Page 11 of The Mistletoe Temptation

Mr. Stanton arrived exactlyas the church bells rang out for ten o’clock. As he charmed her mother—again—she got her first good look at him. She’d been aware in the garden that he was much taller than her, about the same height as Duke, who was over six feet. But in the twilight and the candlelight of the ballroom she hadn’t fully appreciated how handsome he was.

Very.

The sort of handsome that ladies swooned over. No wonder he was a rake; married ladies must queue up to invite him to share their favors. His blue eyes were the color of a bright cloudless summer sky. Or a sapphire. Something blue and twinkly that made her stomach do a flip. His hair was the black of a magpie’s wing. When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled and his jaw was strong and square, giving the impression of a man who took what he wanted. His shoulders were wide, and she didn’t think it was just the cut of his tailcoat that gave that impression. A face like his ought to be on a statue, not a flesh and blood man.

Particularly, a man engaged to her. He was so incredibly good-looking; no wonder he’d sought a way out of the marriage mart. Access to all that, and the lady would be a countess? Irresistible. And now he was her fiancé. Inconceivable.

She wore one of her customarily tasteless gowns, with an excess of frills and fripperies, this one in a bright yellow with trim in everything from white to pink to blue. It was not in the least subtle and as Mr. Stanton kissed her hand, he dragged his gaze over her body and rolled his eyes.

She’d thought the dress might put him off, but with all the casual insouciance of a man born to power and wealth, Mr. Stanton declared his intention to take her out every morning. No one gainsaid him. Not even Duke, who looked sulky and muttered something about her honor but clearly could not find a legitimate reason why a respectably affianced couple should not go to the park together.

Hence, Gina found herself on her gray mare riding out with Mr. Stanton down Rotten Row.

“Now we have escaped your mother, you must tell me all your accomplishments,” he said, guiding his horse close enough for them to talk.

“Do you want me to send you a list?” she replied tartly.

“No, I want you to tell me, and tell me how you developed a way out, and which ones I need to tell your mother I abhor, so you don’t have to do them.”

“You’d do that?” What would he gain from such an arrangement?

“One carefully placed comment about what a waste of time embroidery is, and pfff.” He made an exploding shape with one hand, then patted his horse’s neck. Nice hands, she noticed. Neat fingernails. “No more embroidery for you.”

She did hate embroidery, but she loved her friends and their meetings with Miss Chilson were invariably educational.

“No, I don’t mind embroidery.”

“Don’t mind.” He raised an eyebrow satirically. “High praise. I’ll deal with it.”

“No!”

He looked a little surprised, his sapphire-blue eyes snapping. “You really like it? No lies, remember.”

“Yes. I like it a lot.” She cast about for something, anything that would convince him. “In fact, I enjoy it so much I’ll even make you an embroidery.”

“Would you?” The surprise intensified. “That is dedication. Or is this fake embroidery for your fake fiancé?”

“No. I’ve just started a new piece,” she lied. Again. One rule and she’d broken it twice now. “But after that I’ll make you something.”

“I’d like that.” And he sounded so genuine she felt a bit bad. Until she remembered this engagement was all his fault and he deserved neither her guilt nor her embroidery.

“It can be your Christmas present,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Christmas was so far away as to be practically in the next century. Nothing to worry about.

“Christmas is six months from now. You’ll want to give me a present before that, won’t you?” The way he said “present” made the word sound downright lewd. She wasn’t interested in giving him anything, never mind the present he was no doubt thinking of—her virginity.

“You are utterly obnoxious and full of yourself. The only gift you’ll get from me is the truth about how unappealing your personality is.”

“I note you say personality. But you think my body is appealing, no? I saw you looking earlier, while I was talking with your mother.”

She flushed. “I was looking in the way that a maiden examines the monster holding her captive. Searching for weaknesses and flaws.”

“But you found none,” he said happily, tipping his hat to a passing family in a coach.

“If an ogre is your idea of perfection.”

“You wound me.” He clutched his chest melodramatically. “I am much more like a dragon.”

“Then I am Saint George, come to slay you.”

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