Her Christmas Pleasure (The Merry Widows 2)

Another click, and this time he knew it was the door shutting. Someone was in the room. “Who goes there?” He waved a listless hand. He hadn’t the energy to even do that. “I’m not in need of your assistance this evening, Roderick. Good night.”

Silence was his answer. Footsteps whispered across the plush Aubusson rug, and the scent of sweetened lavender filled the air.

Damien stilled, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles went white. He knew who was in the room. There was no doubting it could be anyone else.

Celia.

“You should leave.” He stared unseeingly at the fire. If she so much as rounded the chair and appeared before him, he couldn’t be held responsible for what he might do.

“You don’t mean that.” The sound of her soft, lilting voice made his eyes close, and he leaned back against the chair, feeling weary. Weak.

So weak.

“I do,” he said without conviction, opening his eyes so he could stare at the fire once more. “It’s not proper for you to be inside my chamber unaccompanied.”

“I’m a widow, not some virginal debutante. And you’re practically a member of the family.” She paused. Did she realize what she said? How she made him sound like a trustworthy, doddering ninety-year-old servant? “I won’t come to harm by your hand.”

“Perhaps not, but your reputation could be in tatters if we’re discovered,” he pointed out. “Go, Celia.”

“No.” The firm defiance in her tone was shocking. He’d never seen her behave in such a contrary manner before. “I’m not leaving, Damien. We must talk.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Oh, but I believe there is.” She approached the chair. He could feel her presence draw closer, smell her distinctive scent even more strongly, and he knew she stood directly behind him. Was sure if he reached back he would touch her. She waited by the chair, her hands most likely clutching the edge nervously.

He’d known her long enough to understand her habits, how she moved and what she did. He knew everything about her.

And he still wanted her. He loved her even, if he could call his near obsession with her that.

“I wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior,” she said after he refused to utter a word.

“Apology accepted.”

“I didn’t let you say a word, and I was rude.” Her hands smoothed across the back of the chair. Hell, he swore the tips of her fingers edged along his hair, touching him. “I’m just so incredibly confused, Damien.”

“By what?”

“By you.” She remained silent for a few minutes too long and he grew impatient.

“What happened last evening,” he finally said in a low growl, “what happened between us should’ve never…I should’ve never thrust myself upon you in the hall. Or kissed you beneath the mistletoe in front of your family. It wasn’t seemly.”

“I don’t give a hang what they saw. Surely you must know this.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“I do.” She rounded the chair so she stood before him, resplendent

in a thin, cream-colored dressing gown. The fire set a fiery glow along her every curve and dip, and the light of the flames illuminated her from within. He could practically see through the fabric of the robe and nightgown beneath it. The shapely length of her legs, the womanly curve of her hips.

His mouth went dry at the sight.

“I’m a fool,” she whispered. “To never see what was so plainly staring me in the face.”

“What do you mean?” He took offense at the word plainly. He should take offense that she hadn’t noticed him, ever. What sort of man was he that he moved through her life like a ghost she didn’t even see until it was almost too late?

“You.” She wrung her hands together. Facing him, admitting such a thing, took a lot for her to do so. “Will you forgive me?”

He stared at her, incredulous. What did he have to forgive her for? Not noticing him? Not realizing he’d pined after her for so many years he didn’t know what it was like not wanting her? He could remain angry and not offer his forgiveness. Hold on to the emotion, allow it to fester and grow within him. It might make his leaving that much easier.