Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella (4 page)

“It’s the gentlemen’s room, so the question, sweetheart, is what are you doing here?”

She settled back on her heels, not quite ready to leave until she saw him firmly on his feet, although a small a part of her was wishing she
had
killed him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was having difficulty falling asleep. I was looking for the library so I might find a book to read.”

He had the audacity to give her a wolfish grin that did nothing to settle her riotous thoughts. If anything, it only made her want to kiss him all the more. Whatever was wrong with her?

“But once you realized you weren’t in the library, you didn’t leave. I think you purposely came here.”

“Think what you want.” Rising to her feet, she turned to leave.

“Are you meeting someone?” he asked.

She spun back around. “Of course not. I’m a lady. I don’t—”

She abruptly cut off her protest. She had been alone with a gentleman, was alone with one now. She knew she should leave, but the truth was that she
had
come here to play billiards. She was quite disappointed that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to do so—because of his presence. He did little more than constantly bring disappointment into her life. “I hear that Lord Wexford is quite put out with you.”

He shoved himself to his feet. In the shadowed room, he seemed larger, broader, more devastatingly handsome. “Facing his wrath was well worth the dance.”

“Who do you think he
thought
he was going to meet?” she asked.

Chetwyn leaned his hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I haven’t a clue. You seem to know more about the gossip than I. Who do you think?”

She shrugged, wondering why she was prolonging her visit. She had always felt most comfortable with him, even when her thoughts had turned down dark corners where they shouldn’t. Even now she recalled the feel of him behind her, the warmth of his breath on her neck as he’d whispered in her ear. “I don’t know, and I don’t suppose it matters. I should go.”

“Play billiards with me.”

His eyes held a challenge that she knew had little to do with the actual game. He was daring her to stay, to risk being with him. Did he know how much she was drawn to him, how very dangerous he was to her?

“I’ll teach you,” he said.

She angled her chin haughtily. “I already know how to play. Litton taught me. What do I gain if I win?”

“What would you like?”

“For you to leave immediately.”

He furrowed his brow. “The room?”

“The manor, the estate, the shire.” She knew the challenge was now in her gaze, and she could see him considering it, perhaps wondering how truly skilled she was.

“And if I win?” he asked, his voice thrumming with an undercurrent that should have frightened her off. “What do I receive?”

“Our last night here there is to be another ball. A dance. Whichever one you want. I shall let you sign my card first.”

He picked up her cue stick and studied it as though he were trying to determine how it had been made. “A kiss.” He shifted his gaze over to her and captured her as though he’d suddenly wrapped his arms around her. “As soon as I sink my last ball.”

“That would be entirely inappropriate.”

He gave her a devilish grin. “Which is why I want it.”

“You always struck me as quite the gentleman.”

A shadow crossed his features. “Not tonight. I’ve spent too much time contemplating past mistakes. You were one of them, you know. If I had to do it over, I would not have hurt you.”

Not exactly what she wanted to hear. If he had it to do over, she wanted him to kiss her madly, passionately in the garden, to court her properly, to perhaps ask for her hand on bended knee. But he had never declared any feelings for her, so she had little right to be hurt. “You overstate your importance to me. A kiss from you will have no effect upon me, so I accept the challenge.”

His eyes darkened, and she was left with the impression that she’d made a terrible mistake.

“You may break,” he said.

Yes, she thought, she very well might. Her heart, at least. Where he was concerned, it had once been close to shattering. Then she scolded herself.
Silly chit, he was talking about the balls.

While he went to the wall to examine the selection of cue sticks, she picked up hers, moved to the end of the table, and began to position herself as Litton had taught her.

“Still not quite right,” Chetwyn said, his voice coming from near enough that she realized he was no longer at the wall.

She didn’t dare give him the satisfaction of glancing over her shoulder to discern exactly where he was, but when she took a deep breath she filled her nostrils with bergamot. Close then, very close indeed. “Oh?”

She was quite pleased that she didn’t squeak like a dormouse. Her nerves were suddenly wrung tight, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted the satisfaction of besting him or the gaining of the knowledge of what his kiss was like. She didn’t know why she was suddenly obsessed with the thought of his mouth on hers. Litton had kissed her, so she knew very well that the pressing of lips left a great deal to be desired. She had always thought there would be heat, but all she’d felt was the cold. Perhaps it was because they had been outside, the evening had been cool, and the arrival of her father and brothers had abruptly ended any stirring of embers.

“Allow me to show you,” Chetwyn said.

She was tempted to ignore him and smack the balls, but better to let him believe she knew not what she was doing so her victory would leave him flummoxed and feeling quite the fool. “All right.”

She began to straighten.

“No, stay as you are.”

She stilled as his arms came around her. Litton certainly hadn’t taken this intimate approach to teaching her. He’d not touched her at all. He merely explained the rules in a serious, endearing manner as though he were preparing to submit them to
Hoyle’s
to be included in an upcoming edition since the publication had yet to explain how billiards should be played.

As the length of his body nudged against hers, she became acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing little more than her chemise and drawers beneath the dress. After her maid had prepared her for bed and she’d had difficulty finding sleep, she’d wanted to slip into something that she could manage on her own. At home, she would have simply gathered her wrap about her, but one didn’t traipse through a guest’s home in her nightdress, although now she was questioning the wisdom of doing it with so little to separate her from Chetwyn. His warmth seeped through her clothing to heat her flesh. His large hands closed over hers, and she realized how capable they appeared. He possessed strong, thick fingers with blunt-tipped nails. His roughened jaw teased her neck. His hair tickled her temple. She had been correct with her earlier assessment. It was curling with wild abandon, and she ached to slip her fingers through the feathery strands.

“Relax,” he murmured into her ear, and within her slippers her toes curled as though he were giving attention to them.

“I am relaxed.”
Liar, liar.

“You’re as stiff as a poker. I’m going to position your hands, your stance.”

“I think you’re wrong. I think they are exactly as they need to be.”

“Not if you wish to beat me.”

Turning her head to the side, she met and held his gaze. “Why would you assist me in giving you a sound thrashing and miss out on your kiss? If you truly wanted it—”

“Oh, I truly want it,” he said in a silken voice. “And I intend to have it.”

Suddenly, one of his hands was cupping her cheek, while his fingers plowed through her hair. He somehow managed to twist and bend her slightly so she was cradled in his other arm. He lowered his head, and his mouth plundered. No soft taking this, but an urgency. He ravished with his tongue as though he would die if he didn’t taste her, as though he would cease to exist if he left anything unexplored.

This was exactly what she had imagined kissing him would be like during the months when they had flirted, danced, and strolled about. She had expected heat and passion. She had instinctually known that within him was a smoldering fire that once set ablaze would be difficult to extinguish. Working one hand beneath his waistcoat, she felt the solidness of his muscles beneath the fine linen of his shirt. Wanton that she was, she wanted his coat, waistcoat, and shirt gone. She wanted the feel of his skin against her palms. She wanted to scrape her nails over his bare back.

Guilt slammed into her. She felt none of these things when Litton had kissed her. His had been pleasant, tame, proper. Nothing about Chetwyn was proper at that moment.

His guttural groans reverberated through his chest, vibrated into her. She ran her free hand through his golden locks, felt them wrapping around her fingers as though they intended to hold her captive as easily as his mouth did.

He dragged his lips along her throat, and she found herself arching up toward him, offering him more.

“You haven’t won,” she said breathlessly. They hadn’t even started to play.

Raising his head, he gave her a dark grin. “Oh, but I have.”

With as little effort as though she weighed no more than a pillow, he lifted her up and laid her on the billiards table. She was vaguely aware of the balls scattering. Leaning over her, he braced his arms on either side of her head, his gaze intent.

“Don’t marry him,” he urged, his voice low and sensual until it more closely resembled a caress.

“I have to.”

“Because of the kiss in the garden?”

Her heart slammed into her ribs. “What do you know of the garden?”

“Only rumors. The rest of your life shouldn’t be determined by a kiss.”

Yet here she was thinking that if she weren’t betrothed, the kiss he had just delivered would have been the guiding star for the remainder of her life. No one else’s would ever measure up.

A broken betrothal . . . Litton would sue. Her father wouldn’t allow that sort of scandal to happen. “You’re being a bit hypocritical. You’re asking me to change the direction of my life because you managed to steal a kiss that left me breathless. You had your chance with me, Chetwyn. You chose another. Now so have I.”

“I can explain.”

“It doesn’t matter. You may be in the habit of hurting people, but I’m not.” Rolling away from him, she scrambled off the table. “I was handling the cue properly. I would have beaten you, and I think you know it. Please accept that things are over between us.”

“Things never really got properly started between us. If we had more time—”

She shook her head, grateful that was all that was required to silence him. So few lamps burned. The fire on the hearth cast dancing shadows around him as he stood tall and straight, but she was left with the impression of someone trapped in hell. “But we don’t have the luxury of time, Chetwyn. Christmas is almost here, and then I’ll be married shortly after.”

Turning on her heel, she marched from the room before he could object. When the door was closed behind her, she raced down the hallway and up the stairs to her bedchamber. She flung herself across the bed and pressed her fingers to lips that still tingled from his ravishment. She had always believed that Christmas was a time for miracles, but at that precise moment she wasn’t certain exactly what she wished for.

W
hen Meredith entered the breakfast dining room the following morning, her gaze immediately shot to Chetwyn. She didn’t know why she noticed him first. The room was far from empty. Several round tables were filled with guests. He sat at one against the far wall, near a window that provided a view of the gloomy skies. Lady Anne and Lord Tristan were with him. It irritated her that Chetwyn looked as though he’d slept well after their parting, while she’d done little more than toss and turn.

After going to the sideboard and selecting a few sumptuous items for her plate, she turned and spotted Litton sitting in a corner alone. Contriteness snapped at her because she hadn’t noticed him sooner. She strolled over. “Good morning.”

He looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. “Don’t know what’s so good about it.”

His being out of sorts was unusual for him, or at least she thought it was. She realized that courting was a strange ritual in which one always saw others only at their best for a few hours, never for any great length of time. “The storm’s let up, for one thing,” she said, as a footman pulled out her chair and assisted her into it. With a flick of her wrist, she settled her napkin on her lap. She realized he smelled of stale cigars and old whiskey. “I was disappointed not to have a final dance with you last night.”

With a low groan, he slammed his eyes closed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was in the midst of a game of cards and lost track of the time.”

“Were you winning?”

“No, luck wasn’t with me.” He twisted his lips into a sardonic grin. “To be honest, you’re the only lucky thing to happen in my life of late.”

“Lucky that we got caught in the garden, you mean?”

He gave her one of the smiles that had charmed her so many months earlier. “Simply lucky.”

She sliced off a bit of sausage. “I don’t suppose you told anyone about our encounter in the garden.”

He appeared as flummoxed as she had been last night when Chetwyn had mentioned it. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s just that there appears to be gossip going around about us and a kiss in the garden. As my father forbade my brothers to say anything—and they are quite familiar with his temper—I can’t imagine how the rumors might have started.”

“What does it matter? We’re to be married in a little over a week.”

“Yes, but we wanted people to believe that we were marrying because we wanted to, not because we were forced to as a result of my disgraceful behavior. My father is quite adamant that there be no scandal associated with our family.”

Reaching across the table, he placed his hand over hers, where it rested beside her plate. “Be assured, my sweet, that I am marrying you because I
want
to. Scandal or no.”