A Mistletoe Masquerade

CHAPTER NINE

The room was in darkness save for the hot glow of the banked fire. Inside the door Lucas released her hand and went to kneel by the hearth to kindle a spill for the candles.

I should be afraid, she thought. I should be shy and apprehensive. Or at the very least ashamed of myself. But I am not. I love him. I do not know how to pleasure him, but he will show me and I will do it. Lucas turned his head and looked at her, a long, serious look that turned her bones to water.

'I must sit down. My knees…' She sat on the edge of the narrow bed. Was there room enough for both of them? Yes, if he held her tight. Rowan closed her eyes.

'I have a Christmas present for you.' She opened them and found he was standing there with a small lumpy parcel in his hands. 'It is a trifling thing. Foolish. But when I saw it…'

Rowan reached out and took it. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. She spread back the paper and found a small mug inside, made of glazed earthenware with an uneven verse trailed in cream slip around its curving belly. Smiling at the feel of it in her hands, she tilted it to the light and read:

To Forget and Forgive is a Maxim of Old

Tho I've learnt but one Half of it yet

The Theft of my Heart I can freely Forgive

But the Thief I can Never Forget.

'Oh, Lucas.' It was ridiculous doggerel. Why, then, did it bring a lump to her throat and a shimmer of tears to her eyes? 'Thank you. I might have given it to you and the words would be just as true.' She placed it carefully on the trunk beside the bed and looked at him. 'Come and kiss me. I thought sitting down would stop my knees knocking together, but I am still foolishly nervous.'

'Only because this is important.' He tugged his neckcloth loose and shrugged out of coat and waistcoat together, then came and knelt in front of her. 'At any time if you want to stop, to leave, you have only to say.'

Rowan nodded. She might be innocent of a man's embraces, but she had picked up much about what actually happened, and she knew that for a man, once launched on this particular activity, stopping suddenly was not an easy or pleasant thing.

Then he kissed her, and she ceased to worry about whether he could or should stop-or about anything at all. There was only Lucas and his heat and his strength, and the edge of fear and the knowledge of safety and the scent of aroused man in her nostrils.

It was not a particularly easy dress to unfasten, but he had managed it without her realizing. His big hand was cupping her right breast, warm through the thin shift, and the silk was pooling around her hips. She moaned as his other hand slid down, under her, lifting so that he could tug the gown free, and she was clinging to him, only her undergarments and his shirt between her breast and his chest.

He had not stopped kissing her, his mouth hot and excitingly moist and arrogantly demanding. She thought hazily that if she wanted to stop she would have to box his ears to gain his attention, for he seemed intent on nothing more than reducing her to a quivering puddle on the bed.

Rowan found she could squeeze a hand between their bodies and found buttons, dragging his shirt open until her hand could slide inside against skin that was silk over muscle. She explored, fascinated, aroused, until with a growl he brought her down onto the bed beneath his weight, his fingers teasing her nipples until she gasped for mercy against his mouth.

'Too much?' Lucas raised his head and looked down at her.

'Yes… No. I just need to touch you.' He shrugged out of his shirt and she lay and looked at the firelight on his skin. It seemed to hold the remnants of the golden tan it must have had a few months ago-or perhaps her love gilded her sight. 'Take everything off,' she asked, greedy for him.

'I had planned to be more discreet,' he said, getting to his feet, his hands at the fastening of his silk evening breeches. He stripped without bravado and without any apparent shyness, standing there as though waiting for her reaction before touching her again.

'Oh.' He is beautiful. And frightening. Part of her wanted him inside her. Part was grateful he would not be. She had not realised that men were quite so…so… At least he seemed to find her arousing. To hide her confusion Rowan tugged her petticoat and shift over her head, then bent up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. That felt…safe. She was not sure what to do about her stockings.

'You are a lovely woman,' Lucas said slowly. 'But that is not what I love about you. I love you and your courage and your grace and your fierce loyalty and your humour. And your eyes and your skin, and how I imagine it will feel when I loose your hair, and your scent.'

He was sitting on the end of the bed now, and it was apparent he knew exactly what to do about her stockings. They were rolled down, snagging now and again against the skin of his strong rider's hands, then they were off and those hands were smoothing down the curve of her calves, up to her knees. 'Lie back, sweetheart.'

She swallowed hard, but obeyed, almost soothed by his gentling hands, still quivering in anticipation. She knew where this was leading, but Lucas did not seem to be in any hurry to get there. Up the outside of her thighs to the curve of her hip, down to the soft skin behind her knees, up again, until she relaxed and her legs became limp. The next smooth stroke brought his palm to cup the hot, moist triangle of hair and his fingers slid in to touch her, stroke her.

Rowan arched against the pressure, gasped, and one finger slid deeper, just where she was aching the most, just inside, and she cried out as the world spun and shattered.

She came to, to find herself full-length against him, cradled so that she could hear his heart under her cheek. 'I'm sorry.'

'Sorry? Have you any idea how flattering it is that I touch you and it has that effect?' His voice rumbled in her ear and his breath stirred her hair.

'No.' She felt bonelessly heavy, and yet something was stirring again where he had touched her. Her breasts were aching and she wanted to move against him.

'Believe me.' Lucas's hand was moving again, down over her flank.

Bold, she moved her own hand from his chest, her fingertips riffling through the crisp hair down to his navel, finding an intriguing trail of coarser hair to follow.

'Ah.' He sighed as she found the hard, unsatisfied length of him, her fingertips tentative as she stroked the unexpectedly soft skin.

'Show me how.'

He did not speak, simply took her hand and wrapped it firmly around, moving it within his own until she found a rhythm. It was powerfully erotic, feeling a man react to her touch, feeling the elemental sexuality of him, the heat, the shifting of their bodies together, the tantalising caress of his hands as they shifted their position so that he could pleasure her, too.

The power of his climax, his gasp of release, her own shuddering pleasure swept her away utterly. She had no idea where she was, only with whom, only that they loved. Only, finally, that they slept.

December 26th

'Sweetheart, wake up.' Lucas's mouth was close to her ear, his breath warm.

'No.' Rowan snuggled closer, denying his efforts to pull the covers down. He was warm and comfortable and all hers, and she was not going to be dislodged from this blissful dream.

She heard a muffled snort of laughter, then he slid out of bed. There was a brief tug of war while she lay there, bedding gripped in her fists, eyes tight closed, then he seemed to give up.

'Come back to bed,' she mumbled. He was moving about. Rowan cracked open one lid and found the room almost dark. Lucas, in his shirt, had lit one candle and was pulling on his breeches. 'It is too early yet.'

'It is four o'clock. You must get back to bed.' Rowan dragged the sheets over her head, then yelped in protest as he picked her up, bedding and all, her clothes tangled on top. 'My love, all the magic has run out. It is the morning.'

'I love you.' She lay still in his arms as he shouldered the door wide and carried her out.

'I know. I know, my love.'

He carried her along the corridors, up the steep, winding stairs to her turret, and laid her on her own bed. 'Sweetheart, this is goodbye. I will not see you again.'

'You are leaving?' She struggled up in the nest of bedding until she was sitting, trying to see him in the faint light.

'After the ball-after Lord Danescroft has retired for the night.'

'Then there is all of today, tonight-'

'Do you think I am made of iron?' he asked harshly. 'Are you? Can you do this again? I thought I could. I thought I could spend a day and a night with you, knowing it was the end. But I find I do not have the courage for a lingering death. Let us make it a clean break. Goodbye, my love. Be happy.' He bent and kissed her-swiftly, hard, with an anger she knew was for himself.

The door closed with a click. She heard his heels clattering briefly on the stone steps, then silence. Rowan turned her face into the pillow and lay, dry-eyed, waiting for morning and the rest of her life.

'Was the ball lovely?' Penny's smile was over-bright, her movements lacking her usual slightly dreamy grace.

'The… Oh, yes. Delightful. Most entertaining, and really surprisingly lavish and sophisticated.' Rowan managed to inject creditable enthusiasm into her tone as she bustled around her friend, helping her out of her travelling clothes.

'Only you look rather strained.' Penny tossed her muff onto the chest of drawers and sat down at the dressing table to whisk a hare's foot over her nose and cheeks.

'It was a late night. And then I was too excited to sleep.'

The pain had to ease, surely? In a day or two it would settle down into a perfectly manageable misery, and in the meantime all she had to do was act. Not that that was easy. She had found the little mug outside her door later that morning and had had to go back inside for ten minutes to regain her composure before coming down. It was sitting on her dresser now, waiting for her.

'How was the visit?'

'My singing was every bit as painful as you might expect, but once that was over the rest was very pleasant. The dowager had her grandchildren to stay and they were delightful.'

'Was the singing so very bad? Did your godmother insist you perform in front of everyone?'

'Of course. But Lord Danescroft said he wanted to sing, too, so we sang a duet and he quite drowned me out. Thank goodness.'

'How rude of him.'

'Oh, no, he meant it nicely, for he could see I was nervous, and he confided that he was sure to be asked so we could get it over with together.'

'I see. So you are thinking more kindly of him now?' Rowan spread out Penny's afternoon dress, even though it seemed tiresome to change, given that she would be retiring for a lie-down at four o'clock in anticipation of the ball.

Penny set down the hare's foot with a snap. 'I am quite decided about Lord Danescroft,' she said, with surprising crispness.

'Well… good.'

Penny got up and tossed aside her wrapper for Rowan to lift the afternoon gown over her head. 'I have made up my mind that you are right,' she announced as her head emerged from the floss-trimmed neck. 'I must speak up and say what I really want, what I feel, and to…hell with the consequences.' She went quite pink and looked terrified at her own boldness.

'Excellent,' Rowan said with emphasis. She only hoped that Penny felt better tomorrow than she did. No, it was wrong to think she felt bad, exactly: she felt…confused and sad, and her body felt wonderful, and her heart… Oh, Lucas.

'So you will?' Penny had obviously been talking for several minutes. She had pinned up her hair without Rowan's help and was putting on her slippers.

'What? Sorry, I was air-dreaming.'

'Come to the ball tonight.' There was a knock at the door. 'Come in!'

Two footmen staggered in, a large trunk between them.

'But that's my-'

'That's the trunk we did not think we would need,' Penny said smoothly, so the men could hear. 'I had it brought up from the inn. Thank you-that will be all.'

'I cannot come to the ball! I'm your dresser.'

'Yes, you can.' Penny threw back the top of the trunk. 'I had the idea yesterday afternoon. When they brought the mail over I pretended I had received a letter from you-the real you-saying you were staying in Tollesbury Magna. Of course everyone made much of the coincidence, and Lady Fortescue said I must write and invite you. Sol sent the groom to Alice and Kate instead, and pretended again that you had accepted with delight.'

'But how on earth am I going to get to the ballroom?'

'There's a side staircase-I think left over from the old house before this wing was added. If you go down it there is a passage, and you can slip out into the stable-yard. The carriage will be there for you at ten. You get in, it drives round to the front door, and down you get.'

'Penelope Maylin-what a pack of lies and deception! I had no idea you had it in you.'

'I know. I must say, being wicked is quite refreshing, don't you think? No one will recognise you-not with your hair dressed and all your jewellery and your best gown. Who would expect to?'

Rowan turned and looked at her reflection in the mirror. No, once her hair was freed from this tight, sleek style, and she was wearing her diamonds and her new cream silk gown, quite unlike anything she had been seen in before, no one would recognise that Lady Rowan Chilcourt was Miss Maylin's humble dresser.

Lucas would, of course, but then he would not see her. The valets did not appear downstairs during such events-not like the ladies' maids, who were on hand to deal with fainting misses, torn hems and wilting coiffures. She must take care to avoid the retiring rooms.

'I will do it.' Last night had been an enchanted dream. It was time to stop being Daisy and become Rowan again. Time to forget she was in love and to think of Papa and of finding a suitable alliance with an eligible man. Time to do her duty.