One Perfect Christmas (Short Story) (4 page)

She watched Lord Needles empty his glass and waited for a passing footman to take
it before she spoke again. “We’re being completely frank, then?”

He settled back into the settee and crossed his ankles. “Completely,” he assured her,
sincerity in his voice, honesty in his eyes.

“In that case, tell me, Lord Needles, why are you in want of a wife?”

He laughed out loud, filling the space between them with a deep, musical burst of
joy. “Miss Merriweather, you are delightful.”

Jane smiled widely, truly appreciative of the compliment. “And you haven’t answered
my question.”

He rested one arm across the back of the settee and tapped his fingers against the
blue and white silk covered cushions. “No, I haven’t,” he answered, then cleared his
throat. “You no doubt are aware that I am a widower. It has been five years since
my wife passed away, during which time I’ve busied myself with travel and my passion
for botany. But I desire a family—and companionship. And my estate requires my attention.”

“And what of the women I feel sure have hunted you to ground in London?” Jane asked,
pausing to sip her punch. “None of them were able to offer you such things?”

Lord Needles captured her attention with a somber stare. “In a manner of speaking.
You see, I cannot abide a silly woman. My wife was one of the most intelligent individuals.…”
He paused, offering Jane a small, sad smile. “I must apologize. My aunt assured me
eligible young women would wish to know as little about my wife as possible.”

“You loved her very much, didn’t you?” Jane asked softly, sorry for the obvious pain
her question had caused him.

He reached out and rested his fingers on her shoulder. “I did. Does that make me weak?”

“Quite the opposite, in my opinion,” Jane assured him, reaching up to lay her hand
over his, if only for a moment. “Love—real love—is only for the strong. Honestly,
I don’t know that it’s for me … at least not now. Not in my position.”

She removed her hand and rested it in her lap, almost shocked by her statement.

“And what position do you speak of, Miss Merriweather?” Lord Needles asked, resuming
the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the settee.

Jane suddenly felt shy. Or embarrassed. Or both. It was one thing to know your circumstances.
And quite another to put it into words.

She folded her hands together, twining the fingers tightly one about the other. “Well,
it’s rather simple. You see, my father, a dear and well-meaning man, is hopeless when
it comes to managing our estate. There is no more money to be squandered, which puts
us in a rather difficult position. And so I must marry a man with both the funds and
the inclination to ride to my rescue, as it were.”

“Quite a responsibility for a young woman,” Lord Needles answered gently.

Jane raised her head, wanting nothing more than to agree with him, but fearing doing
so would be far too indulgent.

“Yes, well, we all suffer our own unique challenges, don’t we, Lord Needles?”

“That we do,” he replied, understanding in his eyes.

Lucas’s twin nieces ran past, their impossibly high voices joined together in a rousing
chorus of excited squeals.

Jane allowed herself to settle back into the settee and take in the party. A comfortable
silence descended over Lord Needles and her, as it would between a pair of old friends.

The lord was rather enjoyable company. Much the same as Robby, or even Reginald.

Jane pursed her lips at the comparison, pondering a swift mental image of Lord Needles
standing next to the donkey.

Well, she reflected, it went without saying they looked nothing alike. One was a man.
The other, an ass.

But that wasn’t the point, was it? She added herself to the duo, her hand ruffling
the donkey’s wiry mane while she smiled contentedly up at Lord Needles.

Ah, she thought with satisfaction, there it was. A fast-won familiarity and comfort.
So effortless, Jane wondered if she wasn’t simply being lazy.

She glanced at the man. He looked as content as she, putting her concern to rest as
he watched the party with obvious pleasure.

Lady Mumford settled at the pianoforte, her fingers nimble as she began the opening
chords of a Scottish air, the sweet seasonal tune reminding Jane that she’d failed
to tell Lord Needles one last important detail to her story.

“Oh, and, though I’m sure you’ve been made aware, I was engaged for all of two weeks,
before my fiancé ran off to Gretna Green with someone else.”

“Lord McKee?”

Jane felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. “You know him?”

“Incomparable idiot, that one,” Lord Needles answered assuredly. “You are far better
off without him.”

“Do you know, Lord Needles, you are quite delightful yourself,” Jane declared, swallowing
the last of her punch.

“We make quite a pair, you and I,” Lord Needles replied with a friendly nod before
standing. “And I believe you would agree.”

Jane realized with no small measure of surprise that she did.

“Now I am off to secure a second glass of punch. May I bring one for you as well?”

He really was quite perfect in every possible way. It was as if the Lord God Almighty’s
helping hand had swooped down from heaven above to arrange their meeting. Jane would
be a fool to muck up this match.

If she squinted her eyes, Jane could almost imagine Lord Needles floating in a bank
of celestial clouds—

“Miss Merriweather?”

Jane startled.

Right. Punch
.

“That would be lovely, Lord Needles, thank you.” She smiled politely as he bowed before
her, then turned toward the refreshment table.

A swell of excitement near the drawing room doors drew Jane’s attention. A small crowd
had gathered, blocking her view. She rose and hastily made her way toward the commotion,
realizing as she reached the edge of the throng that the Yule log was making its way
into the house.

Jane could not remember a time when she’d failed to be present at Cavanaugh House
for this most festive tradition. Cox, the butler, directed four burly young footmen
as they held tight to the ropes wrapped around the large log. Someone in the gathering
offered up a joyous “Huzzah!” and the others joined in for three more shouts as the
log was carefully carried through the doorway and across the room to the expansive
fireplace.

Jane stood back as everyone followed the Yule log. She lingered on the threshold to
savor the cool, crisp scents of snow and pine that still filled the foyer down below.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the seasonal scent, memories of Christmas in years
past piling one upon the other in her brain until a mantle of sweet sentimentality
made her smile.

“You’re reveling in Christmases past, aren’t you?”

Startled, Jane opened her eyes. Lucas stood in front of her, his warm gaze fixed on
hers, his broad masculine form much too close. “How did you know?” she asked, bemused
by his sudden appearance.

“Because you’d never ignore the opportunity to indulge in sentimentality, that’s why,”
he answered, grinning down at her. “Speaking of which, you know which tree that is,
don’t you?”

Jane playfully pushed Lucas away, needing space from his rightness, if that was even
a word. And largeness. And handsomeness. In other words, from him. “No. Tell me.”

Lucas nodded with clear regret. “Old Tom.”

“Oh.” Jane’s smile drooped wistfully. Even the delicious mixture of brisk December
air and the scent of pine could not lessen the stab of sadness.

As children, Jane and Lucas had taken it upon themselves to name many of the trees
that stood in the forest on Cavanaugh lands. Old Tom had been a particular favorite
for his many strong branches and excellent cover from nosy nannies and overbearing
parents.

“Matthew told me after the tree had been felled. Otherwise, I would have insisted
they choose another,” Lucas explained. “I’m sorry, Jane. I truly am.”

“I know you are,” she replied, rather more softly than she’d intended. She tore her
gaze from Lucas’s understanding eyes and looked for Lord Needles.

Lucas followed her searching gaze. “Well, tell me, then. Is he ‘marriage material,’
as I’ve heard my mother call him?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Lord Needles, Jane,” Lucas explained. “That is who we are looking for, is it not?”

There it was, his rightness bothering Jane yet again. “Well, yes.”

“Yes we are looking for Lord Needles? Or yes the man is marriage material?”

“Both,” Jane bit out, realizing as she did that she meant it. “Yes, both. Do you know,
I quite like the man.”

From the corner of her eye, Jane saw Lucas look at her as if he was about to say something.
Then he turned his attention back to the crowd, finally uttering, “Are you surprised?”

“Honestly? Yes,” Jane answered, facing Lucas. “You know the man was just as likely
to be a pompous, pea-brained, rotten-toothed, doddering old fool. But he’s not. Not
even close—in fact, he’s almost perfect.”

“Then I am exceedingly happy for you, Jane,” Lucas said, though she could have sworn
the kindness of his words did not show in his eyes.

“Still, there is no point in tempting fate.” He pointed up toward the ceiling to where
a mistletoe ball hung jauntily from a red satin ribbon. “A kiss is required, or else.”

Jane looked at him skeptically. “Or else what? I never have quite understood the danger
involved.”

“Oh, grievous tidings for those who refuse,” Lucas answered, shaking his finger. “Grievous
tidings, indeed.”

Jane considered his response. She certainly could not afford grievous tidings. Not
now.

“Seems a rather silly tradition, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked, desperate to avoid
Lucas’s lips on hers.

“Tell that to the Picts … Or the Vikings. One or the other. You could tempt fate,
I suppose.…”

Flashes of longboats carrying marauding savages filled Jane’s mind. “Perhaps a small
peck.” She then closed her eyes and waited.

She felt his breath first, warm puffs of sweet air tantalizing her upper lip.

Impatience swept through her and she focused again on marauding Vikings.

She squeezed her eyelids tight as Lucas’s body brushed hers, the wool of his coat
rubbing against the bodice of her silk gown.

The friction heated her lungs and she bit back a rising tide of panic, her breathing
becoming staccato beats of harried energy.

His finger slowly slid from the tip of her chin to just beneath it and he tipped her
head up, trailing along the edge of her jaw to rest in the hollow just beneath her
earlobe. He hesitated, tortuously drawing a semicircle on the heated skin, before
removing his hand entirely.

Jane swallowed hard.

The Picts were of Scottish descent, found mainly in eastern and northern Scotland.
Or was it southern Scotland?

Her skin prickled with indescribable heat, fiery wisps of hedonistic flame licking
at her limbs.

No, it was most definitely northern.

Jane reached out with one hand, a sudden dizziness beginning to spin in her head.
Her fingers landed upon
Lucas’s chest and she quickly pulled them back, a gasp escaping her lips.

The flames licked hungrily, burning beneath the skin between her breasts and legs.

Lucas touched his lips to hers. Firm, but exquisitely soft, his mouth molded against
hers as if made for this very moment.

Was it the Norse who built funeral pyres for their dead?

Jane felt flushed. Warm. So, so warm.

He set a sultry pace, the many strong and skilled muscles in his face seemingly intent
upon her destruction.

Jane wanted more. Her tongue teased the seam of his mouth to open. The apex between
her thighs thrummed with need.

Lucas broke off the kiss.

Jane’s eyes flew open and she frantically searched for something—anything—that would
make sense.

“Happy Christmas, Jane,” Lucas murmured.

She struggled to maintain her balance as her mind sorted out where she was, her body
responding to the sudden sense of desertion with small, imperceptible spasms in her
heated muscles.

“And to you, Lucas,” Jane mumbled, amazed she was able to say anything at all.

Christmas Day

He knew that he shouldn’t have done it, but Lucas had given Jane something to think
about with his kiss. At least, he thought he had. She’d been prattling on about how
nearly perfect Lord Needles was. And he’d needed to make her stop.

Lucas stared straight ahead at Vicar Jones, seeing the man’s lips move but hearing
nothing of the Christmas morning service. His entire mental attention was focused
on the pew behind him, where Jane and her parents sat.

And Lord Needles.

Jane had all but melted into Lucas’s arms after their kiss last night. Oh, she’d recovered
eventually—going so far as to suggest her reaction to him was nothing more than a
touch of light-headedness from the ratafia.

But he’d watched her all night, and she’d not taken one sip of ratafia, nor anything
else that would lead to such a display.

No, it was his kiss that had ignited the blush that had so deliciously flooded her
milky skin. He knew it.

Lucas licked the seam of his lips, and could swear the taste of Jane lingered there—teasing
him, torturing him. It wasn’t their first kiss. No,
that
momentous occasion had unfolded in the branches of Old Tom, when Lucas was ten. He’d
asked Jane whether she’d prefer to kiss a frog or him.
When she’d screwed up her face with disgust and answered “Neither!” he had planted
an unpracticed peck on her cheek with all the force his bruised ego could manage.
She’d screamed, then punched him in the gut. He’d fallen out of the tree and hit the
ground hard, his very breath knocked free from his lungs.

Last night’s kiss had produced a somewhat similar effect. He’d forced himself to be
patient with her, and the effort had left him dizzy with desire, and the need for
much, much more. She’d gasped when her hand had reached out for support only to find
his chest. The combined feel of her fingers on him and the breathy sound of her surprise
had made Lucas wonder what she would feel like, sound like, look like, when she climaxed.
The heady thought had only stirred his impatience and threatened to harden his cock
right there, in the middle of his mother’s Christmas Eve party.