A Kiss At Christmastide: Regency Novella (3 page)

“I knew I was venturing into the depths of hell when I agreed to come all this way from London, but are manners not taught in the wilds of Somerset?” The man ran his hands down the front of his shirt, pushing the water from his body to pool on the floor beneath him. “My servants will need space in your stables. I thank you for”—he eyed her up and down before continuing—“your hospitality, my lady.”

He bowed before Pippa with his last words, and his breath caressed her body, making her acutely aware of two things:
he
smelled heavily of spirits, and
she
was attired in a sheer nightshift that did not leave much to the imagination.

L
ucas Hartfeld
, the Earl of Maddox, glared at the mousey woman before him, attempting to tamp down his irritation at and contempt for his situation—and the woman before him. His bloody carriage had broken down on possibly the worst stretch of their journey—long from any inn or tavern. He knew he should have denied his parents' request to join them for a Christmastide celebration in the country. It had been years since he'd ventured more than an hour's ride from London, and with good reason it seemed.

He'd never witnessed such a storm in London. He had never experienced so many miles between his next bottle of scotch and the last.

His head pounded from his previous night of drinking as he'd expected to sleep the entire ride to the country. However, the vicious storm raging outside his carriage had derailed his intentions. Now, he stood in an unfamiliar home, water dripping from his body, his hair likely askew, his Hessians overflowing with muck from his trek down this manor's long drive.

Lucas needed a bath and a warm bed.

A warm,
empty
bed—something he hadn't anticipated.

“Well?” Lucas asked as the woman continued to stare at him, her mouth gaping but no words leaving it. He knew she wasn't deaf for she'd responded to his valet's earlier request. For the first time, he noticed her hand clutching the neckline of her gown—a white, transparent, frilly nightshift—as if she were frightened of him.

Which was ludicrous. Women were
never
frightened of him. They were often infatuated, hung on his every word, and, on a few occasions, had been known to pay him a little more mind than was proper for a woman of the
ton
. But he'd never been…feared.

And what he saw in this girl's wide-eyed look was absolute terror—mixed with a bit of something else.

She wasn't even looking him in the eye. No, her stare had landed on his chest. One of his greatest assets, to be sure, from his hours spent at his boxing and fencing clubs—not to mention his nightly entertainments.

When her mouth finally snapped shut, and he saw her swallow, Lucas recognized the other emotion coursing through her—and he would be lying if he said it did not satisfy him greatly.

Lust. Pure, simple, uncomplicated lust.

Her expression, while flattering, was made all the more alluring by her demure, innocent appearance. The woman was certainly unfamiliar with men and was likely only just preparing for her first Season in London. If she sought to make a favorable match, she must learn to guard her baser instincts.

Lucas glanced over her shoulder, awaiting the appearance of her butler or another servant—or even the lord of the house, but none appeared. It was only the pair of them, alone but for his valet.

She dressed in a far from proper nightgown.

And he was sopping wet from the storm outside.

It had all the makings of one of those novels women in London seemed taken by in recent years. In fact, Lucas spied a book tucked under the woman's arm.

Had he walked directly into a sordid, risqué storybook?

His night was gaining absurdity as the hours passed; however, a bit more time before he arrived at the Duke of Sheridan's estate—and the woman his parents insisted he wed—was highly agreeable to him.

There was no hurry on Lucas's part to tie himself to a petty, self-centered, young debutante who'd demand he change his rakehell ways. It was what every woman did…and that sent him running for the safety of his club, whether it be White's or Gentleman Jackson's. He was whom he was, and that was not going to change anytime soon. Even the thought of being with one woman, day in and day out, had him questioning any need to marry at all.

“Shall I show myself to a room?” he asked.

Suddenly, the woman blinked, snapping from her daze. “You are drunk.”

It wasn't a question but a statement. “Correction. I
was
drunk, but that was hours ago. Now, I have a raging headache, which you are not helping me alleviate with your uptight manners.”

“Uptight?” she gasped. “Why, I never—”

“I am certain no person has ever told you to your face, but I assure you, your manners leave much to be desired.”

Her hands moved to her hips, and she stared at him pointedly, letting the book beneath her arm fall forgotten to the floor as he prepared for a tongue-lashing he likely deserved.

The book landed with a thud, and the cover flopped open.

She broke her stare and dipped to retrieve her book, but Lucas was faster. He scooped it up and held it out to her. Water dripped from his arms with the movement.

When she didn't immediately take the tome, he tossed it on the table next to the door.

“Where were you headed?”

Lucas wasn't sure why his destination meant anything to her, but he gave in and answered. “A holiday party not far from here, but my carriage broke a wheel, and it is immovable in the storm.”

“You cannot stay at Helton House,” she huffed. “I can direct you and your servants to an inn that's not far from here. Only a short horseback ride over the next hill.”

“You expect us to travel in this storm?” Lucas didn't bother concealing his exasperation at her denial of lodging. “We may very well be struck by lightning or drown in the torrential rains out there.”

A smug grin lifted her lips, replacing her frown. “Oh, I am certain the lightning will find you as obtuse and bothersome as I do…and stay far away.”

Lucas couldn't help but chuckle at her sharp wit. “Aw, I find we are at an impasse. May I at least coax from you the name of the woman who will so kindly give my servants and me shelter for the night?"

“I am Lady Pippa Godfrey, and you have arrived at the Duke of Midcrest's estate,” she said. “But you shall not be finding shelter here.”

“Is the duke available? I am certain he will have something different to say.”

“It is the middle of the night, my lord.” Her eyes narrowed at his forwardness. “He is most definitely not available. You may wait out front until he is and ask him then.”

Could it be the woman was entirely alone in this large house?

No matter the commotion they'd made, no servants, nor her father, had come to investigate.

“May I offer another solution?” he asked, though her glare told him it would be met with the same reluctance as his last. However, he pushed forward. He was wet, disheveled, and freezing. “I will forget your less than customary greeting and our odd introduction, if you show me to a room—preferably one with a roaring fire and a suitable bed.”

“May I offer yet another option for you to ponder?”

“Of course, Lady Pippa.” He would entertain her womanly dramatics for only so long, though. “Please, share your idea.”

“I sound the alarm, which will bring my servants running—and not only will you be thrown from this house, but the magistrate will be called.”

A sweet, innocent smile settled on her rosy red lips, and she had the gall to bat her lashes at him.

“Or maybe I will catch my death of cold and perish before morning's light,” he rebutted, realizing his irritation had fled, and he was openly enjoying their banter. “Please, let the magistrate know he can find my cold, deceased body over yonder in the shrubs.”

A voice was cleared behind him, and Lucas turned to see his valet. “What, Charles?”

“The horses have been brought round, and a stable hand has prepared a few stalls for us to seek a bit of sleep in. I will assist you in the morning.”

“Wait!” Lady Pippa squeaked as Charles gave his master a quick nod and departed for the stables. “You cannot—I have not—
humph
!”

Lucas took his time turning back to Lady Pippa, making sure his grin matched her smug smirk from a moment ago. “Thank you so much for your kind offer of shelter, my lady. Do you prefer I search the house for my own room?” He was staying, and no matter how much it irritated her, her own servants had outvoted Lady Pippa. “It is difficult to celebrate my victory with you glaring daggers at me.”

P
ippa felt
her face flush with indignation and fury at the nerve of this man…this
earl
. A gentleman of the
ton,
who should pride himself on his decorum and respect of the fairer sex, yet seemed to find fulfillment in leaving others speechless.

He was the one seeking shelter from her.

He was the one looking like a drowned rodent in her foyer.

He was the one being kicked from a home he was not wanted in.

Why did Pippa feel like the unwelcome party in this situation? As if he were the one with all the power; he who belonged while she was the interloper…nothing more than a trespasser in her own home.

Though, she knew, society dictated that she offer the man—no matter how irritating—shelter and a dry bed for the night.

“Lady Pippa,” he said, his tone softening, and the laughter leaving his body. “I regret that we started on the wrong note. I am Lucas Hartfeld, the Earl of Maddox, and as I mentioned, my carriage was damaged beyond any repair attainable during this fierce storm. I throw myself at your mercy and request shelter…a bath and a warm meal.”

She eyed him, watching for any indication that he mocked her with his tone or words. There was no teasing left in him. Before her stood a man drenched to the skin, his teeth starting to chatter from the cold.

“Very well, my lord.” Pippa slid past him and retrieved her book. “I will ring for my butler, and he will show you to your room and make arrangements for a meal.”

With a flourish meant to convey her curt dismissal of the man, Pippa pivoted toward the grand staircase, but her book hit his arm, casting it from her hands. It slid across the floor as the cover fell open and a slip of paper fluttered to the earl's feet.

Before Pippa could snatch the invitation to Lady Natalie's party, Lucas grabbed it. His brow rose in question as he read. “You are attending the Sheridan's holiday gathering?”

“No, I am not attending,” Pippa confessed with a bit too much conviction, which only gained his inquisitive stare. “What I mean to say is that, yes, I was invited, but I am awaiting my parents' return from Bath. They may not arrive in time for us to attend.” Too late, Pippa realized she'd told the man she was alone in her home without proper chaperones.

“Well, that is certainly a shame, because, other than my parents, you would be my only acquaintance.” He handed the invitation back to her and walked farther into the foyer, inspecting a painting on the wall as he went—his Hessians sloshing with each waterlogged step. Pippa imagined it was fairly difficult to saunter when one was soaked to the core. “I guess I will manage, if this storm lets up and I'm able to continue my journey. How far is Lord and Lady Sheridan's estate?”

“Only a brisk, fifteen-minute walk through the cluster of trees bordering my home—to the north.” It was the path she and Natalie had taken for years, having shared tutors and instructors, and also stealing away from home to spend time with one another. They'd been bosom friends—something Pippa had done her best to not dwell on since last Season and their unexpected falling-out. “Or a seven-minute coach ride.”

He glanced over his shoulder to where she watched him. “Oh, then I dare say, if my wheel had lasted a bit longer, I would have made it. Pity.”

“You are correct. But if you'd traveled any farther, you might not have seen my estate and sought refuge.” Pippa was starting to warm to the idea of keeping one of Lady Natalie's guests from arriving on time for her celebration. If she could dampen Natalie's spirits, it would be well deserved for how she'd embarrassed Pippa. “I will call for Briars.”

Pippa pulled quickly on the bell rope under the stairs…giving it an extra tug to make sure it awoke her servant.

“Please, do not let me keep you from your studies.” He glanced at the book, still lying askew on the floor between them. “I can await your servant here and explain my predicament.”

“You were not interrupting me,” Pippa said. “I was merely reading for pleasure. Besides, it is long past my bedtime.”

“Reading for pleasure?” he asked as if it were a foreign concept to him.

“Yes.” She made no move to retrieve her book. “It is something I enjoy.”

“There are many things I do for pleasure—and reading is not one of them,” he mused, as if to himself. “But a bed…that is something that leads to great pleasure.”

Pippa knew better than to gasp at his outrageous and highly scandalous remark. It was his aim to make her uncomfortable, though she knew not why.

“My lady?” a sleepy voice called from the hall off the foyer.

“Briars!” Pippa called, relief flooding her at the appearance of another person. It would put an end to her time alone with Lucas. “This is the Earl of Maddox, Lucas Hartfeld. His carriage broke a wheel on his way to the Sheridan estate. The storm is far too fierce for him to continue on tonight. Please, prepare a room, meal, and hot bath for him—in any order he requires.”

“Certainly, Lady Pippa,” Briars replied. “My apologies for the lateness of my arrival.”

Pippa flipped her hand in dismissal as if to show his delayed assistance hadn't done any harm, and that she hadn't been highly uncomfortable during her time alone with the earl—yet, she knew she'd be unable to banish the sight of Lucas' wet, clinging linen shirt anytime soon. She only wondered what had become of his coat.

Briars cleared his throat. His eyes traveled from her head to her toes, silently insisting she do the same.

She'd completely forgotten her less than proper receiving attire due to Lucas's frustrating comments and demands for shelter. The man had a knack for distracting her.

“Yes, well, I will retire for the evening,” Pippa said. “I bid you both a restful night.”

She turned, with less flourish than earlier as it had only landed her in far deeper waters with the earl. She started toward the stairs—and the safety of her quarters.

“Lady Pippa?” Lucas called behind her. Lucas—she needed to remember that he was essentially a stranger, the Earl of Maddox, or “my lord.” She turned to see he'd retrieved her forgotten book and held it out to her. “You will likely be missing this come morning.”

He took the few steps to meet her, dissuading her from ignoring his offer of the book and fleeing to her chambers.

Pippa sighed and reached for the book.

She stiffened when their fingers touched—acutely aware of her nipples hardening beneath her nightshift.

At his inhaled breath, Pippa knew he'd noticed, too.

Quickly, she snatched the book and nodded in thanks before turning and rushing up the stairs; the book in one hand and her shift held high with the other. It would add insult to injury if she were to stumble before she was out of his sight.

“Sweet dreams, Lady Pippa.”

The words floated after her until she reached the landing and turned down the corridor that led to her suite of rooms, a chuckle greeting her as she slammed the door behind her, throwing the bolt for safety's sake.