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Copyright ©2007 by Gayle Eden

First published in 2007, 2007

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Under the Mistletoe

Gayle Eden

Copyright © 2007 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 E publication November 2007

First Edition

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

PROLOGUE

If there was anything that could be said about the Broomfield clan, it was that they knew how to bring in the holidays, in particular Christmas. The Broomfield's held the best parties during that time of the year complete with parlor games, skating and sleigh rides, just about any form of celebrating to be dreamed of.

The widower Squire Morley Broomfield had happily given away three of his four daughters, 2 had wed viscounts and one an earl, but though he welcomed and truly enjoyed his sons-in-law, no one in the neighborhood, including himself, ever thought of those beautiful and vivacious creatures as anything but “The Broomfield gels".

Margie, Ruth and Miriam were talented, intelligent, and possessed of golden hair, blue eyes, and enough spirit to make any man feel alive around them. Oh, and there was Mary, of course, she fit in there between Ruth and Miriam, and ... well, Mary wasn't usually what they meant when anyone said “those stunning creatures, those lively and talented Broomfield gels."

But everyone loved Mary. She had such heart that it would take a cold one indeed not to love her. From her Papa to her sisters, and now eight nephews and nieces, Mary was their darling and dear favorite.

Unbeknownst to Mary, her siblings and a few of her nephews and nieces, now in their teens, had tried for years to put Mary in the forefront, to display her uniqueness at gatherings and to-do's. Alas, the males they invited, the prospects as they called them, always loved Mary too. By the end of the celebration, they found her warm, generous and charming and ended up thinking of her as an acquaintance. Not one saw the distinctiveness in her, truthfully, because she was overshadowed by her sisters.

To be sure, everyone was aware of this. They were at wits end since Mary was now twenty-six and the only chance they had to discreetly invite these prospects were to family gatherings—family gatherings where Margie and Ruth and Miriam were in their blond hair and blue-eyed glory, their outgoing character, with their tall grace and exquisiteness on display. Having wed handsome men, birthed striking and charming children, certainly, one can see the dilemma.

They left their husband's estates and gathered at the Broomfield house in Yorkshire this year. The siblings and the oldest children, even their husbands were in the midst discussing dear Mary, and though they had sent out invites, as had her father, Squire Morley, and they vowed not to get so caught up in the amusements—everything went out the window after they arrived and settled in. For dear Mary had made the house perfect and everything festive, and well ... there were guests there already, overflowing the large house and guest house, and the snow so very beautiful, the music so lovely, the laughter so abundant....

* * * *

Mary Broomfield slipped out of the crowded and bustling ballroom for a moment and headed for the dark stairs that led above. Everything had been going at such a hectic pace, and she'd been doing preparations forever. Now that her lovely siblings and family were here, she could get off her tired feet and slip away just a moment.

Lifting the hem of the gown Ruth had brought for her from London; Mary went to the first landing, just before the curve, and sat down on the polished wood. She closed her eyes a moment savoring the sounds of holiday music and laughter, able to picture her lovely sisters gliding around the ballroom, and her older nephews and nieces getting into whatever mischief. Her father of course, enjoying a rare waltz with the widow Canning. All was as it should be. Another wonderful Christmas week was being kicked off at the Broomfield's.

Mary opened her eyes and slid the long green silk gloves off her arms, smiling when she thought of Ruth, who set fashion trends, worrying that Mary would start dressing like the old prudes she joined for poetry readings, or worse like the dowagers she had tea with.

Her sisters were forever trying to assure Mary that she was young and beautiful, despite the fact that Mary herself was perfectly fine with the truth. She had curly sable hair, hazel eyes, and was only five feet tall. She also was rounded where her sisters were slim, and she had a perfectly ordinary face, to her mind.

Oh, she was aware that she was on the shelf and hardly remembered next to the rest of her family, but as much as she loved them, enjoyed reading and hearing about their exciting life, Mary wasn't so sure she wanted exactly that. It had been a long time actually, since Mary dreamed of anything in particular for the future. She had a full life, albeit a rather plodding one compared to her sisters. Yes, she was also aware that her father looked at her with guilt at times, as if he were blaming himself she hadn't inherited the angelic looks to go with the talents and sense. But really, Mary wore her life like a pair of comfortable boots she pulled on for tramping about the woods. It was much better to accept oneself and enjoy people, find a life, than try and torture oneself for not fitting in a mold, that had already turned out three very perfect and very lovable siblings.

A flicker of light lit the walls from the entry hall below, and Mary leaned up to peek between the rails and watch the butler admit a very late arrival.

As Graves set the candelabra down, no doubt explaining to the fellow that he could have entered through the ballroom doors, which she recalled were open and quite lit at the front of the house, Mary's gaze moved to the swags on the railing, bows and greenery, the shadows cast from the decorated chandelier in the hallway. She tilted her head back to note the mistletoe she'd hung on every landing.

It was something her mother had done with a wink. Mary recalled her father and mother bidding them goodnight at the end of every evening during that Christmas week, stopping at every landing to kiss. It brought a smile to her lips and in her head she heard her father saying, “Just as your sisters, we'd made a vulgar love match, not done you know, but there it was, I saw her and fell headlong for her.” Now her sisters did the same with their husbands, and many of the guests slipped in a kiss or two on their way to the floors above."

Mary's thoughts were interrupted by the tread of boots on the landing, and she noted the not too steady form of the male making his way up.

"You are going in the wrong direction,” she offered amused, supposing he had either stopped at Oxly Inn before arriving, or perhaps come from one of the other estates throwing their grand holiday parties.

The man, tall, broad shouldered and from the amber light casting a bit from below, apparently had longish raven hair, somewhat mussed, replied a bit more than foxed, “My dear lady, I assure you I am not. I would rather have my arse roasted than endure one more moment of screeching debs singing Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht in German.” He hiccupped. “Or crowds in ballroom taking the shine from my best Hessians by trampling my feet in their overzealous celebration of this ... whatever holiday it is."

He put a hand to the wall and weaved a moment. “I took this to be the opposite direction on purpose."

Mary said first, “My sister's sing quite well, Sir. So you are missing a treat, and our guests are a bit more civilized than to dare trample a gentleman's boots...” Still amused she stood. “But I daresay you are in no condition to discern the difference. Come, sit down before you fall."

He took a couple more steps. “My apologies m'dear, it seems I've insulted my hostess, eh?"

Mary watched him reach her side, where upon he nearly fell down beside her. His elbows leaning back a moment on the landing while his long legs stretched out.

"I'm Mary Broomfield, this is my father's house. But everyone in the family considers this their Christmas celebration. Do you mean to tell me, you've no idea which house you have entered?"

He straightened a bit, his arm brushing her own as he admitted, “Apparently not. Think I know the Broomfield's. Lovely gels or some such, beauties all of them."

Wincing she laughed. “Um, that would be my sisters.” She let her eyes adjust to the dim light, watching his fingers rake through his hair, his hands dangling, forearms on his thighs then, as he blinked and stared downward. “I was just about to get some coffee, would you like some?"

He turned to look at her, and Mary was quite startled to find herself looking into a devastatingly handsome face, aristocratic, a bit harsh in a cynical way. But with thick black lashes, some sort of gray or silver hued eyes, sensual mouth. And yes, up close he was lean and broad shouldered, sinewy she would guess.

His neck cloth was undone and hanging under his jacket lapels, his ruffled shirt missing the collar, exposing a warmly skinned throat.

"What was your name again?” He asked as if he hadn't heard her.

"Mary.” Her hazel eyes twinkled and she tried not to laugh at his intoxicated state.

His gaze did a swift scan of her hair which was simply pulled up with a ribbon and the rest left to tumble down to mid back, a few wayward spirals escaping. That lovely green dress, silk, off the shoulder, exposing what she knew was an out of fashion body with too much flesh.

The last thing she expected him to say was, “What rather glorious hair you have, Mary."

Her brow rose. “Ah. Well. Thank you, Sir. But my sisters have the beauty, this...” She fluffed her hair, “Has been tamed for the evening, to make it appear at its best. Rather has a resemblance to the dowager Radford's poodle most of the time."

His white teeth flashed between sensual lips, and it did an odd little flutter to Mary's belly. He murmured, looking at it again, “I must be sobering, for I do recall that the Broomfield beauties are all blond."

"And wed. My sisters are blond.” She laughed. “Now, who are you?"

He frowned as if having to think a moment. Then he lifted his hand, turning more toward her, “Coaldrake, Everyn ... um ... Hurst."

She weeded through that while shaking his hand, assuming he had a title in there somewhere, and summarizing that one of her brothers in law had invited him, likely whilst in London. They did have cronies and men at the clubs they sometimes invited up for the holiday. His hand was warm, rather stronger than she expected, and ungloved.

Mary released it, after murmuring, “Welcome to Broomfield, Everyn.” She closed her fingers feeling a slight tingle there from the contact. To distract herself, she raised a bit to look below. “The ball is in full swing and will likely go on till dawn. Perhaps you'd like a more comfortable hide away?"

He stood, grasping the rail to steady himself, and as Mary also did he murmured, “Lead on, just dump me anywhere out of the way and carry on with your...” He looked at her. “What exactly were you doing on the stairs?"

"Hiding away.” She laughed and instead of leading him down, she took his arm and turned him. “Up here. I'll get you settled and find that coffee."

"I don't suppose you'd change that to brandy?"

"I believe you've had quite enough spirits. Sorry.” She half led, half carried a man a head taller than herself, up two more flights and to the right, ignoring the fact he pulled his arm free and threw it around her shoulder.

Mary had some experience with men in their cups, given that she had helped both Ruth and Miriam haul their husbands to bed just this way, of course they'd laughed themselves silly doing it. Nevertheless, she made nothing of Everyn's leaning on her—despite how surprised she was that he smelled warm and spicy and her mind certainly conscious that he was a handsome devil.

The small parlor doors were slid back and she led him right in, leaving him to half fall in a chair by the fire. The lamps were lit and snow fell outside the long uncovered windows. The chair was large enough and though the room rarely used, it was comfortable enough and decorated with the same festive flair of the entire house.

Mary lit the candles on the mantle and murmured, “I'll be right back, then left him, taking the servants stairs down to collect coffee. The half dozen servants were busy and bustling. They exchanged a quick smile since they were used to seeing Mary in their domain. She filled a silver pot with fresh ground coffee and a container of cream, one of sugar, and taking two cups went back up to the parlor.

Her guest had made himself comfortable and removed his formal coat, and it appeared he'd added a log to the fire without falling into the hearth.

She glanced at him as she poured. “Cream?"

He had been staring into the flames but now glanced at her. “Black."

She poured her own and then took him the cup, watching his lean fingers take it, musing that he really was quite foxed as he missed his mouth twice before he finally took a long drink.

She held her own cup and walked to the window, just to side of him. Savoring several sips, she then peeked aside to find him looking at her.

"Forget my name again?” she teased.

"Not at all ... Mary.” He raised the cup, downed it and shuddered. Getting up, he poured another, sloshing a bit, but managing to fill it again. Instead of sitting down he walked a bit steadier toward her, and as if his legs were untrustworthy after all, sat down on the window seat to sip.

"Snow,” he muttered looking out the frosted glass.

Her lips pulled into a smile. “I believe that is what they call it."

Giving another of those white grins, this one lazy, he leaned his head back against the facing, looking up at her. Though given his height and her lack of it, there wasn't far to look. “So why are you hiding out at your own ball, Mary Broomfield?"

He'd said it in a whisper as if asking a great secret. She chuckled softly. “Not hiding exactly. But in case you haven't heard, our family is rather energetic and lively, and I prepare for months so that my father and siblings, their families can have the perfect Christmas week. We've always gone all out for the holiday. My mother used to before she died, and well, it's a very important tradition, as much as it is fun and a bit of foolery for the grown ups. The entire neighborhood looks forward to it.” She shrugged. “Once everything starts, or rather begins nicely, I like to steal away once in awhile and just savor the memories."

He blurted as if he had been half listening half thinking, “How old are you?"

She cocked her brow. “Twenty-six."

"Hmm.” He cocked his own brow. “Let me guess. You have a husband who is part giant and five or six children..."

"Not at all. I've never been married."

His brow lowered. “Good God...” He appeared as if he would stand.

She laughed almost reading his mind. “Relax, Sir. I'm not the sort who would trap a man in desperation. I am quite content with my status. And even should someone claim that Mary Broomfield did anything the least bit like that, the entire county would laugh them silent. Your compliment aside, and, since you could not know that my reputation is for being both sensible and intelligent, I can assure you've no need to panic."

That smile still intact, she mused, “I assume you are one of those hunted London bachelors?"

He winced. “My apologies.” And relaxed again before muttering, “One grows eyes in the back of their head, you know, even when foxed, during these social gatherings. I think ... I started out this rustication at m'cousin Freddy's house, and once word got out that I was there...” He shuddered, “Barely escaped with my skin."

"Freddy. Ah, that would be Lord Fredrick Banning. I see. Yes, well. It may comfort you to know that though my sister's wed titles, and I care for my brother's in law, I'm happily ignorant of most of what the ton does, or must do. I believe my sisters were the same, though they move in those circles now and then.

My father raised us to be rather scandalously independent and sensible, and as he put it. It paid off wonderfully, for his gels since Ruth and Miriam and Margie, all made good matches as well as brought him sons-in-law he could call friends. We're one of those odd families who got lucky or unlucky as the ton would find it, we live the lives that bring us joy, and our family is close. My sisters wed for love, as father did, and they got wealth and titles by sheer accident."

"Amazingly rare.” He smiled shortly and took another sip of his coffee after raising his cup to her. Following a swallow, he muttered, “Unheard of in my circles."

She watched the candlelight play on his raven hair. Despite the muss, it shone a blue black and lay well past his collar. His silvery eyes peeked up through those dark rimmed lashes and Mary looked away.

"You do not spend Christmas with your family?"

He snorted. “No. Though my poor blighted father must. Between the dozens of aunts and uncles, the cousins and ne'er-do-wells he supports, as well as the handling their petty jalousies and problems, I do all in my power to make myself scarce this time of year."

"Except for Cousin Freddy?"

"Ah. Yes. I unfortunately had to stop there on some errand for father. ‘Was the least that I could do, considering the old man is likely hiding away himself at this moment. The relatives descend you know, much like vultures this time of year, at m'father's estate, and the servants liken it to a plague of locusts and...” He waved his hand and grunted. “Suffice it to say, that Christmas, like any other holiday, is one we both dread."

"What a shame."

He looked at her. “Family duty and all that. Can't get rid of the relatives, they keep breeding too. Each batch more eccentric and demanding and..."

"I meant that you don't enjoy the holiday."

He laughed. “Dear girl, a man of my station and age enjoys very little aside from...” He seemed to gather his wits and chuckled. “Never mind."

"I can guess.” She reached for his empty cup and took it with her own, to the table she'd set the tray on. Mary guessed also that he was thirty-three or four, certainly no more than that. “Will you have more?"

He had stood, and unlatched the window, poked his head out to look at the snow—or to clear his head. He re-latched it and turned to answer, “No. thank you."

She put the cups down and they stood there a moment, Mary was very much aware that he was still less than sober. Although she was also human enough, despite her status of old maidship, to be attracted. There wasn't a lot there, aside from jaded cynicism, a man of vice and—the opposite sort of thing she expected to be attracted to.

Still, she really could not help it, there was something amusing and alive beneath all that, and for the time being at least, she savored the warmness she felt standing there.

"I should be off.” He seemed to snap out of some muse, and headed to the chair, slipping on his coat.

"Have you consumed anything today besides drink?"

"I believe I did.” He grinned at her, fumbling with the neck cloth and giving up then stuffing it in his pocket. “Breakfast or lunch, to be sure."

She shook her head. “Where are you staying?"

He raked a hand through his hair. “The closest inn?"

"All filled, I'm afraid.” She shook her head, and then shrugged, “You are welcome here, for however long. And certainly you are welcome to either join in the festivities or amuse yourself.” She looked around. “You'll at least take supper? We had so much left over and..."

He was looking at her oddly as Mary met his eye, which caused her to fall silent. But hand upon the chair back, he actually teased, “I sense you are concerned on my behalf, Mary Broomfield. Don't be. No likely tales will emerge of strangers wondering about in the snow and starving. I have my coach, and there is always cousin Freddy..."

She raised both brows. “As you will. Although I was just going to steal a tart or two myself."

He grinned shaking his head. “You would temp a man with tarts? For shame, Mary."

Laughing she turned and waved him along. “Come, Sir. We'll slip down the back stairs, stuff a napkin full before cook notices, and..."

He was following her, laughing, and chuckling more as they headed down the hall and descended dark stairs, that were scarcely wide enough for two people.

Mary put a hand out to stop him, just at the bottom. She winked and pointed to the archway to the kitchens. The scent and warmth, the noise of the servants, could be heard.

She pointed opposite, to another arch, which he would have to duck under, which led to a higher ceiling brick chamber, sometimes used for extra pantry space.

He headed that way and Mary went into the kitchens. She loaded a tray of more than tarts, a jug of milk, ham and bread, cheese and what not, then wrinkled her nose at the servants raised brow smiles and left to join her conspirator.

He'd made himself at home; even lit a couple of thick tallow's sitting on a crude table. She set the tray down, placed the jug beside it and pulled out the hewn stool as he took the other. “Help yourself."

He did, managing to consume most of the food while looking around the chamber and while Mary ate a few tarts. There wasn't much but shelves filled with foodstuffs and on the floor against them, items such as grinders and kitchen tools.

He fished around for a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, finally looking at her. “You're an odd one, Mary."

"So they say.” She ran her tongue over her teeth and smiled.

His silver eyes observed both actions. “I don't believe I've ever dined in a kitchen pantry before."

"It shall be a cherished memory then.” Her laughter sounded softly.

"Um.” He rested his elbows on the table. “Wouldn't you rather be with your family?"

"I am with them. I mean, I know they are enjoying themselves. I shall see and be with them all week."

She shrugged. “We're close, but no one goes into a dither if I wonder off. They're likely assuming I'm either in the kitchens, helping cook or up in my chambers, reading. One year I found the butler had slid on the icy steps and turned his foot. I actually donned his coat and manned the door the rest of the evening."

He laughed. “Why do I believe that?"

She pursed her lips. “I believe it was last Easter holiday, could have been, that I left in the middle of a hand of whist to go for a ride, the urge hit me just like that.” She snapped her fingers

"Now you are stringing me down the trail."

She tilted her head slightly. “I might be. But actually, my siblings quite shine and know well how to enjoy themselves and entertain. I do join in, and enjoy myself. But it is a rare thing to have a stranger, a rather foxed, though entertaining stranger, wonder in during a holiday ball. While I'm quite sure my brothers in law, likely my sisters, would know exactly who you are, I'm finding not knowing much more enjoyable."

"Did I not introduce myself?"

"After a fashion.” She shook her head when he opened his mouth. “No, really. Don't spoil it."

"What?” He laughed perplexed.

She shrugged again.

He was smiling but his gaze moved over her torso and face, lingering on her eyes. “I see."

Mary had to look away, and she did by gazing around the chamber as if thinking. He had the most compelling eyes. “So, I'll have Dinah prepare you a room, at least for the night?"

"It would be rude of me to decline."

"Yes. It would."

He laughed a deep and soft sound.

Mary's gaze was drawn to it, that mouth and smile before she flickered her glance up to meet his. “Are you ready to retire?"

"Not at all. I'm much too curious now."

She excused herself before she asked about what, and found the maid Dinah loading a wheeled cart with more champagne. After informing her of another guest, she went back to the chamber and told him, “Second floor, and the end of the hall by the bathing rooms. You wouldn't happen to have luggage?"

He nodded and stood. “My coach is..."

She cut him off, “I'll instruct the footmen, they'll find the driver and coach and have everything settled. Trust me, they are experts at last minute guests and sorting out coaches and baggage."

She left him once more, and returned to find him standing just in the kitchen entryway, gaining interesting looks from the cooks and help, as he watched their bustling around the long and airy room.

Standing before him, she said over the noise, “You look as if you've never seen servants at work."

"I haven't, at least not in the kitchens. Makes me feel even more pity for my father's staff.” His glance flickered to hers, holding amusement and some abashment. “His estate and our relatives no doubt quadruple the size of this house and number of your family."

She got the idea and believe it, that he was one of those people cursed rather than blessed with family. She had observed such all of her life, and she suspected it was why everyone in the country found it so amazing they actually were excited when the Broomfield's gathered together, it was rare indeed for families to get along, and rarer still to find ones that planned holiday gatherings with such enthusiasm.

"Would you like to see father's library?"

He pulled away from the entry but shot her a look as they walked. “No, actually."

Going back up the servant's stairs she awaited until the reached the second floor hall. Mary pointed out a doorway, down near the bathing area, where two of the footmen were carrying in carpetbags. “That will be your room."

He didn't head that way but stepped look down at the lower foyer. She joined him, watching him examine the swags and decorations, the tapers lit and glinting on the red bows. The orchestra had stopped for a moment and Mary could hear the lovely sound of the piano.

"That would be Miriam. My sister."

He tilted his head, listening. “She's genuinely good."

Mary laughed at his shock. “Um. Our mother was a celebrated pianist."

He nodded his glance on her smile again. “Do you play?"

"Only for my own amusement, and for father sometimes. I'm adequate at best."

He turned his hands on the balcony rail at his sides, but his gaze still on her.

"What?” she asked at his long silent look.

His brow twitched upwards. “Were I still foxed, I would doubt what I am hearing, Mary Broomfield. No boasting of your talents, no vanity when you obviously should have at least a bit of it? And no aspirations to snag a title, a fortune, happily ignorant I believe you said, of what society expects of women. I am in doubt of my metal faculties, because your sort does not exist. The female by her very nature is predatory."

Mary's lips parted even as she rolled her eyes. “What rubbish. Perhaps in your society they are, but in my family at least, that's complete nonsense. And I beg your pardon, but it sounds so very conceited coming from a man."

"It does.” He agreed. “By among the titled..."

"Ah well. I will not defend that archaic mind set. But don't confuse me with those of my sex who actually deserve that sort of label. It exists, I won't deny. But I wasn't raised that way. My father wouldn't tolerate it. He respected my mother and thus respected his daughters enough to treat them better, and to raise them without superficial nonsense. My siblings and their children cannot deny their beauty, but they have more substance than that."

"I can see that."

She found her smile again. “Now who is leading who down the trail?"

"I was serious.” He claimed smiling too. “But now I shall add spirit and sense to that list of virtues."

"I'll let you by with mocking me,” she countered, “Since I'm enjoying that look of confusion on your face."

He laughed quietly, his gaze holding hers. “Careful, Mary Broomfield. I'm neither known for being easily amused, nor entertained. In fact I'm rather jaded, grim, and have been noted for growling in my cups."

"How fierce. Well, I don't know you a’ tall. We're complete strangers, so there you go. I don't know any better and shall take your smiles and laughter as a natural part of your character."

He really laughed at that. And when it faded he murmured, “I would be stranger to myself as well, were such a thing true."

Mary filed that bit away in her brain and replied lightly, “We are even then, for I am not as virtuous as practical, and while I enjoy most things, I have a list of faults, even vices..."

"No.” He feigned shock.

"Ohhh yes.” She in turn feigned soberness. “A penchant for Sherry, I'm afraid, got completely foxed on my twentieth birthdate. And then, there is gambling, neither of my brothers in law will play against me.” She folded her arms and leaned toward him whispering, “Ruth and I once stole a nude statue ... male ... from Lady Venderlin's garden and shall we say, enhanced it ... before putting it back."

His hand went over his mouth, eyes large as if in shock.

Mary made a face, “Of course father knew who'd done it. He warmed our backside, and then let our art instructor go."

Everyn gave up and laughed outright.

She smiled and added, “We felt horribly guilty, since it actually wasn't his fault we um...."

"Um?"

She flushed finally and waved her hand. “Never mind."

"I wouldn't dream of stopping you now.” He waited for the answer.

Mary sighed. She'd walked right into that wishing to make him smile, longing for some reason to amuse the jaded man. “Very well. I confess. We found a scandalous book at the Oxley Inn. Ruth found it actually, piled in the rubbish heap."

"Scandalous."

"Yes.” She agreed. “But we only thought ourselves clever and knowing, until they all wed, and my brother in laws came into the family. It seems they were quite worldly and jaded ... until they wed my sisters. Amazing really, how they are unashamedly in love with them. But they do so like to tease me, since Ruth shared that little fiasco with her husband. Dudley is the worst."

"Lord Edstrom?"

"Yes."

He smiled slightly. “You are right, he was a rakehell."

"I never doubted it. It quite excites Miriam for some reason."

"I can imagine why."

Feeling as if she were getting into deep waters, also seeing something in the dip of his lashes, Mary pushed away from the rail. “Shall we take up our spot on the stairs?"

Surprisingly he nodded, and they went down to plant themselves on the second story landing. The music drifted up, the laughter and occasionally a guest or two came through the door and headed for the rooms set up for refreshing themselves.

Because they were out of the glow of the amber lights in the hall, they were no more than shadows on the wide stairs.

Mary had her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hand as she watched the flicker from the lights on the stairs and railing. Still aware of him beside her, his one foot planted on the closest stair, the other below that as he leaned back on his elbow apparently relaxed.

She could feel now then that he looked at her, and she wondered that any man so handsome and so obviously sought after would. In truth Mary wondered that a man like him was sitting on the stairs with her, during a ball, and she had a feeling that she'd convince herself she'd imagined it all.

"What is that?"

She looked over her shoulder at him, then up to where he pointed. “It's mistletoe."

He squinted. “Are you sure."

She nudged him with her elbow. “Of course I am. I made it myself with wax and wire. See the berries? And ... are you making fun of my very real looking mistletoe, Sir?"

Those white teeth flashed. “Not at all. It's rather dark here."

Snorting she returned, “You were making fun.” She looked up at it. “It's one of my talents. I take it very seriously,” she teased.

"Um."

At that, she glanced at him.

He was looking steady at her. “Why did you hang it here? I thought it dangled over thresholds or something of that sort."

"It does. It can. But...” she told him about her mother hanging it, and why. And that her sisters and their husbands kissed under it.

"And you? How many kisses did the creator of that very real, very like genuine mistletoe, get under it?"

"Not a one.” She replied laughing. “Unless, you count pecks on the cheek. Those I get, from my family, and papa."

He straitened still regarding her as he said low and soft, “That's not right. It's a travesty in fact."

She chuckled. “Is it?"

"Absolutely. I'm quite sure of it."

Mary could see it coming, but hung somewhere between disbelief that he might kiss her, and amazement that she wanted him to. Her smile melted under such a surprise and her gaze went from his mouth to those silvery eyes as she husked, “You really do ... mmm."

His hand had cupped the back of her head and he pulled her to him the same moment he leaned, and then ... his lips, his warm and velvet lips were on hers. Those butterflies in her stomach fluttered up to her head, and her hand reached out blindly to grasp his jacket at the side.

Everyn was moving his head, the kiss soft for awhile, and then he opened his mouth and his silken tongue slid inside.

Mary moaned and though her sisters had told her everything about male and female intimacies, nothing at all came to mind as she felt that tongue lift hers, slide over it. He was moving his head, slanting it in the most erotic way.

Breath hot and choppy her lashes fluttered down. Mary returned the caress with her own tongue and the instant she did, everything changed. He turned more toward her, his hand under her hair, thumb near her ear, and was leaning her back, back on the landing, leaning over her.

This shift was nonessential compared to the kissing, the things he was doing, and the flavor, the soft warm silk of that rolling tongue against hers.

He elevated his head an inch, just so their wet mouths were blowing soft against each other. Mary's lashes lifted just the slightest. She felt heavy yet light, tingling all over. His lashes too were only slightly parted as he touched their lips, two, three, four times together, and an intimate sound rose from it.

The music from below, the guest, the day, everything faded. His head descended and he kissed her again. With each slant and movement the kiss became more firm, deeper, so she trembled all over from a sudden fire in her blood.

That thumb near her ear was warm, as were the fingers threaded under her hair. Mary was scarcely aware of raising her other hand to his own nape, despite the sound he made in her mouth. The kissing was intoxicating, sexual, intimate and going on and on and on, until he raised an inch, this time breathing uneven.

"You're trembling, Mary."

Very much aware that her whole body was shaking, she lifted her lashes to reveal shimmering hazel eyes and whispered, “I am sorry. I can't seem to help it. It's more intoxicating than sherry."

His elbow was resting down, and he moved his hand from her nape, down her arm, under it, and from her side to her hip. Without taking those silver eyes off her he murmured, “Your lips are so incredibly soft and inside your mouth is hot and silken. You are a surprise, Mary Broomfield. I don't think I have ever tasted anything that made me crave more and more."

With that he kissed her again, his lips and tongue working erotic magic while his hand flexed on her generous hip. Mary's hold moved too, until both hands were at his sinewy nape. She was feeling the movements of his head and the sensual movement of his jaw from his kissing her.

His scent was wonderful, his body strong and lean and his hair silken. The overall assault on her senses completely robbed her of caution, and for more time than she could have believed they kissed and kissed.

It changed to his occasional nip at her lower lip, and at times he withdrew his tongue. And Mary was such an adept learner that she responded in like manner, worrying his mouth, raking her teeth over his lip, and since she too craved more of his flavor, it increased the fire in her body—until she became aware that her sex was damp, aching in a extraordinary way.

She turned her head to the side, caught a gasp of air, and then shifted her legs.

Everyn had risen slightly, watching her, and when she turned to glance at him through that foggy haze of arousal, it was to find a similar expression in on his face.

Then, for a moment he stilled, and bore his weight on his elbow, bringing his hand up so that his finger trailed over her moist lower lip. Those silver eyes held hers as he whispered, “This is where you call a halt to things, Mary Broomfield.” That finger traced her top lip and then rested at the corner. “And this is why a man such as I, does not kiss innocent, unmarried, females."

"Why?” She wet her lips, already knowing the answer but enthralled by his gaze, his voice, his expression.

Everyn held her gaze as he blindly reached up and took her hand, sliding it down. He allowed it to rest on his chest where she could feel the inflexible beat of his heart. Then lower, until it covered the hot length of his sex, very evident in his black trousers. When he released her hand Mary swallowed thickly.

"You're trembling arouses me too, Mary Broomfield.” He laid a hand on her white shoulder. “It should be from virginal fear, but I know it is not."

Mary finally found her voice, “It was my first kiss, first kisses rather. I haven't had enough experience to master control.” She cleared her throat and attempted a smile. “Would you like me to slap your face and pretend to be offended?"

He smiled, too, though strained, and reached to let one of her long spiraled curls filter between two fingers. “What is it about you? I have been looking at you since we met, and I cannot describe in my own mind what this beauty is? Now that I've kissed you, hoping, expecting some awkward and tasteless exchange, I instead find myself deeper drawn and more perplexed ... You are a witch, Mary Broomfield."

She snorted, but grinned, sensing in the both of them a tightly held current of explosive electricity. It hummed and throbbed under this benign conversation. “I was thinking the same about you. Not the looks, they are obviously attractive, and well, the voice; there is your scent which is quite heady—but that kiss and how you do it. I would wager you have a happy mistress."

He shook his head laughing. “That is not a virginal thing to say."

"I don't feel virginal, if there is such a thing as feeling it. It is simply a fact as a result of the lack of males in my life, or should I say, lack of suitors. It isn't some shield with a V emblazoned on it. I did not even think of that while we kissed, aside from a kind of wondrous surprise despite what my sister's talked about."

"Tell you things, do they?"

"Most things.” She felt him touching her hair. “I'm informed about most adult relations—but that's nether here nor there, since I'm the one feeling it."

"God.” He paused and looked at her. “You are too temping. I had no plans for this, in any manner, with any woman not my mistress. I have never been so tempted to..."

"That makes two of us.” She got to her elbows and set up as he sat again at her side. She smoothed her hair back though it was less tame than before. The hall clock gonged loudly and she glanced aside to find him sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hands combing through his hair.

He dropped his hands, turned his head to meet her stare. “I could use a drink, and a cheroot.” He grasped the railing and stood.

She stood more slowly. “They'll be in your rooms."

Everyn nodded distractedly. “Perhaps you should—"

"Yes,” she cut him off. “I think I shall go and join the family for a bit. Feel free to use any of the rooms, there are two libraries and well, men seem to know where to find them, don't they.” She headed down the stairs, hearing his tread as he went up.

Chapter Two

Mary had not slept well. She had lain on her bed watching the snowfall and reliving that kiss over and over again. When morning came, she greeted the maid, who told her the siblings and children were all at the table eating and chattering away.

Her body felt heavy from the storm of arousal and from keeping such emotions going so late with her mental imaginings.

Mary whipped the gown over her head and pinned her hair up in a muss. Bending over the vanity, she washed her face in the cold water the maid had poured. Taking up the soap and cloth, she washed her body while her mind seemed to be on a slower pace, and somewhere in her consciousness she knew what it was, she dreaded going out the door and discovering her stranger had departed.

"Is it snowing, Anna?” She looked through the glass at the girl.

"It stopped, Miss. About an hour ago. Will you be taking a ride or going with the others to the village?"

"I'll take the mare out. I've got to get all of those packages under the tree. Does the staff need help cleaning the ballroom?"

"No, Miss. We set about that before dawn. We have the tables set up for refreshment and cards now. I'll have Jack come up and make sure your gifts are placed under the tree there. Lady Ruth and his lordship are stopping by the vicars. But I expect they'll be a good many guests this evening."

"No doubt.” Mary turned and went to the bed where her stockings, boots, white blouse and brown habit were laid out. She slid on a camisole and sat down to don white stockings.

"Will you have coffee up here, Miss?"

"Don't trouble about it, Anna. I'll stop in the kitchens on my way to the stables."

"Very good, Miss.” The girl nodded and lay her riding gloves and crop, a brown silk top hat on the dresser. “Shall I help with your hair?"

Mary slipped on the blouse, which was sheer and had a high-necked lace collar and long cuffs. She pulled on the skirt and hip length jacket, buttoning it she nodded. “Just comb it and I'll tie it back. I know you are busy.” Mary pulled on her knee high riding boots.

She sat at the vanity while the maid unpinned it. Loose it spilled half way down her back, over her shoulders and arms in tight sable curls. Using a wide comb Anna managed to comb through the tangles and subdue it. Mary took up a black ribbon and tied it at the nape. “How is father this morning?"

Anna smiled. “Yawning, but quite chipper. He and Lord Dudley and some gentleman are having coffee in the study. I believe he mentioned a nap before evening, and the gentlemen mentioned billiards."

"Um. What did this male look like?"

Anna's brows rose. “Handsome, Miss. Black hair and light eyes, blue or gray."

Mary chuckled. “Noticed his eyes, did you?” though her heart beat faster.

"Yes, Miss.” Anna flushed. “He is tall, nicely built and dressed handsomely."

"Indeed.” Mary stood after fitting on the hat. She put on the Kidd gloves and picked up the crop. “Thank you for your help, Anna."

"Welcome. I've put out your bronze satin for evening and your black stockings and chemise. Will you need me to run a bath later?"

"No. I'll be fine.” Mary waved her off. As the girl left, Mary stood looking in the mirror at the nip-wasted coat and riding skirt, the lace brushing under her chin. Already her hair had a few curls loosening at the temple and by her ears.

She sighed because, even though it was perfectly tailored for her, and made of clean lines, no frills, the habit did not disguise her more voluptuous figure. She thought she had long ago accepted her out of fashion frame. Were it another era she would have been considered perfection, but for many years, certainly in her lifetime, the pale thin female was all the rage.

Mary did not mind that her sisters were tall and slim. They had form but it was elegant and swan like. She knew her only slightly arched brows, the almost too wide mouth and the proud nose, as her father called it, were not marks of beauty. Her bones were too angled and she'd always been curved with more flesh than Ruth and the others. Their hair was a true gold, their eyes startling blue, and their mouths lighter pink than her slightly darker peach.

"Get your ride, Mary Broomfield, and stop this nonsense,” she told herself firmly, turning on her heel she marched out and picked up her skirts to head down the servants stairs. After greeting staff, who were cleaning breakfast dishes, she drank two cups of creamed and strong coffee, and then left via the side door for the stables.

The courtyard and path had been cleared, and from the looks of it her brothers-in-law had ridden earlier.

"Morning, Miss Mary.” The old groom greeted her with a puff of frosty breath. He held her gray mare, ready and saddled.

"Morning, Henry. How is she today?"

"Ready for a bound through the snow.” He laughed coming around to give her a leg up. As she settled, he pat the mare's neck and added, “Take the woodland path, Miss. Lord Dudley said it was quite beautiful what with the fresh snow and all."

"Thank you, I will.” She clucked to the mare and turned her, heading for the stretch of woods at a good gallop. Mary loved to ride and for the longest time lost herself in that, eventually slowing the mare on the ride back, simply admiring the trees and snow covered landscape.

* * * *

Everyn Hurst, Marquis of Coaldrake stepped outside the study doors after sharing morning coffee with the Master and his sons-in-law. He was familiar with both men and seemed to recall meeting the Squire somewhere back too.

Having donned his outer coat, black wool, straight and calf length with wide lapels, he lit a cheroot and walked along the cleared walkway, around the manor, glancing now and then at the birds landing on snow-covered hedges, or statues with odd snow topped heads, ice hanging on their noses and arms.

He had meant to leave, intended to awake early and dash off. But as he had taken a clean change of clothing into the bath, Lord Dudley had been exiting and after a cheerful and delighted greeting by the latter, it was assumed by his lordship that he'd accepted some invite whilst in London, to join them at Broomfield. An invite he could not recall.

Everyn paused at the side of the manor, smoking, and watching the grooms across the way as they turned out the horses and tied them whilst younger stable lads wheeled out soled straw and replaced it with clean. His breath misted after the smoke and he thought of the glimpse he'd gotten of Mary Broomfield's sisters when he'd dressed and gone below, accepting an offer of joining the master of the house and his sons-in-law for coffee.

He had supposed he ought to speak to the man whose house he'd stayed in the night before. The Squire, tall and lean, bearded but bald, was a completely likable fellow. Those Broomfield girls, which he had seen amidst children from teen aged to around five or six, had been herding the bunch down the stairs before him, and laughing, chatting all the while.

Yes, they were stunning. He recognized two from London ballrooms, and clear of the brandy fog he'd had the night before, saw the truth in the rumor that they were unequalled in beauty.

Even the oldest who must have been thirty was quite the loveliest and most graceful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. As they'd turned toward the dining rooms and he toward the study, he'd been somewhat amazed at their smiles and laughter, those of the children, and saw somewhat what Mary had said, for they were apparently happy and joyful, completely opposite of what he recalled from his own family.

His father, His Grace the Duke of Meaberry, or Lord John as he was called, understood so well Everyn's aversion to the bunch, that he never failed to come up with some plausible excuse to prevent Everyn too from suffering through family gatherings.

There was so much fighting, jealousy and bickering, not to mention those lazy fops and dozens of dense debs and more wards than he could recall. That though his father used to remind him that he'd someday be heir, he sometimes muttered to Everyn that seeing as how he'd inherit that family responsibly with it—he perfectly understood his lack of enthusiasm with breeding more.

A soft grunt escaped Everyn as he saw a particularly fine stallion and began to walk toward the stable yard to get a better look at it. He was thinking of how few his pleasures were in life, even in London where he had to drink and gamble just to survive the ton hunting parties. He had long sense developed a hardness and cynicism, an aversion to most of his life. It hardly came to mind that his father had made a love match once, since Lord John's wife hadn't lived but hours after Everyn's birth to savor it. His father had completely given up the London whirl and found his pleasure in books and rambling about the estate, some small measure of peace between the upsets and troubles he had to handle among the family.

"This is a fine animal,” Everyn commented to the old groom who was passing by, carrying a length of rope.

The man bowed, “It is, your lordship. Master Broomfield bought him right off the tracks. A real prize, that. We're breeding him."

Everyn asked a few questions while he walked around the animal, which wore a blanket of deep red. He would certainly ask Broomfield to let him know when the mares foaled, and purchase one of the offspring."

He was talking with the groom, listening to the knowledgeable man when the dull thud off hooves drew his gaze around. Everyn forgot what he was saying and watched Mary Broomfield canter into the yard on her mare.

"Excuse me, milord.” The groom said and hurried to her.

Everyn saw her spot him, and their eyes met for a moment before she allowed the groom to help her down. Her cheeks were flushed and half her hair was hanging forward from its previous confinement. He watched her remove the top hat as the groom led the horse away, and she walked toward him.

"Good morning."

He nodded, a bit surprised when she handed him her hat. “Would you hold this moment?"

He did, watching her white teeth remove her gloves and tuck them in the hat. As she tried to gather her hair and smooth it, she offered him an impish smile.

"It has a mind of its own.” Her tone was rueful.

He managed a smile but found both her movements and the muss of curls quite alluring. He had not recalled the exact shade of her eyes but they were a light hazel, and though he could have compared her to the beauties he'd seen earlier, they did not come to mind at all as he tried to discern just what it was that made her so ... attractive.

That was not the word either, but it sufficed for the moment as he handed her the hat, which she did not put on, nor her gloves. He'd stepped away from the stallion and that movement seemed to make Mary Broomfield glance from his boots to his head, before her eyes met his again.

"Are you joining us for awhile, then?” She turned toward the house; walking and he fell in step with her.

"I've no plans. I did however accept a game of billiards with your father and lord Dudley later."

Her gaze slanted up to his. “You met my father?"

"Yes. I seem to have met him before, but it escapes me when."

She smiled and turned her head, walking to the courtyard, placing her hat and gloves on a bench. He paused too.

"Father gets to London four or five times a year on business. He makes the rounds at his clubs and what not. I expect that's where you met him."

"Most likely."

She looked around. “The family has gone off for their trip to the village, my sisters’ play and sing there and some of the youngsters too. They do a bit of shopping, which pleases the locals, and Ruth normally drops off treats and small things for the vicar to disperse."

"You did not join them?"

"No. I am in the village often and do my deeds before they arrive.” She wrinkled her nose. “I stay here and direct the staff, prepare for the card party later. I imagine there will be a younger crowd too, doing parlor games and such. It is tomorrow and the next day I will be in demand."

"Why is that?” He liked the sound of her voice, he didn't bloody like that he liked it, nor did he know why he was here still, and sober for god sakes, but...

"Tomorrow is what we call feast day. We have an obscene amount of food and neighbors drop in. I usually do a bit of the baking—the young ones like my gingerbread cookies."

"You cook?"

She laughed, hence he supposed his face showed his doubt.

"Yes. I cook quite well. But it's more that I cook something I like, or father likes, nothing for guests and crowds save cookies and pastry. It relaxes me, actually. I like the comfort and smells, the atmosphere in the kitchen."

His brow rose but he murmured, “And the day after."

"We exchange gifts. Take out the sleigh for a dashing ride, skate on the lake, and normally end the evening just family and closest friends in the parlor. Then, my father sings and reads from St. Luke.” She shrugged. “It's an activity packed day, brought to a close by a cozy and relaxed night."

Everyn opened his mouth but she spoke before he could.

"Did you rest well?"

"Yes, thank you.” He saw something in her eyes and wished he did not. “Did you?"

"Eventually,” she murmured, and he did not for the life of him know why he had a sexual image from that. He doubted very seriously that even a (knowing virgin) would ease her hungers herself, but there it was, an image of Mary Broomfield, nude on her bed, hair spread out, hand between her—bloody hell. He should have departed this morning.

She'd been watching his face. “You are getting that panicked look again,” she teased. “I assure you, you have no reason to."

"You have no idea...” He closed his mouth, and then looked around before looking down at her again. “Since it is the light of day, and I have met your father, perhaps I should intr—"

"No,” she cut him off again. “Let's not do the formal thing.” Her smile came again. “I'm glad you stayed, Everyn. I hope you enjoy yourself, and you are most welcome to remain here the entire week.” She picked up her hat and headed for the door, at which she looked over her shoulder and added, “If you get the urge for hot chocolate after your game, I will be brewing it in my caldron ... in the kitchens."

Everyn watched the door close behind her. He had an urge. And that he had it for an unwed woman ... one whom he could not simply dally with ... and one who ... made him laugh, amused and intrigued him ... It was enough to send him round the house and to the study, to that brandy decanter Master Morley had invited him to sample earlier.

* * * *

"Mary, you are positively glowing,” her sister Ruth declared hours later as Mary partnered her in whist.

She had bathed, changed out the habit into her black stockings, velvet heeled shoes and bronze gown. It had long sleeves with buttons from waist to the wide V-bodice, more modest because of her generous bosom but still flattering.

Her hair had been gathered up in a bronze velvet band, left to fall down her back, and she wore jet-beaded earrings. Her sisters wore silver and blue, Paris gowns, which looked stunning on them.

"I've been in the kitchens.” Mary grinned.

On the opposite side, Miriam leaned over and whispered, “Did anyone notice our handsome new guest?"

Since he wasn't in the room, and since she did not want to know all about him for some reason, Mary played her hand and jumped up, saying cheerfully, “Goodness, I'd best check on Kit and Janey, the youngsters. I was supposed to set up their next parlor game."

As she dashed off toward the door, Ruth and Miriam exchanged a startled look. Only half-aware that two ladies had sat down across from them, Ruth murmured, “What do you make of that?"

Miriam looked at the door and then back to her sister. “I have no idea. But if it is, what I hope it is—let us thank the fates."

"Hmm,” her sister said, casting a brief smile at the ladies who'd joined them. “He is not the sort I would have picked. A rake to be sure, but quite aloof and with a rep for biting off heads."

Miriam laughed but nodded and shuffled the deck. “I cannot see it being him. But our—um, she—is hiding something."

As Ruth began to deal, Miriam leaned over and whispered, “At least they say he is a good lover."

Ruth elbowed her, reminding her that they were sitting with two gossipy dowagers, but later, behind her cards she laughed, “Lucky Mary. If he truly is what they say, perhaps he is like my husband, and behind that ice is all fire."

Miriam's brow rose. “In that case, let us drink to fates, and to Mary.” She raised her champagne glass and they toasted, laughing again.

"Did we miss something, some new gossip perhaps?” One of the dowagers asked them.

Ruth swallowed and widened her eyes, lying, “You mean you have not heard?” She then began some outrageous tale, scandalous stuff about a couple who did not exist, all the while ignoring her sisters’ eye rolling and snorts.

* * * *

Mary did set up the next game for the teens that were in the back parlor with a half dozen like age guests. She then checked on the younger children, who were upstairs with their nannies happily applying paints to canvas and munching on treats.

Since dinner was over, and she had not seen him, and since her father and brothers in law had been in the card room, she was chewing her lip, afraid he'd slipped off, as she headed for the kitchens.

Mary waved to the staff, who were beyond the kitchens, in their own dining room, relaxing and eating. She slipped a full apron on over her gown and began gathering items to make her chocolate. As she waiting later for it to boil, she leaned her hips on one of the long slab tables, gazing into the flames before she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.

Glancing over, she watched Everyn enter, apparently he had relaxed too, for his coat was missing and the cuffs of his white shirt were turned up. He wore no neck cloth. Without thinking, her eyes went from his boots, up his muscular legs encased in snug black trousers, over that shirt, which enhanced both his tapered waist and wide shoulders and chest.

As she was gazing over his long raven hair, she knew he was looking at her, and it hardly mattered since she was more flushed eyeing that handsome face, his lean cheeks and sensual mouth, a too arrogant nose and ... those eyes...

"Perfect timing,” she managed to quip. And then went over to swing the arm around so that her boiling pot moved from the flames and she could use a cloth and lift it free. She set it on the table and found a ladle. Glancing up at him as she poured the chocolate into mugs she murmured, “You smell of brandy."

His lips crooked slightly. “Gentlemen prefer it to chocolate."

"Not to mine.” She handed him a cup.

Taking it he sipped almost cautiously, and then said, “You are a witch. This does not taste ... what is in it?"

"A bit of brandy and cherries.” She laughed.

His white teeth flashed and he leaned back against the other table, resting his hips there as he drank.

While she sipped, their eyes held. Mary wondered at all the unspoken messages that perhaps neither of them could quite articulate. She pretended that she was not fascinated by watching him drink, watching him taste and savor, but in truth she was aware of him more than she was of the servants beyond them. She wondered at that, his ability to make her focus entirely on him, be aware of only him.

He emptied the cup and held it for more. After she refilled both she invited, “Come along. I'll show you the best place to drink hot chocolate."

He followed her up the stairs and down the hall on the third floor. They entered a room with dark paneled wood and large windows, window seats too. After lighting only a few tapers, she led him to the far end.

Seating herself, she rested the cup on the ledge while he joined her and gazed down on the sparkling snow. The moon had risen, misty and shrouded, but the lights from the manor shone outward turning the snowdrifts to a diamond like glitter.

The room had mellowed dark floors, much scarred, and he turned from looking out to gaze around. “What is this room?"

"It was where we learned to dance and to fence—not that my father knows that—about the fencing.” She chuckled. “We played music here and did our drawing and painting.” She pointed to a worn and comfortable chaise across the way in the corner. “Ruth used to make us do skits, and she always, always had to play Cleopatra. She actually made Miriam and I carry that thing with her on it."

He laughed and looked at the ceiling. It had spokes of wood between plaster.

"There's an arrow up there.” She pointed. “Father forbade us to do archery in here but—"

"—Let me guess. Miriam was Robin Hood?"

She winced as he lowered his eyes and looked at her. “Fraid not. It was me. I refused to be Friar Tuck. This is what my lack of height and roundness got me every time. That time I insisted on being Robin, and well they were chasing me, and I shot that...” She pointed up, “quite impressively on my back, being attacked by the three of them."

His smile widened but his eyes looked into hers. “Do people compare you to your sisters?"

"Hmm. I suppose, if they notice me at all. It would be reasonable if they did."

"You don't."

"What?” Her brow arched.

"Compare with them."

She raised both brows and blinked. “If you are trying to insult me, you'll have to do better. I have no—"

"I wasn't. Far from it.” His smile melted to a more serious look. His gaze went over her hair and gown, returning to her eyes. “In a ballroom full of females, I expect you'd be singular. I'm still figuring out what that means."

"Let me know when you do.” She smiled short. “I'm curious, but finding it interesting that we're speaking of my appearance at all. Unless..."

"I'm sufficiently sober enough to agree that it is beyond rude. But you have a rather mystifying allure, Mary Broomfield."

"Meaning you cannot understand why you may be slightly attracted to me."

He laughed. “No. I don't mean that at all.” He stood and walked about, standing near the center of the room, his back to her he murmured, “I did say your hair was rather glorious, and today I noticed your eyes ... extraordinary."

Everyn turned and stood there, looking over her posture as she sat, a bit reclined toward the corner of the window seat. “I'm no poet, Mary Broomfield. I detest those fellows who go about quoting verse and rhyme over every belle of the ton. I want to curse what bit of moonlight is shining on your pearl white skin, and that gown.... buttons tempting me to undo and peel it away, from a womanly body that promises to be lush and beautifully curved."

Mary could not breathe for a moment. She sensed, knew, he was not simply trying to seduce her. She knew in fact, that he was fighting the very things he was attracted to. It would be the right moment for her to make him laugh again, to jest, and yet she savored what he'd said, thrilled to it, and felt that current of attraction charge the atmosphere between them.

He was more backlit by the tallow's she'd lit and placed on a low round table. It crossed her mind without knowing that much about him, that he was a man who was not only a cynic but one who did not have intimate bonding, not the real kind of soul sharing or perhaps even have friends he would be open with.

Looking at his aquiline face, despite the sensual stamp, it was the face of a man who was aloof and all of things he'd said, rarely amused, and disengaged from much of life, because it was a jaded and untrustworthy one.

She could see him halving his life between the demands of the ton and his gambling, his mistress tucked in some side street, and none of it really brought him contentment or satisfaction.

Mary imagined that he preferred to pay his mistresses, to buy them jewels, to keep it clear what the relationship was. She did not imagine for one moment that he said these things or exposed his feelings—his struggles even, to anyone.

"That is quite the nicest thing that has ever been said to me.” She smiled gently. “It's all well and good when the family, those who love you, pay you compliments. Nevertheless, I will admit, as inexperienced as I am, I am still human enough, old enough, to want that question every woman asked themselves, answered. It never has been, you know, that I am attractive or alluring to any man."

She dipped her head slightly. “I understand somewhat why a man of your position doesn't wish to be attracted or rather act upon it with a.... well, I understand that. But thank you, all the same. It's rather deeper than vanity for me to hear it. I'm sure you understand, since we started this conversation speaking of comparing me to my sisters."

He shook his head looking up at the ceiling. “You are welcome, Mary Broomfield."

She laughed, actually wanting instead to run to him and be wrapped in his arms, to kiss him again and again. “Your chocolate is getting cold. Come, finish it."

He walked over, lowering himself into the window seat and collecting his cup. He sipped and as they sat on opposite sides, no real space between them. He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, resting his head against the side of the niche, much like she did.

"Who won at billiards?"

"Not me.” He grinned wryly. “My game was shamefully off."

"Well, if Charles bested you, it is because his father is quite impressive at it. He says that he was made to stand on a box and learn to play before he could walk."

"Um. I believe that."

She rubbed her thumb on the cup absently as their gazes touched. “Of course I am better."

His laughter rolled out. “You lie."

"Yes.” She grinned. “I am not even close to a good player."

His brow rose, “Ah, but you can shoot arrows..."

"And bake cookies and make very real looking mistletoe."

His smile lingered as he nodded.

She nudged his boot with the toe of her black velvet slipper. “I am running out of lies to tell. Why don't you tell one?"

"I don't want to kiss your smiling mouth right now. I would want to stop."

Her heart hammered. “Nor I, I would really hate it if you did."

"I don't want to take that band off your hair, see it tumbling and free, nor have my hands in it, on you..."

He'd said it lazily, without a smile, and so intimate she felt sparks skitter up her back. “I could really grow tired of just sitting here, looking at you, wondering things a woman of my good sense shouldn't, and the way you just said that..."

His gaze seemed more silvered and his lashes lowered a fraction, there was a bit of husk as he uttered, “I don't want you, Mary Broomfield. I don't want to feel you trembling and damp mouthed against me..."

She swallowed and jerked her gaze away, looking rather blindly across the room, because her body was alive and aroused.

Mary heard him say, hushed, quieter and deep, “I have no business being here, saying this to you."

Mary glanced at him. “That isn't a lie."

He set up and put his cup on the sill, his hand reached out so that his fingers touched her cheek. “You are right. It's not."

Wetting her lips, Mary reached up and covered his hand. “It's quite wonderful for me.” She whispered, “I don't know if you will appreciate what I'm saying, or what I mean. But this ... this excites me. It makes me feel more aware of myself, just extremely feminine and I suppose, sensual. It's all new to me, and rather selfish I suppose, since I should be acting the outraged virgin. Yet I'm not the least bit so."

"God, Mary.” He laughed on a groan. “You are bloody hard to resist."

She smiled, her thumb brushing his where it rested on her cheek. “I would not force you to the alter, no matter what happens."

He pulled his hand free, and she said knowingly, “But you would feel honor bound, just the same.” At his nod, and as he sat back, his hand falling to his thigh she murmured, “I would be a dreadful tease, wouldn't I, to tell you that I hope last night wasn't our last kiss."

He raised his hand to rub his eyes a moment, then dropped it and studied her with something smoldering in his eyes, and his face tense. “If I said, come to my bed, Mary. To the bed of a stranger, what would you answer?"

She held his gaze for long seconds. “Yes. I'd answer, yes."

He swallowed and his face tensed more.

Mary looked away and stood, taking their cups as she started to leave. “Snuff the candles out when you exit, will you?"

"Yes."

At the door she heard him say her name. Mary turned, seeing him the same position and with that moon light casting on his face.

He shook his head and looked away, as if he changed his mind about saying more.

She left him and went below, then slipped back into the card room and spent two hours pretending she wasn't thinking of him up there, sitting in that room in the moonlight.

Later, when she went up the stairs, she walked to the top of the third floor, seeing the candles had gutted out, yet able to discern his figure where she had left him. He was but a dark shadow in front of that window, and she recognized a brandy glass in his hand. Mary turned and went below to her rooms.

Laying in the dark again, promising herself that she would make the most of whatever there was from him. It was likely they would never see each other again, and the last thing she wanted was to turn a rather delightful, enlightening encounter, into something heavy and dark.

The attraction was intense, and there was no denying it. It was electric and scorching, ravenous in some odd way. Still, she cherished those mistletoe kisses, and she honestly enjoyed making him laugh. She would fight the temptation to let her suppressed passions flower every second she was with him. He had the right of it. They really were not suited for each other in the grand scheme of things.

Chapter Three

The morning indeed was hectic. Mary spent the bulk of it greeting arrivals with her sisters, sitting in the dining rooms chatting and talking. Afterwards she baked more gingerbread men than she could count, spent two more hours at the feast, always amazed at the long white clothed tables loaded down with food that was swiftly devoured, leaving servers of crumbs and well-plucked bones.

Somewhere in the coming and going, she was aware that Everyn and the males took the guns out to the woods to shoot, and amused themselves apart from the women, before returning near twilight where groups mixed and gossiped, listened to her sisters play and sing. The younger groups executed some of the traditional dances for the entertainment of the grown ups.

The children put on a skit, the nativity, which Mary leaned against the parlor doorway and watched. She caught sight of Everyn to her left, standing with Dudley, who was beaming proudly at his offspring who had delivered their lines beautifully. Afterward they encouraged the grown ups to sing, and Mary joined in, having sung half the carol when her gaze shifted to Coaldrake. He wasn't singing though everyone around him was, and his silver gaze was upon her, Mary finished the last lines holding that look and then stepped back, going to the kitchens to replenish the trays of gingerbread.

Sometime late in the evening she was heading up the stairs and Everyn down them, and he was in the shadows, she in the light of the hall entryway. But their way was blocked—for on that landing stood Ruth and Dudley, kissing under the mistletoe.

It was no light exchange, and the handsome couple seemed to lose themselves in each other, Dudley's hands holding Ruth's body in a sapphire and white gown against his own tall frame, their heads moving and eyes closed.

Smiling at first, Mary met the encounter as she always expected to this time of year, and as she found joy in the fact her sisters and their husbands loved each other, she was thinking only that, until she saw the shadow above them.

She could see Everyn's head turn as he'd watched the couple, and look down at her. Mary did not need to see his eyes and face, to do anything more than feel the pull of heat from it.

When Ruth made a soft moan, she turned and went down the stairs, hurrying through the kitchens and intending to go up the servant's way. Apparently he'd had the same idea. For they met half way in the narrow and shadowed staircase, and Mary said nothing as she passed, and was a step above him, when she felt him grasp her hand and turn her around.

His gaze was molten silver as his hands cupped her face, and swiftly his mouth came down upon hers. Mary's arms went round him. She tasted his warm and silken flavor, trembled to the smoothness of his mouth and tongue. He devoured her in a kiss that set her very bones on fire.

Somehow in that small space, he turned her, and her back was to the slanted wall. And somehow, as she rolled her tongue through his own mouth, her hands were in his hair and his were at the sides of her generous breasts. The feast was scorching and ravenous, their breathing corresponding with racing heart beats, in Mary's case trembling out, to match the passion quickening her body with fever.

Her fingers clutched a bit tighter at the silken strands as he lifted his head and drug his mouth across her jaw, down her throat, biting and suckling until she arched her neck, and the sound of her moan echoed in the space.

The narrow hall was alive with her breaths and minute sounds of pleasure because he brought those hands inward, pushing her aching breasts upward nearly out of the gown, then was dragging a moist and searing mouth over the ivory surface. When she felt his teeth gently squeeze her nipple through the cloth, Mary lowered her head; panting and watching him do the same to the other, through hazy eyes. She wished they were bare and free of her chemise and gown. His actions stirred again that tingling and dampness between her thighs. Her sex contracted and her skin felt as heated and famished as the kisses.

A sound below, someone dropping a tray on the brick floors in the kitchen, sliced through the thick erotic air. He released her swiftly, nearly falling against the opposite wall, his chest rising and falling with the heavy breaths that echoed in the space.

Mary's rose and fell too, breathe harsh and strident; her head pressing into the wall behind her, as if to help her gather all the bits of herself their encounter had shattered.

She swallowed, wetting her kiss plumped lips, watching him as he looked below, toward the kitchens, as if expecting someone to appear. Then, tilting his head back, raking his hands through his mussed hair when they didn't appear, his eyes and mouth closed as he obviously breathed through his nose trying to calm the same rage of hunger.

It took several tense and almost painful moments until Mary saw him lower his chin and open his eyes again. She met that gaze while resisting the urge to look at the darker flush of his lips too.

Finally, she made the decision and pushed away from the wall, after a swift parting glance, and on unsteady legs, she lifted the hem of her gown and continued upwards, going down the hall and to her rooms—where she collapsed in the vanity chair, elbows on the surface and hands over her face.

Her body felt coiled and tight and yet battered in some way by the abrupt halt to those intoxicating feelings. She dragged her hands down and looked at her image in the glass, seeing a sheen in her hazel eyes, a flush upon her skin and lips. Touching a hand to her chest, she moved her fingertip over a faint mark his strong teeth had left behind.

Mary moved that hand to her breast, closing her eyes a moment and drawing air into her lungs. They still ached and tingled, still could feel the velvety graze of his sensual lips, still longed to have them around her tight nipples.

Lowering her palms to the surface she pushed to stand and breathed out a shaky sigh, reaching for the water picture and pouring a bit into the porcelain bowl, she splashed some on her face and held a damp cloth there then put it down.

Going to the bed, which had a mossy coverlet with black edging, she stood and removed her gown, then lit a lamp on the bedside table. Mary kicked off her shoes, and clad in the chimes she took her hair down and tossed the pens beside the lamp. Shaking it free, finger combing the curls, she padded to the window, feeling a slight draft but welcoming anything to cool the heat on her body, and in her blood.

The frost on the pane and the lamp behind created a reflection, so that she could see her wildly tumbled hair, and the round shape of her breasts, nipples large and still hardened through the nearly sheer material.

The chemise's round low neck had a tiny ribbon threaded in the gathers, and the shoulders barely edged her arms. The torso she could see to the knee, a flair to her hips, the minute shadow of her navel, the sable hair covering her sex between shapely legs, which she'd often thought were too short, but certainly fit the dimensions of her curves.

The garment fell to her knees like a gossamer veil that served little purpose. The black stockings tied at the thigh with white silk garters, evident too through that thin linen.

She raised her hands, smoothing them through her hair once more, though the long spirals yet sprang and settled cape like around her. Mary swallowed, letting her hands fall, realizing that Ruth and Miriam and Margie were right, kisses changed you, passion and desire changed you, and a man's wanting gaze, his scent and breath, his touch, it transformed something inside you ... forever.

Mary turned as a light tap sounded, and looking around spied a soft flannel robe across the chair, she used for sitting and reading. Mary picked up the robe, freeing her hair after putting it on, and lightly belting it at the waist.

As she opened the door, seeing Everyn standing there, there was something dreamlike, almost surreal in the fact that it actually was him.

"You're retiring...” he husked.

"No. Yes. I mean...” She smiled on a wince. “I needed a moment."

His gaze went over her unbound hair, the thin garments that even together hid nothing, and lingered a bit on her stocking feet, before moving up to meet her own. “I'll allow you your privacy then.” He nodded and started to turn away.

"Wait.” She reached and clutched his arm. “What did you want?"

"It's nothing.” He shot her a tense smile.

"No. Just a moment, please.” She let go and hurried to the bed, slipping on her shoes and then running back. “I'm ready."

He chuckled despite how it seemed to strain his taut face. She didn't give him time to change his mind, but stepped out and closed the door with a soft click.

The house was quiet, everyone apparently in their chambers or sitting rooms, couples no doubt enjoying intimacies, and her father likely propped in bed reading by the firelight.

Everyn walked to the stairs and up to the library, a smaller one they'd used during their studies. There was green plaid on the chairs and many shelves of books. Holly and ivy draped a mantle where a cheery fire crackled.

Beyond the desk area and winged chairs, they walked near it, a comfortable couch and low table area. Mary stood a moment, watching him pour coffee he'd obviously requested brought up. He added cream to hers and her smile teased as she'd noted those cookie crumbs, guessing he'd enjoyed her gingerbread at some time previous.

He handed her the cup and waved her to the couch. She sat a bit to the side, against the arm, as he lowered himself to the other. She sipped and observed him do likewise; thinking the firelight on that white shirt, his warm skin and dark hair was quite lovely.

His profile still to her while he stared into the flames, he murmured, “If I had stayed in my usual brandy numbing bliss, this would be much less difficult."

She set her cup down, resting her arm along the back and watching the sinew tighten in his jaw. “I'm not the mistress type, Everyn."

His head swung round, his gaze finding hers.

Mary laughed quietly. “I'm not a mind reader. More a person attuned to human nature, the realities or rather limits on the kinds of relationships males and females in our position have."

She shrugged. “You don't actually want me for a mistress. You simply want me. And because I'm so called respectable, the choices with having me are that and marriage. Which I wholly agree, would not make sense at all, given that we neither have much in common, insofar as our existence and lives go, nor do we know much about each other aside from this attraction. You would offer me that position knowing I'd never take gifts or money, and you'd never likely see me again..."

He blinked and then sighed heavily and looked away. “I should not have stayed."

"I'm glad you did."

"I should not have stayed, Mary Broomfield.” He glanced at her, “nor kissed you under that blasted mistletoe."

"But you did.” She tilted her head considering him a moment. “If we knew everything, our favorite books, food, the things we hate and love, the way we spend our leisure and perhaps, what we think of the future, it would make no real difference in the fact that we want each other.

I'm not a seductress, Everyn, but neither do I want to resist when you offer me such pleasures as kissing. It puts everything on you, because we know your life is not here, not like this, and whatever it is, your obligations in London, the status, the way you feel about it, will dictate the lines you have drawn between remaining a bachelor, having a mistress, as most men will, and avoiding any improprieties with respectable females.

It doesn't take a genius to understand it. I'm not like most women, most you see and hear of, I expect. I am very much aware of what's acceptable, respectable, expected and so on."

"Yes.” He agreed. “I can see that.” He leaned and set his cup down, turning to sit much the way she was, his knee slightly on the couch and his arm along the back so that his warm fingers lay over hers. “I could do the honorable thing and depart tonight—end this as it started, a chance meeting, a rather unique encounter, between two people who would not otherwise have met."

She nodded.

His gaze held hers and his fingers were softly rubbing her own. “Even your understanding and maturity, makes it damned harder to do so. Your rather unique and singular character, and your bloody honesty in wanting me, makes it more of a struggle than it should be.

I'm not the sort who struggles, Mary. I don't get myself in these positions, meet females like you, and want them.” His tone dropped a bit lower, deeper, “Even the brandy last night didn't numb me enough to regain my cynical edge, and pack up and leave. I'm not like this, Mary. I'm not. I'm a hard and aloof man, I don't even speak to females beyond politeness and never unmarried..."

"I know."

"Mary, blast it.” He closed his eyes, his tone both scolding and strained. “Be predictable. Slap me, tell me to leave, say I've outraged and embarrassed you.” His lashes lifted.

Mary raked her teeth over her lip and sighed heavily. “I had settled it in my mind to make you smile, laugh again today.” Her grin was wry. “I didn't want all this heavy sort of drama and regret, because ... well, I just don't."

She slid her hand from under his and turned more to face the fire, away from him. Hands in her lap she looked down at them and murmured, “Perhaps if I'd allowed you to say more about yourself, allowed the others too, who mention your presence, to repeat all the tales that generally go along with names and titles, I may have formed some preconceived idea that would have helped me dislike you, or believe you're something different than I perceive. I didn't do that, and I still don't want to."

She raised her head and watched the sparks dance above the logs. “It is much like people perceive me, I suppose, and what they'd say, if you asked about Mary Broomfield. I don't think people can aptly judge how two people, two strangers will interact or what they can discover about each other, bring out, on their own."

"Other than my father, I can barely tolerate my family."

She chuckled. “Yes. I gathered that. But you likely have cause. Even we are not perfect, we have our quirks. But I know ‘tis a greater trail to some who have the responsibility for ungrateful and unfeeling folk who share their blood."

She looked at him. “You should cart the dear man off somewhere next Christmas, perhaps hunting or fishing? And repay his generosity in allowing your escape from the tedious family gatherings. Better still; have him inform them that he'll stop by their homes that week and leave when he feels it time. And every holiday between he could do the same, saving the day itself for some peace or entertainment he prefers."

His lips curved a bit. “I may."

"You should.” She nodded. “And if you do not join him, you know there is a small manor in Yorkshire, the Broomfield place, where holidays are celebrated and where you may be less what you are in London and more yourself."

"Come here, Mary Broomfield."

Without hesitation she removed her shoes and settled herself on the sofa, her feet and legs stretched out, her hip near his, her forehead against his chin.

His arm went around her, fingers buried in her hair as they sat that way a moment. When he did dip his head, she turned hers willingly and the kiss flowed soft and erotic, intimate and silken. As before they kissed a long time, varying the sensual play until he shifted, tilting her head back so that his lips could access her throat, a spot just under her ear and across her upper chest.

Mary tugged at the shoulders of his shirt, even as he fumbled and found the robe belt. He paused and stood, pulling off his shirt, rewarding her hungry gaze with a honed and defined torso, honey hued and dark pebbled nipples, a line of hair from his navel to the waist of his trousers.

He didn't sit beside her but gazed down at her, before sliding the table back, and going to his knees. He reached and pulled her till she sat up, then with his warm hands on her knees, moved between her legs, sliding the chimes up higher as he did so, kissing her hotly while he eased the robe down her arms, away from her body.

Everyn leaned back, breathing heavy, and lids half-mast as he looked over her body, exposed but screened in the thin linen chemise. His gaze flickered to hers and he husked, “You are beautiful, Mary Broomfield."

She was trembling again, feeling him between her thighs, and all too aware that her nipples peaked and tingled. Her gaze too went over his raven hair, his impressive body. “As are you."

She raised her hands to skim her palms over his shoulders, feeling mounds of muscle and sinew, warm, masculine flesh. She leaned in and kissed him this time, moaning pleasurably that he allowed her fair play, until he eased her back with his body weight and broke the kiss.

His fingers tugged at the ribbon, undoing the bow between her breasts, and then both hands eased the chemise down her shoulders. Mary lifted her arms free, seeing his gaze moving from breast to breast, before he cupped them and at last began to kiss and lave, to suckle them as she'd imagined.

Her thighs flexed against him, hands in on his upper back as she arched to give him access. Mary whispered feverishly, “I am sorry Everyn, I can't stop trembling."

He moaned and moved his head while his lips and tongue drew her nipple into his mouth. His palms slid round under the bunched linen, pulling her lower half more to the edge against him.

Head back, Mary closed her eyes, biting her lip at the intensity building inside. She caught her breath finally as he raised and captured her mouth for an explicit kiss. A breath away from her lips, he waited for her lashes to lift before he whispered, “Are we safe here, do you think? Is it private enough?"

"Yes.” She blinked and wet her mouth again. “Lock the door. If ‘tis locked they will simply think someone wants privacy to read."

"Don't go anywhere.” He dropped a kiss on her mouth as he stood and then strode to the door.

Mary raked her hands through her hair, feeling positively wicked sitting there with nothing but a pool of linen around her waist, and her legs parted, the heat and air touching her nipples and sex in some teasing way.

When he returned, Everyn removed his boots, and then returned to her. He leaned and turned her so that she lay upon the couch, then began to stroke her, running his palms from her feet to the knee, inside, and then kissing, dragging his mouth above those white silk garters, parting her legs a bit, so that he could access all the ivory flesh.

"Everyn.” She arched, her hand grasping the back of the couch.

But he dragged the linen down, having her lift her hips, and then kissed her navel, across her hips and up her body again.

Feverishly Mary tried to pull him down, but he laughed sexily in her mouth and then took her hands away from his shoulders, kissing her palms. “Do you like this, Mary?"

Gazing at him through slitted lids, she managed, “Yes ... oh yes."

He released her hands and as she grasped the back of the sofa again, he began a journey of caresses, touches, kisses, from her neck down. Lingering and suckling, stroking and molding, until his kiss softened to feather light around the apex of her thighs.

Mary's stomach quivered. She rose a bit, watching his sensual lips and then the moist drag of his tongue as he traced around the sable curls. His hands were moving rubbing from the sides of her hips to the top of her thighs.

When he lifted his head again, his eyes were hot and almost sleepy with sexual arousal. He lifted enough to ease his hand to cover her curls, before sliding it downward, fingers parting the lips, the tips of them rubbing across some spot that caused her to gasp and arch her neck on a groan.

"Oh...” Mary groaned as she realized that one of his fingers was easing into the wet opening. She bit down on her lip harder, feeling her muscles ripple and contract around it, feeling fire dancing up her inner thighs and spine.

When he began to ease it out and back in, creating a leisurely rhythm, her eyes flew open and looking blindly at the ceiling she uttered helpless, “Just ignore me if I cry, Everyn, it feels so very good ... so intense."

His finger sank deep as he raised and kissed her intensely, wildly, his free hand holding the back of her head. A tremble was on him too she realized. And after stealing her breath, explicitly stroking her tongue, he bit her lower lip and growled sensually, “You feel wonderful. Do as you need to, Mary, I'm not a man in great control myself."

She saw that he his face reflected a rather fierce passion, and rather than being scared she found it aroused her further. Her hands moved down and her palms skimmed his hips, the indented muscle of his buttocks. But as she dared next to trace the length of his sex straining against his trousers, he husked, “Not yet", and gently moved her touch away.

Everyn withdrew his finger and looked around a moment before leaning down and scooping her up. He carried her despite her protestations, to the winged chair near the fire. After seating her there, he brushed the curls back from her face, cupping it a moment and holding her gaze.

"You're not nervous, are you?"

"No.” She covered his hands and reached to kiss him. And when he pulled back parting her legs wide, Mary found herself more aroused than dismayed, because she already knew whatever he did would pleasure her.

He kissed her, leaning over, at the same time inserting that finger again. And she grew moist, wetter, hotter with each thrust, finding his tongue matching that in her mouth nearly drove her wild.

Everyn eased back, sitting on his muscular haunches, his thumbs parting her curls. Then holding her gaze, he found that spot that had caused her to moan before. He pet it with the pad of his fingers, wet it and stroked, watching her face as he dipped into her sex now and then to lubricate and ease the sweetly sexual caress.

Lips parted, hands grasping the chair arms, she felt the build, the intense gathering and ascent. But in her wildest dreams, she could not have imaged he would stop and replace that touch with his lips and tongue.

The sound that issued between her teeth was both moan and groan of pleasure. At the moment she felt as if she'd shatter into sparks. Everyn pulled back and gazed at her again. His tongue ran over his lips before he raised and kissed her. This time taking her hands, allowing her touch where she wanted to before.

While they kissed, she found the latches on his trousers, peeled them over his taut waist and hips. And Mary pushed him back, wanting to look at him, at last seeing him, the sinew and veins, the full thrust of his sex rising from a nest of black curls.

His musk, the scent of sexual heat reached her, and she took advantage a moment, leaning so that she could kiss his stomach, his ribs, skimming her hands up to touch his nipples with her thumbs.

He tasted wonderful, his male musk and the heated feel of taut flesh so incredible. She found it stirred her own higher, and she lost herself simply caressing, and kissing, laving over the ridges of his abdomen and filling her hands with the hard mounds of his buttocks.

His sex brushed between her breasts, hot and solid, but velvet soft. His hands were in her hair, his frame atremble—and somewhere in the erotic fog she could hear the husky sound of her name.

She never thought twice when her kisses reached lower. She tasted the crown of his sex, moaned at the feel of it against the inside of her lips, and felt a rush of lust that was heady and intense.

"Oh ... Christ.” She heard him say, as his hands forced her head back. His face a tense mixture of lust and pleasure, eyes liquid and silvery between his lashes, he rasped, “If you do any more of that, I'll turn completely selfish and no doubt a bit rougher than I intend.

My control is but a thread as it is. It's your first experience, Mary. I want to pleasure you, bring you to climax, and drink you up. But I'm a bit intoxicated myself—with how you feel, what you do. So understand, I want it, I would likely sell my soul to have your mouth on me like that—but I'd regret the selfishness. I'd regret I didn't get to savor your pleasure."

She slid back in the chair, rubbing her hands up his arms as he stepped between her knees and down again. “I want to touch you."

He nodded, but then touched her instead; rubbing and stroking, easing inside her sex with his warm finger and sensually stroking back between the globes of her buttocks before returning to that swollen and tingling spot.

Mary closed her eyes, relaxing, feeling, and falling into whatever he did. And the moment his mouth was there, his lips suckling, tongue flickering and rubbing, she felt her body jerk but she was already caught in the climax, lifted and exploding inside with the most exquisite fire.

Time had no meaning for moments that Mary lost in bliss. When she opened her eyes, he had embraced her, his arms around her and the strong beat of his heart against her breast.

"Amazing.” She ran her hands through his hair, her eyes still heavy as he pulled back, giving her a small smile. But Mary was still suspended in the erotic realm and she whispered, “Now, can I pleasure you?"

He shuddered and kissed her, then helped her to her feet. “Turn around."

She did, liking the feel when his muscular heat came against her back, his sex against her buttocks. She felt his hands come round and cup her breasts, teasing her nipples, molding them, and then the motion, a slide of his sex against her and yes, his trembling. Grasping his hips, reaching back, she whispered, “That feels good."

He made a sound between a laugh and groan. “Move against me."

She did, somehow instinct or perhaps her own erotic emotions guiding her hips to stroke and grind her backside against his sex.

At some moment he lowered his hands, grasped her hips and took over, his movements short and terse, but his muttered words explicit as he climaxed and pumped warm liquid over her silken skin.

Holding her a moment, so still and tight, Mary recognized that he was lost in that place she'd been herself. She allowed no awkwardness when he moved back and the cool air touched her. She simply cleaned herself with the chemise and handed it to him, then drank her coffee while he did the same and latched his trousers.

She pulled on the robe and would have belted it, but he came behind her, turned and took her in his arms. “I didn't frighten you, did I?"

"Not a bit.” She laughed at his anxiety. “I didn't think I was about to be buggered."

He guffawed, as if he couldn't help himself, holding her a little tighter and sighing on that laugh. “I should have known you'd know something of that. You're scandalously knowledgeable Mary Broomfield."

She brushed her palms over his back, nuzzling against his chest. “It was in that interesting book Ruth and I found. And too, one of our young grooms has ah.... Well, you know. He has a friend in the village and I stumbled upon them..."

"Dear god.” He chuckled, but kissed the top of her head. “I'm afraid to ask for details."

"Hmm.” She kissed at his chest. “It's not all that shocking. I was leading the mare through the woods, just my usual path, and they were behind one of the trees some distance away, but enough so I stopped and asked myself was I seeing things."

"Of course you didn't watch. Being a respectable and well bred virgin...” he murmured.

"I don't think of it that way. But I saw enough to figure it out. And I found a nice log to sit upon and give them time to finish.” She leaned back and grimaced. “I think he knows that I was there, must have seen me with my back to them when they were ah ... finished. He blushed and stuttered the next time I saw him, but as I never mentioned it and simply ignored his discomfort, I believe he's relaxed a bit."

She stepped back and watched him collect his shirt. “Have you done that?"

"No. It's not my taste. And this is not an appropriate discussion."

"Interesting though.” She handed him his coffee when he had the shirt tucked in. “You've seen it?"

"Yes. At school and in London. There are Molly houses, places that cater to it, but also several known homosexuals in the ton. It's not spoken of, for obvious reasons, but fairly common."

She belted the robe and sat down in the chair, propping her feet on the table as he sprawled on the sofa, his feet on the same table too.

"Do you pleasure your mistress like that, with your mouth?"

He took a sip. “I'm not answering anything in that area."

She laughed. “Are you a prude, Sir?"

"Not at all. However, this is ... well, I am not even counted among men who have these sorts of discussions. I'd rather not...” His look was hot. “You inspire me to be very wicked, Mary Broomfield. And this sort of explicit talk is counter active to attempting to remember—that despite that knowing mind, you are inexperienced and that I should not have done as much as I have already."

She raised her brow, her body so relaxed, or at least she'd thought. Suddenly those little tingles and sparks danced. Yes sexual and erotic play was tempting. “I see what you mean.” She finished her coffee and then moved her feet, arising to set the cup down.

Standing and regarding his lazy dishevel, quite handsome and sensual too, she said softly, “I hope you stay, at least through Christmas. I know you will leave, and you should, you must, but I like you, Everyn ... I really do. It's not only this ... as wonderful and exciting, as incredible as it is...” She walked over and leaned to kiss his temple, her hand on his cheek before she straightened. “I like you very much."

As she left, the door closing behind her, Everyn stared brooding into the fire and muttered, “And I you, Mary Broomfield, very much. More than I want to admit."

Chapter Four

Mary lingered in the bath on Christmas morning, having awakened and feeling wonderfully languid. Afterward at a hectic and high-spirited breakfast, she was given no time to savor anything as the group was excited and anxious to dive into the gifts under the tree in the ballroom.

That was done with the usual chaos and hugs, kisses and squalls from the children. Finally she dashed up to dress for the sleigh ride. The outfit she wore was deep red wool and the hooded coat over it of a matching color, with rabbit fur on the hood and cuffs. She rode with the youngsters and went for a dash with the grown ups, and then left them to it, stopping to buss her father's cheek as he stood with the grooms laughing and watching his family. She readied for the ice-skating.

That is where she saw Everyn, standing across the icy pond with some gentleman neighbor and her father, sipping warm drinks, and smoking cheroots. Mary was laughing, racing by between her brothers in law, who were pulling her along, and their eyes met for a split second. Yet enough for her to know he was aware of her, and enough to remind herself, that she was too tempted to wave and skate over to him, to be with him.

Keeping firmly to her vow of not wishing to know everything about him, she ignored when her sisters, and even her brothers-in-law tried to mention him, and skated with some of the close friends of her father, even the vicar whom he loved to play chess with, and rotund Mr. Green, with whom Charles, Dudley and Hamilton were all acquainted.

* * * *

Aware of Mary Broomfield? Yes, Everyn was, completely so. He sipped the brandy-laced coffee and smoked his cheroot, while the good Master Morley and another fellow talked of children and grandchildren.

He was thinking of this morning, he'd awakened to find his clothing cleaned and pressed, and had taken it to the bathing rooms, shaved and returned to slip on his hip length dark green jacket and a thin scarf—and was standing by the vanity when he spotted the large white boxes.

Turning he moved to the trunk at the edge of the bed, seeing written on the top, “For Everyn, For Everyn's father.” He opened his own knowing the same would be in the other, and there it was, a realistic bough of mistletoe, complete with tiny berries and red ribbons. A card inside said, “Hang this every year, one week before Christmas, and think of all the people embracing, kissing under the mistletoe, in love everywhere."

Everyn smiled and replaced the lid, shaking his head as he finished dressing, and then slipped down to join the Squire and the men in the Master's study for a quiet breakfast.

Now he watched Mary laughing, skating, romping, and scooping snow to toss back at the children. Miriam and Ruth, Margie were on the ice too, their belled coats flaring out as they moved with grace, their laughter ringing as they observed their children's antics with Mary.

But Mary, in that brick red coat, was everywhere. The sound of her slightly husky chuckle seemed to hang suspended a bit longer than anyone else's. And she tumbled, fell, screamed once when Lord Dudley's tossed snowball, missed his son and hit her in the back of the hood. She was alive and vivacious, teasing and generous too, when she skated slower, holding up a jolly round fellow whose skating was obviously a bit rusty.

He looked aside as she called to her father, and the man put on his skates, carefully going out to meet Mary after settling his top hat on snugger. They skated, hands clasped, and the Squire looked as spry and light on his feet as any of the younger men.

It occurred to Everyn as he looked around on the pond a moment, that all the sisters were watching it with a gentle smile, all three holding hands with their husbands and giving the center of the pond to Mary and their Papa.

They skated well together, Mary so much shorter and yet skilled and well used to skating with her father. When it was done, applause sounded, and Mary curtsied. Her father bowed, laughing and looking at each other, as if they had executed another tradition flawlessly.

* * * *

By the time everyone was taking their skates inside, twilight settled in. Torches and lanterns sparkled golden around the expanse of pond. Mary waited until they were all gone and stood in the center of the pond, her gloved hand extended toward Everyn, who had also lingered behind.

He found the skates left behind by Dudley and attached them, then skimmed out to meet Mary and take her hand.

"Your face is red. Are you cold?” He gazed down at her, as she took his other hand.

"Not a bit,” she said, though she did rub her nose a moment against his warm wool coat. Pulling back, she tugged and began skating. He followed for some time, before taking over the lead.

"You skate well,” she observed as they glided and turned in a circle.

"I haven't for years,” Everyn admitted, and brought her closer, their skate more of a waltz, but her head was tilted back, and her smile matching his.

* * * *

Upstairs in the manor, Ruth, Miriam and their husbands were all at the windows watching. They had yet to dry and dress, having noted Mary and Lord Coaldrake had lingered behind. Leaning back against their husbands, who's arms were around them, they saw from the glow of the golden lights sparkling on the ice, a couple who moved and swayed, turned and glided as one person, two people who obviously were very in tuned to the movements of the other.

* * * *

Eventually Mary stopped and pulled back, holding his gloved hands in her own. “I regret I must change. Please join us in the back parlor."

He nodded. “I will leave tonight, Mary."

"I know. I could sense that."

His gaze moved over her flushed face. “Do you come to London?"

"A few times, with father."

"Your sister's will be there. They have townhouses in the city."

She nodded. “They will be."

"Then come with them."

"Why?” Her question was soft.

He sighed. “So you'll know who I am, the way I am."

"Do you think I shall dislike you then, feel differently?"

"I don't know,” he admitted. “It's something I am asking you to do. Come and be in the city, in that life, and I shall see you, and you will see me, and..."

"And you think we will be different people?” She nodded, searching his face. “I understand, Everyn. Of course, it would please Ruth and Dudley immensely should I relent to their nagging, and join them in London for a month. It so happens, that father will be going to Hampshire with Hamilton, so yes. I will be in London in a week or two."

After a brief flex of his fingers against hers, they skated off. She went in before him and up to her rooms to warm and change.

Mary combed her hair whilst snug in a warmed robe before donning the forest green gown and slippers. She tried not to think of anything, have no expectations, nor read anything into it. She did understand that this was an interlude, a time out of place from his life, and in truth, it was the same for herself.

She tied her hair back with a ribbon, dressed, and joined her family all gathered in the back parlor. There were many candles, a fire and warm drinks, family scattered about among friends. And of course Everyn, she saw him sitting near the windows.

Mary played the piano and her father's baritone paid homage to the hymn he chose. Then, she took her seat beside her sisters, listening while he read from St. Luke. She allowed the memories of other seasons, other Christmases to filter through her head, loving this part of the holiday the best.

When her father was done, the grandchildren kissed him, showered him a bit with their special attention as most of them would not see him until Easter.

Mary was standing behind his chair when she saw Everyn get to his feet and then slip out the door. She tried not to think of bad things, that he would forget her, that when and if they met, he would have put the memory aside as some quaint and unusual experience that had no place in his sophisticated life. Instead she enjoyed the rest of the evening with her family, and read to the younger children before bedtime, already knowing the coach was gone, the guest room empty, the magic of Christmas had faded.

Chapter Five

Everyn stared out the coach window as they entered the city. A cold and icy sleet came down melting soot-darkened snow upon the roofs, and casting the usual bleak harshness of winter over the congested metropolis.

As they reached his well-addressed mansion, his gloved hands collected the white boxes on the seat across, and he ducked out when the footmen exited the ornate door, to assist him out.

In the grand foyer he met the butler, Varley, who helped him off with hat and greatcoat. “Give this box to the housekeeper. Tell her to hang the contents...” he looked up and pointed, “right here."

The butler's gray brows arched and he gazed down in the box as his lordship lifted the lid. “But ... it's mistletoe, and Christmas is over, my lord."

Smiling, Everyn shrugged. “Also, have this sent to my father's estate. I have a note to go with it.” He drew out the note he'd written before leaving Broomfield, it simply read, “Please come to London. There is someone I want you to meet."

"Very good, my lord.” The butler gazed at him oddly.

But Everyn dashed up the stairs to his quarters, seeing a blaze in the black and gold sitting room hearth, and one also burning in the fireplace of his bedchambers. As he stripped down, his valet Phyfe entered.

"Welcome back, my lord. Would you like a bath prepared?” The man picked up the clothing and fussed around the room.

"Yes. That's all I will need tonight, Phyfe."

The valet glanced up then blinked and bowed. “Very well."

After a bath, shave and change, Everyn went below, casting a grin at the footmen on ladders trying to hang the mistletoe in the ornate entry ceiling.

He moved on and found the table spread in the informal dining room, which was still more elaborate than most. He nodded to the housekeeper and maids, sat down and read through all the papers while he ate, and then took his coffee into the study to catch up on work.

It was two weeks later, whilst in his morning routine of coffee in the study that he read in the social pages of the arrival in town of Lord Dudley, Lady Ruth, and a Miss Mary Broomfield. He saw that Miriam and Margie were also in town, and that they were staying at Lord Charles's mansion. There was a brief note that Mary Broomfield was the sister of the lovely and stylish ladies, and some speculation that the group would be of course, attending the grand ball hosted by the Marquis and Marchioness of Shandly.

Everyn laid aside the paper and set back, eyeing the long windows across the room and hearing the clop and churn of carriages and coaches, seeing the frost as the day was windy and chilled, a typical winter's morning.

He wondered what his father thought of that gift and abrupt note, and could not help but smile at it. He knew Lord John would come out of sheer curiously, because Everyn had never asked him to before.

As if his thoughts had summoned action, he heard a stir in the hall and arose to cross the room and went to the foyer, to find footmen carrying in a trunk, before his father appeared.

"Thank you, Varley. Yes, take this blasted coat too. ‘Tis raining. Seems to always rain here, doesn't it.” His father shrugged out of the coat and hat, his still lean frame dressed in black and white, the cravat replaced by a wool scarf, and still handsome face framed by longish silver hair that he combed back from his face. It was thick, a bit wavy, and Everyn thought perhaps influenced his own preference for a longer mane, since his father and he favored each other greatly.

"Welcome, father.” He stepped forward, smiling and shaking his father's hand.

But Lord John embraced him briefly, leaving a hand on his shoulder as those blue grey eyes peered at him. “Tis good to you see you, Everyn. But what was with the gift, and who the devil..."

Everyn cut him off, “I'll tell you later. Come, warm yourself. Mrs. Collins will have a room ready and I'm sure you missed breakfast."

As he turned and led the way to the study, Lord John looked over his shoulder at the butler, raising his brows.

Varley shrugged and pointed upwards.

Lord John looked there and saw the mistletoe dangling. He snorted and followed his son into the study.

It was rather difficult for Everyn not to explain why and who and everything he didn't know himself, to his father. He evaded it very well for the next few days, and went with his father to the club, to visit the tailor, for a new set of formal togs, for the Shandly's ball.

"I don't know what it is,” Lord John said one afternoon as they went by coach to the tobacco shop. “But you're ... different, something..."

Everyn met his gaze and said, “You mean I no longer grumble and scowl and bite the heads off anyone who speaks to me?"

Lord John laughed. “Well, yes. But since I am not much better myself, I don't note that exactly. I can't really put my finger on it. Where did you stay, by the way, during Christmas?"

"In Yorkshire, with the Broomfield's."

"Broomfield's ... do I know them?” His father's brow rose.

"Master Morley is a Squire, but his daughters all wed titles, all save one."

The duke pursed his lips. “Hmm. Cannot say I recall them. But then I have been out of society some six years."

His brows lowered in a frown. “Had the usual misery myself at Meaberry. Your aunts were at each other's throats, and that lazy nephew of mine stayed sotted and fell down the stairs again. ‘Tis a shame he never breaks his neck, it's cruel of me, but he has run through Prue's fortune and will not bestir himself to do ought but run up debt and drink himself stupid.

Paula brought her gaggle of old hen daughters, as usual, they screeched about, setting my nerves on edge, and weeping and wailing if I so much as blinked during their carol singing. I tell you, my boy. I am either daft or they are, for I feel more blighted every year, every blasted holiday."

"Did you hang the mistletoe?"

"I did.” His father eyed him. “Though I'll have you know, the staff now is certain the family has done me in mentally. I hear them whispering, but ‘tis not Christmas, and they watch me as if waiting for me to call for Sheaths of harvest wheat in winter. Add to that, your summons and my dashing off, I'm sure our old retainers are praying for us both this very moment."

Chuckling Everyn nodded, but told him, “I just want you to meet someone, father. I think you'll understand."

"Who?” The duke was obviously dying of curiosity.

"Just trust me."

Lord John stared at him a moment, then asked, “Will they be at this ball?"

"Yes."

Two days later Everyn came down the stairs and turned into the sitting room. His father was dressed handsomely for the ball, in white cravat and shirt, black tails and trousers, his boots polished and wearing white gloves.

Everyn was dressed likewise, though he carried his gloves and cape. “Are we ready?"

"I wouldn't miss it for anything.” Lord John put the brandy he was sipping down, gathered his cape and cane, his hat from the side table, and they were off, arriving at the mansion and entering the ball earlier than the Marquis had ever been known to attend a ton function.

* * * *

Mary rode to the ball in the coach with Dudley and Ruth. She had spent a whirlwind time since arriving, shopping, visiting the library, going to the museum, and attending functions with Ruth.

She knew they had suspicions as to why she suddenly accepted their invite to London, but Mary in her usual way of teasing, merely fobbed them off with some chatter about giving the staff time to rest at Broomfield, since her father was with Hamilton, and replenishing her stock of novels and such, at London's bookshops.

"Don't be nervous, Mary.” Ruth teased as Mary poked her head out the window, gawking at the crowds of coaches and clusters of elegant guests entering the Marquis mansion.

"I'm not.” Mary pulled her head grimacing, “Much."

Lord Dudley opened the door as the coach stopped and helped them down, saying, “Just do as I do, Mary—smile and pretend you are hard of hearing. It's usually so noisy, the talk and music, that you never hear a complete conversation anyway."

"I expect not.” Mary took his arm, Ruth the other, and they headed forward.

Inside the mansion, which it took them a half hour to gain. Mary's black cape was taken, and she stepped behind her sister and brother in law, smoothing her hair with a hand encased in gold silk. The gown was new, a shimmering gold with black velvet band under her breasts, and flowing down in clean lines to the toes of her slippers.

She'd had her hair done up with pearl pins, only a few long spirals wistfully free, and in her ears were tiny pearls. Her fan folded and giving Ruth, who shot a look over her shoulder, as they were announced, a wink, she followed them down the entry steps, and toward a long receiving line.

Mary curtseyed before her host and hostess, smiling and nodding to their offspring that ranged from titled to a mere Sir, and then distinguished guests were apparently next, names and titles she vaguely recognized.

"His Grace, Lord John Hurst, Duke of Meaberry."

Mary came up short at the name Hurst. She'd moved from the main line and followed Ruth and Dudley through a tight crowd, all talking over the loud orchestra music.

She realized her sister and brother in law had maneuvered them through the crowds to a line of gentlemen. Before she could see the duke, she curtsied and nodded to generals, diplomats and a brightly coated fellow who was obviously foreign and with a name she'd never remember.

At last she found herself looking up from a curtsy into a face so familiar from her dreams, and yet older, perhaps early sixties, but certainly still handsome with that head of silver hair. His eyes too were different, more a blue grey, but piercing as his sons.

"Miss Mary Broomfield.” She heard Dudley finishing introductions. And as the gentleman bowed over her hand and kissed it, she could not help but look aside and knew—simply knew—it would be Everyn standing there.

He was watching her, as if observing, and Mary felt all the emotions crowd upon her at once. He looked wonderful, so handsome, and just as sensually compelling as she recalled.

"Broomfield, ah...” the duke was saying.

Mary jerked her gaze to his and smiled. “Yes, Your Grace. It's a pleasure to meet you. I hope you liked the mistletoe?"

Lord John's brows went up and after a quick glance at Everyn he chuckled and Mary got a head to toe inspection from those handsome eyes. Before he murmured, “Very much, m'dear. ‘Tis a work of art, a shame to only hang it at Christmas time. I ordered it left in the foyer year round."

She blushed. “Goodness, I will wager that has the staff scratching their heads."

"It does. It does.” The duke's eyes twinkled.

"Lord Everyn Hurst. Marquis of Coaldrake.” Dudley touched Mary's arm, and no one missed his ironic amusement as both he and Ruth knew that they had met in some strange manner at Broomfield.

"My sister-in-law, Mary Broomfield."

"Hello, Everyn.” She smiled up at him.

And every eye saw the bloom of Everyn's white smile as he did not bow but leaned and kissed her cheek before straightening, “Hello, Mary Broomfield."

She glanced at his father to find the man watching them closely.

The duke stepped forward suddenly and offered his arm, “Will you do me the honor, Miss Broomfield."

Mary took it, with a quick glance at Everyn who nodded slightly, and allowed the gentleman to lead her off, through a crush, and somehow into a spot on the dance floor.

Everyn moved and took up a spot by a column, after meeting Ruth and Dudley's grin with a slight wink. And for two tunes he watched his father dance with Mary, watched her smile, and heard his father laugh as he had not heard from the man in many years. Mary Broomfield, weaving her particular magic.

He did not move from his well-placed spot as they left the floor and headed for the table of champagne. They stood, obviously talking and laughing, and yes, he'd noticed Mary's hair, her gown, her alluring shape, and it stirred him. Though it was much more he was looking for and found, in the way she transformed his father too, standing in a crowded ballroom, making a man who rarely smiled, laugh loud enough to turn heads.

Lord Dudley appeared at his elbow, handing him a brandy, and Everyn straightened and took it. “Thanks."

"You're causing talk, you know, standing here absent that scowl and actually being civil to people."

Everyn grunted on a laugh, glancing at the man who was just his height and not a year older.

Dudley grinned and lifted his drink toward Mary and the duke. “They have something, those Broomfield ladies."

"Yes."

Dudley murmured as he lowered the glass. “You'll never figure it out exactly. One day you're raking and raising hell, sure the world is as rotten and boring as you think—and then, you meet them. And by the way, we all fell in love with our wives at Christmas ... all got our first kiss under the mistletoe"

He grunted and finished his brandy before clapping Everyn on the back. “You'll never regret it, dear boy."

After he'd gone, Everyn watched his father take Mary to her sister, and then the duke was making his way toward him. He stood before Everyn a moment, and then said simply, “Yes.” and smiled rather proudly. “We've an appointment to ride in the morning."

"Who?"

"Mary Broomfield and I.” Lord John supplied, “And I'm taking her to the theater, to a farce on Thursday."

Everyn cocked his brow. “You are?"

"I am.” Lord John turned and found Mary in the crowd. She was looking at them and he smiled and nodded.

She smiled back rather gently.

He told his son, “Mary thinks I'm too handsome to remain single."

Everyn choked on a laugh,” She does?"

"Um yes. She wants to introduce me to someone—a friend of her mother's. Did you know that Elise Musette was her mother? My God, every man in the world was in love with that woman. When she played, time stood still ... To think, she wed a Squire...” He laughed. “I always wondered."

"I didn't know,” Everyn said, his gaze going to Mary but she was engaged in conversation.

"Well, how was the Squire?"

"The best of men. Much like the daughters."

"Eh well, those kind usually do win the hearts of angels like Elise. That one, lady Ruth, she looks just like her mother."

"The other two are there.” Everyn pointed out Miriam and Margie."

His father looked that way, then at him, and next over to Mary. “I see.” He sighed and shook his head. “She is the gem, Everyn, the most unique young woman I have ever met. And such wit and heart, amazing what is buried in Yorkshire."

As his father left him, to mingle among the guests, Everyn made his way to Mary, standing a bit off but in her range of vision. When she turned and came toward him, he kept his face impassive though he suspected his eyes showed too much of his pleasure at her appearance.

"I like him. Your father,” she said in greeting.

"He likes you too. I hear you have an engagement, to ride and to the theater."

"Yes. He told me he was not staying long, and that he had not been in the city in years.’ She shrugged.

"He says that you wish to introduce him to someone?"

She bit her lip and then grinned sheepishly. “Well that was impulse. You likely do not note it, but he is terribly handsome. And I sensed, rather lonely—from his comments, growing too used to his own company and ... what?” She laughed as his brow rose. “You don't mind, do you? I had just become reacquainted with dear Bonnie, but we all write to her. She was a grand opera singer once, not quite blue blooded but she is wealthy and widowed and very..."

"I don't mind, Mary."

She swallowed. “They would be perfect for each other. She has an amazing sense of humor and she is ... fifty I think, but so full of life."

"I cannot wait to meet her."

"Are you lying or telling the truth."

"I'm telling the truth.” His gaze moved over her. “You look amazing."

"As do you. I have heard your name ... well, the Marquis of Coaldrake whispered about here. You were honest about that too. You've a rather fierce rep."

"I do.” He nodded.

But Mary's gaze held his with their secret between them. “Are you hanging about the ball for long?'

"Not much longer,” he replied. “I would not want to give the hostess any ideas that I'm agreeable."

"Um, yes. I see.” She looked around. “I am glad we met, here in London."

"We will again, Mary.” He smiled just a bit and lifted her hand to his lips. “If my father leaves you any free time, we will."

Mary watched him move across the room and join his father before they both departed.

"That was interesting.” Her sister Miriam appeared and took her arm.

"Wasn't it though.” She looked up at her. “I have been in London two weeks, and I shall ride with a duke in the morning, attend a play with him on Thursday, and—"

"And?” Miriam's smile teased.

"Not yet. But I will know soon, very soon."

Miriam frowned and smiled, and then groaned. “You really must share this secret soon, Mary. It's driving us all daft."

Chapter Six

Mary had her ride with Lord John. And at the theater, in his box, and of course with Everyn sitting behind them, she pointed out a stately and full figured woman across the way.

Bonnie Meadows’ white gown glittered and her glorious auburn hair was piled high with thick curls dangling over her shoulder. For a woman of mature age, she was striking rather than beautiful, and Mary could tell by the way the duke kept glancing away from the farce on stage, that he was much taken by the woman.

During intermission she took the duke along with her, to Bonnie's box. Everyn watched this, understanding more now than perhaps he would before, when the woman stood and all her curvaceous glory was revealed.

She was not in fashion either, despite her riches and handsome face, but he could tell the moment his father took her hand that the old boy was immediately attracted.

Mary managed to slip back to the box, and Everyn greeted her, seating himself beside her as his father remained with Mrs. Meadows, the two talking and ignoring the play.

Everyn said, “Will you come for breakfast in the morning?"

"Breakfast?” She smiled at him.

"Yes. I spoke to Dudley and he and your sister are joining us."

"Of course then."

He did not attend the play but looked at Mary often, and when it was over, he escorted her to his coach, since his father seemed to have forgotten them both and joined Mrs. Meadows party.

In the coach, Everyn leaned up and took her gloved hand. “If I kiss you, I won't stop."

Mary curled her fingers around his. “I had begun to wonder..."

"That has not changed,” he husked and his eyes went over her black cape and like color gown. “I needed to know something, Mary. I will explain it, soon."

"You don't need to.” She sat back as he released her hand, their gazes touching and the tension, the attraction and too much time apart crackling in the air between them. “I like you, Everyn Hurst, Marquis of Coaldrake."

He smiled. “I like you too, Mary Broomfield."

* * * *

Ruth was in more of a tizzy than Mary while they took the short distance to the Coaldrake's townhouse. It was odd, but Mary felt calm, a kind of excitement was there, but calmness, because of what she'd seen in Everyn's eyes.

She had dressed in bronze again today, with combs holding her hair up and had worn her sable cape. Ruth was glorious, as Dudley had noted proudly, gowned in sapphire blue and wearing diamonds in her ears.

The first thing Mary noticed as they arrived at the mansion was the mistletoe hanging in the foyer. The second was the richness, the expanse of the house, and as she noted pearl and gold inlay, gilt and velvet, she completely understood the man who stumbled up her stairs in the dark, having ran for his hide from the ton hunters.

He was with his father in a receiving room, a deep blue sitting room and white trim with an ivory inlaid fireplace and tall velvet draped windows. Greeting them, Mary saw two handsome men, obviously wealthy, and obviously long acquainted with the worst things their titles and stations brought to their lives.

She did not feel gauche or out of place, even through Ruth seemed more perfect standing in the richly appointed room. Such things were insignificant to the silver eyes that strayed to her during the proceeding moments, and the way just being within a foot of him made her feel.

They moved to the breakfast room and gathered around a well-set table. Mary sat at the duke's left and Everyn at his right, and such a placing was not lost on Ruth who elbowed her as she sat in the chair next to her, across from Dudley.

"Coffee please.” Mary held her hand over the cup as the maid was about to pour tea.

"Oh, Yes. Miss. Right, his lordship told me that.” The maid shook her head and filled her sister's cup and then returned to serve Mary and the Marquis coffee.

Following that, in some conversation that was scattered from the weather to horses, and Ruth asking the duke about his horticultural interests, they ate a most normal meal and the time seemed to fly. Then, Mary fell into a muse looking at the window just beyond Everyn's shoulder, and scarcely noticed that everyone had stood.

It was Everyn, at the back of her chair, who snapped her out of it, and when she stood and would have followed the rest, he detained her and led her in the opposite direction.

"Your study?” She looked around, liking the room filled with books and paneled in warm red woods.

"Yes.” He went to the desk and deposited something, then took her hand and led her to the seating, by the fire.

He stood by the mantle a moment, their gaze holding as he supplied, “I wanted to speak with you, Mary. Without all the formality that these things are usually dictated by..."

"Yes?” Her stomach fluttered and she could see and sense a tension in him.

"Mary...” He came over and sat on the edge of the low table, taking her hands in his. “My father is very pleased, very taken with Ms Meadows."

"I'm glad."

"As am I. I expect he has invited her down to Meaberry, and things will progress rather swiftly, if he has anything to say about it."

She laughed. “They shouldn't waste time if they care for each other. They've been alone, been lonely for some time."

"Yes. He has.” Everyn brushed his thumbs over her fingers. “This is me, Mary. This house, my title, estates and the rest. Someday, my father's title also."

"It is part of you.” She let her gaze roam his face. “Your birthright and obligations, the social and other responsibilities, but I will argue that it defines you."

He brought her hands to his lips a moment, then husked, “Thank you.” He held her gaze again. “I want you, Mary. You know what I mean by that?"

"I want you, too.” She wet her lips.

"I don't know about love, Mary. Not what your father had, nor mine. I didn't even believe in it before. I don't want the other either, that expectation of marrying for bloodlines and titles and providing heirs. I want what we had, at Broomfield ... whatever that was.

That sitting in window seats drinking chocolate and lying on stairwells kissing under the mistletoe. I want that laughter—that has nothing to do with cynicism or pretenses, and I want those silly conversations and lies that you tell, that you make me tell, that are more honest than conversations I have every day."

Mary's heart shook and such a strong emotion took over her. “I'm here, Everyn. I'm not going to let go—unless it's what you wish."

He released her hands and cupped her face, kissing her, passionately, deeply and for a long, long time. When he raised his head, his thumbs brushed her cheeks. “I don't want to let go of you, Mary Broomfield, not even to get a license, speak to your father. I want to take you to bed and..."

Everyn kissed her again, and then once more, finally they were both so aroused he pulled back and contented himself with holding her hands again. “Did I ask you to marry me somewhere in there?"

She laughed still catching her breath. “I'm not sure. I'm trying to figure out how I can get into your bed."

His smile flashed but his eyes were molten. “Will you marry me, Mary Broomfield?"

"Yes.” She sobered. “And I'll love you too, Everyn. You'll know what that feels like. What my father had and yours, what my sisters do."

"Mary.” He shook his head in wonder, his own smile fading. “You even make that word sound exciting."

She reached out and traced his mouth. “Cant we wed first, and tell father later. I'm sure he'd understand."

He bit her finger gently, and then captured it in his hand. “Yes. We could. But I thought you'd want to marry at Broomfield."

"We can all gather at Broomfield on Easter. Your father, and Bonnie too.” She leaned in and kissed him softly, against his mouth whispering, “I want you. Everyn. I don't even want to leave with Ruth. I want to kiss you and touch you, and I don't care about much else until I do."

His arms went round her, and they were kissing, moaning, completely caught up in the passion—when the duke opened the door and cleared his throat.

They didn't jump apart, though Mary laughed as Everyn groaned in frustration, having just found the hooks on her gown when his father came in. He stood though, and Mary too, turning to the man who was wearing a teasing smile.

"I take it, I'm getting a daughter?"

"If you'll have me,” Mary quipped.

"I will. I'll wed you myself if Everyn don't.” He came over and took her hands and kissed them. “I am pleased, Mary. Very pleased. I am pleased enough to thank those blighted relatives who were responsible for my sending Everyn to Yorkshire in the first place."

She chuckled with Everyn, and then told the duke, “I think Bonnie will solve some of that for you. If you are a wise man and play your cards right. She's an extraordinary woman."

"Yes. I believe she is.” He released her hands. “Now. What is the plan?"

"I offered her a wedding at Broomfield. But Mary doesn't want to wait.” Everyn said, “Nor do I."

"I thought so.” Lord John muttered, “Well. I did jump the gun a bit and tell your sister his intention.” He reached into his coat pocket. “I also got a special license."

"When?” Everyn looked at him astonished.

"On the way to London. You never know, dear boy. I was covering all the possibilities, just in case your summons was ah ... of another sort."

Mary snickered at Everyn's expression, and she took it and handed to the Marquis. “You've a wise father, Everyn. Don't let's quibble over details."

He took it, smiling dryly at the both of them. “Did you happen to write her father, too?"

"Lady Ruth has offered to do so. I predicted that you couldn't wait and sent them both off to do the necessary.” He looked at Mary. “I should think you'll be a bride by this time tomorrow.” He stepped back and added, “The rings, Everyn. I'll leave that to you."

"Thank you.” Everyn said with irony as he took Mary's hands again. “If you change your mind..."

"I won't.” She shook her head.

He kissed her then took her back to Dudley's townhouse. Pausing to formally ask Ruth for her hand—which he got—along with hug and kiss on the cheek—before he dashed off to get the rings, and make plans.

The wedding took place somewhere around midnight, because it took that long to sort out details, see his solicitor, find a vicar, seemingly dash all over the city, and make sure Mary's things were brought to the townhouse.

Her sisters were there. Ruth stood with her, and his father with him, Dudley giving Mary away. And her wedding gown was a hastily purchased ivory silk and lace, seemingly the perfect dress that glowed under the tapers in Ruth's sitting room.

There was a quick toast, some happy tears between the sisters, and his father not so discreetly saying he had opened his own townhouse and would be there, until he left town.

Then they left Ruth's and went to his own house, where he'd instructed the puzzled servants, still murmuring over the mistletoe, that he was married, that he would not need a thing until the next noon. Everyn carried her through the door, setting her on her feet only long enough to kiss her under that dangling mistletoe, before he attempted to carry her up the stairs.

"Put me down.” She insisted laughing. When he set her on her feet she took his hand and they raced up the stairs. When they entered his chambers, she started unlatching the gown, whispering, “My god. I can't believe I'm married."

He shed his coat, neck cloth and jacket, and then began helping her as she stepped out of the dress. When she was in the silk chemise, he stripped to his trousers only—and then they walked to the bed where he lifted her and settled her upon it, following her down and smoothing his hand through her hair.

"Me either. But more than that, I have thought of this since I left Broomfield, of having you in my bed, and looking into that face, feeling you like this."

Her hands pulled his head down for a long and intimate kiss that left her trembling. His hands moved over her, his mouth trailing near her ear, down her throat. Mary floated on that haze of passion, feeling him strip her of the covering and moving down her body, lingering and savoring, driving her mad with pleasure, and her lashes lifted as he moved from her. Her legs quivering, her sex damp and face flushed with the rush of need.

He stripped off the trousers and stood a moment looking at her as she eyed his impressive frame. Lastly he covered her, settling between those thighs. And her hands tangled in his hair.

"There's no way to ease this first time."

"I know.” She smoothed her hands up his sides.

The crown of his sex entered her, and he shuddered before pushing through the barrier, feeling her nails dig into his arms. “I'm sorry for this..."

"I'm not,” she whispered gruffly, and held to him while he thrust gently, tense, muttering tightly that he was a bastard because it felt so very good to him.

When he came, Everyn lost little time picking her up and carrying her to the tub, where he filled it with soothing hot water and scented oils. Then he dried her and took her back to bed, reaching her a sherry, pouring himself a glass of brandy while they sat against the headboard.

"That was bloody nerve wracking."

She laughed. “Wasn't it just."

He turned and pushed a curl away from her brow. “Ruth must have spoken to you of it."

"Yes. They all have. And she told me something this evening, before the wedding."

"Yes?” He grinned softly.

"She said that you were rumored to be a good lover. That once the awkward part was over, I'd see what that meant."

His eyes widened. “I was known ... bloody hell. I was not aware of that."

"I am. I know you are. I wasn't worried."

He set his glass aside and took hers, then moved down in the bed, running his hands over her and laving her nipples as his fingers found that secret spot. He husked against her breast, “I have no mistress by the way. I shall never need one. I'm not worried either, and did I mention you inspire me."

She moaned, “Yes ... I think ... oh, yes. I like that.” She felt the tension building and then he slid down and his mouth was there, tasting, suckling, bringing her to the height of pleasure, and she grasped the covers, trembling through an incredible climax.

He slid up her body, kissing her softly before his sex eased inside.

Mary's lashes lifted and she raised her knees high on his sides. This time the feel of him, his thrusts, felt incredible. “Umm. I have a feeling I'm going to like this."

He laughed, muffled against the pillow and his hands lifted her backside higher. “I promise you will."

She did. Afterward, laying in his arms, snug and warm, feeling well loved and womanly.

His hand smoothed her hair, the other behind his head as he enjoyed obviously having her half-draped on him. “It happened rather fast, didn't it? So unexpected. There I was ... foxed and stumbling up your stairs."

Her lips curved. “Yes. But I felt something. I knew in some sense. It was why I didn't want to know everything. And in a way, I didn't want you to know anything about me, except what you discovered yourself."

"I couldn't have found you Mary, had I been looking. I was deliberately blind for many reasons."

She rose on her elbow and looked at him. “Likely not.” Her hand lifted so that she could trace his brow. “I bewitched you, my lord, and lured you to my side. I plied you with chocolate and gingerbread..."

His laughter spurted and he lifted, rolling her to her back, his white grin matching her own. “It was that blasted mistletoe. It has all sorts of powers.” He kissed her mouth, her cheek, her brow, her nose. “That's what you do, Mary. You take that wax and wire and those little red berries and you cast some sort of love spell..."

They both stilled when he called it that—and then her smile bloomed. “Lie to me, Everyn."

"I don't love you. I don't love you,” he murmured against his lips.

"That's a lie."

"Yes.’ It is,” he whispered against her ear.

"I love you, Everyn.” She skimmed her hands up his back.

"Thank you, Mary,” he husked, then made slow and erotic love to her, so hot and so complete, that she cried out his name and left love bites wherever she could reach.

Afterwards Everyn pushed his damp hair out of his face and whispered, “My God. I have never seen a woman so passionate, so erotic as you."

She was half-asleep but smiled. “I want to return that favor but I'm...” she yawned and pulled him down to her side, snuggling against him. “We don't have to go out today, do we, my lord?"

"No."

She purred. “That's good. I want you right here, after lunch ... preferably nude."

He laughed and felt sleep teasing him. “I'll have lunch brought up."

She smoothed her hand over his buttocks and flexed on them. “Please do. And dinner ... Perhaps we should..."

"Sleep.” He chuckled and moved her hand away, holding her instead. “We're going to need it."

* * * *

Below in the kitchens, the servants were sitting around relaxing. The butler smoking his pipe and the housekeeper knitting and glancing at the snow which had started to fall.

"She's likely his mistress. We'll all be scandalized,” one of the older footmen muttered.

"He's not the same, that's for certain,” the butler said around his pipe.

"He's in love.” The housekeeper eyed them both through her spectacles. “That's all that matters. That's all it is. Knew it the moment he ordered that mistletoe hung in the foyer."

"How could you possibly know it from that,” the butler snapped.

She snorted and looked down at her work. “A woman knows a woman's touch is all. And it wasn't just on that ornament."

The men stared at her, completely missing the meaning.

* * * *

Having drifted off to sleep, the couple snuggled against each other, oblivious to the speculation going on below. Her soft breaths teased against Everyn's chest, and his arm was around her, keeping her close. The snow trickled outside the window.

Everyn dreamed of Mary's hands, twisting bits of wire and wax, making bright red bows and berries, and he dreamed of them touching him, creating that same simple magic inside, transforming his world from darkness to light.

Authors note: As to the decorating of Christmas trees in this story, I used this reference link; www.christmasarchives.com/trees.html, taking the liberty to make use of the information provided here that “The British public were not fond of the German Monarchy, so did not copy the fashions at Court, which is why the Christmas Tree did not establish in Britain at that time. A few families did have Christmas trees however, probably more from the influence of their German neighbours than from the Royal Court."

AUTHOR BIO

ST Romance author Eve Asbury, and Sensual Romance 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, until finally settling her in East Tennessee, surrounded by the North Holston River, where she can write to her hearts content.

She calls her life as a young grandmother, controlled chaos and 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. 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.

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