Some of the merriment faded from his eyes and he ran his fingers through his hair.
She didn’t want him to be sad, but as happy as he’d been in the ballroom. ‘Laurus may regret appointing you Lord of Misrule. Everyone is sure to insist you come back next year and he’ll find himself dethroned.’
He straightened the collar of his coat. ‘I’d gladly come back, if your family will have me.’
‘I’m sure they will.’
He raised his eyes to meet hers, a fire burning in their depths which nearly stole her breath away. ‘Would you?’
‘I’d welcome you much sooner, if you’d like.’ Her boldness surprised her, but she didn’t regret it.
Gregor reached up and plucked the last berry off the sprig, then stepped closer to tower over her. He raised one hand to her face, cupping her cheek with his palm, the pulse in his fingertips fluttering against her temple.
Her toes curled in her slippers as he leaned in, his breath sweeping her face. She closed her eyes, expecting the brush of his lips over her cheek, so she wasn’t prepared for the meeting of their mouths. As his firm lips enveloped hers, she fell against his chest with a sigh, raising her arms to encircle his neck. He met her embrace, deepening the strength of his kiss as he wrapped his arms about her waist, his hands wide on her back as he drew her closer to him. He bent over her ever so slightly as though wanting to draw her inside of him. She would gladly disappear into him if she could, remove the thin obstacles of her dress and his shirt to meld completely with him. In the openness of the entryway, she could only part her lips and allow his pressing tongue to caress hers.
She’d studied so many classical paintings of nymphs possessed like this by gods, but until this moment, she hadn’t understood the sheer power of a man holding a woman, his breath drawing out hers.
Lily clutched Gregor even tighter as her knees went weak from the pressure of his tongue against the line of her lips, curling and drawing her tongue out to meet his. Low down against her stomach, she felt the hardness of more than his hips, the heat of it increasing the fire already licking up inside her. If he were to ask her for more, she’d gladly give it, surrendering to him and the desire threatening to consume them both.
‘I’ll see if Adelaide left her doll downstairs, Miss Smith, while you look in the nursery.’ Petunia’s voice from the hall upstairs broke through the haze of Lily’s passion, snuffing it out like a drop of water from an icicle on a candle. ‘She must have it or she won’t sleep.’
Lily broke from Gregor’s embrace and took a few steps back. With shaking fingers, she straightened her dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. Petunia’s light step filled the entrance hall before she reached the bottom, pausing on the last stair to look back and forth in curiosity at them.
‘Lily, what are you still doing up?’
‘I was showing Lord Marbrook my portraits.’
‘In almost complete darkness?’
‘It isn’t that dark,’ Lily challenged, though even she could see the candles had burned down far enough in the chandelier to make the hall far darker than propriety allowed.
Before Petunia could challenge Lily, Miss Smith appeared at the banister above them.
‘I’ve found Adelaide’s doll, ma’am. I’ll see to it she gets it at once.’
Petunia nodded, then fixed her attention back on Lily. ‘You should get bed. Tomorrow will be a late night.’
‘Of course. Goodnight, Lord Marbrook.’ Lily dropped a delicate curtsy, glad for the low light for it hid the blush she was sure covered her chest and neck.
‘Goodnight, Miss Rutherford.’ He pierced her with a singeing glance from beneath his brow as he bowed.
Petunia turned and with a flick of her head instructed Lily to follow her. Far from being irritated at her sister’s command, she followed, nearly floating up the stairs and ignoring her sister’s searching looks. Let her wonder, she didn’t care. Gregor had kissed her, not the playful peck of the Lord of Misrule, but the passionate embrace of a powerful man. It made Lily shiver in the darkness and anticipate the rising of the Christmas sun more than any child in the house. It would mean seeing Gregor again.
Little voices warbling ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ drew Gregor from his dressing table to tug open the bedroom door. On the threshold stood the twins, their youngest cousin standing behind them gripping Miss Daisy’s hand. Their voices faded away as Gregor smiled down at them. The excitement of last night had taken hours to leave him and he’d spent the better part of his time in the dark trying to forget the memory of Lily in his arms and the heaviness it created low in his body. Sleep had at last come to him early in the morning, but it hadn’t lasted much past dawn. Too restless to remain in bed, he’d risen and dressed, eager to see the woman who’d filled his thoughts through most of the night.
‘Aw, this one’s already up and dressed. There’s no fun in that,’ one of the twins complained.
‘Then let’s try someone else,’ his brother suggested and the two of them shot off down the hall, leaving Miss Daisy and her tiny cousin behind.
‘Merry Christmas, Lord Marbrook,’ Miss Daisy offered, her cheeks as red as if she’d been out in the snow.
‘Merry Christmas, Miss Daisy, and Miss Adelaide.’ He bowed to the toddler who watched him with wide eyes, one fat hand in her mouth.
‘Come on, Daisy, stop dawdling,’ one of the twins called as they stood at the door of their next victim.
Daisy looked back and forth between Gregor and her cousins as if debating whether to stay or go. Her youthful exuberance won out over her girlish infatuation and she rushed off, dragging little Adelaide behind her.
Once they were all together at the next door, the children sang their carol at the tops of their lungs. The door to the room opened and out stepped Sir Timothy, still clad in his nightshirt, his cap askew over his grey hair.
‘A merry Christmas to you all,’ he boomed, scooping Adelaide into his arms and whirling her around to the delight of the other imps.
Gregor watched, enjoying their laughter and high voices. There’d never been such Christmas morning joy at Marbrook Manor. He’d tried it once a very long time ago, knocking on his parents’ door in excitement, only to receive a stern whipping which had made sitting through the dull sermon in church difficult.
The butler appeared at the top of the stairs, chuckling as he passed the scene before approaching Gregor. He held out a silver salver with a letter on top. ‘My lord, this arrived for you.’
Gregor recognised his mother’s handwriting at once. He was tempted to refuse the missive, sure it was not full of cheerful Christmas wishes, but he picked it up, eager to be done with the unpleasant task. As Gregor broke the seal, the butler made for downstairs, trailed by the singing children.
Gregor leaned against the doorjamb as he unfolded the letter, the merriment of the morning draining from him as he read the elegantly written lines.
I can’t tell you how disappointed I am that you’ve chosen to spend Christmas in the north and with the Rutherfords of all people. They’re so below us in rank and station. I don’t know why you favoured them with a visit.
Your brother never would have shown such poor judgement, nor left me to oversee your duties at Marbrook Manor, but since he is gone I suppose I must deal with you. I’ve distributed the beer as you instructed, but saw no need to waste an entire cow on such coarse people as the