Page 46 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
The little fiends.
Backed by their father, she knew they would never confess, and so she didn’t bother trying to make them do so. Lord, but she did love them immensely, though she had half a mind to go and tell the duke precisely what had befallen his blessed wheels so that he could take his carriage and be gone. And yet the thought of him knowing mortified her. No, she simply couldn’t bear it. Nor could she bear to stand before the children an instant longer without bursting into peals of laughter.
“Aunt Em,” Jonathon ventured. “Do you think the duke will stay for Christmas now that his—” Lettie stomped on his dirty black shoe none too gently. “Ow!” he screamed and turned to give his sister a most wounded look. “I wasn’t gonna say it!” he shrieked in indignation. “I wasn’t going to!”
Emma gave them her most disapproving glower. “I really don’t know,” she told them. “But I, for one, wish he would not.”
The very last thing she intended to do was to play into their mischievous little hands.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed suddenly, dramatically, placing a hand to her temple. “I believe I am having a sudden attack of the vapors.” It wasn’t completely feigned, she acknowledged, for the very thought of the duke’s continued presence at Newgale left her flustered and ill at ease.
“You are?” Samantha asked, her little brows crashing.
“Oh, yes,” she assured them.
“Oh, but Aunt Em, youneverget the vapors!”
She gave them all a hearty scowl. “Nevertheless, it seems I am getting them now,” she apprised.
She had no notion what they were up to, nor what her foolish brother could possibly be thinking, but she planned to spend the rest of the day within her room, reading. If they so desperately wished the duke to remain at Newgale, then they could entertain the demon without her. Surely, she thought, once they realized that she was not about to participate in this madness, they would return his carriage wheels, and he would be away before noon.
She moaned pitifully and said, “Oh, dear... won’t you tell your Papa, please, in case he should like to know, that I shall be indisposed…”
“Until when?” Samantha asked, sounding panicked.
“Until the duke departs,” Emma said, and shot them another reproachful glare, turning with a swirl of her skirts and hurrying toward the door.
“Oh, but Aunt Em!” Samantha protested. “Wait!”
All three rushed after her, halting abruptly as she collided with the duke, who suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Oh!” Emma exclaimed, stumbling backward at the unexpected meeting. Really, she’d not even heard his approach and wondered irately how long he’d been standing there watching, listening. She eyed him a little anxiously, wondering precisely how much he had overheard.
He reached out to steady her, and the touch of his hands upon her arms was almost more than Emma could bear. His fingers were much too strong, his hands too warm and steady, and if he didn’t remove them from her person at once, she thought she might actually swoon.
Without thinking, Lucien drew Emma nearer and found he couldn’t quite bring himself to release her.
His arms seemed the most natural place for her to be. His heartbeat quickened, for if yesterday she’d looked cheerless and drab, today she was anything but—and her face, stained with a healthy blush, was anything but gray. Her eyes sparkled and only dimmed at the sight of him. That realization pricked at him somewhere deep within, though he didn’t pause to analyze why.
Dressed in the same pale yellow she’d worn the day she’d told him so naively that she’d loved him, she looked fresh and lovely. Too lovely for his own good. And then he happened to look down and had to remind himself to exhale. His heart skipped a nervous beat, for there was one thing about her dress today that was wholly dissimilar from the one she’d worn three years past: the neckline. It was far lower than he would have preferred, at least for her. It made him feel instantly possessive, wanting no man to see those lovely creamy breasts from this vantage. As he stared, he had to remind himself that he had no right to concern himself with her décolletage—or anything else about Emma Peters for that matter. Not any more.
He wanted to draw her up into his arms and kiss her—right then and there—damn if he didn’t. Instinct compelled him closer still, until he could feel the warmth radiating from her lips.
Warmth to drive away the chill.
God, it would be so easy…
His heart hammered like a fresh-faced youth’s.
Where now his honorable intentions?
Swallowing, he stood arrested for an interminable moment. He shuddered and forcibly reminded himself to let her go. He couldn’t afford to feel the warmth—couldn’t afford to forget what he must do. He was more than cold, he was rotten to the bone, and anything he touched would turn the same.
She might perceive him as a villain but their broken betrothal was the kindest act he had ever performed.
With some effort, Lucien managed to clear his throat, but for the second time in his life, he couldn’t find his voice to speak.
“I... I’m quite fine, thank you,” she told him a little unsteadily, squirming out of his embrace.
