Let It Snow (46 page)

He shot her a dark look. “Your foot.”

“My what?”

“Your foot is on my—oh, good God.” She pressed his cock into his belly, rubbing the underside up and down with the ball of her foot.

“My feet are cold.”

“Cheater.”

“Your body is so warm…” The low, breathy voice was designed to do one thing—make him utterly helpless to her seduction. By the saints, it was working.

He exhaled deeply, willing his self-control to return. Somehow, he managed to pry her foot from his cock and set it down on the floor.

Another cold foot climbed his leg and slipped over his knee and up his thigh.

“I’m of a mind to tie you up
now
,” he said.

“You will have to wait until our game is done. Let me remind you that it is your turn.”

He threw down the dice and finally managed two threes. He got his six. But if she won her set, they would have to keep playing until one or the other won this round.

“My turn!” As quick as you please, she pulled her foot away. He reached down and caught it before it hit the ground. He lay it across his knee and began kneading and stroking it.

“My foot!”

“And?” He continued his ministrations. This thumb circled the inside of her ankle. “You said your foot was cold. I am warming it up for you.”

By the look of her pursed lips, she was not happy to have the tables turned on her. But he would not release her leg until she played her turn.

“I assume you are playing sevens again?”

“
Yes
.” She spoke the word like a curse.

He used his thumb to knead the arch of her foot. She closed her eyes, the cup almost tipping the die over. But before they fell, she gave the cup another shake and threw down the dice. Twelve.

“Bloody murder!”

Kit laughed. So much for him being the petulant loser. “One-to-one, angel. Shall we play this round fair-and-square?”

Her leg dropped down the ground, making a loud thump. “Fair-and-square.”

She handed him the dice cup.

“Playing six, since now that seems to be my lucky number.”

He lifted the dice in his fingers and held it up to her lips to kiss for him.

“Now you want me to give you luck so that you can best me?” She folded her arms over her chest and turned her head away from the dice.

“Suit yourself. I will win regardless.”

He rolled the dice in his palm for a moment before throwing it into the cup and tossing the play.

Nine. Not what he was hoping for, but at least it wasn’t a three or eleven.

“You will not make the nine you are hoping for,” she said. “Rolling that nine might as well be digging for a needle in a bale of hay.”

His chances were not so grave as that, but he rarely rolled nines, so he could not count on a quick victory.

Eight. Close, but still off the mark. He rolled again, this time getting two deuces. He wasn’t out yet, but this might take a while.

Violet tapped her fingers on the table.

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Says the man who is always chomping at the bit.”

The next try yielded another four. Which would have been great if only four was the chance. But no, he’d gotten nine and getting that roll was as good as squeezing blood from a stone.

“Seeing as how you need all the luck you can get, I shall kiss your dice for you.” He held them up to her lips then threw them back into the cup. Unfortunately, luck was not with him, for this last roll was a three. He was out unless she lost her turn.

“Try not to look so defeated,” she said, stroking his hand with her palm. Then she licked the corner of her lips. “Save that for when I have you shackled to the bed.”

“You little tart!”

“I am a little sweet and a little sour. But as much as you like to punish me for my wayward tongue, I think you rather enjoy it.”

That he did. There was no merriment in pushing down a weak flower. He liked a confident woman.

“Roll.”

She fingered the dice for a moment before tossing her hand. Seven. How in the name of Beelzebub did she do that? She’d managed to roll a winning hand on the first roll. Twice.

“Mine!” she yelled excitedly. “You are mine to do with as I please.”

He kissed her hand, conceding the match. Then he got up from the table and walked over to the bed.

“Where would you like me, madam?”

“I’d like you to go and see about taking a bath. Then meet me downstairs.”

“I thought you would like to truss me up and torture me.”

She winked. “I did raise the stakes on this wager, but my initial bet still stands. Gather your necessities and I will have the servants draw up a bath for you. I shall take one myself.”

In three steps, he was behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. “We could always take a bath together.”

“I think we shall barely squeeze you into the copper tub as it is. Fitting us both in would be a feat.”

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and whispered. “You could sit on my lap.”

“I am sure you would like that very much.” She blushed. “Particularly considering my attempts to distract you into yielding the game. But we shall have plenty of time for more leisurely pursuits this evening.”

“And then you shall inflict your wicked will upon me?”

She turned in his arms to kiss his cheek. “I have not yet decided. We never specified
when
the prize should be collected.”

His mind churned at that thought. At any time, any place, she could ask him to kneel or lie down and secure him to a bed, a door, an armoire, a staircase. Though the staircase was unlikely, as Violet did not want to display her depravity in front of the servants. She reserved it for him.

Which only made him love her more.

There was that word again. That feeling. Was that what this was? Did he
love
her?

He lusted for her, dreamed about her, adored her passion and her sense of humor. He even adored the part of her that always wanted to be practical and useful. The part of her that never balked at cleaning his open wound or bathing a complete stranger.

She was the first and last thing on his mind every day. Hmmm.

He turned her to him and kissed her, slipping his hands into the robe, which was far too masculine for her sumptuous curves. She deserved delicate muslins and beautiful brocades. Laces and gold threads would complement the fine jewels he could give her.

He’d start with emeralds, which would bring out the green in her hazel eyes. Next, he would try rubies and garnets to match the flush in her skin when she slipped back into her proper demeanor. No, it would match the fire in her, the heat that she revealed only to him. And he would bring her diamonds. Diamonds so that everyone who looked at her would know how much she was treasured.

As he lifted his face and looked into hers, he realized he was besotted. When he’d lost his memory, he’d lost his mind, too. He never allowed himself to become too attached in his relationships. He had fun, he devoted himself to his lovers’ pleasure, but when he needed to move on, he never gave a second glance.

Would he still feel this way in a month or two when he was gone? Perhaps the intensity of his feelings would subside once he no longer spent each day in her company. He must feel this way because he was too accustomed to her presence.

* * * *

Violet sank into the hot water, praying that the day never ended. Waking up with Kit reminded her of how safe she felt enveloped in his arms. She’d slept more soundly than she had in months.

When she thought of last night, how he’d bound and blinded her, rendering her completely helpless to his assault, she flushed. His assertiveness and creativity surprised her. He made every moment feel vibrant and alive, like racing a horse at full speed.

Even now, her heart beat faster at the thought of him.

Violet dipped her towel into the water and steamed her face. She’d sent Miriam away so that she could have a moment alone. The truth was, she didn’t want the girl to see the bruises from Kit’s intense lovemaking.

“Lord help me,” she whispered. She would let that man chain her to a dungeon wall if it meant he would kiss and stroke her from head to toe. He never pushed her farther than she could go, but she was afraid of the dark need within her. The need for him to strip her down bare, to divest her of the walls of her control, until she was a mass of dough ready to be kneaded by his deft fingers.

What kind of woman let a man tie her up and tickle her until she screamed? What kind of woman wanted a man to spank her until her bottom was red and chafed? And what kind of man would do that to his lover?

She should run. But she did not dare. With Kit, she felt alive. There was no pretense. No compulsion to be the dutiful widow, no need to see to every minute detail of the household, no obligation to be anything but herself.

How could she run away from that freedom? Because in his arms, she yielded her body, but her soul was free.

Nine days later

As Violet took a sip of steaming hot tea, Kit leaned across the desk. The smell of bacon and eggs permeated her study. She reached for a scone, but he stole it from her fingers.

“I want to build a snowman.”

“What?”

“It’s a crisp morning, and the snow is fresh and thick outside. Let us go and build a snowman.”

“It is cold outside, and yesterday, you got dizzy when you tried to mount your horse. I think we should stay indoors.”

She took a bite of her eggs and noticed that he’d hardly touched his plate. For a man who ate about as much as a boar, this was a rarity.

“I have been indoors for far too long, I want to enjoy the snow. I want to play with
you
in the snow.”

She filched the half-eaten scone from his fingers. “If you think I am going to let you lift up my skirts and pummel me into the icy ground, you are wrong. It is bad enough when you tried to fondle me in the stables. What if Hinkley had seen you?”

He lowered his voice. “As much as I would love to have you naked under me and torture your nipples with snow and chips of ice, that is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“When I was a boy, we would go out into the field and make scarecrows in the autumn and snowmen in the winter.” Sometimes he would throw apples at the scarecrows until they fell over, which often resulted in Bella screaming at him for wasting their hard work.

“Are you remembering more of your past?” Violet asked after swallowing the last bite of the scone.

“Not really,” Kit lied. “I mean I remember playing in the snow and getting toys at Christmastide and I recall picking apples in the autumn, but how does that help me to recover my identity?”

“It is a start. Every bit you remember tells you something about yourself. It may not be your name, but it solidifies your sense of who you are.”

She was so earnest. He should save them both the pain by telling her the truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Every day he spent with her was a day he was free. There were no obligations, no lectures from Bella and Freddy, nothing he had to do but treasure every moment with Violet.

“So what do you say? Shall we go and build a snowman?”

“I have never done such a thing before.”

“Then I will teach you.”

After they finished breakfast, Violet went to change into her wool stockings and Kit asked Mrs. Norris for a scarf and greatcoat. His was still stained from the shooting, but the divergent color was only noticeable up close. He’d have to order a new coat once he got to Oakfield.

Violet came down in a green pelisse and matching hat. She wore thick gloves and a yellow scarf. When she took the last step, he grabbed her waist and kissed her.

Her eyes went wide. “Kit!”

“I wanted to thank you for agreeing to go out today,” he said. He adjusted her cap, which had gone askew, grabbed her hand and led her outside.

They trekked a few yards until he saw a spot where the snow was especially thick. In his pockets, he had a few buttons, a pipe, and an old red cap.

“Gather up the snow into a pile,” he instructed.

Violet crouched down and used her arms to sweep the snow into a pile.

“Now, see if you can shape the pile into a large round ball.”

As she worked, he gathered his own pile of show to add to hers. They packed the snow as tightly as possible, running their hands around the circumference and shaping the powder and slush as best they could.

Once they’d gotten a semi-round mound, he went to work on the next layer. As he scooped and packed the snow into a smaller ball, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun doing something so simple.

“My ball is melting, Kit.”

“Keep packing it with ice, as the snow melts, it will harden together. Even if our snowman only lasts for a day, it will be alright. We can always try again tomorrow!”

Violet laughed. “That is, if you can drag me out again tomorrow.”

“I can think of a few enticements,” he said. “Perhaps it is time for a new wager.” He pointed a finger at her. “Though you have not made good on the last one.”

Why she hesitated, he did not know. Was she afraid to tie him up? Or did she have some wicked plan that he had yet to discern?

She did not respond to his accusation. Instead, she came over to him and looked at his ball of snow. “Yours looks so much neater than mine.”

“I have done this before. You merely need practice.”

“Hmpf.” She spun around and walked in the other direction. He saw her bend down to start a new ball.

“We will need arms and a head, so why don’t you try a smaller ball?”

He carried his ball over to the larger one. It was too small, but he would build more upon it. Glancing back at Violet, he saw her furrowed brow and tried not to chuckle. She took this far too seriously.

He stomped through the snow to where she stood. “It is not about doing it perfectly. Just have fun with it,” he said, cupping a handful of snow and shaping it.

Before she knew what he was about, he threw the snowball at her chest.

“You devil!”

She bent down and grabbed a hunk of snow and crushed it in her palm before throwing it at him.