Her Christmas Pleasure (The Merry Widows 2)

He couldn’t admit the truth. That she was part of the reason for his departure. Confessing would cause her to ask more questions he couldn’t answer. And perhaps she’d try to convince him to stay.

He couldn’t stay. Couldn’t stand by and watch as she eventually found someone else and married him. He would be a proper gentleman with a fine title and a good family, one with a strong and guiding influence to help raise young Theo into a proper earl.

Her phantom future husband could give her everything Damien could not.

“Why, Damien?” She shook her head once. “You cannot just…leave.”

“I can. I am.” I must.

“Have you told anyone of this…most important news?”

“Only Urswick knows. He aided in finding my new employment in France. But I wanted you to hear the news from me first and no other.” It was the least he could do.

“Why? So you could witness the shattering of my heart personally?” She turned her head, blinking furiously.

Something ripped inside him. Emotions tore at his ragged, heavy heart and filled him with despair that he could hurt her so much she cried.

And she was most definitely crying. A single tear dropped from her thick, soot-colored lashes, and he watched in bleak fascination as it wound a glistening path down her cheek. Reaching out, he dabbed it with his thumb and absorbed the droplet into his skin. Lingering, learning the texture of her, he brushed his thumb against her silken cheek before withdrawing.

“The earl assisted you, and neither of you thought of telling me?”

The agony in her voice was killing him. “I never believed anything would come of it. Only recently did I obtain the position.”

Turning to look at him with liquid-filled eyes, she curled her fingers into the fabric of his jacket and slowly tugged him toward her. “Oh, Damien.”

The sound of his name whispered in her sweet, seductive voice was his complete undoing.

He kissed her. Not because he wanted to ease her pain and stop her tears, but because he was selfish and wanted to taste her one more time before he left England. She wound her slender arms around his neck and sank her hands into his hair as her lips parted beneath his. He gro

aned at her touch, at the easy way she opened for him, trusted him with this.

With her.

Deepening the kiss, he swept his tongue into the warm interior of her mouth, tasted the lingering brandy, a hint of chocolate, a dash of her uniquely feminine essence. He stepped closer as his tongue probed deeper, brushing his erection against her skirts once, twice, until his hips ground against hers, and she gasped.

He was a heathen, a brute who could think of nothing but the willing woman in his arms. How her fingers gripped his hair, her plump breasts crushed against his chest. A low whimper escaped her, went straight to his stiff cock, and he broke the kiss. He pressed his cheek to hers so they could catch their breath.

“Celia. Celia, where are you?” a voice from downstairs said.

She stiffened in his arms. “It’s the countess. She’s looking for me.”

Her voice squeaked, and her obvious statement made him smile despite the grave turn of circumstance. He couldn’t allow the countess to discover Celia in his arms, not like this. He was a guest in their home. Surely she would think him an absolute bounder for taking advantage of a lonely widow.

He rested his index finger upon her mouth, savoring the sensation of her lips parting slowly, the soft gust of her breath. “I’ll sneak away.” The countess’s heavy footsteps climbing the stairs drew closer. “Tell her I retired for the evening. She’ll never be the wiser.”

“But…” Her gaze went frantic, and her body swayed toward his.

He breathed deep as he let his hand fall away from her mouth, knowing it was the last time he could touch her in such an intimate manner. “I must go, Celia.” His words were both a harsh command and held double meaning.

She flinched and watched as he left her sagging against the wall, a rumpled, delicious mess with swollen lips and tousled hair. She looked as if she’d been completely ravished.

Which she had.

Damien didn’t look over his shoulder, not once. He couldn’t. To do so would destroy him.

He slipped inside the guest bedchamber and shut the door with a quiet click. Leaning against it, he exhaled loudly, thumping the back of his head so hard against the solid wood he winced.

It didn’t help. Didn’t knock any sense into his head whatsoever, not that he believed it would. He was helplessly, irrevocably in love with the widowed Lady Danver.