A Bunch of Mistletoe Read online

  But if Delphi married the Duke of Trensom, he would take her.

  She tried to be happy for Delphi but she couldn’t. She’d never see Rome, or Venice for that matter. Neither would she know what it was like to be held by a man all night, or to dance under the stars in the Tuileries, or any of the other notions she’d had as a young woman, when everything had seemed possible.

  But it wasn’t, and as things had turned out, she wasn’t entirely sorry about that. She had her health, her independence and people who loved her. What more could she ask for?

  The evening passed slowly. The ladies went to the drawing room and gossiped over tea and wine. The gentlemen joined them, and they set up an informal dance. Matilda played for them, the old favorites, watching the company strip the willow and thread the needle. She even took part in one dance herself, capering to the Roger de Coverley, while Annie took over on the harpsichord.

  She enjoyed herself hugely until she almost collided with her next partner; the Duke of Trensom.

  He took her hand and twirled her, as the dance demanded. The touch of his cool hand on her skin gave her thoughts she should never be having, nor should ever consider, especially considering the interest he was paying Delphi.

  “Allow me to say you are in fine looks tonight, ma’am,” he murmured, as he reeled her back. Again, as the dance demanded. Nothing to do with the way he’d kissed her.

  Harry, resplendent in dark blue dull satin, flashed Matilda the smallest smile, so slight she could believe she’d imagined it. Perhaps she had. Perhaps she only wanted him to smile. Their interest was like a deliciously guilty secret. She’d seen how stuffed-up he could be. Nobody would imagine how funny, kind and sympathetic he could be in private. Perhaps she imagined it herself.

  “You’re very kind,” she said when they returned to each other in the dance. “But I can hardly believe you to be sincere. You are accounted a connoisseur, or so I’m told.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Aha, that had shaken him up. “I regret to inform you that I’m not too high to gossip. A certain lady was discussing you before you came in the room. Nothing to your detriment, I assure you.”

  To her disappointment, he didn’t rise to the bait. “Ah. Yes, I believe I’m often discussed in drawing rooms.” He arched his arms, ready to allow the dancers to thread the needle. As people danced under their arms, he continued as if he were in the most decorous situation, “and in taverns, too. I cannot help what people say.”

  That was disingenuous, but she couldn’t tell him so because they had to separate at that point and find new partners.

  The dance concluded, he didn’t approach her again, but stayed talking to Annie and Gerald until Annie announced she was retiring for the night.

  Matilda was surprised to discover the clocks were chiming ten o’ clock. She’d barely marked the time. Although ten was nothing in town, people rose earlier in the country, so they retired earlier.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said, putting her hand on Gerald’s arm and giving it a little squeeze.

  He hesitated, but nodded, and kissed Annie on the cheek. “I won’t be long.”

  Such blatant displays of affection would never have done in town, but in their own home, it was a sweet gesture. Annie smiled and moved away with Matilda.

  Their rooms were on the same floor. They walked together, enjoying each other’s company. “Almost like old times,” Annie commented.

  “Apart from the gowns and the space and the business, yes,” Matilda answered with a smile.

  “You look the same.”

  Matilda had always worn fine clothes, that was true.

  “You belong in this world,” Annie continued. “I never feel that I do.”

  They turned the corner and headed down the long, gracious corridor. “And yet you’re the one with the title.”

  Annie shrugged, the silk of her amber-colored gown rippling in the candlelight. “It came with Gerald. I couldn’t take him without it.”

  “I know. You’re doing beautifully. The gracious hostess, confounding the predictions made in some quarters.” She rolled her eyes.

  “I miss the old days,” Annie said with a wistful sigh. “Seeing to the boys then going downstairs to the office and afterwards outside to the forges.”

  “That’s not what you said at the time,” Matilda reminded her. “The house was too small, and you needed more money for expansion. You were always worried about something.”

  And Annie always refused to accept money from Matilda. That had annoyed her more than somewhat. However, she could do little about it, except to slide sums to the cook and the men from time to time. Annie had always been fiercely independent, to an extreme. Now, she had all the money she would ever need. But that didn’t stop her working towards ever greater expansion.

  But in a way, Matilda understood what Annie meant. When life was simpler, when Annie was in control of her own life, what she wore, where she went and so on. Those old days.

  “Do you think Trensom is attracted to Delphi?” Annie asked as they strolled past priceless paintings and cabinets of delicate porcelain.

  Matilda swallowed. “Yes, I think so. They certainly have a lot in common. Classics and all that.” She waved her hand vaguely. What she knew about the classics could fill a riding hat, but it wouldn’t overflow.

  She tried to wish them well and failed miserably. At the door to her room, Annie stopped and put her hand on Matilda’s arm. “Please be careful, Matilda. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  “Like what?” she demanded sharply.

  “Agitated over a man.”

  She should have known better—this was Annie she was talking to. They’d lived under the same roof for over a decade, bonding over bringing up her fatherless children, fighting for survival in a City that was, if not hostile to women running their own businesses, then suspicious of them.

  If anyone knew what she was going through, it was Annie.

  Matilda sighed, her shoulders slumping. “It’s a foolish passion, that’s all. A temporary madness I will no doubt awake from in a few weeks. What makes me think that someone like him would see me as more than a foolish eccentric? If Delphi is happy with him, and he with her, then I am content. Or I will learn to be so. And he will have his heir, which everyone says he needs.”

  Annie chuckled. “They said that about Gerald, but that was not what brought us together. You know some people in society claim that he chose me because I had proved I could bear sons? That made me acceptable in some quarters, though the idea still makes Gerald rumble with rage. I tell him it doesn’t matter. Who cares what other people think when we know the truth?”

  In this case, Matilda sided with Gerald. What people thought mattered a great deal. If a man gained a reputation for recklessness, fewer investment opportunities would come his way. If a woman was labeled a slut or worse, then she would attract the kind of man willing to take advantage of that.

  But tonight, she didn’t say so. She would learn and regroup, and tomorrow she would be her usual practical, calm self. If not tomorrow, then the next day. “I’m sure I’ll recover. After all, it’s only been a few days. Perhaps it will pass as quickly as it arrived.”

  “When did it arrive? When you both arrived at the house, you seemed well acquainted.”

  She huffed a laugh. “When I fell out of a tree and he caught me—very nearly. I had never met him before, barely heard of him, and, truthfully, I didn’t know his title until we reached the house. That was when I realized my mistake. I should never have allowed him…” Leaning forward, she kissed Annie’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, my dear.”

  “And to you, too.”

  Matilda turned the corner, in the direction of her own chamber.

  In an instant, she was pulled to one side, slamming against a hard, male chest. A strong hand pushed up her chin and his mouth came down on hers, strong and commanding.

  If she hadn’t known who it was, she would have shown him ho
w women of the City dealt with importunate rakes. But this was no rake, and she didn’t want to show him anything except passion.

  All her good intentions whistled away in the wind as she flung her arm around Trensom’s neck and opened her mouth to his urging. He pushed his tongue inside and as if she’d done this every night for years, she sucked gently, moaning when he cinched her tighter. Her breasts squashed against his chest and, for once, she reveled in the superior strength of someone else.

  He finished the kiss but didn’t release her. Neither did she push away. Being held like this was so delicious, she didn’t want it to end. They were both panting as if they had run a mile.

  “Get rid of your maid as soon as you can,” he murmured, his breath hot on her ear. “Watching you tonight has driven me insane. I want you, Matilda, so much. If you want me to come back, then let your maid go quickly. Leave your door ajar. If the door is closed, I’ll know you don’t want this. We won’t speak of it again. Now go.”

  Before she could think straight, he released her and strode away.

  What did he say? Leave her door ajar?

  Bewildered, she staggered to her room as if she’d had too much to drink, which was far from the case. He’d sent her off-balance until she barely knew herself.

  But she would leave her door ajar. Whatever came of this night, she would not have regrets at what had never happened.

  Chapter Seven

  Harry never acted on impulse, never approached women like a marauding pirate. Except this once. Watching Matilda over the dining table, and later conversing in the drawing room, seeing her soft bosom move gently with every breath, her flesh gilded by candlelight was more than he could bear. He wanted her and if he didn’t try for her, he was afraid he would never forgive himself. When she responded to his kiss with such enthusiasm, delight coursed through him, heating his veins, making his body heat with anticipation.

  He would not return to his chamber. Let his valet think he had joined the other men in the room set aside for cards and gossip. If he went, and let his man prepare him for bed, then at least one other person would know what he was about. And he wanted to protect Matilda’s reputation as much as he wanted to make love to her.

  Almost as much.

  He strolled down the corridor to the end, encountering nobody. He found a small parlor, where he skulked for the next half-hour, waiting for the click that would herald the opening of a door.

  Perhaps she would not allow him in. He’d told her in haste, because he couldn’t bear to hear her rejection. Although he had not planned it, he’d heard some of the conversation between Matilda and her niece-by-marriage. So she wanted him, did she? The way she’d behaved at dinner hadn’t encouraged him, though their country dance had changed his mind. He had to try her.

  And they thought he was attracted to Lady Delphi. A decorous courtship spent on mutual admiration of people dead for a thousand years might appeal to some, but not to Harry. Their attraction was purely intellectual. Although he had to ensure Lady Delphi knew that, too. He liked her; twenty years ago, he might have pursued her. But not now. He wanted something else.

  He paced to the window and stared out at the snow-sprinkled landscape. The snow had begun to melt. Now it lay in patches on the green lawns and bare branches of the trees in the distance. The moon gleamed over the scene, creating a vista any artist would be delighted to paint.

  But not Harry. Before his eyes was a vision of pale, soft skin, eyes sneaking glances at him and graciousness. Matilda was worthy of the highest in the land.

  Fortunately, he could count himself in that number.

  But was he worthy of her? Had he considered properly? The answer was no, and nor did he intend to. Not yet, at any rate.

  The clock on the mantelpiece tinkled the three-quarter hour. Letting out a deep sigh of relief, Harry went to the door and cautiously opened it. Nobody was in sight.

  He set out at a brisk pace. If he met anyone, he would tell them he had lost his way. After all, he was still fully dressed. As he passed her door, he slowed down. His heart leaped. A crack of light showed the door had not been properly closed.

  That was all the invitation he needed. He opened the door the whole way and slipped inside. He closed it firmly.

  Matilda, dressed in a robe of heavy cream silk, stood by the bed. At his entrance, she spun around, the loose folds echoing the shape of her body as she moved. Her hair was down, bound in a long braid that ended at her shoulder blades.

  “You’re surprised to see me?” he said.

  She swallowed. “Not exactly. But I had second thoughts. And third ones, too.”

  He smiled. “So did I. We should not do this.” He took a pace towards her. She did not step back. In any case, that would tip her back onto the bed; exactly where he wanted her.

  She licked her lips. “No. We should not.”

  “But we will, won’t we?” Another step brought him within three feet of her. Her scent wafted to him, of light lemon with a touch of lavender. His mouth watered.

  Before he took the final step, he pulled something out of his pocket and shrugged off his coat. It fell to the floor, but neither of them took notice of the light thump.

  Appearing before her in his shirtsleeves was deliciously tempting. One layer of cloth nearer to nakedness. He would savor every one. When he held out his arms, she leaned forward, enabling him to hold her closer. Only then did he hold the twig he’d brought with him over her head. “Oh look, mistletoe!”

  Her laugh tasted perfect, as he kissed it off her lips, and settled her against his chest, her weight a blessing. It felt right, as if he were built for it. Matilda wasn’t a short woman. In fact, he’d call her elegant, but he was taller by about four inches. That four inches gave him a ludicrous sense of strength and power. She wasn’t a waif, either. In fact, he’d term her a cozy armful. But she was more than that to him. How much remained to be seen.

  That was what he was here to find out. But he needed to know one thing first. “Matilda, have you made love to anyone before?”

  Her answer was instant. “No.”

  His heart sank. He should go. He couldn’t take that from her.

  But she hadn’t finished. “I’ve had intimate relations, though. I thought I was in love at the time, but I learned otherwise very quickly.”

  “Ah.” He shied away from knowing more. He was so excited, so thrilled by finally having this woman in his arms, warm and willing that he wanted nothing to change the mood.

  Later, perhaps. He couldn’t deny that what she had said intrigued him. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmured against her mouth. “In every way I can.”

  “Mmm.” Neither of them could say anything more, since they were engaged in the most passionate kiss—since the last one.

  Matilda had never felt more feminine as she did in Harry’s arms. She clutched him, the heat of his body surrounding her, warmer than the fire glowing in the grate.

  She was long past the doubting stage. He’d asked—that kiss demanded it—and she’d accepted.

  Her robe was an extravagance of heavy dull satin, heavily embroidered and a total extravagance, since nobody save the domestic staff was ever likely to see it. And yet, someone had. It would be her reminder of him.

  His neck, corded with powerful muscle, flexed under the pressure of her hand and he deepened the kiss, changing it from hot to incendiary. He handled her with tender care, but she did not want that. She wanted full, no-holds-barred passion, enough to keep her warm for years to come.

  “I can’t get enough of your taste,” he muttered before kissing her again. They shared a series of rich, lingering kisses. Although he seemed capable of taking his time, she was not. Impatience bloomed inside her, driving Matilda to scrabble at his clothes. She undid his waistcoat button by button, wanting to tear them out but finding they were too firmly attached for that. Impatiently, she pushed it back and he let it fall.

  Then came the obstacle of his shirt, his body tantalizingly veil
ed by the fine linen. She spread her hands over his chest as he nibbled a path to her neck. He licked and sucked his way down to the little hollow at her throat where he lingered. Matilda, need rising like a cry within her, tried to find the buttons on his cuffs.

  With a chuckle he lifted his head. “We’re behaving like a couple of tyros. I want to do this properly.” He gazed at her, his eyes kindling a spark deep inside her. “Let’s start at the top and work down.”

  Bringing his hands to her braid, he deftly began to unwind it.

  She wanted to apologize, to tell him that her hair had been her pride and joy once, but the words stuck in her throat. Her silver hairs were part of the person she was now. They needed no apology.

  Instead, she shoved the wig off his head; she didn’t think he was aware he still had it on. And rediscovered the thick, dark hair beneath. His wasn’t devoid of the signs of ageing, either, with silver distinguishing his temples and a few strands mixed with the brown. She ran her fingers through the short mass, the silky strands sifting between her fingers and grazing the sensitive skin at their base. She gloried in her ability to do so.

  At last, this man wasn’t a duke, didn’t have the dignity she’d observed in him all night. He was Harry, the man she wanted more than any other.

  He sifted through her hair, unraveling the strands and drawing a lock over her shoulder. “I want to see this spread over my chest,” he said. “And I will, very soon.”

  “I want to see your chest,” she answered, giving up on the fiddly, tiny buttons that fastened his shirt. “I have scissors in my dressing case.”

  “Ha!” His sharp, barked laugh bounced off the paneled walls. “Then we would have to explain the presence of a man’s shirt buttons in your room.”

  “A button is a button,” she said. “But I grant you, servants have a way of adding things up.”

  She let him undo the cuffs and drag his neckcloth off. The folds were fastened with a fine gold pin. He drew it out and laid it on the nightstand by the bed. The action was so natural, so intimate, it felt as if he’d done it before. Which he had not, at least not in her room.