Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella) (9 page)

He swallowed convulsively.

“Your Grace,” she whispered impatiently. “Are you quite all right?” Once again she placed her hand to his cheek, and the monster under the covers quivered at her gentle caress.

“Oh, God,” he said.

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “You are blistering hot!”

She placed her hand to his chin and lifted his face until his eyes met hers, the gesture such a tender one that Lucien could scarcely bear it. And then she slipped her fingers lower, curling them about his neck, as though to measure the heat of his body there. “What can I do to ease your pain?” she asked fretfully.

Lucien felt dizzy.

The pain in his arse was completely forgotten at the moment, overshadowed by the one in his groin. If she lifted her skirts and straddled him, easing his unyielding erection into the silky warmth of her body, he would die with joy.

Caught in the moment, Lucien couldn’t quite help himself. If it meant she would stay for awhile longer, then he would pretend to be at death’s door, if need be. Anything,
anything
, to keep her from moving those long, graceful fingers away from his burning flesh. He wanted them desperately wrapped about his shaft, her thumb caressing the head, where the droplet of moisture would bead. In his head, he saw her bring her damp thumb to her lips, painting them with the moisture, her smile glistening and full of promise.

He smiled ruefully when she started to withdraw, and brought his arm from under the covers to seize her arm and halt its retreat. It felt so right to have her touch him so. More right than anything had ever felt in all his life.

“My neck,” he said gruffly, lying easily as he met her gaze. “It feels… stiff.” He lifted her other hand and placed it, too, upon his feverish face. “And my head,” he said huskily, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire, “it aches terribly.”

“It does?” Emma asked, eyeing him dubiously. She was suddenly staring at his bare arm that had only just come from beneath the covers with something akin to horror.

“Oh, God—very much so!”

Her brow furrowed. “I-it must be the fever,” she assured him. But her gaze never left his arm. And she stared, as though transfixed at that naked appendage while yet another appendage grew more insistent yet.

“Definitely—definitely the fever.”

He was burning and beginning to babble, stroking her hand against his cheek, relishing the feel of her soft flesh against his whiskers. At the same moment, though he doubted she knew it, her fingers began moving within the disorderly curls at his nape, gliding over his hot skin and through his mane, caressing ever so softly, and the feel of her fingers quickened his body. Lucien’s skin twitched like a cat arching in pleasure.

Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Your Grace,” she ventured.

“Emma,” he whispered. His heart hammered fiercely.

“I can’t feel your shirt collar!”

She closed her eyes but didn’t remove her hand from his nape, and Lucien thought he would go mad if he couldn’t make love to her right here and now. “Yes, Emma,” he whispered, and his breathing quickened with the knowledge that she was equally as affected by him as he was by her. Proof was in the way she bent forward slightly, drawn to him even without her awareness.

He guided her closer and lifted his face to meet hers, his lips touching hers gently, fully intending to seize the moment.

Bloody hell, the initial contact was like nothing Lucien anticipated. Lightning heat sizzled through him. His body quickened when she didn’t resist, and he sent his tongue on a gentle foray of her lips, lapping, savoring them fully, restraining himself so as not to frighten her.

Devil take him, but if her brother was stupid enough to allow her into his clutches... he was only a man, after all. He had never claimed to be a gentleman... and God only knew, no one had ever accused him of being one.

“Your Grace,” she protested weakly.

“Emma,” he whispered, and she trembled at the sound of her name, but didn’t withdraw.

With a groan of pleasure and another of victory, Lucien pressed his tongue between her lips, relishing the soft, sweet warmth of her mouth. Cinnamon, he thought vaguely. Her mouth tasted of cinnamon. He savored the sensation as she accepted his tongue and met it tentatively with her own.

“Emma, Emma, Emma…” He whispered her name and groaned, thinking that he’d surely been rewarded, when she allowed him draw her into his hungry embrace.

He couldn’t believe Andrew Peters could be so insanely stupid as to cast his sister into the wolf’s den. God’s blood, but he thought he’d died and gone to Heaven. Although Heaven, he knew, would never be his in the end, and there would be a price to pay for even this. And yet, for this incredible moment, he would gladly pay...

Only later...

Much, much later.

Emma knew she should speak to protest, but couldn’t seem to do so... so long she had dreamt of this moment.

It was everything she had ever imagined it would be... and nothing she could ever have anticipated.

Kissing Lucien was Heaven.

This moment it didn’t seem to matter that he didn’t want her—nothing mattered in the hazy, dreamy moment, but the kiss.

Good Lord, but she just couldn’t think with him holding her so intimately.

When he drew her nearer, she could do nothing but let him, for he never ceased kissing her... filling her mouth with the most dazzling warmth she had ever known.

Her heart beat frantically within her breast as he guided her nearer, but she dared say nothing to break the spell. If she was dreaming, then dear God, let her dream.

She felt herself crumple atop him... and he let out a sudden ghastly howl of pain.

Giving a little shriek of her own, Emma disentwined herself from his arms and scrambled away from the bed, crying out as he yelped once more.

“Damned heathen brats!” he exclaimed. And then, as she stood before him, staring in fright, he shouted again, “Infernal brats!”

“I beg your pardon,” Emma declared, and then horrified by what she’d done—by what had very nearly transpired in this room—she said, “Oh, Lord!”

He flung himself upright in the bed, exposing his very bare chest, and she squawked, “Oh G-God!” She stepped back fro the bed. “You’re indecent,” she exclaimed.

He gave her a forbearing glance. “In more ways than you realize!”

Emma suddenly couldn’t find her voice to speak. And yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to turn away, even knowing she should. She blushed furiously, her hand going to her mouth to conceal her tingling lips—the undeniable evidence of their kiss.

“You can thank your nieces and nephew for this!” he said scathingly. “They’ve stolen my clothing!” He gave her a long-suffering grimace, and then grunting in pain, reached to stroke his backside. “Damn near shattered my tail bone!”

Emma thought she would swoon at his declaration. Not to mention the sight of him so... so...
au naturel
—and so at ease with it, besides.

Her face heated furiously. “Oh, my,” she said once more (and looked askance, finally). “I... I shall have them returned at once,” she reassured. “I... I’m so sorry, Your Grace!” And with that, she turned and bolted from the room, shutting the door securely behind her.

Outside Lucien’s bedroom, trembling, Emma grasped the knob tightly, as though to hold him within. Only after it was clear he wouldn’t follow, did she release the door knob and race down the corridor.

Dear God! She couldn’t believe how much liberty she’d allowed him to take. She was so humiliated. Nor could she believe what the children had done to him.

And that kiss!

There was simply no telling what he would think of her now. So much for any show of dispassion on her part! At the mere thought of it all, Emma feared she would die with mortification.

Much as she loathed to, she sought out her brother and told him what had transpired—or most of what had transpired. She conveniently omitted the worst of the details. If her brother thought for a single instant that the duke had taken advantage, there would be the devil to pay—for both herself as well as the duke. While Andrew respected Lucien, for her honor he would have forfeited his own life. Or taken one. Emma could little bear either of those repercussions.

As furious as he was with the news, Andrew managed to hold himself together well enough to console her, but that only made Emma feel all the more reprehensible.

She didn’t feel outrage herself, and in fact, it occurred to her that she would probably do it again, and the realization made her dizzy all over again.

Clearly, she couldn’t be trusted with the man and she wouldn’t make that mistake again.

With his usual aplomb, Andrew assured her that he would deal with the matter directly, and he did, upbraiding the children at once. No one spoke of the ordeal the rest of the day, and Emma busied herself preparing the gifts she would distribute on Christmas morn. After all, tomorrow was Christmas Eve and she had been so preoccupied that she had nearly left all her tasks undone.

By afternoon, as far as anyone knew, the duke finally departed the manor, for he was nowhere to be found, and one of her brother’s mounts turned up missing besides. Though Emma told herself she was grateful to have been spared a final confrontation with him, she had never felt more bereft in all her life. Not even her mother’s and father’s deaths compared, for while she missed them horribly, at least they had left her with the memory of their love. Lucien Morgen, on the other hand, had heartlessly given her the smallest sampling of what she would never have... and then he had cruelly snatched it away, making a terrible lie of her pretense. Hah! She not only cared that he had forsaken her, but it rent her heart to shreds to know that she had dared to hope yet again. It didn’t matter that no one but she and the duke knew what had really transpired in that room.

She knew.

And he knew.

And the despicable truth was that she had apparently never reclaimed her heart to begin with. That was clear to the bone.

Nevertheless, she intended to make the best of the holiday for the children’s sake. She intended to be joyous if the effort killed her.

Lucien spent the day in the village, submersed in drink, numbing the pain in his arse and the deeper one in his heart, fortifying his decision to leave with every sensible argument he could possibly conceive.

In truth, he was no good for her. He was certain to break her heart again at the first opportunity for, despite his noble title, he was as base as they came. Like his father, he imbibed too much, consorted with women too much, and was self-indulgent. Worst of all, he didn’t have the slightest notion what it was to love someone—not even himself.

As he slipped inside the house, the sound of the pianoforte keys chinked like hallowed bells, ringing throughout. Lucien could almost imagine the accompaniment of an ancient harp.

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight

Enchanting.

Magical.

But the sound that drew him into the drawing room was another sound entirely. It was the sweetest singing he had ever heard.

Your vows you've broken, like my heart,

Oh, why did you so enrapture me?

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find Emma at the keys, singing like an angel, her hair flowing gloriously down her back like he’d never seen it before. But despite the melancholy words of the song, she sang with joy for her audience. And with her guard down, she was fluid and graceful and the sight of her sitting before the pianoforte, so at ease, filled him in that instant with a strange sense of peace... mingled with sorrow, for it reminded him of a happier time.

She was so like his mother… before his father had managed to shatter her heart. Before she had taken the last deadly dosage of laudanum and then her face had been gray and the white in her hair had washed the once lustrous color from the lifeless strands. Even death had not been able to erase the grim lines from around her mouth, or those etched within her brow.

He fully intended to hire a carriage and go…