Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

d, he regarded her with the narrow-eyed green glitter that warned her she was about to become very rumpled indeed. “Anyway, all attention is on the new Mr. and Mrs. Fox.”

“I hope they’ll be happy,” Philippa said, although right now she hardly cared.

Blair shrugged, kicking the door shut behind him. The huge bedroom that had seemed so daunting last Christmas Eve was empty. Mills had swiftly learned to appear only when summoned. “Your sister looked almost human when she walked up the aisle this morning. Perhaps she’s finally growing up.”

“I hope so.” It was true. Amelia had even complimented Philippa on how pretty she looked in her attendant’s gown. With her sister, that was as close to an apology for her spite as Philippa was likely to get. “And my mother unbent enough to ask my opinion of the flowers in the church.”

“Good God, much more of this, and I’ll stop dreading family gatherings,” Blair said wryly. “Which doesn’t mean that once we’ve done the pretty for Christmas, we’re staying past Boxing Day.”

The Earl and Countess of Erskine had become country bumpkins of the most dedicated sort. They’d spent most of their year together on Blair’s Scottish estates, and Philippa had never been happier.

When her husband edged her toward the wall, Philippa frowned. “Aren’t we going to bed?”

He laughed. “What a hussy I married.”

She blushed. Twelve months of dedicated carnal education hadn’t cured her of the habit. “You don’t seem to mind.”

Even in the early months of dazzling sensual discovery, she’d been sensible enough to wonder whether his interest would wane once her novelty faded. But he’d never shown any restlessness.

At first that had astonished her. But eventually she’d come to accept that she’d captured that rarest of beasts, the reformed rake. And the rake showed every sign of being content in his captivity.

“It’s Christmas Eve. Time for good little boys to get what they’ve asked for.” He took another step forward.

Frowning in puzzlement, she automatically took another step back. “But you’ve had me all year.”

He stopped herding her like a stray calf and burst into laughter. “Oh, my bonny lassie, you are a treasure. I bless the day that door jammed.”

Could her blush get any hotter? “Well, I’m beginning to think I married a lunatic.”

He stopped laughing and focused that concentrated regard on her face. “Only beginning?”

She dug her heels in, refusing to budge. “What are you up to, Blair?”

He was still smiling. “I’m fulfilling a dream that’s teased me for a year, my dear wife. Brace yourself.”

“Brace—”

He flung open the door to the fatal dressing room, and she suddenly understood why he looked like a cat who had taken over a dairy.

His hand closing around hers, he pulled her into the confined space. Immediately Philippa was transported back to last Christmas Eve. A night of dread and uncertainty—and her introduction to the pleasure that had since become a rich strand in her life. Blair’s subtle scent was part of her now, but in the small room, she was overwhelmingly aware, as on that first night, of his essence.

As he tugged the door shut, she noticed the lit candle on the trunk. She cast him a sardonic look. “You’re better prepared this time.”

“Practice makes perfect. I hope you’re not expecting a leisurely wooing, my love.”

Every time he called her his love, she suffered a pang, despite the radiant happiness of the life they’d built together. He used endearments all the time. Darling. Sweetheart. Dearest. But when he said “my love,” she remembered that for all his attention and affection, he’d never said he loved her.

And poor, pathetic, yearning creature she was, she’d offer up her soul on a carving plate to him, if only he’d say the words. Even once.

She shook off the bleakness. Her husband planned a wicked interlude. She refused to brood on what couldn’t be and spoil what promised to prove a memorable encounter. “You’re feeling the pinch?”

“Most definitely.” His low, insinuating laugh made her shiver with familiar excitement.

His expression intent, he backed her toward the closed door. She had fond memories of that door. The first time he’d kissed her, she’d been leaning against it.

He kissed her again, with a desperation that jangled with his light-hearted tone as he’d lured her in here. Eager hands tugged at her bodice, and they both sighed with satisfaction as he fondled her breasts. He slid her skirt higher, then with a couple of deft movements, her drawers fell to the floor. His exploring hand quickly discovered that she too was needy.

“Don’t make me wait,” she begged, clinging to his shoulder with one hand while she fumbled at the fall of his trousers. A year had taught her a few husband-managing skills of her own.