Miss Featherton's Christmas Prince (The Marriage Game Book 9) (22 page)

A knock sounded on the door before it opened. A tall, slender young man entered carrying a covered tray. He set the table, placing a soup tureen off to one side. Fruit and cheese were next. “Lady Featherton said this would be fine, but if you’d like anything else, just ask.”

“Thank you,” Meg replied evenly, as if they had not been looking at each other with naked lust. “I am sure this will be sufficient.”

As the lad left the parlor, Damon ladled soup into bowls. “I shall retire after we eat.”

She flashed him a weak smile. “I shall do the same.”

The air sizzled between them as they quickly finished the meal. He glanced at the bottle of wine and decided he’d had enough. He cursed her grandmother and the duchess for placing them in this position. There would be no flirting this evening, no light conversation, not even serious discussions. His control was hanging by a thin thread. One touch from her and he would explode and take her with him.

The moment she placed her serviette on the table, he jumped to his feet. “I’ll escort you to your chamber.”

She must have been feeling the same. Meg did not place her fingers on his arm, or attempt to hold his hand. As they climbed the stairs, her lush bottom swayed before him, begging to be caressed. He clenched his jaw until it ached, and when they reached the next floor, breathed a sigh of relief. A few more steps and Meg would be safely in her room, and he in his.

Before retiring he would have a glass or two of the brandy his valet would have left out, then go to bed and dream of nothing but her, dark hair fanned out covering his pillows, naked and crying out with pleasure.

She stopped at her door, turned, and placed her palm on his cheek. “Damon?”

Then, because fate laughs at men, Meg rose onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. He gathered her into his arms, her mouth opened, and he claimed her. Soon her fingers were at the back of his neck, holding on as the rest of her soft form pressed against him. He cupped her derrière, holding her tightly against his already raging erection. One of her slippered feet hooked around his leg, and he stumbled back against the door to his room, reaching behind for the latch. She could be his, would be his.

“Meg.” He breathed against her lips.

He was the experienced one and should be the one to stop them. Instead, he placed soft kisses on her jaw, and brushed his thumb across an already hard nipple. He knew precisely how to lift a breast, freeing it from stays and gown. One taste and he would stop.

“Damon,” she moaned, as her fingers clutched his bottom, sending flames straight to his groin. “Do that again.”

Through the fabric of her gown, he rolled the tight bud, she deepened the kiss, and her tongue stroked his with a frenzy of frustrated desire. He inched down her bodice and almost reached the tender flesh it was hiding, when the door opened.

Damon grabbed at the door, trying to stop their fall. Then his rear hit the hardwood floor, and she fell on top of him in a flurry of silk and soft breasts, staring right at him. If they could remain here forever, he would be a happy man.

“My lord!” Hartwell stood back, snapping his mouth shut and standing stock-still.

“Miss!” A woman who could only be Meg’s maid rushed into the room.

Damon jumped up, bringing Meg with him. He should apologize, but damn if he would. The only thing he was sorry for was that they’d been caught.

“I—I,” she said, giving him a warning look. “Thank you for catching me when I tripped.”

God, she was magnificent. “My pleasure. I hope you are not injured.”

“Not at all.” She slew him with a slow smile as she tugged her bodice up a fraction of an inch. “Falling on you saved me.”

So much for wanting chaperones. He now had two, and wished them to perdition. “I shall bid you a good night.”

“Sleep well.” She walked across the corridor, pausing before she entered her chamber. “I shall see you in the morning.”

Meg’s maid gave him a stern look before closing the door behind her.

An hour later, Damon was still awake. As long as they were here, neither of them could be trusted. If she decided to marry him, it would be because she loved him, not because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. To-morrow he would tell Meg he was leaving and would meet her at her parents’ home.

D
espite having lain awake long into the night reliving the pleasure Damon’s touches and kisses had given her, Meg woke early the next morning. Lying still for several moments, she listened for any sign Hendricks was in the room. Once she knew she was alone, she rose, slipping her feet into her slippers and donning a robe. She would ask Damon’s forgiveness for practically attacking him last night. No other man had ever incited her to do anything half as rash.

She opened the door to the corridor, poked her head out, looked both ways, and listened.

No one. Not even one of the servants seemed to be around.

Creeping across to his chamber, she knocked lightly on his door, praying his valet was not there. The poor man had been shocked to silence. Hendricks, fortunately, took the entire incident as an accident.

The door swung open. “Meg!” Damon’s tone was gruff as he glanced down the corridor. “You should not be here.”

Oh dear. He was angry. This was going to be much worse than she’d thought. “I simply wished to say I was sorry for my behavior last evening.”

He blinked once and stared. “
Your
behavior? I was the one to blame.”

“No. I started it. I should not have kissed you, then I . . . well, I kissed you harder.”

His eyes began to twinkle. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Could you not tell?” Had she kissed that badly?

“Then you have nothing to apologize for.” A lazy grin appeared on his face. “I am certainly not going to ask
your
forgiveness.”

She took one step, closing the short distance between them. “There is no reason you should. I greatly enjoyed your kisses.” She should be backing up and going through her open door. Instead, she reached up and brought his head to her, brushing her lips lightly against his.

As if she’d struck flint, he pulled her to him, and his mouth came down hard on hers. She opened her lips to him, allowing him to take what he wished, as she did the same. His palm covered one breast, squeezing softly, as he teased her nipple. Her breathing grew ragged and she leaned into his hand, encouraging him as she had last night. Every nerve was alive and wanting more. Then his hand was on her derrière, and the throbbing deep in her mons began again. She rubbed against the hard ridge that had formed between them, and he groaned.

Suddenly, Damon broke their kiss and set her away from him. Loss speared through her, then mortification. She had done it again. “Please, for—”

“Don’t.” He reached out, then stopped. “Meg, I want you more than I have ever wanted a woman in my life. If we keep this up, I will lose what little control I have, and we will make love. I cannot allow either of us to be dishonored.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I shall take my coach and depart this morning for your father’s house.” He gazed at her, pleading with his soft brown eyes. “Please understand.”

Oh God. She wanted to touch him again, but she dare not. Clasping her hands in front of her, she nodded. “After you have gone, I shall tell my grandmother.” Not wanting to look away from him, she backed into her chamber. “I shall see you later to-day.” She closed the door, then leaned her forehead against it. A moment later, she heard the sound of his door closing.

Meg waited until Damon left the inn before going to the parlor her grandmother shared with the duchess. A footman standing next to the door bowed. “I wish to see Lady Featherton.”

“Yes, miss.” He opened the door, then stood aside.

“Meg, dearest.” Grandmamma rose and soon Meg was enveloped in a warm embrace. “I thought you would be with Hawksworth.”

Her cheeks warmed. She would turn into an inferno if she thought much more about their kisses and caresses. She was almost sure she had fallen in love with him. Now she required more information. One married not only the man, but the family, and if anyone knew about Damon’s father, it would be the two ladies in this room. “What do you know of the Duke of Somerset?”

Grandmamma’s eyes took on a hard glitter. “More than I wish to.”

“The man never listens to sense,” the duchess added.

“Not that Damon said anything that was improper about his father”—Meg glanced from her grandmother to the duchess—“but he appears to avoid the duke as much as possible.” Which was putting it mildly.

“As well he should.” Her grandmother drew her into the parlor. “You are right to come to us. What do you already know?”

She recited what Damon had told her about never going to his home if the duke was in residence. While she had been talking, Grandmamma poured glasses of wine for all of them and interrupted to say, “We will all need this.”

Meg took the glass. “How could he not love a son such as Hawksworth? He leads a life far less debauched than many men in his situation. He loves his step-mother and half-brothers and -sisters. Even though he did not want to be a soldier, he excelled at it.” Meg threw her hands up in defeat. “I do not understand.”

“Well, my dear.” Her grandmother settled them comfortably on a small sofa. “Most of what I know came from Almeria Bellamny. She and Somerset are connections and do not get on at all well. According to her, the duke was madly in love with his first wife, Hawksworth’s mother. When she died, he changed. I do not think he was ever a doting father, but from that point on, Hawksworth could never live up to his expectations. Many heirs are not sent to school, but his father thought it would toughen him up and teach him discipline. Fortunately, in my opinion, that meant he was able to spend many of his school holidays with Almeria and her husband. Then the duke found out and stopped the visits. You see, she had been a good friend to his mother and was never reticent about criticizing the duke about the way he was raising Hawksworth. She was the one who kept up a steady correspondence with him during the war. I do not think the duke wrote at all. Although I believe his step-mother did.”

“I am glad he had a champion, but I do not understand how the duke could take out his grief on a child.”

Her grandmother’s lips tightened into a thin line. “It is sometimes difficult to understand the workings of the mind and heart. The end result is that Hawksworth wants nothing to do with his father, and the duke appears to still believe that his son is not good enough.”

“Not good enough! I’ll give him not good enough.” Her hands curled into fists as anger at the duke coursed through her veins for the little boy who had lost his mother, for the man who felt no connection to his father, who only received care and understanding from his godmother. “He is obviously not willing to be pleased by anything Hawksworth does.”

“The worst thing that Somerset did was not tell Hawksworth about his inheritance from his mother,” the duchess said. “He also refused to allow her family to see the child or let him know anything about his mother’s family.”

Meg opened her mouth and shut it again. “How—how cruel.” No wonder Damon avoided his father. “To treat her memory as if she had not even existed.”

“I believe the entirety of the duke’s behavior toward Hawksworth is not to be borne.” Grandmamma’s normally sweet voice had taken on a hard edge. “I am surprised the boy has turned out as well as he has.”

Meg wholeheartedly agreed. “Grandmamma, Duchess. I wish to go home now.”

Home. Where Damon would be waiting for her. Where she would finally sort out her heart.

 

Sometime during the night, the snow had stopped, and several hours later, Damon was on the final road to Granby Abbey. He had spent most of the trip alternately thinking of Meg, and how he would explain his presence to her father. Although, if Damon’s baggage coach had arrived, he would be expected.

The feeling of rightness he had whenever he was with Meg, especially when they embraced, was unlike anything he had ever imagined. It was as if he had found the missing half to himself. A half he’d never known existed. As for her father, the man would more than likely treat any new suitor with caution. Kit could vouch for him, if he was not in the north.

A few minutes later, one of his concerns was resolved as he approached the drive to the abbey and heard the thunder of horses’ hooves behind him. How the devil had they caught up with him? The ladies could not possibly have departed the inn less than an hour after he’d left. Then again, his godmother had told him the duchess traveled as if the hounds of hell were chasing her. She was probably traveling a little slower to-day.

As if anticipating Damon’s order, his coachman pulled to the side, allowing the duchess’s coach to precede him. Much better, in any event, to let the ladies explain how he had come to follow them home like a lost puppy. He mulled the puppy analogy over and decided he liked it. In many ways it suited him. With luck, he had finally found a home in Meg.

By the time he came to a halt in the drive, her grace’s coach was being led away. A great number of people were hugging one another, and even the duchess could not escape the exuberant welcome. Although to be fair, she did not appear to be trying.

Even in the best of times, when his father wasn’t around, his brothers and sisters were more cautious in their displays of affection. It was always best not to get into the habit of doing something the duke considered to be ill-bred. He remembered his mother hugging him and placing kisses on both cheeks. Her spontaneous affection was what he had missed most after she died. Catherine’s hugs were always gentle, as if she was afraid she would hurt him. He could very easily become used to hugs and kisses.

He opened the door and jumped down to the gravel drive. Not able to bring himself to intrude on the family scene, he stood aside. Much like a schoolboy who had been invited but was unsure of his welcome until someone deigned to notice him. To his amazement, it did not take long.

Meg finished hugging a young lady and turned. “Hawksworth.” Walking toward him, she held out her hands. “Come meet my family.”

As he had suspected would happen, the only adult male, a gentleman with dark hair sporting a few silver threads at his temples, lost his smile. Meg’s grandmother drew the man aside and began speaking in his ear.

Before Damon could take in anyone else’s reaction, Meg was with him, smiling. “I am so glad we got here before you. I cannot imagine how awkward it would have been for you to arrive first.”

“I did not think of that until after I’d departed.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I am very glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you as well.” She took his arm in both her hands and led him to her group of people.

Unable to remain silent, he continued. “I rather thought I would explain I was a lost soul you had decided to bring home for Christmas.”

Blast him for being a blithering idiot.

“Hmm. Why do I have a vision of a puppy in my mind?” She glanced up at him, her eyes full of laughter. “Perhaps I should tie a red bow around your neck. You might look less threatening.”

“I wish I would have brought my red and white striped silk neckcloth. If my godmother had not forbidden any of my more outré garb, I would have.”

Meg gave a thrill of laughter. “
That
, I can assure you, would not have recommended you to my father.” Increasing her pace, she gave him a slight tug. “Come meet my family. Mama just told me Kit and Mary will be here in a few days. Then we shall all be together.”

By the time he and Meg had reached her parents, Lord Featherton had lost some of his forbidding look.

“Papa,” Meg said, “I would like you to meet the Marquis of Hawksworth. Hawksworth, my father, Viscount Featherton.”

Her mode of introduction gave Damon all the information he required about his position at present. Normally, as the higher ranking gentleman, her father would have been introduced to him. Yet, due in large part to the failings of others, Damon was in the position of supplicant. He bowed, then held out his hand. “Sir, I have been looking forward to meeting you. Your son, Kit, is a friend of mine.”

A sense of power radiated around the older man as his blue eyes, the same color as Meg’s, appraised Damon before shaking his hand. “Welcome to our home. I trust you will enjoy the rest of the holiday. Come to think of it, the children have just started to get up our yearly Pantomime. Perhaps you will take part.”

“I would like nothing better.” He slowly let out the breath he’d been holding. Here was a man who would not give a damn about appeasing his father, or him for that matter.

A lady who looked a great deal like Meg came up and stood beside Lord Featherton. “Mama,” Meg said, “may I introduce you to the Marquis of Hawksworth. Hawksworth, my mother, Lady Featherton.”

The woman’s smile was guarded, but kind. “Welcome, my lord, and Merry Christmas.”

Meg kept hold of his arm as they all entered the round hall. Built in the Georgian style with arches and pillars, it was light and airy, but with strong colors. The blue-gray of the hall was bathed in light by a glass dome that made up the main part of the ceiling. The floor was marble with small, dark blue insets, and statuary was tucked into niches. Charcoal drawings and watercolors of Greek and Roman historical sites punctuated the walls, and swags of fir and pine decorated with gold bows were affixed to each niche. Even with the relative formality, it had a homey feeling. Unlike his father’s house, which reminded him more of a mausoleum.

“Where is the abbey part?”

“Not far,” Meg said. “The original house that had been built amid the abbey ruins was destroyed about fifty years ago. My grandfather moved the location so that the ruins could be explored and someday excavated. You will see we are very modern here. We even have water pumped into the bathing chambers.”

Accompanied by her brothers and sisters, they walked along a wide corridor to a parlor in the back of the house. Two sides of the room were covered with long casement windows. The third consisted of French windows leading on to a terrace, and the fourth wall was covered in bookshelves. “It’s lovely.”