The Viscount's Christmas Temptation (5 page)

“Forty-seven.”

He stared at her, aghast. “How is that possible?
Who
?”

She shot a quick glance at the empty corridor. They ought to catch up with Lady Jersey before she noted their absence. But it was better to have this conversation without the countess in earshot. Amelia laid her hand on his arm. “Virtually all of your cousins failed to make the cut. Rarely does anyone from the countryside succeed in procuring a voucher. As for your town acquaintances, a few that held vouchers in the past have had them revoked.”

His gaze darkened. “For example?”

“Captain Grey comes to mind. As does his friend, Major Blackpool.”

Lord Sheffield jerked back in shock. “But they are war heroes! What can those dragons possibly have against Captain Grey?”

She touched her fingers to his arm. “If it makes you feel better, my intelligence is that he hasn’t spoken a word since returning from Belgium, so I doubt he would accept an invitation regardless.”

“It does not make me feel better.” His muscles were rigid beneath her palm. “What about Major Blackpool? When I saw him last month, he was as clever and witty as ever.”

She bit her lip. “His membership was canceled due to his refusal to comply with the dress code. Something about silk stockings being incompatible with his prosthesis.”

“The man lost his leg in battle!”

“Which means he shan’t wear appropriate stockings, shall he.” She gestured at the shabby opulence around them. “Rules are rules, my lord.”

“Lady Jersey can take her rules and—”

The countess swept back into the room. Her pursed lips indicated she was vexed by not having been granted their undivided attention.

“Discourse,” she said sharply. “Those of your guests who are not dancing—and even those who are—must comply with strict adherence to the mandates governing appropriate topics of conversation. No politics. No salacious gossip. No Corn Law riots. And absolutely no talk of war.” She fixed Lord Sheffield with a speaking gaze.

He swung his eyes back to Amelia and spoke without bothering to dissimulate. “I not only cannot invite family members and military heroes who are not on the patronesses’ exalted list, I’m not even permitted to verbally acknowledge the realities of war at my own party?”

“’Tisn’t just your party,” the countess shot back. “It is also an Almack’s affair.”

“It is obviously not going to be
that
,” he replied flatly.

Lady Jersey lifted her chin. “Are you
trying
to provoke my displeasure, Lord Sheffield?”

“With mere words? If I wished to ensure your displeasure, I should do something like
this
.” He swung Amelia round and towed her toward the exit without so much as a backward glance. “Come along, darling. I believe this tour is over.”

“Come
along
?” She tried to yank free of his iron grip. “Did you just give
Lady Jersey
the cut direct?”

“We both did!” he agreed cheerfully. “She’s likely tearing our names from her book at this very moment. I do hope you weren’t terribly attached to submitting to their gothic rules. I believe we’ve finally run afoul of the patronesses’ kind regard.”

The next morning, Amelia did not waste her time sending Lord Sheffield a report on the benefits and conveniences of Almack’s. In fact, she did not write him at all.

Although she was unquestionably out of favor with Lady Jersey at the moment, the countess was not known to hold grudges, and Amelia had every faith that their unexceptional past history—and Lord Sheffield’s outspoken role in yesterday’s dustup—would soon mend the ladies’ broken fences. Everything was going according to plan.

Lord Sheffield sent his first missive at ten in the morning. His second missive arrived at two in the afternoon. Amelia ignored them both. At six o’clock, she tied on her prettiest bonnet and breezed out the front door just as a coach-and-four bearing the viscount’s crest pulled onto the circular drive.

She smiled. He was right on time.

He leapt from his carriage just as she approached the door. “What do you mean by not responding to my missives? I sent a man with the first one to wait for a response, and had to send another just to fetch him home!” He grabbed her by the hands. “Are you cross with me? I won’t allow the Jersey woman to take my ill behavior out on you. I even sent a flowery letter full of every lie I could think of to restore her good temper but I swear to you, Lady Amelia—” He straightened his shoulders. “Even if my plea for forgiveness succeeds, I will not have a Christmastide ball constrained to those edicts.”

“Of course not,” she said soothingly, then tilted her head toward his open carriage door. “Help me up?”

He swung her up and into the coach without pausing to ask why. Amelia found the ensuing consternation upon his handsome visage to be quite comical, though she strove to keep her amusement hidden from her face.

Lord Sheffield stared up at her from the icy drive as if he couldn’t quite credit how or why they had switched places. He shook his head and hefted himself back into the carriage. “Are we going somewhere?”

This time, he seated himself beside her rather than across from her. Her heartbeat quickened. He took up far too much space. The presence of his body snug against hers heated her flesh far more efficiently than any warming brick might have done.

“Vauxhall,” she answered, without demanding he switch seats. After all, it was his carriage. And a Pembroke was never presumptuous.

His bright hazel eyes widened in surprise. “The pleasure gardens? Aren’t they closed for the winter?”

“They do not have to be,” she told him. “Like Almack’s, Vauxhall Gardens is a favorite spot for entertainment. Unlike Almack’s, there are few rules governing admittance. Your entire guest list would be welcome.”

His lip curled. “Further unlike Almack’s, people visit pleasure gardens for
fun
.”

“You don’t have fun at Almack’s?” she asked, too innocently.

“Tisn’t called the Marriage Mart because it’s conducive to bachelorhood.” His brow furrowed. “Speaking of which, why haven’t
you
got leg-shackled? You’ve got beauty, brains, elegance, and—as you previously mentioned—aren’t hurting for coin. I cannot credit that a woman with your wit, looks, and politesse should have any trouble at all collecting suitors.”

“’Tis my personality,” she sighed, affecting a morose expression. “I cannot conceive why my beaux object to my running every aspect of their lives.”

“Myopic pups, indeed.” The corners of his mouth quirked. “Have you considered—between now and any future leg-shackling, that is—the possibility of spending some time
not
running things?”

“Oh, I do,” she said earnestly. “Twice daily! I try very hard not to run things in my sleep, nor whilst cleaning my teeth. Far too difficult to bark orders with tooth powder in one’s mouth.”

He nodded gravely. “You are as wise as you are practical, Lady Amelia.”

She nodded back. “I know.”

But he had taken his own advice, not hers. She cut him another glance. He had broken from his schedule. It was half six on a cold but clear Thursday evening. She could not have planned it any better. “It isn’t yet eight of the clock. Shouldn’t you be at your desk, my lord?”

He raised his brow. “I would be, if a certain managing chit had but deigned to respond to my missives.”

“Even could I swallow the absurd conclusion that only calling upon me in person would do, it doesn’t explain what you’re doing in a carriage with me in mid-afternoon.”

His gaze softened, his voice low and warm. “Where else would I wish to be?”

She blushed and averted her face toward the window. She’d expected him to appear,
counted
on it in fact, but she hadn’t imagined—had never once thought—

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there
was
some value to setting one’s duties aside now and then for a few stolen moments.

With the right person.

They alighted from the coach just before the Vauxhall Bridge. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and matched his steps to hers. The wind was sharp and icy as it flew across the Thames and into their scrunched faces. Lord Sheffield put himself between the wind and Amelia, sheltering her as much as possible until they had crossed to the other side.

Leafless trees provided welcome relief from the direct onslaught of the wind, but he did not release her from his side. They strolled down the paths hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder. Shoulder-to-upper-arm, to be precise. She swallowed. Her throat was unaccountably dry. He was more than half a head taller, and much larger. The difference in their sizes did not make her feel small, but rather, safe. She liked the feel of his warm strong body so close to hers, the way he huddled closer if he detected the slightest shiver.

Without candles in the lanterns, the “illuminated” walks were as shadowy as the Dark Paths. And without the ten or fifteen thousand people who crowded the walkways during the summer, it was as if the two of them strolled through their own private gardens. She held his arm a little tighter.

They might have walked for miles, so little did she notice the passage of time. She was too focused on the simple joys of their synchronized steps, the white puffs of vapor as they breathed, the smiling looks they exchanged at this statue or that tower.

The supper rooms were empty, the orchestra vacant, but rather than lend a desolate air, the grounds seemed all the more magical. Dismal for a party, of course—her toes were freezing and her lips so chapped she barely dared to speak—but she was arm-in-arm with Viscount Sheffield. There were no patrons to contend with, no patronesses to bow and scrape to, no one at all save the two of them. The winding trail their only guide, a smattering of stars their only chaperone.

Her hands went clammy. She swallowed hard. They were truly alone. Errands in the city proper were one thing, with grooms and footmen at every turn. But here . . . in Vauxhall . . . all alone beneath the stars . . .

He pulled her into his arms.

She
meant
to resist, or at least she probably meant to, but all she could do was gaze up at him without a word. Her blood quickened.

“We should go,” he said gruffly, his face inscrutable.

“Why?” Her heartbeat thundered. She gripped his arms tight to keep herself from twining her own about his neck.

He lowered his mouth to her ear, brushing it with a feather-soft kiss. “It isn’t safe.”

Her answering shiver had nothing to do with the cold. She couldn’t even feel the weather. Her thighs were flush with his, her breasts against his chest. She had never stood so close to any man, had never fought the urge to press herself even closer.

“What could happen?” she whispered.

He cupped her face in his hands. “
Anything
.”

Her breath caught at the ragged edge to his voice. At the delicious knowledge that it was
she
whom he desired, she who caused the tremble in his touch and the glint of hunger in his eyes.

But her life hung together on planning, not passion. She was much too sensible to allow the wants of her heart to outweigh the wisdom of her brain.

When he lowered his face toward hers, she pulled from his embrace and walked away.

Benedict passed a sleepless night. The fact of a sleepless night was not so very wonderful, but rather the reason that kept him from his slumber.

Lady Amelia.

Because of her, he had twice broken from his schedule since the last daybreak. He’d started by leaving his office before eight the night before, simply because he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer of why the woman who had insisted upon a maximum three hour turnabout for her own missives was refusing to answer his own. And then, after the lovely, charming, romantic, disappointing outing in Vauxhall . . .

He had returned home. He! Had returned
home
.

What did he care for gentlemen’s clubs and boxing matches when all he could think about was the soft, stolen kiss she hadn’t let him take? If only he hadn’t warned her of his intentions . . . But no, he could never treat her dishonorably. Had never treated anyone dishonorably. It was the reason why he selected his mistresses from actresses and courtesans who expected nothing more than a casual physical affair.

And of course he couldn’t take Lady Amelia as his mistress. Now that he’d met her, he couldn’t take
anyone
as his mistress, or anything else. They all paled next to her. The debutantes were too shallow, the demimonde too world-weary, the bluestockings too desperate to prove they didn’t need a man.

Lady Amelia didn’t have to prove such a thing. She’d shown him with every word, every action, from the moment of their first meeting. She didn’t need him, or likely anyone. But, oh, if he could make her
want
him . . .

The first thing she had wanted was to realize his Christmastide ball, so he supposed he ought to start there. She hadn’t sent him a report this morning, but of course it hadn’t been necessary. By the time they’d stepped foot on the frozen bridge, he’d finally determined what she was about.

Each location she’d presented to him had been ostensibly what he wanted. Fashionable and unimpeachable. She’d orchestrated tours of perfectly acceptable venues that he would be progressively more likely to abhor. He would never disrupt the holiday plans of others, simply because as viscount, it could be done. Nor could he condone a location—no matter how grand!—that would force him to snub his own friends and family, just to dance within its hallowed walls.

And it went without saying that pleasure gardens wouldn’t do. Not in winter. The slippery paths, the leafless trees, the high likelihood of guests becoming ill or compromised or losing their extremities to frostbite . . . No, there was only one logical, convenient place to temporarily relocate the Christmastide ball without sacrificing any of its customs or inconveniencing any number of people.

Lady Amelia was going to get her wish of Ravenwood House after all.

Benedict scooped up his hat and shrugged into his greatcoat. He had tried as valiantly as he could to spend the scheduled twelve hours before his desk, but here it was three in the afternoon and he was on his way across Hyde Park to let her know she had won.

Not that he was breaking his schedule. He smiled. The lady was now his business.

When he arrived at the ducal estate, he was half-surprised to find the butler, not Lady Amelia, at the door. He smiled. It was high time he surprise
her
for a change.

He relinquished his hat and coat and followed the butler. Instead of ushering him to a sitting room, the butler strode to the wide, curved stairway leading to the Ravenwood ballroom. He threw open the doors without hesitation and motioned Benedict inside.

The ballroom had been transformed into a mirror of his own.

An army of servants lined the walls with gold paper. Kissing balls of bright green holly hung from various chandeliers. There was even a small sprig attached to the archway under which he stood. The dance floor was sparkling and freshly lymewashed. The table linens had all been embroidered with the Sheffield family crest.

Laughter bubbled deep inside his throat. Lady Amelia would not be remotely surprised to learn he’d come about to her way of thinking. She’d known it would happen even before they had met!

He spun about at the sound of her voice approaching from behind him. A clump of holly dangled overhead.
Perfect
. He was standing right beneath a kissing ball. He grinned. He would’ve kissed her even if he wasn’t. The moment she came into sight, he swung her into his arms and covered her mouth with his. She yielded to his embrace as if she, too, had spent a sleepless night yearning for his kisses, for his touch. He held her tight. She was maddening and managing and by God was he going to make her his.

Her lips were warm, her mouth hot. She tasted like honey and peppermint. Her hair was soft beneath his fingers. He pulled her closer. His body was hard, every pore aflame. He had dreamt of this moment since he first met her. Had dreamt of her hair tangled in his fingers, her curves pressed flush against him. Now that he had her, he had no wish to ever let her go.

When he finally released her from his arms, he discovered a pair of bright green eyes staring at him from over Lady Amelia’s shoulder. Pembroke eyes. Lady Amelia had not been in conversation with one of the many servants assigned to the ball, as Benedict had presumed, but rather with her brother. The Duke of Ravenwood. Bearing clusters of holly in his arms. Waiting for them to finish kissing so he could manage the stairs without needing to step around them.

Benedict coughed into his hand, then gestured weakly toward the kissing ball overhead.

Lady Amelia’s cheeks flushed scarlet.

The duke didn’t even change expression. He simply continued walking.

“Sheffield,” was his perfunctory greeting as he passed Benedict, but to his sister Ravenwood muttered a barely audible, “I might’ve known.”

She turned wide eyes to her brother. “I never once thought—”

“You’ve never not thought in your life,” he returned without pausing. “If you’re at all surprised, then you’ve only gammoned yourself.”

Benedict hauled her to his side and gestured at the bedecked walls. “At what point were you going to mention that the party decisions had already been made for me, Ravenwood?”

At this, the duke stopped mid-step and nearly choked with laughter. “Beg your pardon, Sheffield.” He cast a speaking glance at his sister then turned his merry gaze back to Benedict. “Did you try to get
your
way?”

Benedict lifted a shoulder with a self-deprecating smile.

The duke clapped him on the shoulder, unabashed. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

Benedict gazed down at Lady Amelia. “I believe I already have.”