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Copyright ©2006 by Gayle Eden

First published in 2006, 2006

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

The Christmas Ball

Gayle Eden

Copyright © 2006 Gayle Eden

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The right of Gayle Eden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First printed December 2006

First Edition

All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Edited by Dian Addair

Cover by Dian Addair

ISBN

1-906023-15-8

978-906023-15-7

She could not believe she'd let them talk her into it. Shay O'Sullivan kept muttering this mentally, as the crowded coach rocked and jostled on its way to the Lakeland manor and the Christmas ball. She was not of the fast set, not actually friends with the group who had somehow dragged her out of the Clairmont's sedate, boring, holiday musical. Yet she found herself in the wave that headed for the coaches—and here she sat, across from one of London's most wickedly handsome, terribly intimidating, and sought after rakehells.

Fortunately for her, someone, lady Janna, she thought, had given her a mask so the feathered thing hid some part of her mortified face. It didn't help that there were too many people squished in the coach, and that the aforementioned rake had long, muscular legs that were wedged, or weaved rather, between her own.

Her too-bloody-thin gown, worn for an indoor musical, not for a dash through a snowy night to a ball, did nothing to prevent the rasp of his polished boots or the warmth of his knee rubbing her own. Really! What could be more discomforting?

Actually, there was something more mortifying, but she'd spent the last few seasons’ trying to forget that. Now it was in her face, so to speak. Lord Gerard Quinlan Noel Derrington, Earl of Blackbourne, had been at the center of her youthful indiscretion; the sort of horrendous thing an impoverished Viscount's daughter couldn't afford to let leak out.

Never mind that it was so far in the past, and her father was dead and her circumstances more dire, so that she barely had enough to keep any sort of pretence in society. The truth was that at twenty five, her prospects for a good marriage were gone, the country estate had been sold to pay the London rent on a less than fashionable townhouse, and all she had was her reputation and a few kind hostesses who included her in their season's invites.

Oh, the devil, Shay groaned. Ever since she'd lost her head and her virtue on that daring and reckless Christmas night, her luck had gone from bad to worse, and without her virginity, even if she had been asked for her hand, she would have refused.

This was too much. Really it was. Blackbourne was visible in London. Of course; his exploits kept the whispers going and the gossip rags filled with juicy scandal. But he was wealthy, lofty, handsome, and quite busy raking and slumming, so that it was not as if a lesser in the rungs of the social ladder would cross his path. She'd avoided it deliberately, quite nicely. But now the gods were laughing and no doubt rolling with glee, for she had at least an hour's ride yet, a night of entertainment to get through—and had the awful sinking feeling, it was his coach and he'd eventually have to see her home.

Amid the chatter, off key singing, rather drunken revelry of the other passengers, she peeked through the mask though not at his face, able to see only the ruffled white shirt, black coat over broad shoulders, and the silken edges of his long raven hair. She did not need to look up to know he had a hawkish, dark visage, sensual white smile and velvet lips. His thick lashes and deep smoky eyes were ingrained in her mind, seared there like a brand. He was tall, muscular, six four at the most, large enough to make a woman of her uncommon height at five foot six feel incredibly small.

She was known to her friends for her wit and common sense, for a mature bravado, which had carried her through the depressing circumstances of her life. Certainly one that got her through that after Christmas morning, when she'd realized what she had done, and whom she had done it with.

It had been her birthday, yes, born on Christmas, and she had turned twenty with a sort of reckless hysteric sadness, realizing that all her youthful dreams were behind her. Her father had told her the bare facts and held nothing back. There was little to provide for her then, and would be less when he passed on.

That night, out in the deep snow and to the grand ball at the duchess's house, she'd gone without invite, never expecting to ever go to London—or—have a season, hearing only the worst of her father's frank talk, she'd decided to have her fairy tale, even if she had to make herself.

She'd made it all right.

Shay looked out the window then decided to let it down, because the bodies and the heat made the coach unbearable. Between the perfume and cologne and the scent of brandy someone was nipping, her head was swimming enough without the memories.

Tiny flakes of snow flew inward; feeling pleasant on her hot cheeks. The crisp air cleared her mind somewhat. Leaning her head back, trying to ignore the gent mashing her left side and his somewhat annoying laugh, she finally looked at Blackbourne and wished like bloody hell she had not.

He was postured with his arm along the back of the seat, two males and a female crushed in beside him. But for all of that, his large frame filled enough space and with his shoulders being wider and his body taller, it was if the others did not exist. He was not masked, and his ebony hair was tucked behind his ears, exposing the strong bones and sinew of a face, that had become more wicked-looking at thirty-eight. Due to his legs wedged between hers, or the fact that he was seated so comfortably, he appeared to be less jostled by the fast moving coach, and was, quite frankly, looking right at her.

Those eyes, shimmering in the shadows like sooty mists of smoke, his arrow-like nose flared, and the sensual set of his lips, was enough to let her know the mask didn't do her a bit of good.

The man who supposedly bedded thousands had too good of a memory, and she knew, that he knew, exactly who she was.

Shay looked away from him, feeling the tension in her shoulders and neck, added to the stuffy heat and noise of the coach. She wished she had buttoned her long cape. It at least would have covered her torso, but no, she'd never got the blasted thing on, only laid it in the seat, before being pushed over to the end before the others piled in.

Her gown was ivory silk with a green sheer overlay on the skirt, a fluttery useless scarf of a skirt, that did nothing to protect the under slip from sliding against her stockings. It was no barrier to the heat and muscle of his masculine limbs, because he wore those damned snug pantaloons.

Though the air felt good on her face and arms, the gown, having a low round neckline, quarter sleeves that were met by her emerald gloves it also chilled her nipples. Nevertheless, given the choice of the heat and tension and noise, making her throw up on his boots, she'd suffer a bit of embarrassment that they were likely visible via moon-light to the man across from her.

The group started singing, doing a song of rounds that half of them made up for pure amusement. She felt the coach lean into a curb, and clutched the strap, but shot her gaze to Blackbourne, as he seemed to take advantage and slid his knee a bit deeper between her thighs.

Her eyes widened before narrowing on him in warning. But his expression was maddeningly benign—all except for his eyes, which were sensually teasing. She looked away, but occasionally watched him out the corner of the mask. She saw when he lowered his own window, to lean further over and light a cheroot. His hand cupped it, allowing the smoke to flow out the window away from the interior, but he'd slid up as much as possible, and turning somewhat away from the others.

His shifting of position made her have to adjust too. There was some head bumping and laughing as the others seemed to switch around, so the men could have the windows and smoke. Her limbs were now completely trapped by his and since everyone seemed to be looking the other way, focused on the amusing and witty Lord Ashley, who was telling naughty St. Nick stories, she could only be thankful when no one saw his next move.

A wiry lad, half hanging from the coachman's seat, held to his top hat, as his upside down face appeared at the window. “Fritz be stopping ahead, your lordship, for the ladies to refresh."

"Very good, Peter,” Blackbourne's voice sounded as close and deep as it was.

She was aware the discreet stop was to refresh everyone after the punch and brandy drinking, and because the journey was long. But as he shifted to tell the others, Blackbourne's free, ungloved hand, absent the cheroot, slid down and landed on her thigh. He did it so casually, moving it as soon as he'd straightened that when she met his gaze again, and felt like he was telling her something she'd rather not know.

Until the coach stopped at the Horse and Hound, she sat like stone. And when it did stop, the others piled out the other side, while the lad jumped to open his lordship's door. She was of course, urged to go before him, and her legs were none too steady, even without the snow and slick soles, that made her reach out for the coach to make her way around.

An attempt had been made to shovel the white stuff, but mud was freezing in the wind bringing more flakes. She felt her cape land on her shoulders. Looking up to find Blackbourne right there, looking down at her.

The others were laughing, sliding and holding to each other, while the Inn-keep held the doors, calling out cheerfully, having ale brought to the driver.

"Hullo, Shay."

That voice went down her body like slow drop of hot honey.

"My lord."

His brow arched and his lips curved. “Gerard surely? I think we passed formality at some point."

"The impulses of youth,” she muttered, but had to take his strong arm to get to the doorway, noting he did not put on a heavy coat but wore a thigh length black one.

As soon as she could stand steady enough, she dropped it and went inside, following the other females to the back hallway, where they discreetly go through a back door, and to a privy. It was not effortless. They clung to each other, laughing, holding skirts capes, and doing the thing with as much dignity as possible.

Back inside, they gathered by the fire, the men having ordered warm drinks, forming a semi circle and getting toasty, while the horses and driver were resting a bit.

At the corner of the fire, a bit out of the circle, she smoothed her wavy hair, a dark mink hue, not at all as fashionable as the bevy of blondes in their group. It was half pulled back in a faux emerald net, but the damp air had stirred it past the neatness she'd fashioned for the musical. Taking a sip of her warm ale, she felt rather than saw Blackbourne move close behind her. He'd come from the corner where his driver and young groom sat.

Under the talk of the others, he leaned slightly down and murmured, “I'm surprised to see you with Ashley's crowd."

"So am I. I barely know them. Seems I got swept up in a crush and ended up going where I did not intend to."

"Um ... I have scarcely seen you twice in five years."

"We travel in different circles, “she said dryly, smelling a hint of warm spice on him. “And even if we did not, I doubt either of us has reason to keep track of each other."

She felt his fingers, just the tips of them brush across her nape. “You wound me; I rather thought we shared something—Unique."

She snorted. “Given your rep, Blackbourne, I doubt that. Isn't the point of gaining the title rake, just to flaunt how very jaded you are?"

He stepped up, so that he was half touching her shoulder with his arm. “I don't recall that we introduced ourselves. In fact, I am sure you didn't, because it took me a bloody year to find out who you were. Seeing as how you were not on the guest list. And, you did not come to London. When you did come, you are right, you weren't seen amid my circle. But I'll wager, you knew exactly who I was."

She shook her head. “No actually. I did not know. Until ... afterwards."

He was regarding her so intently, that she had to look up. When their eyes met, he murmured, “You didn't know?” he repeated, as if surprised by that.

"No. When I left the ball at dawn, I saw you getting into your coach, the crest of course and your driver called your name."

His brows seemed to rise slowly and there was a puzzled look to his face before he glanced away. “I'll be damned.'

She was the one staring at him now. “Am I missing something? Is there some reason that is relevant? Or rather was, five years ago?"

"Yes. Yes it was...” He this time stared at her differently.

She laughed softly. “You're making me awfully uncomfortable, deliberately, I think."

That white, devastating smile bloomed, slow and sensual. “I thought you were out to trap me. I Kept waiting for a blackmail note, the irate father to break down my door."

"I wasn't obviously. My father is dead by the way."

"No. No you weren't.” He was still observing her, puzzled, when they were ready to pile in the coach again. He said nothing, until just before he handed her inside. “It's happened enough, you know. Every sort of trick and trap."

"No doubt.” She glanced at him before ducking in.

The journey started once more, with the others talking still and in the same high spirits. Shay was back with her legs trapped by his, and back to avoiding his gaze. Although she took off the mask, seeing little point in pretending it helped. He stared at her through most of the trip, yet she had a feeling his mind was running in different directions this time, yet unable to fathom what was in it.

The estate house came into view, ablaze with lights and obviously a crush. There was an ice sculpture on the front lawn, a group of carolers singing, and guests despite the cold, on every balcony and walkway.

Somehow the group from the coach melted out and inside the ballroom. Shay hung back again, having too many memories thanks to Blackbourne, which she'd rather forget.

That night had been much like this one, with her sense of not really belonging but being swept up in the fairy tale. With maturity and age, the contentment with the life she had. She no longer believed in those things, and hadn't really, when she'd faced the light of day after that fateful ball.

With her cape unlatched but laying on her shoulders, she leaned against one of the red ribboned posts, listing to the choir, and idly gazing at the well dressed guests; laughing, drinking, arm and arm strolling the cleaned brick walkways. There were lanterns twinkling, casting a warm glow on the snowy ground, and the air smelled clean and crisp.

She was content actually, going to meetings, occasional amusements and living a fairly independent life. If sometimes she longed for more, that was human nature, and these things weren't real—everything ended eventually, balls and dreams. She sighed, smiling a little at her younger self, knowing she must have been bright-eyed and awed. Remembering the moment Blackbourne had asked her to dance, but not the second that he'd literally swept her off her feet. In her mind, that was part of the magic of the night, better thought of there, than the aftermath. Particularly when she'd realized who he was. Though it made no difference to the deed done.

She felt a nudge at her arm and glanced to find him standing there, holding two steaming mugs. He handed her one.

"What is it?"

"Hot chocolate.” He motioned with his head to the gazebo. “Let's go there and sit. There's a brazier burning to ward off the chill."

She went, sitting beside him, cupping the mug in her hands, watching the crystal flakes flutter down and melt on top hats, glisten on fur capes, and hiss against the tall black lamps.

"Wouldn't you rather be inside?” She inquired, taking a sip then looking at the mansion.

"No."

She glanced at him at the same moment he peeked at her. He admitted, “I had not planned to attend either."

Shay laughed. “We've been kidnapped."

"Appears so.” His smile flashed, and he took a drink, before asking, “When did your father die?"

"Three months after that ball. I had a hint ... well, he was preparing me, I think."

"I'm sorry."

She shot him a look. For a cutting rakehell, he was being awfully nice. “Thank you."

He raked his teeth over his lip a moment and looked distant, then down into the cup, which he rocked, stirring the chocolate. “It was mutual ... wasn't it?"

She laughed. “You're asking me?"

"Yes. I recall that it was. But I would hate to think I took advantage of some ... depressing situation."

"I was a virgin."

He stilled, but muttered, “That I recall, very clearly. Are you saying I seduced you?"

"Not In the manner you seem concerned about, which I find interesting, for a man of your ... character. But you could look at a woman and seduce her, as I'm sure you know by now. The younger, the easier to do, or so one assumes."

"Thanks,” he said with sarcasm.

She nudged him with her elbow, finding the whole conversation and tone somewhat surreal. “I was enthralled by everything that night. You were part of it. But I attended without invite, thinking that I would never have a season or attend a real ball. In an odd mood, you might say, determined to live the fairy tale if only once."

She saw that he was listening, merely looking downward. “It wasn't my life, and wasn't ever going to be. At that age, with all the expectations we are fed, that was a once in a lifetime thing. And, it was my birthday."

He groaned.

She laughed again, this time in her cup as she took a drink. “For a rake you are not responding as you should."

He sighed. “No. Apparently not. But let's put that aside for the moment.” He waited for her to look at him. “You live in London year round?"

"Yes.” She told him the address, a clear indication of her status. “I have a cook and maid, a small circle of friends and enough entertainment."

His gaze went over her face. “I didn't know, actually beforehand. I assumed you were older and experienced. You did not strike me as a deb."

"No? Well that at least is good. I would hate to think I was too awfully immature."

He laughed this time. “No. You were ... passionate. Unfortunately, we'd gone too far before I realized. Then I was torn between being stunned, and looking for that father to jump out of a corner."

"Ah. So that's why you ignored me afterwards."

He winced. “I did?"

"Don't feel too awfully bad. The facts were hitting me harder than the Christmas punch. I wasn't exactly looking for you."

"This is deuced odd,” he admitted smiling. “I don't think I've actually ever talked to a woman about an encounter before."

"No? I imagine talking is unnecessary most of the time.” She took a long breath and released it. “Don't feel obliged toward me because of the circumstances, though. It was a very long time and doubtless many women ago."

He seemed to ignore that. “Were you this beautiful then? I can't..."

"I'm hardly that.” She snorted, eyeing the slim figures on the passing women, knowing her own to be rather healthy and curved. Her face would never be anything but handsome. “You on the other hand,” she looked at him, “Certainly have lost none of your appeal, or assets."

His smoky eyes held hers. “I've heard that before, but for some reason—well, let's face it, I take you quite serious, whereas my normal encounters are, as you say, for something other than talk. I'm truly glad you think so."

"You are serious?"

He shrugged echoing her smile. “Yes, I'm the first man to take you to bed. You may believe it or not. It never happened before or since."

"You were the only man. In case that question was coming next."

"It wasn't.” His smile faded into an intense look. “I can see I've got you off balance. But I'm without my usual bearings myself just now. My life is no secret, my rep, the truth of it, that is, is likely well earned. Though I didn't seek it. I am the least of my set, both bored and cynical in the ton. We tend to burn fast and avoid taking any deep breaths, to remind us how superficial our lives are. I'm trying to absorb the fact, that I am standing here with a woman I was intimate with—her first and only—and whatever I thought your motive was, wasn't."

"You're making too much of it. It is history."

He shook his head. “Normally I want to forget, or rather, I don't care to remember. But I'm searching my mind for every detail."

She turned and walked to the other end of the gazebo. Giving herself space to think. Not surprised though, when he joined her.

"Everyone is allowed to be sentimental at Christmas, even hardened rakes."

"Was it good? Did I pleasure you?"

"My God,” she choked, embarrassed, lowering her head and pinching the bridge of her nose.

But his low laugh sounded, before he murmured too. “I recall most of it. But..."

"Please.” She shook her head.

"It was rushed ... wasn't it?"

She sounded strangled. “Yes of course. We were at a ball, in someone's library."

He cursed, and then sighed. “I wish you had told me. I would have ... No. Now I think I would have pleasured you instead. Then—

I would have gone bloody running.” He laughed.

"Can we not speak of it.” She raised her head. “Truly. You should go. Enjoy the ball."

When he said nothing, she looked at him. He had been waiting for that, and returned her gaze steadily. “Let me make it up to you?"

She gaped at him.

He laughed. “No, not that. Well ... maybe not just that.” He considered her a moment. “Will you trust me?"

"Do I look like an idiot?"

Gerard winked at her and checked his pocket watch. “For the next oh ... five hours. We're going to pretend we're meeting for the first time."

She was smiling and frowning at the same time. “What the devil are you up to?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he took her cup and told her. “Meet me inside."

She watched him, wearing a puzzled frown. Then, because she was too curious, and because it was indeed going to be a long five hours if she hid out here, she smoothed her hair and skirts, and left the gazebo, heading inside the mansion.

There was a crush, and she handed her cape to the butler, who was sweating under his wig and looking harried. The talk and laughter was deafening, music too. She became wedged between elaborately dressed guessed, until she spotted Blackbourne, looking so tall and dark, yes rather like a hawk, because most of the guests were in silver and whites, and he was dark and brawny...

Oh do stop that, Shay. The man is devastating on the senses anywhere you would encounter him.

He stepped up in her path, so that she had to greet him, since several other people were close by.

She curtsied. “My Lord."

He bowed and took her hand. “Have we met? No, we could not have, for I would have recalled such a lovely face."

Resisting a snort. He was doing it a bit too brown. But willing to play his game, she murmured, “Shay O'Sullivan."

"Merry Christmas, Shay.” There was a deep glow in his eyes.

"The same.” Shay was feeling quite silly.

He kept her hand and began leading her toward a crowded ballroom. “May I have the first dance?"

"Yes.” She said it, though he was already leading her out there.

The festive music vibrated in the air, the decorated ballroom with its tall candles and ribbons, garlands and swags, was all part of a magical atmosphere. Yet Shay could not seem to distract herself from the man who took her hand and began a waltz.

From the moment he touched her, his scent and feel dominated her every sense. It must have been this way the first time. Because she was much more knowing and yet unable to resist the overall lure.

He danced wonderfully, she remembered that. She recalled him saying he rarely did so. But he was leading her this time, in so many twirls and spins, that she laughed and leaned back to look up at him.

His fingers tightened slightly around her own. Under the music, he murmured, “You should laugh often, Shay. It makes your green eyes sparkle and your smile is quite wonderful."

"You're very good at this, dancing, and the flattery."

"I'm being perfectly honest.” He winked at her, sweeping her around again.

After the dance ended, he stood with her on the sidelines, sometimes leaning down to point out a prominent hostess, or make her laugh too much, observing something amusing. Shay tried to figure out why, other than some odd sense of bruised pride, he was bothering. Lord knew he was famous for being both cutting and dangerous, and to have him putting forth such effort was damned puzzling, and a bit worrisome, since she did not know how to respond.

For the moment she decided to stay simply curious and not lose her head, although the latter was easier said than done.

They danced again, and met at the punch table, moving to an open balcony, because the heat from the chandeliers and the bodies had everyone dabbing their faces with hankies. Shay leaned a bit against an embrasure, studying him as he stood facing her.

"Happy birthday."

She nodded. “Thank you."

His gaze went over her slightly shadowed face. “When you came to the ball that night, it was to have your fairy tale?"

"Yes. Though I was already letting go of it in some sense.” She looked down into her cup, then back up. “I was sort of fooling myself with a vengeance."

He nodded slowly. “I asked you to dance ... and I hadn't intended to. I was, in fact, going to leave early. I think perhaps, removing what I thought afterward, you attracted me."

"Please."

He shrugged and smiled, considering her still. “This is certainly out of the ordinary for me too. I would, likely be getting foxed, and trying to ignore where, what and who I am. Had you not been in the coach tonight, and this ... bit of enlightenment occurred, I am finding this vastly more interesting.

"That surprises me."

"Does me too,” he muttered in his glass, and then asked her if she wished to dance again.

She didn't. She was enjoying talking to him too, oddly enough.

"Come,” He led her outside and around a walkway, entering a darker room from a side door.

"Should we be in here?” she whispered, watching him build up the fire.

"Yes.” He arose and dusted his hands, then waved her over to sit on the sofa, facing the fire. She sat, and he joined her, after removing his jacket and laying it on the back of the seating.

Shay relaxed against the arm, pondering the fact that the ruffled white shirt only enhanced his masculinity. And when he stretched out his long legs, the snug trousers revealed flexing muscles.

"You were an only child?"

"Yes.” She jerked her gaze up, fortunate to find him studying the flames. “My mother died when I was five. Papa didn't quite know what to do with a female, so he sent me to a ladies seminary, had me trained for all the proper things. Thing was, though he kept his bachelor life and sporting to the country, he wasn't very good at it.” She laughed on a sigh.

"I was an only child too."

She met his gaze when he looked at her. Wearing a slight smile, she murmured, “Only child, heir at sixteen, raised by a cousin. You excelled at school but got sent down enough. You were something of a rebel, still are politically, and people called you that wild Blackbourne lad..."

He winced. “Do people actually know all of that?"

"Rakes fascinate society, even the sticklers. They would cut most people for the things you and your sort get up to. But you seem to be one of their darlings."

His brow arched. “I never made the effort to be so. In fact, most of the time, I fulfil only those obligations one must.” He let his gaze go over her, she knew, lingering on the low bodice, and saying before he raised that gaze, “And your circle of friends?"

"Very small.” She gave the names, mostly bluestockings and widows.

He frowned. “Why has there been no other man?"

Shay looked away from him. “The usual reasons. Females of the fast set can afford to live their lives rather daringly. I cannot. Even had there had been an offer of marriage, and there wasn't. It dawned on me rather quickly, when I arrived in London, that no tale I made up would answer a husband's questions about my loss of virtue."

He muttered a curse. “I'm feeling damned guilty right now."

Her laugh was quiet. “Don't. I haven't actually met a man who it would matter greatly to me, what he thought. I tried, but one cannot force attraction. Not even for security."

"No."

They were silent a moment, and while she stared into the fire, she felt his gaze on her, until she turned to meet it.

He already had his arm along the back, so it took nothing for his dark fingers to touch the top of her shoulder. There was a molten look to his eyes, and she almost expected it when he turned slightly, leaned and kissed her.

His hand now cupped her face, the other on her shoulder, but it was his lips, smooth, warm, silken, that drew her attention. The kiss was incredible, a soft circle of mouth on mouth, until he slid his tongue inside. Then, it was lush and deep, with a slow erotic sensuality that made her feel dizzy and drugged.

He moved his head slow, somehow making the kiss more than that. Her tongue was rolling over and under, tasting him too. They did that for long, drawn out moments, learning texture and stirring blood, until Shay was panting through her nose.

He pulled back an inch, their mouths wet. She lifted her lashes. His gaze stayed on her, while his thumb played across her moist bottom lip. Then his other hand lowered, going to her hip, first flexing his fingers there, feeling the silken material of her gown, then turning her more sideways.

"Gerard..."

"Trust me,” he said against her lips in a soft kiss, his free hand now gathering the hem of the gown and his palm sliding up her stockinged leg.

When he lifted his head again, she breathed jerky, “I ... we ... shouldn't."

He leaned further up, lowering his palm to the material over her breast, her nipple hard and aroused, pushing against it. “I owe you something...” He didn't look away, caressing that breast, his other hand moving up higher until it slid across her thigh and between them.

She wet her lips, her body aroused, seduced by him, yet her mind fighting what and who he was, what a risk it was.

Shay moaned and closed her eyes a moment. He had nudged her legs open, so that one of them was across his own. Sitting as he was, facing her, it left space for his hand to find the slit in her silk drawers, and he had.

His touch, electric and arousing at the same time, was skilled, knowing, sliding through the curls to find her wet from their kiss, and using that to sweetly abrade some sensitive spot between the lips.

Lashes fluttering again, she watched his hand tug at her bodice, freeing her breasts before his head descended. Her cry, though soft, cut through the silence of the room. His warm mouth captured her turgid nipple, suckling at the same moment he inserted one long finger in her snug heat. He held it deep until he had laved and suckled her nipples, keeping them stiff and aroused. He began to move it in and out slow.

"My god,” she groaned, sifting her fingers through his silken hair.

He lifted his head, not ceasing his play below and let his gaze move over her flushed face, before he whispered, “You feel wonderful, silken and hot.” He kissed her loose, ran his tongue over her lips, then leaned up at the same moment he moved his finger out and up, finding those nerves and abrading. “Give in to it. I'm right here."

"I shouldn't be allowing this.” She felt tensely aroused, but also near tears. “I'm going to be bloody angry at myself."

He smiled, though his own face looked strained with arousal. “Not for this, you wont. I promise you.” He rubbed the nerves in small circles and lowered his mouth to her breast again.

Shay then was so caught up in the twin pleasure, the intensely strong desire from the friction and his suckling lips that she had to give in. Her breasts were tight, seemed swelled and the deep pink nipples flushed darker. His mouth on them, those sensual lips wrapped around and the way he flickered his tongue over the tip, was spreading a tremble. The insertion of his finger mimicked sex, slow and deep, and then rhythmic, before he went back to making circles over that bundle of nerves. She felt the moment it began to merge and consume her.

She whispered his name, tugged his hair as her hips arched. She was holding his head to her, he was suckling hard and she moved to speed his touch below, then her body shuddered, exploded in a forceful climax. Behind her eyes, in her head, white lights and silken rain, incredible sensual pleasure, then the floating started, down, down softly.

When Shay opened her eyes, his hand was resting on the inside of her thigh. Still wedged intimately. He had watched her, and instead of it embarrassing her, it made her all the more aroused.

"Would you like to go back to the ballroom?"

She shook her head and swallowed, trying to reconcile her feelings and common sense, yet realizing that if time could stand still, she wanted it to, now. “You're going to make love to me, aren't you?” she said that as a statement.

"If you'll let me,” he whispered back, leaning back a bit more and caressing her breasts again. “It will be different this time."

"It was not so bad the first time.” She laughed in spite of herself. “It stung a bit, but you didn't hurt me."

He considered her with a slight sexy grin. “I think we should draw it out...."

"Meaning?"

He moved his hand away and then fixed her bodice. Standing he gazed down at her. “For once, my objective is not mere seduction. Or rather taking a woman to bed from sheer boredom, to simply scratch an itch. Interesting...” He shrugged slightly. “I both want you now, at this moment, bad enough to take you. And wish that I had a damned bed, to lay you down and take my time with you ... for both of us."

She bit her lip, looking up at him backlit by the fire, resisting the urge to shake her head that this was Blackbourne saying it. “I want you. That's obvious, isn't it?"

"Yes.” He laughed when she frowned. “But it arouses me to no end that you do."

Shay looked around the room, and then stood, walking toward him, feeling a bit shy at touching him in spite of what he had done for her.

She slid her hands up his broad chest, leaving them on his shoulders and feeling the heat through the white shirt. He emitted a kind of masculine, primal heat, some energy and scent that was male arousal. His hands came to rest at her waist, nudging her close, until she had to lean back a bit to meet his gaze.

The feel of him, tall, muscular, hard and hot, was heady enough, but his wickedly handsome face was potent, and his eyes were relaying all sorts of things he himself was feeling. Her nipples were hard against him, her legs holding a slight tremble that she knew he could feel.

He pressed her lower half against his evident arousal and leaned down to kiss her again. Kissing while standing—Shay realized—was its own teasing, since he shifted his legs and slid his hands lower, lifting and sliding her up against him.

He moaned in her mouth, his tongue seemed to become more explicit. Finally he lifted his head and drew in a gulp of air, his lips near her ear. “Oh, for a bed, darling. I would be sliding myself in you slow and deep. I would be stroking my sex into yours and starting a fire that would burn us both up.” He bit her ear.

"Gerard...” She dug her fingers into his shoulders. “I don't care about a bed.” And she did not. She felt that contracting hunger deep in her, longing to be filled. Her ever sense was aroused by him—and only him.

He lifted his head and released her hips, dragging one hand down to cover his sex. She needed no prodding, but traced it with her palm, feeling it throbbing and hot, hard and thick. Her own contracted, longing to be filled with it. “We're in someone's library again, aren't we?” She whispered breathless.

"Mmmm.” He closed his eyes a moment, savouring her touch. Finally he lifted his lashes just the slightest, but his voice sounded low and raw. “We're both playing hell with my control. At the moment, I haven't much left.” He set her from him and raked his hands through his hair. Unsteady hands that flexed when he looked at her, as if didn't want to stop touching. He glanced at the mantle clock and cursed, then back. “I meant something different. I intended it to be. But we've few options and little time—

"

She nodded, already gone too far and deciding that she didn't bloody care. “At dawn, the ball will be over. We will have a long ride with a coach full of fractious and tired people.” Her smile was dry. “My common sense will return and I will have one more extraordinary birthday and Christmas Ball to remember.” She shrugged. “I am not fool enough to turn you down, Gerard, there is no one in my life like you."

He gathered her against him. Resting his chin on her hair, he murmured, “Nor will I have an encounter like this again. I am the only man to have touched you, and I gave you two firsts—that was unique for me. In the ordinary course of my life, I would avoid your type.” He laughed soft then sighed. “And yet, I find myself feeling and wanting more, right now, than I can ever remember."

His arms tightened, before he added,” I feel unlike myself. I am certainly acting unlike myself. I want you, and I don't want to repeat the last time. I find myself wanting and thinking things that are giving me chills. It feels surreal. Shay—I bloody well am babbling, aren't I?"

Yes he was. Though it sounded more like he was talking to himself. She nudged him so that she could look up at him. Her hand came up to touch his face. “I will take that, milord rake. I will take that, and it will please me beyond all measure that I can make you feel something unique."

Gerard kissed her then, long and deep and lingering. When they needed air he seemed reluctant as she, to break contact. Their lips trailed open over throats and back up, breathing, tasting, heating their hunger and desire until they both breathed unsteady and were trembling.

Gerard was less graceful when he pulled back and then went to put his jacket on. But she understood his urgency, felt it in herself.

They exited the room and went back out into the night. He held her to his warm side and neither of them cared if they passed people who recognized them, nor did they hear now the noise and music from the windows and open doors. He walked her to the back of the mansion. They found themselves in a very closed-in space, surrounded by a wall nearly as high as he was tall.

"It's too cold for you out here."

She was in his arms, and not at all cold. “I cannot bear this much longer. Not the cold, but the wanting you."

He leaned back against the wall, bringing her with him, his body slanted so her legs were inside his own, her torso protected by his strong arms. She slid her hands down, undoing his latches, sliding her palm inside the material and encountering the hard flesh of his sex.

"Bloody hell.” He leaned his head back a moment, eyes closed again, while she touched him. “I want a bed, Shay. A bed to make love to you until we can't move."

"I want you. I want you.” She leaned forward, raking her teeth on his chest though the silk. Following instinct and biting at his nipple which was clearly peaked.

He opened his eyes. Then, reversed their positions, blocking the wind and cold from her, bringing his heat as he skimmed her hem up and divested her of the flimsy drawers. When she was exposed to him, he bathed his fingers in her moistness, while kissing her untamed, breathing scorching and choppy. She was so wet, so moist and contracting around his fingers.

Then he was lifting her, leaning into her, and filling her with his sex.

Shay held to his shoulders, her back against the stone, but protected by the hand he braced them with. Her legs were around him. Their gazes locked in stunned surprise and pleasure, so intense she couldn't find her voice. When she did, it was no more than a rasp. “Oh, Gerard ... Yes, yes."

He moved then, in and out slow at first, measured, but going all the way, as deep as he could, using his free hand to help lift and lower her. The heat between them belied the cold, the harsh breathing and sexual sounds from their throats echoing in their little space. It got hotter, tighter, and the more he moved, the more pleasure it brought, until she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out more.

Her hair net was gone, her mane flowing down over her shoulders. She whispered his name feverishly, rolling her head back, then leaning forward to bite at his shoulder.

"Shay ... Oh. God ... Shay.” He moved moving faster, driving into her deep. Lifting her as he slanted and plunged faster and faster. When he came, it was with his teeth grit and his face buried against the curve of her neck.

Gerard held her up while the shudders went through him. His breath pushing scorching and driving, until he could lower her. He didn't see to himself first, but cleansed her with a pristine hanky, then himself.

They leaned against the building side by side, breath misting and eyes closed, trying to absorb it all, trying to gather themselves, until the cold started to seep in.

He finally pulled away and tucked her to his side. This time, he went for the coach, finding that Fritz had the brazier hot and the interior warm. He told the coachman, “You may join the others for a spell. Fritz. We've had a bit too much of the crowd and will wait here for the others."

"Very good, Sir."

When the coachman left, Gerard stretched his frame out, as she did in the other seat, only his long legs were bent. His greatcoat unearthed and rolled up behind his head. They lay opposite, able to see each other clearly from the lantern light. He lit a cheroot, nudging the flap to let the smoke out, not breaking their gaze while he enjoyed the cigar.

Shay was half sitting up with her legs stretched out. Leaning more against the seat back, with her arm folded.

"I'll want you again."

She arched her brow. “Is there time?"

He rolled his head side to side lazily. “No. I mean ... I will want you again. After tonight I want you already."

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know,” he admitted and sat up, propping one boot near her feet and slouching down. “I don't—because I've never wanted a woman in quite this way. I'm also completely sober, which means—I don't bloody know.” He laughed and raked his white teeth over his lip. “Can I see you?"

She winced. “There's great risk in that for me, Gerard. I barely survive in society the way it is."

He shoved his hand through his hair. “Yes. That was selfish of me."

She smiled though. “Very flattering to me, however."

He tossed the cheroot out, sipped from his flask, before he eyed her a long silent time. The golden lamplight struck her tumbling hair and the brought out the sheen in her silk gown. The handsome bones of her face were enhanced by both the sleepy post-lovemaking, and her half smile.

"We could get married."

She blinked and then laughed, waiting for him to join her in the jest. When he did not, Shay sat up. “You don't marry a woman, just to take her to bed. You can have any woman you desire."

"I want you ... More than once, more than twice. I want to do more than spend myself between your thighs.” His gaze roamed her. “I want to touch you, see you nude and have you touch me. I want...

"Wait. Wait ... wait.” She held up her hands, shaking her head. “This is serious, my lord. You're an Earl. You can't just wed anyone."

"I do as I damn well please, Shay,” he softly reminded her. “But you are the first woman I have ever wanted to please too. I like you.” He smiled then. “I bloody well like you a lot. And surprising as it may sound. I respect you, and I don't many women. Because of the way you handled things five years ago, and the way you have made your life. I know there is fire and passion and life in you, and because of your circumstances, you have only lived half the life you could. We could be very good together."

She was so stunned she could only shake her head. “Gerard ... it is the ... attraction. That is all. It was there five years ago. It is there now. We have something together; I don't have to be sophisticated to admit that, all right? But do not get carried away."

It was her turn to laugh, though lame, and quite afraid at how tempted she was. “I would love to have you for a husband in the general sense. You are beautiful in your own dark way, and I would wear a perpetual smile from being in your bed. I would enjoy living life and adventures, yes. I have it in me to want that. But I would be horribly jealous of your lovers and mistress. I would drive us both daft. I am not cut out to be your countess in that regard."

"If you were my countess ... given your passion. I doubt that I would have the energy for another."

"But you don't know. How can you? You are not made to be a faithful man. You have made a habit of your conquest from a young age."

"Give me some credit,” he cut in dryly. “I had no inducement to care, one way or the other."

She sat back, staring at him, holding his gaze that was open and frank and too clear to be playing a game. “I'll be your lover, providing you are discreet. I will not be a paid mistress. Although, since I do not plan to wed I will not be a fool and turn you down. I will be your lover for however long it lasts.” She grimaced. “Though the next time, we must be careful to prevent pregnancy."

Something flared in his eyes. “I didn't care about an heir before. But, would you have my child?"

"Gerard. That is not what we are discussing.

"I think that I would like that. Yes. You should wed me, bear my children. Let me feel what I feel with you in bed—and let me give you what I long to. What I haven't wanted or cared to with another."

"I'm not going to consider it. Not tonight. Not this night, my lord. It's ... well; it is the time of year, and the kind of night, and circumstance, where things are out of your norm."

He thought on that awhile. Then looking at her in a brooding way, he husked, “I'm going to fall in love you. You know that? I can feel it."

"Oh, God.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Don't do this. Don't spoil everything when you've made it all so wonderful."

He was on his knees then, beside her, leaning over, and cupping her face. His own visage was intense. “Did you hear what I said? Something I did not believe in. something I didn't think existed ... I would not dare speak that to another, Shay. I would not believe it possible. But I don't want to let you go, even for an hour. I want to take you home with me, feed you breakfast, talk with you, and spend the next bloody month in bed, glutting both of us on this incredible feeling."

"You're serious,” she said it half to herself. Then swallowed thickly. “Make love to me again ... now."

He brought his mouth down on hers, and this time, in spite of what he said before, it was fire and passion and uncontrolled. His shirt was removed, her gown bunched at the waist, and when he had her astride him, and his sex was deep inside her, it was hard to say who led, for they battled to get and give in that way only a fierce and burning hunger can.

Mouths skimmed open and damp, teeth raked and tongues laved, and their fingers flexed. Hands touched skin and even that wasn't enough.

When he lowered her the last time, hard, his head went back in both pleasure and frustration, and her own whimper sounded against his throat. But in the aftermath, as only their panting broke the silence of the coach, she raised her head, and he lifted his and their gazes held again.

"It's more than just the sex, Shay,” his tone was deep and raspy.

"Yes.” Hers was soft and her eyes misting with tears.

They held then a movement, until they had to dress, cleaning up as they could from a neck cloth he dampened in the snow. When the others came, only three since some wished to stay. It was a bluish dawn and they sat on the same side, Gerald's arm around her as she laid her hand on his chest.

The others, quite foxed, passed out without comment. And though they were tired, both Shay and Gerard were wide-awake for the journey.

The bells were ringing in the city, snow, and laughter, that rhythm of life and pleasant atmosphere that came with the holiday. Gerard dropped the occupants off and told his driver to go to Shay's address.

Once inside the small, but cheerful house, he said, “I'll give you a week to pack, then I am coming for you, either way."

She pushed her tumbled hair back, and smiled at him still in some amazement. “I'll be packed in two days."

He had been standing by the door, but went to her and scooped her up, looking up as he held her high. “If it weren't for having some sympathy for poor Fritz, and Peter. I would take you to bed, and sleep with you, and awake, spend the whole day here..."

She touched his face. “Send Fritz home. You can hire a hack."

He did that. Then laughed and scooped her up again, carrying her to her bed and landing on it with a sigh. “Thank you for my gift, Shay."

She was leaning over him, brushing his hair back at the temples. “What gift was that?"

"A friend, a lover, a wife.” He was smiling, then turned more serous as his hands smoothed her hair back and stayed framing her face. “Living, real passion, a heart, I can actually feel racing with anticipation. When I had begun to believe I was too cynical and jaded to have one."

She kissed him, her tears wetting his face. “It is mutual, my lord. You have given me not only a fairy tale holiday, but also a future that I was afraid to dream of. One that I had put away and thought of as a pleasant girl-hood fantasy."

He shook his head, rolling so that he was above her. “It was real. I felt it in you. And you made me feel it too. This time, just a few hours ago, I was a different man before that ride. Before that ball. I am only sorry that I wasted so many years when I had touched it once, touched you—and been too jaded to see it."

He kissed her, soft kisses over her face. “I shall make up for it. Every Christmas I shall escort you to a ball, and woo you, and we will fall in love again and again."

Shay closed her eyes, feeling the emotions as he began to undress her, to make love to her with kisses and laves that missed no inch of skin. He was dark and beautiful, sensual, so much a sexual male. And she returned the favour, loving him, pouring out and over him the desire and hunger, the revelling in his possessiveness, skill and splendour, as he could not seem to stop kissing and touching her.

He was hers and he could have been those years ago. But oh, she was so young then, and he so cynical and bitter. What a wonderful gift to them both that they had found each other again, what a miracle for her, a fairy tale. But for being swept off to a ball neither of them intended to go, and talking, they would have lived their separate lives never knowing the feelings waiting to be released between them, never knowing this kind of love and passion.

Joined, and moving as one, deeply bathed in the newfound emotions, they looked at each other, pleasure coursing through them, emotions building and showing plain in their eyes, knowing without doubt or worry, that this truly was the beginning of a wonderful life together.

"I think a dark and dangerous, slightly jaded prince, suits my fairy tale,” she breathed on a laugh.

He husked in her ear, “I like my princesses plain-speaking, independent thinking, though it doesn't hurt that you beautiful and an incredible lover..."

She laughed again and it ended on a groan as he began his short strokes. “I thought I was touching your heart."

He held himself very, very deep, and tense-faced, cupped her own. “Without the heart, the passion isn't real. Can you not feel mine yet, love? I see I shall have to go deeper, as I love you now with my body, we will find each other's heart."

"Oh yes. Yes.” she swallowed and locked her legs tightly. “I see it and feel it. Oh, Gerard, give me all the love you wish."

And he did, finding his fulfilment and whispering her name, as the shudders rolled over his frame. Afterwards, for the first time, he remained in a woman's bed, gathered her in his arms and longed to never leave.

Gerard heard the singing and street patters. He watched the snow fall as she slept against his chest. He would tell her eventually, how long he had looked for her after that first ball, how every woman since was not the same. Tonight he had been off guard, for the first time his smooth tongue had deserted him and he'd played it all by ear. He did not fool himself. He was fortunate and some power greater than them both had arranged this wonderful accidental encounter.

His hand smoothed her hair and his raven lashes drifted down. He would tell her in time, how he had feared that encounter had so changed him and he'd never be the same again. How that long ago Christmas Ball and the sweet kisses that turned to passion, the wonderful, honest desire in her, had made everything pale until he had found her again.

The end

About the Author:

Romance author Eve Asbury, and Romantica writer Gayle Eden are also fiction author B.D. Dillon. They are all alter egos of Dian Addair, an author whose dreams of writing were put on hold in her twenties while she raised a son and daughter and worked several jobs. Romance novels kept her sane during some of those busy years which took her from West Virginia to living in a suburb of Washington, DC for fifteen more years, until finally settling her in East Tennessee, surrounded by the North Holston River, where she can now write to her hearts content.

She calls her life as a young grandmother of 45, controlled chaos. Actually it's quite normal for a woman who was born 9th in line and was an aunt by age five. She sets aside Saturdays for family, cooking, and romping with her 5 grandchildren. The rest of the week, when not stealing an hour with her busy husband, she's at the computer immersing herself in another good plot.

A writer who believes in story telling, in giving herself the freedom to write whatever story speaks to her heart. This prolific author says she tries not to limit her characters by outline, but has a vague idea that generally they run away with. She's found its better to indulge her muse than try and control it. A bit like real life, it happens, and there's always something new and surprising that makes the experience rewarding.

Other books by Gayle Eden available at

www.alinarpublishing.com

Winter Heart

Fate has not been kind to Jared Burke, Earl of Winterchase. Too many ghosts from his past life have made him into a man who is as remote as he is untouchable. People called him Beast and claim that his heart is as cold as his dark visage.

Clare Ross is a warm and giving woman; one who has grown strong from the weight of responsibility thrust upon her when her parents died and her younger brother, Aaron, the Viscount Hambelton went off the rails. Now that her brother has once again found his way, Clare is looking forward, with an open heart, to whatever joy life might bring her way.

What few people know is that it was Jared who took the young man out of the cold and gave him what he himself was denied—a second chance to live his life and take his future in hand. Only Clare knows that behind the grim façade, the Lord of Winterchase is much more than he seems and what people claim him to be.

The reclusive Lord agrees to join Aaron and his party at Hambleton to celebrate Christmas and the young Viscount's twenty-fifth birthday celebration. Here he meets Clare for the first time and finds her indeed to be the warm, caring woman that her brother spoke of with such affection. Determined to show her gratitude for what he has done, Clare befriends Jared, but what starts as innocent friendship instantly flames into a desire they never thought possible. Clare is sure, but is Jared willing to take this chance on love and let Clare be the one to melt his winter heart?

To see her other novels, visit:

www.evesromance.com/

An Alinar Publishing Production

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