A Match Made in Mistletoe

Instinctively she sucked on his tongue, drawing him into her mouth. With a growl of approval, he bundled her closer to his powerful body. How had she missed what an impressive figure of a man Giles was? At Torver, he tended to allow Paul and Frederick to hold the limelight. But as her feverish hands stroked his shoulders and back, she couldn’t mistake the hard, vital muscle under palms.

How fascinating he turned out to be. The line of his jaw was hard and adamant, betraying a strength she’d never troubled to notice. His skin was smooth—she guessed he’d shaved before coming downstairs—but gave an intriguing hint of his beard. Sinful curiosity ate at her. What other marvels lay beneath his elegant dark blue coat and soft white shirt?

When she twined her arms around his neck and her breasts met his chest, the sensation turned her knees to wet string. Yesterday’s kiss had been astonishing, a revelation. Today’s promised to change her forever. This heady delight was worth all the risk in the world.

She flicked her tongue over his in a silent plea for more passion. Although a whisper at the back of her mind warned that she verged perilously close to folly.

But folly was so warm and bright and beckoning. How could she say no?

The kiss broke through into wildness. Giles’s touch turned demanding, and his lips plundered hers, giving no quarter to her innocence. And she thrilled to every wanton, blazing caress. Dark temptation lured her to the edge of yielding everything, and she was helpless to resist.

His hands touched her body, stroking her sides and her back, trailing sizzling heat down her hips. A forbidden moment when he cupped the curve of her backside. Then for an incandescent instant, his hand settled on her breast and squeezed. Excitement hot as a naked flame zigzagged through her.

With a guttural groan that resonated in her bones, Giles wrenched his hands from her. “For God’s sake, Serena, forgive me.”

She whimpered in protest as he staggered back, panting. It was wrong, she knew it was wrong. But she’d give up her hope of heaven if that large male hand touched her breast again.

Serena’s gaze dropped. She blushed and looked up in a hurry. His breeches did little to hide his excitement. That kiss had tested his co

ntrol as well as hers.

She gulped in a ragged breath, hoping it would calm her rioting pulse. It didn’t.

Her chastity had never been an onerous burden. She’d known that one day she’d surrender her virginity to Paul Garside in the sanctified space of a marriage bed. Stupidly, she’d never much considered the actual act.

Now, staring into Giles Farraday’s glittering dark eyes, she realized that despite her girlish adoration, she’d never hungered for Paul. But dear Lord above, how she hungered for Giles. For his kisses. For his teasing which made her feel they shared a joke nobody else got. For, heaven forgive her, lying beside him with no barriers between them, not even clothing. For that long, powerful body to pound into her.

Giles sucked in an audible, shuddering breath. Heavy eyelids lowered over his eyes, the thick, black eyelashes sweeping down. These small details of his appearance enthralled her. This Christmas, she’d noticed so many small beauties that once she’d been blind to.

Paul was like the sun, his light eclipsing all other satellites. Except Serena now admitted that Giles Farraday was nobody’s satellite. His attractions were subtle, almost self-effacing—and all the more powerful for that.

Her wondering gaze traced his face. The raw bone structure, the expressive lips, the uneven line of his nose that conveyed more character than any perfect profile could. The thick eyebrows that expressed a universe of reaction with the smallest twitch. The dark eyes that saw so much.

Too much.

Before she could censor herself, she spoke. “You know, I meant it last night—you really are handsome. No wonder the London ladies are mad for you.”

His smile was lopsided. “I doubt they want me for my pretty face.”

“Then what…” Her voice faded, and heat prickled her cheeks.

With a grunt of laughter, he took her hand and drew her toward the bench. “That answer’s beyond the scope of this instruction. After all, I don’t want to end up facing either Paul or Frederick down the barrel of a dueling pistol.”

Something unhappy crossed his face as they sat, although he sounded just as he always did. Sardonic. Amused. Detached.

Giles hadn’t kissed her with detachment. However inexperienced she was, she knew that. Although perhaps she should arrange for him to kiss her until Twelfth night, just to make sure.

The droll fancy withered as she recalled that Paul intended to propose on Boxing Day.

That prospect really shouldn’t make her heart sink.

She’d marry Paul Garside, and Giles would go on to share his secrets—and his kisses—with some other lucky girl. It appalled her quite how much she wanted to rip out that unknown female’s hair by the roots. And she’d like to do the same to all his London ladies, too.

“Stop talking.” Her hand tightened on his, and she turned toward him. “I came here to learn how to kiss.”

Serena couldn’t blame him for looking startled. She sounded close to losing her temper. Whereas instead, she was close to losing her mind.

“You don’t need more lessons. You graduated with honors.”