earl’s mistress. Surely she knew what her mother’s role in his life had been—to warm his bed, to bring him pleasure, to keep him satisfied.

Sometimes she seemed to have confidence, to know exactly what she was doing. Other times she seemed baffled by the conversation. Still, it was as though she were ticking off a list, speaking to each man for only a moment or two before moving on, never returning to a man once they were acquainted.

Come to me,
he thought.
Come to me.
Then he shoved the wayward thoughts aside. What did he care if she didn’t notice him? He was accustomed to living in the shadows, to not being seen. The gossamer depths offered protection equal to the strongest armor. No one bothered him there unless he desired it.

He didn’t desire her, yet he couldn’t deny that he wondered what her skin might feel like against the tips of his fingers. Soft. Silky. Warm. It had been so very long since he’d been warm. Even the fire by which he sat now couldn’t thaw his frigid core. He liked it that way, preferred it.

Nothing touched him, nothing bothered him. Nothing mattered.

She matters.

No, she didn’t. She was an earl’s by-blow on the verge of becoming some man’s ornament. A very graceful ornament to be sure. An extremely lovely one. But she would be relegated to the same importance as a work of art: to be looked upon, to be touched, to bring pleasure when pleasure was sought.

She glanced around, appearing to be lost within a room that should have been familiar to her. Then her gaze fell on him, and his body tightened with such swiftness that for a heartbeat he felt lightheaded, dizzy. He should look away, tell her with an averted glance that she was nothing to him, that he had no interest in her; and yet he seemed incapable of doing anything other than watch as she hesitantly strolled toward him.