The Duke and Miss Christmas (3 page)

“You swing a powerful basket, Miss Christmas.”

“I'm surprised you can be so cavalier about it.”

He shrugged and said, “Years of practice. Tell me, are you always so suspicious of strangers?”

“No, of course not,” she denied, her cheeks heating despite the chilling air. She couldn't tell him that she'd been reading a horrid novel last night and her imagination had gotten the best of her when she heard Sybil scream.

“Perhaps your actions were somewhat justified since you didn't know what was happening, but have no fear that Miss Sybil will ever be accosted if you are anywhere nearby.”

“I'm not sure you meant that as a compliment, sir, but I suppose I should apologize for hitting you.”

That glint of amusement around his mouth again. He was enjoying every moment of her humiliation at having conked him over the head and injured his face.

“That would be nice, yes.”

“I should have asked what you were doing before striking you,” she said, not knowing why but feeling the need to explain herself. “I knew I'd never have a chance to save Sybil and get her away from you if I didn't catch you unaware.”

A slow, easy smile lifted his mouth again. He said, “You had no chance to get away from me either way, Miss Christmas, but I do admire your courage for trying.”

His words caused another delicious and captivating warmth to cover her. What he said was probably true, she admitted grudgingly to herself, letting her attention drift back to his mouth.

“I'm sorry for striking you,” she said softly.

“It's an unusual way to say hello to someone,” he said. “But, you know, there is a way you could make it up to me.”

She grimaced. “How?”

“Now that we've been introduced, you could give me a proper kiss.”

Gwen huffed and pushed at his shoulders, which didn't move an inch. “We haven't been introduced.”

“But we have. I know your name and you know mine.”

His self-confidence, his arrogance, amazed her. “My name is not Christmas and you are not an ogre. I can tell you are a gentleman even though you are trying your best not to be one. You are trying to seduce me, and I will not let that happen.”

“So, then you have never been kissed,” he said.

“You must know I have. Can any young lady make it through her first Season in London without a handsome young rake such as you seducing at least one or two kisses from her?”

For a moment she thought she saw surprise flash across his face. “Probably not,” he answered. “Did you enjoy his kisses?”

“At the time,” she admitted honestly, but why she did was a mystery to her. She shouldn't be telling him anything about herself.

“And today?” he asked.

“Today I wouldn't let him kiss me if he was the last man on this earth. Nor will I let you. Now would you mind getting off me?” She shoved the palms of her hands against his hard chest again. “Not only are you heavy; I need to follow Sybil and make sure she is safely home.”

He seemed to consider Gwen's plea, and for a moment she thought he was going to deny her yet again; then all at once he rolled away from her and hopped up. He reached down for her hand.

With him standing above her, Gwen could see how tall and strapping he was. His long, powerful legs were covered with camel-colored trousers and black knee boots. His black cloak fit seamlessly across his straight shoulders and broad chest. Gwen knew she'd never seen such a dashing and commanding figure.

She laid her ungloved hand in his and he helped her rise.

Without conscious effort, she looked down and saw that her pale gray day dress and black cape were covered in bits of dead grass, leaves, and small bits of rock. The stranger's cloak was covered in smudges and fragments of trash from the ground, too.

“Since I didn't have the pleasure of walking Miss Sybil home, I insist on doing the honor for you, Miss Christmas, but first, I promised her I would come back for her mistletoe and holly.”

He walked over and picked up the wicker basket. Gwen cringed when she saw the handle was broken and the rim was bent. He peeked over at her and her cheeks heated. She thought she saw a hint of a smile before he knelt down and started gathering Sybil's small childish clippings that would have never made a dent in decorating the massive ballroom at Drakestone. But Gwen's heart went out to Sybil for wanting to do it so badly she'd ended up hurting herself.

Dusting off her clothing as she went, she hurried over to help the man pick up the ivy, holly berries, and mistletoe and tumble them into the hamper. They both reached for the last piece of holly at the same time.

Their hands touched.

Their eyes met.

Her heart started fluttering.

Gwen slowly pulled her hand away from his and rose. No doubt about it. There was something infinitely compelling about the man.

Oh my!

She
was
definitely attracted to him but didn't want to be. Was she destined to be always attracted only to handsome young rogues like this rake and not kind, gentle men like her father had been and Mr. Tweedy was?

Gwen summoned an inner strength. No. She wasn't going to be fooled by another handsome whipster. What happened at the end of last Season was not an experience she wanted to revisit. Her romantic involvement with Mr. Standish had left her heartbroken but much wiser and more cautious by the time it had ended. It was a hard lesson to learn. Now she knew that just because a gentleman wanted to hold her close and kiss her, it didn't mean he had developed affection for her and wanted to marry her.

Several months had passed since then and now she was considering the attentions of Mr. Russell Tweedy. He was a handsome enough man, the nephew of a viscount, and he had a kind, gentle nature. The only thing that bothered her about him was that he was given to too much talking. It was almost as if silence bothered him and he had to always be saying something whether or not conversation was necessary.

He'd been a guest at Drakestone several times over the summer and autumn and he was always considerate, bringing her gifts of flowers and sweets. They had taken walks together during the day and in the evenings they had danced. On two or three occasions they had been alone for a short time and not once had he tried to kiss her.

But then, she had to admit, she hadn't exactly been eager for him to. Yet, anyway. After her brutish encounter with the handsome stranger this morning, it would be refreshing to be with Mr. Tweedy again. Even if he did talk incessantly. She wanted to once again be in the company of a true gentleman, a man who treated her like a lady. Mr. Tweedy would have never held her on the ground against her will if she'd hit him. And, luckily for her, he was coming to dinner tonight.

At the sound of horses' hooves on hard-packed ground, she turned to see her brother-in-law, the Duke of Drakestone, and a couple of other riders racing toward them. One of the men was leading the stranger's horse.

“It looks as if your help has arrived,” the stranger said.

“Finally,” she answered.

“How is Sybil?” Gwen asked, rushing up to her brother-in-law as he jumped down from his horse.

“She's being seen to,” he said, taking in Gwen's smudged clothing and tangled hair. “She said you attacked someone. Are you all right?” He quickly cut his gaze to the gentleman and saw that his clothing looked no better than hers and he had a welting and angry-looking scratch beneath his eye.

Bray's demeanor instantly changed. His brow furrowed. His hand went out in front of her in a protective way as he took a menacing step toward the man. “Did you touch her?”

“No, no, he didn't,” Gwen quickly said, coming to stand between the two. “I'm fine, Bray. Really. He didn't do anything.”

Gwen knew Bray was remembering that time during the Season when she'd foolishly taken a walk in the garden with Mr. Standish and he'd wanted more than a few kisses from her. She'd never known for sure, but she suspected that Bray was the reason the young man had left London so quickly.

Gwen glanced at the stranger. An icy wind blew a strand of hair across her face. He would have been completely justified to have spoken up and implicated her as the one who had assaulted him, but he remained silent. “I thought he was— I mean I was trying to—”

“It's a long, complicated story, Your Grace,” the gentleman said to take the pressure off her as he gave the required bow to the Duke of Drakestone. “There's no cause for alarm. Everything is fine.”

Bray seemed to study on what was said before he unexpectedly bowed in return and said, “Your Grace. I'm glad to hear that.”

Your Grace?

A chill skittered up Gwen's back and she shivered. Feeling cold and hot at the same time, she whirled toward the gentleman and exclaimed, “You're a duke?”

A hint of a smile curved one corner of his lips in a most attractive way. “When not Sir Ogre.”

Indignation flashed through Gwen like lightning on a hot summer day. She advanced on him and said, “How dare you not tell me you are a duke?”

He backed up a step. “I had very little time to share that information with you, if you'll remember.”

“How long does it take to say, ‘I'm a duke'?” she exclaimed, incredulous at this news.

“Obviously longer than I had.”

“That's not the point,” she insisted, realizing her earlier anger with the man—the duke—had returned. “You should have immediately told me who you are. There was plenty of time when you were, when we were … anyway.” She stopped and huffed loudly. “You shouldn't have let me continue to think you were a … a—”

“An ogre? A lecher?”

She glared at him and her cheeks heated in the cold air for the third time. Her hands closed into fists. “At the very least a beast!”

“I doubt anything I could have said at the time would have swayed you from your quick assessment of my character.”

“You could have given it a try,” she ground out, so exasperated by the duke she could hardly speak.

The amusement twitching on his lips and the glowing in his eyes continued. He gave her such an appealing grin, her sudden burst of anger melted like snow in a sizzling-hot pan. And that made her angry all over again. She didn't want to be attracted to his smile, to his presence, to him.

Now that she'd taken the time to look him over carefully, she could see he was no ordinary gentleman. He wore all the commanding self-confidence of a wealthy, privileged,
and
titled gentleman. No wonder he was so determined to get his way and hold her to the ground until
he
decided to grant her freedom.

And she had hit him!

Unable to stop herself, she took another step toward him. “Just when I was beginning to believe that you're not a rogue of the highest order after all, I find that you withheld from me that you are a duke.”

“I did ask your name and you refused to tell me, but had you, I would have revealed mine.”

She didn't want him reminding her once again what would have been the polite thing for her to do. In fact, she hoped she never saw him again, but in the meantime she had to behave properly in front of her brother-in-law and give the duke a due curtsy for his title, which she reluctantly and quickly performed.

Bray stepped into the conversation and said, “Take my word for it, Gwen, withholding his title from your knowledge is not the worst thing he has ever done. There's a reason a few of us at The Heirs' Club have been called scoundrels.” He looked pointedly at the duke. “I'm afraid Crispin falls into that category as well.”

“Oh, I knew you were a scoundrel,” she whispered under her breath to the duke, still seething.

“And I knew you were a beautiful Christmas angel,” he whispered back to her before turning to Bray. “Perhaps you will introduce us properly, sir.”

Bray nodded. “Crispin, may I present Miss Gwen Prim, my wife's sister and now
my
sister. Gwen, the Duke of Hurst.”

The Duke of Hurst!

“I've heard of you,” she said, her memory scrambling to quickly bring the gossip to her mind.

“Unfortunately for me, most everyone has.”

“Is it true that a couple of years ago you and three of your friends had a wager to see which of you could get the most young ladies to fall victim to your charms?”

“I admit that wasn't my finest hour,” he said, looking uncomfortable for the first time.”

“So it's true?”

“It is,” Bray said, speaking for the duke. “He was thrown out of The Heirs' Club for a time because of it.”

“I can offer no excuse.”

“Because there is none,” she said earnestly. “That was a ghastly thing to do to those young ladies.”

“I'll always regret my part in that.”

“Most of us have things in our past we wish we'd done differently,” Bray said to Gwen, and then glanced at the duke. “Sybil told us that you helped her after she fell. I know you'll be attending our Christmas ball, but accept our gratitude and join us for dinner tonight. I know Louisa will want to express her appreciation to you as well.”

“But, Bray, we already have guests coming for dinner tonight,” Gwen quickly reminded him.

“In that case,” the Duke of Hurst said, “thank you, sir, but I'll decline. I don't want to upset previous plans.”

“You won't be upsetting anything,” Bray assured him, giving Gwen a look that told her argument was useless. “I know Louisa would insist if she were here.”

The duke seemed to consider his answer and then said, “In that case, I accept. I wouldn't want to disappoint your duchess.”

“Neither would I. Arrive about half past five. We dine early and don't make a late night of it.” Bray motioned to his servant and the man walked the Duke of Hurst's horse over to him.