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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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He rested his chin on top of her head, cradling her. It was wrong of her to allow it, but she craved the comfort and warmth he offered.
“You shocked me and everyone else in the room, I suspect,” he mused. “I doubt poor Nigel will ever recover. Who would have thought Miss Phoebe Linville, of all people, could be such a firebrand?”
Sighing, she pulled out of his arms. He frowned but let her go—reluctantly, she thought.
“Are you sure you're all right?” he asked in a puzzled voice.
She swallowed a groan. Were all men this dense? Did he even remember how they had all acted out there in the ballroom? And her temper was rising again, which told her something important. Since meeting Lucas, she was apparently losing every shred of self-discipline she ever possessed.
“The evening started with that horrible fight in the library, then I was pestered by the rudest man I have ever met, and then you appeared and threatened that same man to a duel,
after
announcing to the whole world that I was your fiancée.” She windmilled her arms in frustration, forcing him to step back a pace. “How could I possibly be all right?”
One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Not quite the whole world, love.”
She froze. That word fell so easily from his lips, but she had no idea if he really meant it. What she did know was that his easy affection made her stomach flutter and her body long to be in his arms once more.
Mentally, she shook herself. He was trying to distract her, that was all.
“Lucas,” she said sternly, “you may not have noticed at the time, but we did attract quite a great deal of attention. And Lord Castle will be sure to spread as much ugly gossip about us as he can. The man is a . . . a . . .”
“Poltroon?”
She crossed her arms under her chest and scowled at him. His gaze dropped to her bosom, and his amused little grin disappeared. Some other expression took its place, one so full of heated appraisal it sent a disconcerting ripple of excitement flowing through her veins.
“Lucas, you must stop doing that,” she said through clenched teeth.
He looked up, then widened his eyes with feigned innocence. “Stop what?”
She blew out a breath. “Never mind. We were speaking of Lord Castle and the trouble he will cause when he starts spreading rumors about our supposed engagement.”
He shrugged. “It's not a rumor. And I'll make sure Castle doesn't become a problem.”
Phoebe stared at him. Had she banged her head getting out of the carriage tonight and failed to notice? She had assumed Lucas's public declaration had been meant to put Lord Castle in his place. But she now realized that was a ridiculous assumption. No one tossed out marriage proposals with such cavalier abandon, at least not a man like Lucas.
Her mind flashed back to the scene in General Stanton's library. Had Lucas, in fact, been asking her to marry him after all? Her foolish heart had longed for it, but her common sense had intervened to reject the notion. Who asked a woman to marry him in front of a roomful of people?
Her mouth opened, a thousand questions poised on her lips. Only two mattered, though. Did Lucas truly intend to marry her? And, if so, did he love her?
But her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. Silently cursing her lack of courage, she fell back to her more immediate concern.
“Lucas, you have not yet answered my question. Did you or did you not challenge Lord Castle to a duel?”
His face turned to stone. “He impugned your honor.”
Frustrated, she shook her head. “My honor is my own. No man can impugn it without my consent.”
That made him scoff. “Phoebe, please do me a favor and stay clear of things you don't understand.”
Oh, she understood very well. Men willingly fought and even killed over inconsequential matters, and they liked nothing better than justifying their actions in the name of honor.
Man's honor. Not God's honor.
“Truth often suffers more by the heat of its defenders, than from the arguments of its opposers,” she said in a severe voice.
He peered at her as if she had just sprouted wings from her forehead. “What the hell does that mean?”
Phoebe grimaced. She had thought Mr. Penn's quote to be more than apt, but Lucas obviously did not agree. Perhaps she could make him up a small book of quotations to give him for a Christmas present. He could certainly benefit from them.
Frustrated, she spread her hands wide. “Why are you so upset by this ridiculous matter? It makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense to me,” he growled.
She recognized his flinty expression. He wore it whenever he encountered Silverton, or was forced to speak with him. Understanding finally dawned. “This is not about me,” she said slowly. “This is about Esme Newton.”
His expression went positively glacial, but she would not be put off. “You have no right to be offended, Lucas. You have used me as an excuse to resurrect an old grievance, one that has little to do with me. It was not kind of you.”
“Christ,” he muttered. He paced over to the fireplace, then across to the door. His hand reached for the knob, and for a horrible moment she thought he intended to storm out.
But he drew back and she could breathe again. Turning to face her, he remained by the door. A casual observer would have thought him calm, but she saw stormy visions of the past roiling in his gaze.
“Phoebe, you couldn't possibly understand.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, sending up a silent prayer. If they were to have any future together, Lucas must learn to trust her. “Then tell me so I will.”
He blew out a tense breath. “Very well. Castle was one of Esme's flirts, although that term doesn't precisely capture it. He knew how I felt about her and he knew how she felt about me, yet he pursued her anyway.”
“Ah. Just as you pursued the same woman against your cousin's wishes.”
He frowned and his gaze dropped to the carpet. “I suppose. I regarded it differently at the time.”
She remained silent for a few moments, letting him grapple with his conscience. “And Esme allowed this?” she finally prompted.
Lucas glanced up with a bitter smile. “To my complete astonishment, she did.”
Phoebe could not help rolling her eyes. “Is there no man she did not flirt with?”
That elicited a short laugh from him. “Esme loved the attention. She even loved that men fought over her, although I don't think she understood how ugly it all would get until the end.”
“Until Silverton.”
He nodded slowly. She ached for him, but kept silent as he worked it through.
“Esme loved having us all on her string, although I didn't realize at the time how manipulative she was. I truly thought she loved me.” He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. “Maybe she even did, in her own fashion. She said it often enough, at least in the beginning. Before Castle. And before Silverton,” he finished softly.
“Why did she not marry Lord Castle?”
He snorted. “Because he wasn't a lord back then, just a second son. He didn't inherit until a few years ago. In any event, a viscount would never be a match for Silverton. But when my cousin eventually spurned her, she had to settle for a moderately wealthy Scottish earl, who then took her to Edinburgh.”
His voice was laced with contempt, but she could not tell if he reserved it for Esme Newton or for himself.
Hesitantly, she moved toward him. “Lucas, this woman has caused you nothing but anger and grief.”
He remained motionless against the door, looking impossibly remote. “I do understand that, my dear.”
She took another step closer, silently willing him to let her in. “She was not worthy of you or Cousin Stephen. Nor is her memory worth the continued estrangement between you.”
Phoebe had an impression that he flinched. His eyes, though, remained cold, freezing her out.
Pulling in a shaky breath, she stepped right up to him. “Do you still love her?”
His head jerked back. “God, no.”
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
The ice in his eyes finally melted. “Looking back, I don't think I ever loved her. I believe
obsession
is a better way to describe it.”
“That offers me little comfort, Lucas.”
He reached for her then, his hands drifting over her bare shoulders. His touch—tender and light—made her tremble.
“You needn't worry, sweetheart,” he murmured in a voice so dark and tempting she almost melted against him. “Rest assured I won't allow her memory to come between us or our marriage.”
His words thumped her back to earth. It was time to stop hiding behind her fears, and confront him directly. “Lucas, I do not even know if there is anything between us. And you have not even asked me to marry you yet, much less told me you love me.”
Something flickered across his features, and a chill shivered through her.
“You do not love me, do you?” she asked, trying to pull away.
His grip firmed on her shoulders even as his eyes narrowed. “I want no other woman but you, Phoebe. Never doubt it.”
“Wanting is not loving,” she challenged. “I will not accept wanting.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, as if he was holding something back. “Phoebe, I'm extremely fond of you, which you surely know. I will cherish you and our marriage. But you must understand that I am not given to extravagant declarations. I'm not a boy anymore, given to such foolishness.”
She swallowed, her mouth tasting dry and bitter. For once, anger seemed a reliable ally. “You are very fond of your horses, too, but I do not expect you to marry them.”
He stared at her for an endless moment before he let out a crack of laughter. “Christ, Phoebe! Where do you come up with these ridiculous ideas? My sweet, I never wanted to kiss my horses either, but I
do
want to kiss you.”
And between one breath and the next, he did.
Chapter 14
Phoebe's eyes grew wide as Lucas swooped down to kiss her. But when his lips met hers she squeezed her eyelids closed, overcome by the shock of his touch and the temptation that trembled through her. His mouth took hers in a silken slide, softly at first, as if granting her time to adjust. She had never felt a man's kiss on her mouth. Her heart pounded with something akin to fright, yet she could not resist his lure—hot and sweet, hinting of champagne and something forbidden.
And it was not just any man who kissed her. It was Lucas, and she knew now that she had been waiting for the touch of his lips for a very long time.
His mouth was gentle, exploring her as if she were a newly discovered landscape. Mentally, she stumbled in that landscape, searching for a way forward and knowing it could only come through him. From the feel of his calloused hands wrapped around her bare arms, his fingers caressing her skin, and from the breathtaking heat of his mouth. Every unique sensation drew her forward, unmooring her from every experience that had come before.
Who knew a kiss could be so . . . transporting?
She spread her hands flat on his chest, sinking her fingers into the rich fabric of his waistcoat. Seeking the beat of his heart, she found it, fast and steady under her palms. Her pulse, though, fluttered everywhere throughout her body—behind her breastbone, in her throat and wrists, even behind her knees.
And as Lucas deepened the kiss, those knees grew dreadfully weak.
She clutched at him, whimpering under the tender onslaught of his lips. He answered with a deep, masculine rumble as his hands moved from her arms to slide around her back. He splayed them wide, holding her in a firm clasp. It protected her, that embrace, making her feel safe and cherished. In the circle of his arms, with his mouth igniting a slow fire in her blood, Phoebe could almost believe anything was possible. Even that Lucas might love her.
Her body melted against him. She tipped her head back, searching for more, something deeper, hoping he would know what it was.
He did, for his tongue came between her closed lips, tracing along the seam. Phoebe jerked in surprise and her mouth opened on a startled gasp. His tongue stroked into her mouth—just for a second—and then retreated with a quick, feathering taste to the corner of her lips. Her eyes snapped open. She stared at him—at his mouth, mere inches from hers and seductive and damp from their kiss—and his gaze, dark and smoky with desire, bored into her.
The intimacy shook her to the soul.
“Was that your first kiss, Phoebe?”
His deep voice whispered through her, doing the strangest things to her body. She had a sudden, shocking urge to rub against him, like a cat who wished to be petted.
Phoebe found herself very much wishing that Lucas
would
pet her. “Yes,” she managed to croak.
That pleased him, if the arrogant smile tugging at his lips was any indication. She decided on the spot that Lucas had the most entrancing mouth she had ever seen.
“Did you like it?” His husky tone sounded much like a purr, one made by a very big, very wicked cat. She had not imagined a man could make a noise like that, and it seemed to drain all reason from her brain.
“Um . . . I,” she stuttered. She
had
liked it. But should a lady even consider admitting that sort of pleasure? It occurred to her that her education was vitally lacking in this very important area.
He laughed, and she felt an answering vibration at every point where their bodies connected. “Let me rephrase, my sweet. Do you want me to do it again?”
She frowned. Was this a trick, or a test in some way? Even though she had imagined more than once Lucas kissing her, she had never thought to be required to do more than stand there. That is what women did under the circumstances, or so she had always assumed.
“Do you want to kiss me again?” she said hesitantly.
His eyes went heavy-lidded and slumberous. “Actually, I'd very much like it if
you
would kiss
me.
Her mind stuttered as she tried to read his expression. Desire she saw most clearly, but something else lurked in his gaze, too. Shadows darkened his eyes and she sensed a need in him beyond that of mouth touching mouth, skin touching skin. It seemed Lucas wanted more—a declaration, perhaps. She had already rejected him once tonight and she wondered if he sought proof she would not do it again.
Carefully, she placed her hands on his shoulders and went up on her tiptoes. Stretching up another inch, she shyly pressed her trembling lips to his firm mouth.
He froze under her shy touch and for an awkward few seconds Phoebe thought she had done it wrong. Then his lips moved beneath hers and his tongue swept into her mouth, drawing her into a deep, devouring kiss. As she fell against him, hardly able to stand, he took her hands and fastened them around his neck. She clung to him as a bulwark against the sensations spinning through her body. Nothing could have prepared her for the aggressive thrust of his tongue, tasting her with a delicious, intoxicating greed.
Vibrant emotions stunned her. They shimmered through her mind like bright clouds, overriding caution and modesty, tawdry concerns that crumbled before the power of what he shared with her. She had never experienced anything like Lucas and his kisses—so much warmth engulfing her, making her forget who and where she was.
At that vague thought, a warning bell sounded faintly in her mind. Her concentration suddenly expanded to include the awareness that they leaned against a door in Lady Framingham's mansion, just one floor away from a room where hundreds of guests sat down to supper.
Guests that included Aunt Georgie.
Her eyes flew open and she started to draw back, but Lucas gently bit her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. She groaned as something pulled low in her belly, and she collapsed against him.
He held her close, breathing a husky laugh against her lips before his tongue returned to ravish her mouth. His arms tightened around her shoulders, drawing her up to the very tip of her toes and mashing her against his chest. It should have hurt, he was that muscular and hard. Instead, her nipples contracted with a sharp pleasure, pulling her farther into a spiraling sensation of need.
Phoebe sighed into his mouth, giving herself over to his ardent demands. Her limbs grew heavy and the place between her legs ached with a pleasurable tension. That ache made her long to do forbidden things, like squirm against him to increase the pressure of his muscled body against hers.
An instant later she froze in horror with the realization that she
was
squirming against him. Even worse, a part of him—a very big and hard part—pressed into her belly with a good deal of insistence. And that should have horrified her, too, but instead she felt another bizarre urge to wriggle against it.
That, she felt sure, would be a very bad thing to do.
With a soft nuzzle of her mouth, Lucas broke the kiss. His gaze traveled over her face, her neck, her breasts, like a lingering caress.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.
She drew in a shaky breath. The very sound of his voice made her insides quake with longing. When he looked at her like that, she could not seem to process one rational thought. She should come up with a sensible answer, but had no idea what that might be.
“Do you want to?” she asked.
He gave a soft laugh. Without answering, he bent and slipped one arm behind her knees, hoisting her up high against his chest. She squeaked out a protest, but he simply dropped a fast, hard kiss on her mouth as he strode across the room to the sofa.
“Lucas,” she gasped. “I very much enjoy being with you, but we do have a few more things to settle between us. And Aunt G—”
“Hush,” he murmured. “We'll go down soon enough. And we can talk in a minute.”
She eyed him doubtfully as he sank onto the sofa, still cradling her in his arms. Suddenly, he grimaced and reached under her bottom to arrange something. She blushed when she realized what it was. “Ah, I do not think this is a very good idea. I have not even accepted your proposal of marriage. If, that is, you even made a proposal.”
His eyes flared hot, then he dipped his head to her neck. His tongue flicked out to lick the pulse throbbing at the base of her neck. She jumped, but he held her in place.
“You know very well that I proposed,” he murmured, kissing her throat. She moaned at the contrast between the smooth feel of his lips and the rasp of his faintly bristled chin.
“Well . . . I have not yet accepted it,” she managed in a quaking voice.
She absolutely could not think while he nibbled little kisses back down her neck to where it met the junction of her shoulder. Then he nipped her there, and thought fled her brain. Her head, too heavy to hold upright, fell back against his shoulder.
“Don't worry, Phoebe,” he murmured. “I promise everything will be fine.”
She could only sigh as he kissed and tongued his way over her shoulder to the top of her tiny sleeve. Beneath her, the hard length of his erection nudged her bottom, sending a shivery sort of spasm pulsing between her legs.
Phoebe gasped, so surprised by the sensation she hardly noticed Lucas nudging down her tiny cap sleeve to completely bare her shoulder. The gauzy bodice sagged low across her breasts, only just covering her nipples. In fact, when she glanced down at herself, she could see them almost peeking out over the top of her lace trimming.
“Lucas, I do not—”
His glance flicked back up to her face and he swooped in to give her another one of those quick but devastating kisses. Then he looked back down at her breasts while his fingers skimmed over the top of her bodice.
“God, Phoebe. You are so beautiful,” he said in a tight voice. “I can't wait to see all of you.”
That almost shocked her into silence. Almost.
“Truly?”
No man had ever told her she was beautiful, or even pretty—not that Quaker men made a habit of paying fulsome compliments.
Lucas's mouth lifted into a wry smile. “Trust me, love. You ravish me.”
She heard the smile in his voice, and that eased the knot of anxiety in her stomach.
His gaze remained fixed on her breasts, seemingly entranced as he traced his fingers over her skin. “So white and soft,” he whispered.
He sounded fascinated, and that drew her with him. Equally entranced, she watched as his index finger pushed below her lace, just brushing against the rosy circle of her nipple. She bit her lip as tingles raced through her flesh and the tip pulled into a tight, aching bead.
His breath hissed out and he shook his head. “Damnation, woman. You're going to kill me.”
Lifting his head, he took her lips in a kiss so encompassing it burned away all but the knowledge of him. She saw, tasted, and breathed only Lucas. Only his touch mattered, only what happened in the circle of his arms held any meaning.
Which was why, no doubt, Aunt Georgie had to clear her throat three times before Phoebe even registered that she and Lucas were no longer the only people in the room.
BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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