Mary's Christmas Knight Page 7
Mary leaned across his lap to look. “What are you doing?”
“Voilà,” he said.
“What is that?”
“A diamond ring.”
Her brows furrowed, he placed it in her palm, and she held it up to scrutinize. He saw when she got it; a slow smile spread on her lips and dimpled her cheek. He ducked down to kiss it.
She turned the makeshift ring in her fingers, perhaps contemplating putting it on. He looked from the metal loop to her finger, trying to judge if it would fit. Looked like it would. Very badly he wanted her to wear it. If she did, her horseshoe diamond ring would mean more to him than the real diamond he’d buy for her later. A purple diamond.
The half-minute that passed in silence felt like years, since his heartbeat filled every second with a dozen hammering pulses. “I want you now, Mary, but I can wait. Please just say you’ll think about it.”
She held up the ring, turning it over. His breath stalled, and all he could think about was how ridiculous his gesture had been. Did she think him a fool?
Her hands moved to the back of her neck, and he tried not to groan in disappointment. She hadn’t put it on. Agonizing long seconds later, and she still didn’t slide it on her fourth finger. It seemed the sheer force of his will should’ve been enough—
Mary held the two ends of a gold chain, then threaded the horseshoe nail onto it. As she fastened it around her neck then dropped the ring down the front of her bodice, Wesley racked his brain for the meaning of it.
She huffed and turned a witchy look of condemnation on him, which made Wesley wish the stones would collapse in a heap and bury him. “I should match your bravery and confess I feel a certain accord—”
“Accord? Mary, if there were any more attraction between us, we would burst into flames.” He loved the rush of color on her cheeks. Bad of him to provoke her blushing on purpose.
"Well, yes. There is that. And I do think you are sincere,” she said.
He couldn’t help his sigh of relief.
“But not once did I hear the word love, Sir Wesley. And I will marry for nothing less.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, because she was right. Finally he had the answer: “I could say, I love you, Mary, and mean it. But what you want — what you deserve — is something that takes more than two days to cultivate.”
She closed her eyes and breathed a long, “Oh,” as though he’d just spouted poetry. “Yes. That’s true. Thank you.”
He tried not to be too injured by her show of relief. Risking a glance at the gold chain that disappeared down her décolletage — where she’d specifically warned him not to be caught looking — he said, “So as long as you’re waiting for the real version, you’ll wear my diamond ring? Around your neck?” Actually, she wore his ring someplace much better, which he found immensely satisfying.
Catching her eye to communicate his intent, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, deeply, like he was starving, as though it was their first and last. He tried to tell her what he’d meant to say but had muddled: You are brilliant. And generous, strong, fascinating, and the woman I want to wake up next to every morning.
When her hands wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer, he wanted to crow. She kissed him back, not like a lady, but tenderly, unself-conscious as a longtime lover. Wes let her lead. He simply held her and kissed her, dismissing her unintentional cues to escalate. Kneading a hand down his chest, brushing across his lap, a teasing stroke of her tongue along the side of his — she probably had no idea what to do about being aroused, unaware of what she provoked.
When he could take no more, he placed a slow, sweet kiss on her lips while he removed her hands from his chest. He laced his fingers between hers then lowered their hands to her lap. Mary’s eyelids opened slowly as though resisting. He liked the smoky, blissful-lazy look he’d put there.
She looked him in the eye, glanced at his mouth as though contemplating going back for more, then seemed to think better of it as she rested her head on his shoulder again. “Consider it a maybe.”
He smiled and tucked his arm across her shoulders again. “Mary, my dear, I consider it a challenge.”
Also in the Rougemont Series:
SONG FOR SOPHIA
To win a man’s heart, a woman must have the mind of a diplomat, a general, and Cleopatra, all in one.
Chapter One
In Which a Housemaid Manhandles Lord Devon
ANNE-SOPHRONIA JOLTED awake into darkness, choking on broken sobs. She fought a battle with twisted ropes of sheets she finally comprehended were not restraining, cruel hands. A frantic brush over her arms, and she found them slicked only with sweat. No blood. No cuts or glass shards, only scars. She trailed her shaking fingers over the embossed lattice of fine lines on her wrists and the underside of her forearms. The motion stoked both relief and anger as she emerged from the nightmare to wakefulness.
She thought of the locked traveling case under the bed, containing her stolen three thousand pounds, her mother’s estate jewelry, and a bundle of letters from her one remaining acquaintance. The letters all contained some variation of He is still searching for you, stay hidden, and she read them in moments of weakness as a reminder that her plight could always be worse.
Yet what she wouldn’t give for the latest Wilkie Collins novel. Or chocolate-dipped strawberries to eat while reading in a shady garden. All morning long, undisturbed. Followed by a ride on a fast Arabian then a dinner party with a controversial gathering of artists who laughed and argued over music and politics until dawn—
A stab of longing seared her chest. Oh no, none of that! She rolled out of bed and lit a candle, catching her gaze reflected in the tarnished hand mirror. Uncomfortable, she looked away, hardly recognizing the woman with the haunted, frustrated cast to her eyes.
Sophia lowered her dressing robe, and her heart sank as it did every time she saw her reflection, the chaotic web of ropy scars across her back. Whip marks, still reddened by the slightest irritation, even the gentle rasp of clothing. The purple-grey lines and puckered, glossy texture of her skin hadn’t improved much despite months of healing. She chanted to herself as she had the past several weeks, I am not vain. I am not vain. I am not—
The choice between pacing the six steps across her servant’s attic quarters or lying on the lumpy child-sized mattress became untenable. Her window facing the east garden mocked her with the illusion of freedom. She blew out the candle, knowing what she would do next despite her better judgment. She draped a shawl over her shoulders and slipped into the service passageway.
Sophia made no sound as she padded across the grand entrance, perfect planes of mosaic marble cooling the soles of her slippers. Great shadows and dull gleams highlighted the magnificent pillars, balustrades, and dormant chandeliers, making the space appear like a jeweled cavern.
Lord Devon’s ancestral pile rivaled Olympus: grand, consummately styled, and free from the remotest threat of decay. She saw to the latter personally, one of his forty-member staff motivated by the threat of his legendary wrath. He detested having the order of his house disturbed. Rumor had it Lord Devon was as brilliant as he was mad, an idea she found fascinating.
She darted past the pillars, imagining hundreds of blazing lamps and the glitter of jewelry and polished brass buttons. In the silence, she conjured the music of a Viennese waltz competing with the buzz of a hundred voices gossiping and laughing. Ages since she’d last danced at a ball. The occasional midnight rebellion cured the vexation of days pent up from skulking in dank servant’s corridors, averting her eyes, and mumbling obedient niceties.
As she passed the gallery, she gave his framed lordship a mock salute then went out the west entrance, which had been left unlocked, strangely. Midnight had long passed. Guessing by the chill air and the lull in the breeze, it was a few hours yet until dawn. Fritz and Dagmar, two in a pack of guard dogs and her only friends, came charging from the courtyard garden to greet her. She scratched their e
normous waist-level heads and cooed praise in the German phrases they understood as she wandered into the garden, following a hedge-lined path.
She stubbed her toe on a large mass; it moved, and she stumbled. Her hands flailed as she toppled and landed on a person. Sophia shouted in surprise and reached out to right her balance. To her horror, she discovered the tips of her fingers wedged against a rock-hard thigh and her palm gripping what could only be a whole lot of — Oh, my!
Furious cursing in a raspy tenor voice accompanied the sensation of being gripped by the waist and dumped on her backside. She twisted and scrambled to pull her nightgown over her legs then tried to crawl away without crashing into a hedge. She wasn’t even sure in which direction to flee; her eyes saw only shadows.
“Bloody hell, woman! What the deuce are you about?” The man coughed.
His aristocratic accent, along with her noticing that the blasted dogs were wagging their tails, made Sophia comprehend she had likely just committed the worst blunder of her life. She stifled a gasp and patted along the ground to find the path. Hedges to the right, so she crawled left. A swift yank on her ankle, and she dropped to the grass with an undignified oof.
“Answer me, wench, or I’ll have you jailed for trespassing.” His steel-edged voice raked a cold shudder down her spine. “Who are you?”
“Trouble,” she grated, scrambling out of the way while her blasted nightgown wound around her knees.
The imperious language and unmistakable burning spice scent of Dudognon cognac could only belong to the reputedly cantankerous Lord Devon. Her heart ratcheted in fear — what would he do to her? She found the path to her left and dashed for it, leaving her shawl behind. She’d barely made three strides when she was tackled from behind and got a mouthful of grass again.
A heavy arm pinned her to the ground, and instinct blanketed her with horror. Nothing came out when she tried to scream. Clawing, scratching, reduced to the primal desperation of escape. She couldn’t discern what was real or imagined, fought the hysteria—
The horrid feeling fled. She’d been freed. The quiet sobbing was her own, and her entire body trembled. Without protest she allowed gentle arms to gather her in an embrace. She clutched the open halves of a linen shirt and tucked her face against a hard, grainy throat. Oddly calming, as was the leathery-spice scent. Lord Devon.
“Let me go,” she breathed, not sounding as indignant as she should, and scrambled out of his lap. She bolted down the path toward the house and heard him curse as she ran with swiftness borrowed from Hermes himself.
Stumbling on the uneven ground nearly made her panic again, until she comprehended her pursuers were four-legged. Fritz and Dagmar danced circles around her, pleased with the game of chase. She shoved their wet noses out of the way and ran through the dark house, up three flights of stairs, shutting the door to her room behind her. She fumbled with the bolt twice before managing to slide it into place then slumped against the door. He wouldn’t find her out. Could he?
What on earth had Lord Devon been doing lying in the garden in the dead of night?
Sounds like something I would do.
Dreadful man.
Sleep was impossible, and she didn’t dare risk lighting a candle to read, so she waited for dawn, pacing her cramped room. She dropped onto the bed but fidgeted, berating herself for her stupidity.
When she’d first arrived at Rougemont under the guise of “Rosalie Cooper,” housemaid extraordinaire, Mrs. Abbott, the housekeeper, had taken one look at her and vehemently warned her away from the bachelor earl. “He doesn’t dally with the help, so don’t you go gettin’ any ideas,” Mrs. Abbott had scolded.
It might have been unwise, but Sophia had laughed in response. Even if she hadn’t already passed the portrait in the gallery of his distinguished lordship in all his mature, hairy, and stern glory, she would never “dally” with her employer. Sophia had told her, “I am as aloof as the most pious nun, in regard to all men.”
Mrs. Abbott had looked at her like she was an impertinent schoolgirl then unceremoniously dropped a stack of soiled linen into her lap. Her first lesson in submissive behavior. Subsequent ones had not come any easier.
Every day she dusted books she dared not be seen reading, polished a magnificent piano she wasn’t allowed to play, and listened to elegant dinner conversation she pretended not to comprehend. Sophia rubbed corn husk oil into the cracked skin over her knuckles and chanted the creed that had kept her afloat these past months: I am not vain. I am not vain…
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Coming December 3, 2013 from esKape Press
THE KING OF THREADNEEDLE STREET
The second in the Rougemont Series
Lord Preston wants the one thing money can’t buy...
Coming February 2014 from esKape Press
MARRIED QUITE CONTRARY
The Rougemont Series
Read more about Sir Wesley Samuel Darcy and Mary Cavendish — will she ever say yes?
Coming April 2014 from esKape Press
LOVE MATCH
A Rougemont Novel
Why can’t Katie Calypso find the perfect wife for the heroic Captain Philip Cavendish?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bestselling author Moriah Densley sees nothing odd at all about keeping both a violin case and a range bag stuffed with pistols in the back seat of her car. They hold up the stack of books in the middle, of course. She enjoys writing about Victorians, assassins, and geeks. Her muses are summoned by the smell of chocolate, usually at odd hours of the night. By day her alter ego is your friendly neighborhood music teacher. She lives in Las Vegas with her husband and four children. Moriah has a Master’s degree in music, is a 2012 RWA Golden Heart finalist, 2012 National Reader’s Choice Award winner in historical romance, and ’12 NRCA “Best First Book” finalist.
You can contact Moriah at her Website, Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, and Goodreads.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Also in the Rougemont Series:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR