Merry Christmas, My Love

Penrose placed his serviette alongside his plate and stood. “Now if you will excuse me, ladies, I will retire to my library to finish up some last minute items before our overnight guests arrive.”

Despite his pronouncement, when he entered the library, he headed to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He gazed out at the dreary day. Snow was once again in the air.

Merry checked the yellow and white flowered china clock on her dresser. Her lady’s maid would arrive shortly to help her into her gown and fix her hair. She placed her hands over her middle to stop the fluttering.

She’d managed to avoid Penrose all day. When she arrived home from the small market town, he’d been behind closed doors with his steward. Breathing a sigh of relief, she scurried to her room, where she remained hidden for the afternoon.

Now with her bath over, and coming to terms with her impending meeting with Penrose, all the jumbled thoughts that had raced through her mind all day began to form cohesive sentences. She would let him make his scandalous proposal. But to make certain he knew she understood what he planned to do, she’d selected her most indecent gown. If he believed her to be a woman of loose morals, then she would play the part.

The low cut white silk garment, with a wide band of red satin underneath her breasts brought attention to the creamy skin of her cleavage. The small cap sleeves emphasized her slender shoulders. As she gazed at the beautiful gown, she tapped her finger against her lips. Perhaps she would even dampen the material so it clung to her body. She shivered, reminding herself it was December.

She padded across the room to her chest and withdrew long red satin opera gloves. Perfect to finish off the outfit that declared her to be a woman of little virtue, as he apparently saw her. She would tempt the man all evening, teasing him with what he would never again have. Then when he offered to make her his mistress, she would slap his arrogant face, then storm away, her head held high.

Why didn’t that make her feel any better? True, she would have her moment, but she’d have to leave her girls and Kitty. And watch Miss Jennings preen.

But worse than anything, she’d lose the man she loved. The man she’d given herself to and thought he had at least some feelings for her besides lust. To us marriage is all a business arrangement, nothing more.

Oh God, how am I going to get through this night?

Penrose adjusted his cravat once more, standing next to his mother in the receiving line, constantly watching the staircase, waiting for Merry to descend. His heart sped up every time he caught a flash of blonde out of the corner of his eye. When the woman turned out not to be Merry, his heart resumed its normal pattern.

Where was the woman?

For some inexplicable reason, he’d been unsuccessful in seeing her all day. Every time he asked for her, she was gone from the manor, locked in her room, busy with his wards, supervising the servants, or on some infernal mission for his mother. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Merry had purposely avoided him.

Unlike the other women, she elected to have a tray sent to her room for dinner. His stomach in knots, he ate very little, and drank too much. He grunted. Leave it to getting involved with a woman to drive a man to drink.

“You’re looking quite well, Your Grace.” His musings were interrupted by Lady St. James, as she eyed him, the familiar sultry look in her eyes. He’d had a short dalliance with her a few years ago, but quickly lost interest. Now her blatant tone and the possessive way she rested her hand on his chest rankled.

“My lady,” he bent over her hand and kissed it.

She cast a glance at him from under shuttered eyelids, a siren’s smile on her face before she moved along.

“Your Grace.” He turned to encounter Miss Jennings standing beside him. Heavens, what did the woman have on? Her gown would be more appropriate for a young debutante. Did she not possess anything more suited to her age? Ever the gentleman, he bent and kissed her hand. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

She tittered, and lingered, fussing with her gown. The overpowering stench of her perfume caused his eyes to water. He glanced up and came eye to eye with Merry making her way into the ballroom.

Everyone else in the room ceased to exist. He attempted to swallow with the driest mouth he’d ever had. His eyes ate her up, her cool assessment, her chin angled in arrogance. Her tongue ran over her lush lips as her gaze swung back and forth between him and Miss Jennings. She was exquisite.

And barely dressed! God’s teeth! Where the devil was the rest of her gown?

His blood froze, unable to decide whether to race downward to his groin in lust, or upward to his head in anger. If she took a deep breath and exhaled, her delectable breasts would tumble from her bodice into her drink. All the muscles in his gut tightened, and he fought a powerful desire to shrug out of his jacket, then whip it around her shoulders, covering up what no one else except he should ever lay eyes on.

He snagged her hand as she passed by.

She stopped, and raised her chin. “Your Grace,” she curtsied gracefully.

“Stand up,” he snapped, causing his mother to glance at him. He could swear he’d gotten a glimpse of her nipples. “Do not curtsy for the rest of the evening.”

“As you say.” Merry rose, a sly smile on her face.

Her eyes twinkled with mirth, the cool disdain on her features a marked contrast. His grip tightened on her hand. The red satin glove on her warm fingers brought a flush to his face, sending his blood south. “Don’t go anywhere. I want to speak with you.”

“Indeed, Your Grace?” She tugged her hand from his. “If you will excuse me, I believe I’m being summoned.” She nodded slightly and entered the ballroom.

Good lord, I can’t let her parade around the room in that gown!

Twenty very long minutes passed before the last guest had been greeted, and Penrose was free to find his future duchess. After searching through the throng, he finally spotted her talking with Lord Grey, one of London’s worst rakes. He headed in her direction, his blood pumping in rhythm with his steps.