The Viscount's Christmas Temptation (6 page)

One week. An entire wasted week.

Benedict drummed his fingers atop his accounts ledger. He wasn’t certain which circumstance was the most surprising: seven days passing since he’d last seen Lady Amelia, or the woman’s absence driving him battier than her presence. She had allowed that single, stolen kiss beneath the holly—and ignored him ever since. He ground his teeth.

Something had to be done.

One might suppose he could simply wait two more days until the evening of his Christmas Eve ball, but no. Benedict could not. He had
tried
.

It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon and the only thing he’d accomplished in the past seven days was wondering what Lady Amelia was doing—and vainly trying to convince her to spare him a bit of her time. He rubbed his temples. When he’d shortsightedly given her carte blanche on the decorations, he’d inadvertently spoiled the sole reason she’d had to contact him. And so she had not.

Benedict had jotted missives and left calling-cards and sent a wagonload of flowers . . . to no response. Lady Amelia was not other people. Or even most people. She was unique and fetching and too bloody efficient to pen unnecessary notes to hopelessly smitten viscounts who wished to waste her time eating ices at Gunter’s or visiting the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly.

Merely wishing for her company was not reason enough for her to grant it. He sighed. The silver lining to her strict adherence to efficiency was that the sole solution couldn’t have been clearer: He would simply have to invent some pretext wherein he didn’t just
want
her. He
needed
her.

And then he’d whisk her somewhere else entirely. Somewhere less tepid than lemon ices and Egyptian relics. She could do those things with anyone of her acquaintance, any time she wished. If he intended to prove that time spent with him was not only an experience worth having, but one she could not have with anyone else—well, he would have to make certain that happened. The sort of evening only a reformed rake could offer.

But first, he had to lure her from her efficient cage.

He selected a fresh sheet of parchment and sighed heavily. Nothing for it. He was forced to tempt her with the one thing she won’t be able to resist: the opportunity to lend her quick, clever brain toward the management of his estate. He dipped his pen in the ink and marveled at the steadiness of his fingers.

A fortnight ago he had balked at the idea of accepting help with a party he had no time to arrange. And now, he was prepared to offer much more than that. He would invite her to share everything. If she would only accept the invitation.

He smiled. She was not the only one capable of maneuvering others to do her will.

My dearest Lady Amelia,

I find myself in the position of requiring an independent perspective on a small matter pertaining to resource allocation, and my head steward shan’t return until after Christmastide. If you would be so kind as to lend your practical brain to the affair, the problem could be resolved this very day.

That said, do come at once or not at all—I depart for Grosvenor Square at the stroke of eight. I’ve extremely impractical plans for a loud, bosky evening, and you know how loathe I am to break from schedule.

Yours Etc,

Benedict Sheffield

There. He signed with a flourish and grinned at the scrawled words. ’Twas the perfect mix of annoying and tempting. Either way, Lady Amelia would be unable to resist giving him a piece of her mind. In person. Tonight.

He franked the missive and instructed his footman to await a reply. In the meantime, he summoned his servants into the main parlor for a brief conference.

“Soon, you are to expect the arrival of Lady Amelia Pembroke. Some of you might remember her as the young lady who’d brought a book to read and rugs to sit upon in full expectation of being forced to wait to be granted an appearance. From this moment onward, she is to be granted immediate access to anything she desires including, but not limited to, my company.”

His butler’s face blanched at the thought of accepting a guest without prior appointment. “Immediate access . . . After eight o’clock?”

“Immediate access immediately. Regardless of the hour.” Benedict turned from Coombs to address the rest of his staff. “Now then. Lady Amelia believes she has been invited to offer suggestions regarding certain resource misallocations in the household.”

“
What
resource misallocations?” his housekeeper demanded hotly. Mrs. Harris had managed the underservants since before Benedict had inherited the viscountcy and prided herself on knowing every inch of the estate.

He waved a hand. “I’ve no idea, but I cannot overstate the importance of allowing Lady Amelia to offer insightful suggestions.”

Coombs cleared his throat. “We’re to . . . humor the lady?”

“Humor her?” Benedict paused. There once was a time when he too thought such a feat was possible. This was no longer a meaningless game—if it ever had been.

The only prize worth winning was her heart. She was already in possession of his. “No. Please treat her as if she will become your future mistress. With luck, I can make that happen.”

Amelia clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself not to frown. She, who prided herself on always knowing everything, was unaccountably . . . suspicious.

Lord Sheffield’s servants were forthcoming and respectful, and the viscount himself had neither abandoned her to her fate, nor was he looming over her shoulder. And yet she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was being evaluated very closely. Not only by him, but by his entire staff.

The last time she’d called upon the Sheffield town house, she’d been nothing more than a curiosity. Now the servants stared at her
with
curiosity. Not one had taken their eyes from her as she interviewed this footman or that scullery maid, no matter how mundane the questions she posed. She wasn’t naive enough to believe Lord Sheffield was so impressed with her ability to plan a party that he now wished for her to plan his entire life. For one thing, the party hadn’t happened yet. She couldn’t expect miracles until she’d fully proven herself. Perhaps after Sunday. . .

“Thank you, John.” She inclined her head to dismiss the coachman and turned toward Lord Sheffield’s butler. “Coombs, if I may have a moment of your time?”

The butler’s eyes widened at her use of his name.

She kept her expression bland, as if she had not spent the entire carriage ride frantically flipping through all five journals to commit to memory the names and descriptions she’d managed to capture over the years. It was by no means an exhaustive list—she’d had no occasion to come in contact with his lordship’s laundry maids or private valet—but she had a fine start on a goodly number of footmen, grooms, and other individuals. The names she learned today, she carefully committed to a new shelf in her memory pantry.

Desserts. Because Lord Sheffield was delicious.

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand: commit every detail of the Sheffield household to memory and then prove herself invaluable to the household’s future. It had become painfully clear that the only future she wanted was one with Lord Sheffield. Had she honestly thought only a duke or earl would do? That selecting a husband was no more complicated than choosing an appropriate name from a worn copy of
Debrett’s Peerage?

A husband was so much more than a title and a lineage. A husband was an invigorating, infuriating, intoxicating whirlwind of wit and passion and adventure. She could not imagine spending the rest of her life with anyone but Lord Sheffield. To do that, she needed to show him and his staff that they needed her, too.

Lord Sheffield stepped up behind her as she concluded her interview with his butler.

She knew he was there, not because his footsteps had betrayed any sound or his butler had so much as blinked an eye, but because her body simply
knew
when he was near. Her heartbeat doubled. Her breaths came faster—or not at all. Every inch of her skin tingled with expectation, hoping for his touch. If his town house were strewn with half as many kissing balls as currently adorned the Ravenwood ballroom, perhaps Lord Sheffield might have reprised the moment, instead of keeping a respectful distance and . . . glancing at his pocket watch?

She tried not to grind her teeth. “Late for your bawdy evening, I take it?”

The wicked glint in his hazel eyes sent a flash of heat to her core. “Eight o’clock. We’re right on time.” He helped her into her pelisse. “Now that you’ve met my staff, what are your recommendations?”

“My—” Her mouth fell open as she stared at him in shock. “I cannot give recommendations without proper analysis. I have spent the past two hours interviewing dozens of individuals and cannot possibly begin to speculate on reorganizing tasks and schedules until I’ve had a chance to transcribe the information they’ve shared with me and check each servant’s duties and understanding against—”

He placed her hand on the crook of his arm and spun her toward the door. “When do you think you’ll have that ready? Tonight’s already spoken for in my case, but if you send a report round first thing tomorrow, I shall have a look at it with my morning tea.” He pushed open the door. “First thing meaning eight o’clock, of course. I intend to return home very late, and possibly very drunkenly. It all depends on how the evening goes.”

So much fire licked through her veins at the thought of how he intended to spend his evening that she didn’t feel the bitter wind against her bare cheeks or the flakes of snow upon her eyelashes. “That’s very nice! I should be at my desk calculating time analyses and drawing schedules while you are up to your cravat in devilry. The exact sort of evening I was hoping for.”

“Were you? Then you were the right person to call, because there’s nothing I find more tedious than time analyses. Except Lady Jersey. And musicales.” As he handed her into the carriage, his tone turned contemplative. “Although I suppose it could be argued that I get up to as much devilry there as anywhere. How about you, Lady Amelia?” He plopped down on the squab next to her. “When was the last time you were up to your fichu in mischief?”

“I have never in my life been up to devilry
or
mischief, because I am far too practical to fritter my valuable time on the sort of nonsense you—”

“Lean forward.” Something feathered and black fluttered before her eyes.

She jerked her head back. “What in the—”

“I said forward, not backward.” He cupped the base of her head with his hand as the feathery object returned to her face. Peacock feathers. Papier-mâché. Eye holes.
A mask
.

A mask?

She stared at him through the almond-shaped cutouts as he fastened the ribbon about her head. “I have no idea—”

“Of course you don’t,” he said smugly. “’Twould have been a poor surprise indeed if you’d had an idea.”

“I’m never surprised,” she grumbled. “You bundled me into my pelisse and then up into your carriage—obviously we were going somewhere. But a
masquerade
?”

“I thought you were never surprised.”

She lifted her chin and glared at him. “If you had but asked, I would’ve informed you that I do not attend masquerades.”

“That is precisely why I didn’t ask.” He tied a brightly colored mask behind his head and grinned at her.

She tried not to find him devastatingly handsome. “Masquerades are frivolous, scandalous—”

“Scandalous?”

“People in costume lose their minds completely. The ‘ladies,’ if there are any, have been known to be free with their favors and dampen their gowns to make them more transparent—”

“I did bring a bowl of water, in case you wished to blend with the masses.”

She smacked him on the shoulder. “I should dump it on your head. What will people think when they see
me
at a masquerade?”

“They won’t see you. That’s the whole point. We won’t know who
they
are, either.”

“Then what use is going? If one cannot catch up with old friends or forge connections with new acquaintances—”

“Anonymity is its own reward. There’s something to be said for doing whatever you like without fear of judgment. It’s an experience to be sampled at least once in your life.” His eyes glinted behind his mask as he lowered his mouth to her ear. “If you like this one, I can think of a few more not-to-be-missed experiences.”

Gooseflesh trickled down her spine. She was saved from having to respond verbally by the carriage rolling to a stop.

Somewhat saved. Her jaw fell open in disbelief when she realized where they were. “The Duke of
Lambley’s
house? Are you mad?”

“He’s a duke, like your brother.” Lord Sheffield leapt out of the carriage. “How can you possibly object?”

“He’s nothing like my brother! His name is in the scandal sheets even more than yours. Duels in the park, wild curricle races, demimondaines at his soirées . . .” She groaned into her hands. “
Please
tell me we will not be under the same roof as demimondaines.”

“That’s the beauty of a masquerade—nobody knows!” He swung her out of the carriage and into his arms. “Tonight, I want you to close your memory pantry and enjoy the moment. There’s no report due in the morning. Or ever. There’s just you and me and an orchestra waiting for us to come and dance.”

She held on tight as he whisked her from the curb to the front step. There was plenty of time to say no. To tuck herself back into the carriage and return to her safe, predictable world.

But she’d discovered over the past fortnight that dull predictability wasn’t what made life enjoyable after all.

Lord Sheffield’s unpredictability was part of what made him so irresistible.

He hadn’t agreed to her Christmastide schemes because she’d manipulated him into it, but rather, for reasons of his own. He spent the evening with her solely because he chose to do so. Because he’d chosen
her
over the thousand-and-one other women vying for his time and his heart.

She allowed the Duke of Lambley’s butler to relieve her of her pelisse, but she would not allow anyone to separate her from Lord Sheffield. She looped her hand around his arm and stood far too close for propriety. The edge of her breast was in constant contact with the hard muscles of his upper arm. Her entire body pricked with awareness.

With the feathery mask tied before her eyes, she could not cast sidelong glances in his direction. She let herself gaze up at him openly. Drink him in. The breadth of his shoulders in his sharp black coat. The fullness of his lips. Her heart thudded. She was falling hard. She bit her lip, but could not force herself to look away.

He led her straight into the ballroom, where dozens of masked couples swirled to a languid waltz. A footman approached bearing a tray of sparkling wine. Lord Sheffield motioned the footman away before he could offer them a glass of champagne.

“Forgive me,” he murmured in Amelia’s ear. “I cannot wait another moment to have you in my arms.”

Her legs trembled.

He swept her onto the dance floor. His steps were perfect, his gaze unshakable, his embrace scandalously tight, even for a waltz.

She let him pull her closer. She preferred the warmth of his arms over a glass of champagne any day of the week. She tried not to think about what she would do once Christmastide had come and gone.

Would he still think of her after his party concluded? She had not been able to think of anything else for two weeks. The arguments she’d given herself for why they would not suit seemed as flimsy as the lace fichu protecting her bosom. He worked as hard as he played, and now
that
was suddenly in question.

His name had been absent from the scandal sheets since the day they’d visited Vauxhall Gardens. At first, she had presumed his lack of exploits was because she had monopolized his evenings. But he’d gone out after that first night at the theatre and again after their disastrous encounter with Lady Jersey. From that moment in the pleasure gardens when he
could’ve
stolen a kiss, but
didn’t
. . . There hadn’t been one peep of Viscount S—’s night ventures. As far as she knew, he hadn’t so much as left his town house.

Until now. Here. With her. Hope flooded her heart.

The music faded into silence and the orchestra took a small break. Although the waltz had ended, he did not release her from his arms. One by one, the other couples left the floor in search of champagne or darkened corners. Masked revelers lined the perimeter, but only she and Lord Sheffield remained on the dance floor.

All eyes were on them.

Masked
, she reminded herself as her heartbeat spiked.
No one knows who we are. We could be anyone.

Lord Sheffield tucked a stray tendril behind her ear and cupped her cheek in one hand. “Do you see a kissing ball anywhere?”

“N-no.” She darted a quick glance about the room. It was decorated as a Venetian masquerade, not as a Christmastide celebration. There was no holly to be found. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t want you to think I have any reason for doing this other than because I wish to.”

Before she could do more than part her lips in question, he slanted his mouth over hers.

His mouth was soft but firm against hers. His tongue hot and spiced of sweet tea and lemon. Masked or not, her heart raced at the idea of doing such a shocking thing, here, in front of so many witnesses.

Yet she had no wish to stop. She twined her hands about his neck and pulled him closer.

The feathers of his mask tangled with the feathers of her own, and for one rash, glorious second she considered ripping the mask from her head rather than break the kiss.

She had never had such a foolish thought in her life. Or felt so
alive
as she did with Lord Sheffield. Or wished so desperately for the night to never end.

When he lifted his mouth from hers, she felt the loss to her very soul.