Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella (7 page)

Yet here it was again, blazing to life.

She twisted around completely, giving him easier access to her mouth, and with a deep growl he deepened the kiss, threading the fingers of one hand through the tangled mess of her hair and holding her in place, while the other hand stroked her back, squeezed a shoulder, skimmed down her side, and came around to cup her breast.

She knew she should be incensed with the liberties he was taking. Instead, she moaned softly and took both her hands over a similar journey, noting the corded muscles of his back, the flatness of his stomach, the breadth of his chest. Smooth. Silk over steel. It was as though he’d been forged by the gods. His clothing hid well his attributes, and she felt as though she were discovering little buried treasures.

Dragging his mouth along the arch of her throat, he rasped, “I want you, Merry. You can’t imagine how much I want you.”

Oh, she could imagine it very well, because she wanted him. As wrong as it was, she wanted him with an intensity that fairly threatened to destroy her. When Litton had kissed her in the garden, she hadn’t wanted to melt into him, to meld her body with his. With Chetwyn, all rational thought scattered away like dried leaves before an autumn breeze. She couldn’t think, didn’t want to think, wanted only to feel the eager press of his hands, the hunger of his mouth against her flesh.

Shifting his weight, he carried her down to their makeshift velveteen bed. She thought the thickest of mattresses could not be more welcoming. Rising above her, he stared down on her. She combed her fingers through his unruly locks before bringing her palms down to cradle his jaw. The rough bristles tickled her tender skin.

“I was a fool, Merry,” he whispered. “Misguided, trying to do right by my brother, putting my own wants, needs, and happiness aside. I want you. I
need
you. You bring me happiness such as I’ve never known. Let me show you how much I can love you.”

She swallowed hard. She knew he wasn’t speaking of flowers or poetry or chocolates. He wanted to give of himself, completely and absolutely. He wanted her to freely accept what he was offering. When they were discovered here, the scandal would be insurmountable. Alone with him through the storm. Litton would let her go. Her father would insist Chetwyn marry her. She would be ruined. She might as well be ruined in truth.

Besides, she desired him with a fervor that she thought would be her undoing. If she didn’t have him at that moment, she would probably die anyway. Reaching up, she placed her hand on the nape of his neck and brought him down.

He latched his mouth onto hers with a fierceness that matched the storm. Hot, heavy, and passionate as though walls existed that needed to be torn down. He made short work of removing the covers that separated them, and then they were bare flesh against bare flesh from top to toe. Velvety warmth that could have melted the thickest pond surrounded them. She felt her heart’s resistance giving way inch by inch as his hands and fingers explored her, while hers did the same with him. Broad shoulders, strong back, taut buttocks.

He had rescued her from the pond, guided her through the storm, and created a haven for them to wait out the screeching winds. He had managed to hold her fears at bay, and she’d known that somehow he would save her.

A small part of her wondered if he was saving her now as well.

She couldn’t marry Litton after this. She wouldn’t marry him. One night he had pursued her with purpose. But once her hand and dowry were secured, passion, desire, whatever it was that had led them into the garden had taken refuge, never to be seen again. With Chetwyn, it always hovered near the surface, threatened to join them, promised to carry them to exalted heights.

Here she was, clamoring up those heights, unafraid as Chetwyn’s mouth trailed over every inch of her, exploring, enticing, kissing provocatively. The bend of her elbow, the back of her knee, the turn of her ankle, the tip of her tiny toe. Down, up, over, and around. He left no part of her untouched.

His mouth returned to hers as he nestled himself between her thighs. She felt the pressure of him, the weight, the heat. She lifted her hips to receive him. Holding back her cry at the sharp pain as he sank fully into her, she concentrated on his mouth, its texture, its flavor. She focused on his hair, the strands that were never tamed for long.

His movements were slow, leisurely. The pain eased, and pleasure slipped in to replace it, sweet and ripe, like a new bud feeling the sun coaxing it up. With each petal unfurled, the pleasure increased. Thrashing her head from side to side, she anchored herself to him as he took her on a journey for which there were no words.

She cried out as the release slammed into her, as her world darkened, then exploded into light. With a rough groan, he gave a final thrust and stilled, his arms closing more tightly around her. Lethargy worked its way through her.

The last thing she heard was his whispered, “I love you,” before sleep claimed her.

I
t was the baying of the hounds that woke her. Nestled against Chetwyn beneath the draperies, her cheek against his chest, she became acutely aware of his stiffening.

“It’s morning. The storm’s passed,” he said before throwing back the covering and coming to his feet.

In fascination, she watched his bare backside as he strode to the window. The light from the dying fire was enough to give her an impressive view. He was quite marvelously carved of flesh, muscle, sinew, and bone.

“A search party,” he continued before turning about and heading back toward her.

Did it make her a wanton because she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him?

“Is my father among them?” she asked.

“Afraid so. Your brothers, too, from the looks of it. Litton and both Pembrook lords.”

After gathering up his clothes, he knelt beside her and cradled her face. “Tell them you made your way here, but the storm prevented you from going farther, and you’ve been waiting it out.”

“I don’t understand. You’ll be here.”

He stroked her cheek, and the sadness in his eyes almost made her weep. “No. I won’t have your reputation dragged through the mud by having us found together.”

She flattened her hand against his chest. “But the discovery of us together will ensure that we marry. My father will very well insist.”

He brought her in close, then tucked her beneath his chin. “I want you, Merry, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, but not at the risk of bringing you shame or more pain than I’ve already caused. Nor will I do as Litton and force you into marriage.” Dipping his head, he kissed her short and sweet, but in the tenderness of the moment she heard volumes: love, caring, goodbye.

Then he was rushing out of the room as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, while the duke’s hounds were barking more loudly with their approaching nearness. Feeling lost and bereft, she went through the motions of slipping back into her stiff but dried riding habit. She was buttoning up the last of the pearl disks when she heard a door slam open and the stomp of feet.

Her father was the first to come barging through the doorway. “Meredith, thank God. What in the blazes happened, girl?”

“I . . . I got caught in the storm. I wanted to go ice skating.”

Litton approached and swept his coat around her. “You must have been terrified.”

“Only of the ghosts. I’ve heard the manor is haunted.”

“The tower and the dungeon,” the duke said, studying her carefully. “Not the manor itself.”

“Well, then, I had nothing to fear.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Lord Chetwyn,” Lord Tristan asked. “We’ve not been able to find him.”

Her mouth dry, she shook her head. “No, our paths didn’t cross, but I’m certain he’s all right. He probably just went for a walk. But he’s familiar enough with the outdoors that he would have taken shelter.”

Litton placed his arm around her shoulders. “Come, we must get you back to the residence. You must be famished.”

“Quite.”

She allowed him to lead her from the room but she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder. Lord Tristan had a speculative gleam in his eyes as he studied the mound of draperies. He had a reputation for being quite the rogue, and she hoped he couldn’t guess what had truly transpired here.

F
rom the master’s bedchamber upstairs, Chetwyn watched as the search party headed back toward the manor. For a few hours, he held in his arms every dream he’d ever dreamed, and once again he’d let her go.

To have her, he would have to ruin her, and he loved her far too much for that. But neither could he bear the thought of her with Litton.

“Thought I’d find you somewhere about.”

He spun around at the sound of Lord Tristan’s voice.

“Trying to protect the lady’s reputation?” Lord Tristan asked.

Chetwyn sighed. “I seem to recall your doing a very similar thing for Anne.”

“And it almost cost me a life of happiness.”

“I could never be happy if Meredith suffered because of scandal.”

Lord Tristan ambled over, leaned against the window casing, and looked out. “Suppose I could say that I found you in the tower.”

Chetwyn shook his head. “Too close.”

“The abbey ruins then. We shall have to wait here for an hour or so to make that believable.”

With a nod, Chetwyn pressed his back to the wall and slid down to the floor. He glanced up as Tristan offered him a silver flask. He said nothing as he took it and drank deeply. Rum. It might warm the coldness that had settled in his chest when he’d watched Meredith walk away without looking back.

M
eredith awoke in a fog. She remembered the warm bath, the tray of food, and the bed covers slipped over her. She’d fought off sleep, wanting to wait until Chetwyn returned, but exhaustion had claimed her. Rolling onto her side, she stared at the burgundy draperies, thinking of others that she’d recently encountered. They were drawn aside, and through the windowpane she could see the darkness. She’d slept through the day. They’d missed the play. Tonight was the ball. She needed to get dressed and see how Chetwyn was. She knew Lord Tristan had stayed behind to continue searching for him. She wondered if he’d found him or if Chetwyn had made his own way here.

Reaching over, she yanked on her bell pull to summon the maid who had been assigned to her. When the door opened, however, it was Lady Anne who walked through.

“Oh, finally, you’re awake.”

“Lord Chetwyn?”

“Doing remarkably well. Tristan announced that he found him at the abbey ruins, although I shall eat my favorite bonnet if Tristan truly found him there and not at the castle.”

Meredith felt the heat suffuse her face. While she didn’t know Lady Anne well, they shared a common interest: Chetwyn. Meredith felt as though she could trust her with anything involving him. “He didn’t want us to be found together.”

“No, he wouldn’t have, now, would he?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know him well enough to know that he would give to you what he once gave to me.”

With her brow furrowed, Meredith stared at her. “What was that?”

“The gift of choice.”

A
s Meredith descended the stairs, she could hear the orchestra playing a quadrille, the first dance of the night, according to the dance card that the duchess had given her. She much preferred the waltz. She considered going to the grand salon. Instead, she turned into the parlor and walked over to the small decorated tree that sat on a table near a window. Tiny boxes were gathered beneath the boughs. Meredith had little doubt that they contained treats that the duchess would pass out to her guests tomorrow upon their parting. She would return home to spend the holiday with her family, and a few days afterward she would be moving into the residence she would share with Litton. Where she would share his bed. Where he would touch her and kiss her and bring her pleasure, and she would do the same with him.

And all the while she would think of Chetwyn, who could have stayed by her side this morning. Then she would be marrying him. In the years to come, would each have wondered if the person sitting across the table was the one they would have chosen—if given a choice?

Only she had a choice. Chetwyn had ensured it by leaving.

“Oh, there you are. I’d heard you were finally up and about.”

Turning slightly, she smiled at Litton. “Yes, I had quite the lovely nap.”

“Let’s go have our dance, shall we?”

“How many?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“How many dances?”

“Well, two, of course. The first and the last.”

“And in between?”

“You shall dance with others, and I shall play cards.”

Four dances the night they met. She wondered how long it would be before he desired only one . . . and then none.

She swallowed hard, considering if she really wanted to know the truth, but she had to put the niggling doubts to rest. “The night when we were discovered kissing in the garden, during Greystone’s ball—I heard my father and brothers coming.”

He stared at her as though she’d lost her senses. “As did I.”

“I tried to slip away, so we wouldn’t be caught. You held me tight and whispered that it would be all right.”

He smiled. “And it did turn out all right, didn’t it?”

“Would you have held me so tightly if I had no dowry?”

He laughed. “Now you’re being silly. Let’s go join the merriment.”

He took her arm, and she shook him off. “I’m serious, Litton. We had time
not
to get caught.”

“I wanted to marry you,” he said impatiently. “Is that suddenly a crime?”

“Not a crime, but not entirely right, either.” She thought of the kiss that Chetwyn had bestowed upon her in the billiards room. Then again when they were walking. At the castle. It was as though he couldn’t get enough of her, would never have enough of her. “Do you know that we have not kissed once since that night? Not once.”