Her Christmas Earl
He bit back a laugh, although her artless sincerity touched him. Sensual curiosity stirred. He was still a rake, no matter what good influence the lovely Miss Sanders exerted on his deplorable character. Could he translate her admiration for his looks into permission to touch?
Oh, he was a bad, bad man. At Christmas and at every other time of the year.
A long and bristling silence fell. Then he heard a smothered sound near his shoulder.
Astonished, he turned in her direction, although he saw nothing through the blackness. “Is that a yawn? Good God, you can’t possibly be bored.”
Lord above, she was a tonic for his vanity. Yet again, he wondered why he liked her so much. She certainly didn’t exert herself to flatter him. On the other hand, she’d been calm throughout this ordeal. The game would be up immediately if he’d been lumbered with a screaming female. They’d have no chance of avoiding dis
covery if she’d started shrieking like a skinned cat. Not to mention that shrieking was damned wearing on a man’s nerves.
Another yawn. “You’ll think me the most rag-mannered hoyden in creation.”
He wanted to tell her she was charming, but he recalled too well how she’d brushed over his last attempt to tell her she was exceptional. “Captivity after midnight with a man of shady reputation tests the bravest lady’s nerves.”
“I was nervous. I probably should still be.” Another tormenting whisper of fabric as she settled more comfortably. “I was up at dawn to help my aunt with Christmas preparations. I’m awfully tired.”
He’d lay good money that Amelia had stayed abed until noon. “There’s nothing much we can do except try and get some sleep.”
A blatant lie. He could think of a hundred things he’d prefer to do. He chanced sliding a fraction closer. “May I offer my shoulder as a pillow? We should make ourselves as comfortable as we can. We’ll be warmer huddled together.”
Very gently, expecting her to flinch away, he slid his arm around her straight shoulders and drew her down until her head rested on his shoulder. His heart gave a great thud of joy when she didn’t move away. She wasn’t in one of his coats and the worn merino of her dress was soft to his touch. Nowhere near as soft, he was sure, as her skin. The thought didn’t make him feel any sleepier.
“We shouldn’t do this,” she whispered, although nobody was within earshot.
“It’s purely for self-preservation.”
With her so close, a tantalizing female scent teased his senses. Tentatively so as not to alarm her, he brushed his cheek against her hair. It was as silky and thick as he’d imagined. Miss Philippa Sanders might have a sharp tongue, but she proved a lusciously sweet armful. He tightened his hold, ignoring her half-hearted protest, and rested his head back against the wall.
However undeserving he might be, Christmas this year had provided glorious gifts.
Chapter Three
GRADUALLY PHILIPPA SURFACED from sleep. Beneath her ear, something pounded deep and steady like the ocean upon the shore. Whatever she rested upon was firm and warm. She murmured and rubbed her cheek against her lovely pillow. Lazy pleasure trickled through her as someone rhythmically stroked her hair.
Then she remembered where she was. And who she was with.
How bizarre to think that a man she’d hardly spoken two words to before tonight touched her with such tenderness. How bizarre. How wrong. How…delightful.
“Dear heaven…” she muttered with less horror than a genuinely virtuous woman would muster.
When she made a token effort to sit up, Erskine’s hold tightened. “Not yet.”
How far she’d ventured from her safe little world. He hugged her into his side so she curved against him, her face buried in the front of his coat. One hand lay on his shoulder and her legs curled beneath her, her thigh resting against his hip. The alien but delicious scent of a man surrounded her. Clean skin. Male musk. A touch of sandalwood.
Compared to her, Lord Erskine was so big. At their first meeting, she’d noted his height, but now, pressed to his hard body, she was overwhelmingly conscious of restrained power. Any sensible girl would be terrified. Instead, Philippa stayed exactly where she was.
The sheer strangeness of how much she liked resting in Erskine’s arms made her try yet again to sit up. This time he let her.
“I’m sorry.” She raised trembling hands to her untidy hair. How mortifying. She must have been wriggling all over him while she slept. Her hair was half collapsed around her face.
“No need to apologize.” His voice was low and subtly insinuating. Or perhaps only her uneasy conscience made her think that.
“Did you sleep?”
“No.”
Somehow that made it worse. That he’d remained alert while she’d felt easy enough to drift off into dreams. Dreams now wisps, but which left behind a trace of guilt.