Alinar Publishing
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Copyright ©2006 by Gayle Eden

First published in 2006, 2006

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

Winter Heart

Gayle Eden

Copyright © 2006 Gayle Eden

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

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

First published December 2006

First Edition

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

Edited by Dian Addair

Cover by Dian Addair

ISBN

1-906023-14-x

978-1-906023-14-0

Chapter 1

Hambelton Court looked like a fairyland of white snowdrifts, icicles suspended in their dipped shape from the roof of the sprawling estate house, and the lakes and ponds frozen over. Snow sparkled on the ground and trickled from a blue sky in wispy flakes. The servants had outdone themselves inside and out, but at the moment it was the outside, that Clare Ross was gazing at as she prepared for her day.

The long bricked drive had been shoveled clean in anticipation of the guests, who would arrive for the week of parties, visits, and general gaiety. Each of the black lampposts was sporting a red ribbon. The benches round the skating pond had been cleaned, the sleigh was polished to a high gleam and snug inside the carriage house, to await that dash across the countryside.

But Clare's satisfaction came from something deeper. Her brother Aaron, Viscount Hambelton was now twenty-five, and watching him below, with a group of his friends from London, she had to smile at their snowball throwing and youthful antics. It had been a few difficult years for Aaron, since their parents died and he'd gained the responsibility of the estates at only seventeen, his finishing up at the university, having lost a strong and dedicated father, a man who could not be matched. Between the grief and the weight of his new life, he'd gone wild and reckless for awhile.

Clare, now twenty-seven, had, even then, been the one person who understood her brother's sudden turn. She'd been grieving in her own way and had quietly seen to the estate and other things, with the help of Sir Riley, a very old and very dear friend of their parents.

Smoothing back her chestnut hair, Clare absently pulled down the cuffs of her warm, rose wool gown, with its long sleeves, round neck and full skirt. Underneath she wore warm stockings and a cotton petticoat. At the round neck of the gown, there was sewn a bit of lace. Since she wasn't one for frills and frippery, it was a gown that suited her five foot six frame. A woman of curves and good health, Clare was thankful for that much and did not dwell most times on beauty or lack thereof. She had been called pretty in her youth, and did not turn heads, but seemed pleasant enough to garner a second look now and then.

Her face was angular and brows arched, her eyes were a deep gray and nose straight, pink lips, that both set in determined lines and smiled easily, as Clare had come to take nothing in life for granted.

Pulling on her gloves, she wiped at the frost on the window, looking below again, allowing her gaze to go to the still and silent form seated on one of the benches facing the house. It was on the right, the man having had to take the path around the house, and on to the courtyard and hedge maze. Any time of year it was a perfect spot for admiring the mansion's yellow brick and green lawns, profuse gardens and statuary.

But today, in winter, the position spoke of remoteness and isolation, of being distant from the laughing and merry group of three men and two young women, now building snowmen on the lawn.

Jared Burke, Earl of Winterchase was wearing his cape'd great coat and boots, a silver scarf casually at his throat and a black beaver hat. Even at this distance his tall height and broad shoulders, the darkness of his skin and hair, made him seen more in shadow than the light of day.

Most were aware of the whisperings surrounding the brooding Earl of Winterchase. Wherever his name was spoken, it was in a hush or with raised brows. His face was craggy and dark skinned, with eyes of deep ebony, and there was an aura around him, of coldness and aloofness, and of mystery, that fit most of the rumors, though few knew the truth.

Jared Burke was thirty-seven and had lived several lifetimes, if rumor was true. The sort of lives that were dark themselves and cruel in many ways. His father was said to have been a rakehell and a hard man to tolerate, his mother a spoiled Spanish beauty, who was faithless and shallow. His life was continually torn asunder by his father's recklessness and jealousy, his mother's affairs and scandals. Jared himself had fought many duels over both before he'd left on his tour. When he came back and wed the girl betrothed to him from the age of twelve, he'd found, they say, that the woman she'd grown into was much like his mother.

There was a murder in the Burke main estate, two years after that wedding day. The wife was found hanging from the rafters, and was apparently carrying the heir. The father died somewhere in Italy, and Jared's mother took an overdose of laudanum. Those long years of wickedness, scandal, and turmoil, ending those lives in even more horrendous tragedy.

The Lord of Winterchase took himself off to war; in madness, of either grief, anger, or all, yet if he had a death wish himself, it did not come about. His recklessness or his courage won him distinction, and he had left war by the time Napoleon was exiled, wounded, but a high-ranking officer.

He didn't come back to parades and welcomes, as the scandals and rumors were too plentiful and too well remembered. They called him the beast and worse behind his back, laying all the sins of his parents and his wife's death at his door, even the fate of the unborn child.

He had vanished for a time, after selling that cursed estate house and much of the lands, settling himself upon his return, in the least used or known property of the Burke's, the old endowment, Winterchase, which had in it's glory been an impressive gothic structure; with gardens, lawns and lakes. Forgotten for generations, the gardens had grown wild and the woods crept closer and more tangled, the statues and fountains aged and moss covered the sinister façade.

Clare knew of it, had seen it many times whilst returning from the village; the fog hovering around the distant, dark, manor, that could scarcely be seen from the vines tangled in the iron gates, and the trees grown so tall and hovering. The spires and griffins, gargoyles that crouched at the entry, and held up those heavy balconies used to be a source of fascination as a child. But somewhere along the way, the gossip had reached her ears, and she too used to shiver passing by it, glad of the ten acres that separated it from the main roads, keeping the secrets distant from the seeing eye.

However that was long ago, and Clare was aware, though he forbade Aaron to speak of it, and would not mention it himself, that there sat the one man, who for some accident of fate, encountered her brother in northern England, took him in out of the cold after a night of reckless revelry, and quietly took him under his wing, to guide him out of the darkness and self destruction, back into living.

At the time, Clare did not know the details, except for the cryptic notes she received with his seal. She came to know he was at Winterchase and was tempted to ask, but Aaron forbade any talk of it. She was too thankful he was both finishing his studies, and apparently learning more from Jared, who often came to see him, her brother said, and spend many hours with the young man.

Clare had quietly seen to tenants, worked with Sir Riley, and when her brother was on the town in London, went up to assist him in refurbishing the townhouse. She'd watched her brother, when a youth, a lanky lad with a shock of black curly hair and green eyes, happy until the worst happened and turned him into to a complete stranger. The young man she'd met up with London was mature and serious, yet gradually coming back to the wit and humor of his younger days.

This circle of his friends; the Lord's Wexler and Venter, Adamson, the ladies Holt and Meller, were people he was quietly guided to by Lord Jared. They were wealthy heirs, intelligent and somewhat set apart from the feckless ton by their unique circumstances. As if weaning the man to stand at last on his own, it was obvious that a bond of friendship formed by trust, had made them kindred spirits, so that Aaron now had his wings and could run his life.

To say Clare was surprised that the Earl accepted Aaron's invite to Hambelton was an understatement. In all of these years, he had never shown himself to her, other than those things she discerned through her brother, and that bold dark script on his missives. This gathering would be for those close to her brother, for neighbors to stop in, and for the younger set about, to make merry and celebrate as Hambelton Court had not seen in many a year.

As for herself, Claire had made sure the house was festive, the rooms bright and warm, and between the staff—who was thrilled, for they loved young Aaron and missed his presence and were more than ready for the master to take his place here—and, the neighbors, who were always affectionate to the Hambelton's, It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.

Claire, in her joy at Aaron's coming of age, was completely content to remain in the background and observe, to see to details and enjoy the sounds of laughter from his group. And, to help Mrs. Hansen, the housekeeper. And the cook, Bartos, who was preparing feasts for every single day to outdo the other. Her brother's lady friends, the Lady Holt in particular, were very lively and nice; they kept the staff smiling, playing music and singing, even getting the stoic butler Oberto to grin with their goings on in the house.

But the Lord of Winterchase lingered on her mind as she smoothed her hair. She wore it drawn back and in a white net. Claire picked up a matching full-skirted coat of a soft cream hue, with white fur on the hood and cuffs, and on the hem that touched the tops of her warmest fur lined short boots.

She would go down the servant's stairs and to the kitchens. The maids and housekeeper did not need her direction. When the others came in, they would hurry to provide warm drinks, warm baths and assist them. The Hambelton servants were long trained and missing the days when her parent's were there for holiday foolery and celebrations.

In the toasty and bustling kitchens, she spoke briefly to Bartos and the two maids helping, then proceeded to the back doors, where her baskets and crates set, already packed for delivery.

"The carriage be ready, miss. Are you sure you won't have me drive?” One of the usual drivers, old Kimball was warming himself by the large fireplace, looking as if he'd just dried out. She knew they all helped with the fire wood cutting and cleaning of the stables and horses, so she smiled but said, “No. Kimball, thank you. But could you load these, please? I must speak with someone, then I shall be directly back."

He grabbed his coat off a peg. “No trouble a’ tall. I'll see to it."

She slipped out the back door, noting the mud around the well, hearing the geese squawking, likely realizing several of their kind were missing, as they would provide dinner. The other fowl were pecking out by the barns, and she spied the lazy, fat, tabby, sitting on the ledge of the carriage house window, watching birds eat the red berries from the holly hedges.

Quite warm in spite of the snow, she made her way around in time to see the last of Aaron's group kicking snow off their boots and hurrying in. She paused to admire the snow men, covering her mouth a moment on a laugh, and noticing the purple drape on the enormous snowman as Prinny, and the distinct hat on the female, fashioned rather artfully with chicken feathers, as that of a dowager dragon who ruled London ballrooms.

Moving on, toward that walkway, Lord Jared had arisen and was smoking a thin cheroot, but did not look to be going in. She had to ask herself why she was about to be assuming to a man who likely wouldn't be gracious or thankful for it? But her only answer was, that if their years had been somewhat bleak over their circumstances, and if their Christmases were less than merry for awhile, she could only imagine what his had been like. Given that they said his heart was as cold as winter.

Not that she could blame him, if rumors were true. She told herself, that there was no payment great enough to give him for all that he'd done for Aaron, that though he forbade speaking of or acknowledging it, that did not mean that she had to pretend to be unconscious of it.

Clare was not a woman of flamboyant gestures and being in the forefront of life, herself, rather she stayed productive, aware, and participated in what it offered; embracing joys when they came, and thinking nothing of her own kindness'. Save that it was in most of human nature to be so, and that those around her in most ways returned the same to herself.

She paused a foot from him, clasping her hands lightly and watching his mysterious eyes touch upon her, then away, as he tossed the cheroot. Up this close, Clare could feel that intimidation some did, at his height and strength, the commanding way he stood, and foremost, the set of his craggy features as remote as Winterchase itself.

The cheroot hissed in the snow. Her gaze went to his black gloved hand before going back up. He really was not unhandsome, she thought, for his nose was Roman, forehead broad and lips likely semi full, when not held so tensely. He had strong bones and a longish black mane. His experience, she decided, of thirty-seven unpleasant years, and that kind of self-preservation, was likely what made him appear older and more aloof. Claire understood this too, for there was no answering a legacy such as he was part of. At that age, there was no chance and no one, to allow him to start life anew, even had one wanted to.

When his dark eyes touched her again, guarded instead of seeing out, she began, “Though I do not normally presume upon guests. I am in need of a good hand at the reins.” She gestured to the drive, where Kimball stood holding the lead horse. “Kendall is a fine whip, but he's gone to extra trouble this week, and my regular driver is down with some winter ailment, snug and sipping toddy's hopefully.” Looking ahead at the roads and woods, she continued. “I have only a few places to go, not many miles distance, thought one or two off track.” She met his gaze again. “The weather now and roads being as they are, I thought with your experience, you might do me the kindness of driving me?"

He did not move for a moment but shifted his feet. She assured, “If you are chilled, I will await you an hour or so? And if you do not wish to stay out of doors longer, you may decline, with no offense taken."

She saw something flicker over that dark face, before he murmured, “Allow me to change my gloves."

"Certainly.” She turned, seeing for the corner of her eye when he fell in step, an off gait due to stiffness in his right leg. His presence beside her as they traversed the walk, brought with the normal scent of winter and wood fires, a bit of spice and wool, some male heat that was not unpleasant. Glancing down, she watched the cadence of those steps, and no matter how much the wound affected his grace, his boots fell measured to match her own less a length stride.

At the entry, she went for the carriage, standing by Kimball, for some reason not watching him go up the steps. But Kimball had, and murmured, “His lordship was wounded in the war, you know?"

"Yes. I have heard."

Kimball said, “I offered to valet for him, but he declined. I did go in with Toby to empty the bath and lay a fresh fire, and without a shirt, his lordship carries many more scars."

"I imagine those inside are more painful."

"Yes. We have said so among ourselves.” The old servant said quietly, “When the viscount arrived and I was about helping him unpack, Kimball, he says, you and the others treat Lord Jared well and attend him, for he will not ask a thing for himself. Treat him kind, he says, and give him comforts, for none do and ‘tis a great thing, having him here. For I would not be here myself otherwise."

Clare bit her lip, well able to imagine her brother having that quiet word with the servants.

Kimball went on. “I told the others, and from cook on, we've set our minds to do all he will allow. Molly put greenery in his rooms, and Oberto our finest brandy, and Mrs. Hansen, a bowl of fruits and nuts, and we keep the fire laid. For he does not seem a man who has been kept warm, does he, miss? He seems rather too used to shadows, and we've a mind to give him a bit o light."

She reached and squeezed his wool-clad arm. “Thank you, Kimball, and all of you, for being the people you are. I know you have all heard the rumors, but let us know the man whom Aaron cares for, and try in spite of his distance, which is self preservation, I think, to try and treat him as we ourselves would like to be treated."

"Here he comes.” The servant patted her hand before she dropped it.

His lordship strode up to Kimball and nodded, as the man pulled his cap in respect, then spoke briefly of the team. Taking the light whip, the earl began to climb up, when he apparently realized Clare was standing there.

If dark faces could flush, there may have been one before he came round and opened the carriage door, but upon seeing the full seats, covered crates and what not, he looked at her in question.

"I shall ride up with you.” She smiled and gestured toward the seat. “I am quite used to bracing weather, I love to take rides in the countryside in the snow. And, I have a fur robe if it turns worse, though it is quite a calm day.

He closed the door and seemed to stand there so close, tall and shadowy, his struggle somehow reached Clare, though she was not sure what discomforted him more. She took his gloved hand and turned in the right direction, waiting for him to pull down the movable piece, for stepping on the driving seat.

He did not, but she felt him release her hand, before he lifted her by the waist, completely up, nearly higher than his chest, so that she was laughing in surprise when she took the seat. As he was going round, mounting from his side, she said rather breathless, “I am no lightweight, your lordship, I hope I have not injured your back?"

Gathering the reins and turning the horses, he said in that deep tone, rusty from lack of use, “Not at all..."

"Clare,” she supplied, admiring his handling of the team as he set the pace. “I am Clare to everyone hereabouts'."

He did not say anything as they traversed down the lane, the horses kicking up snow. His sure hand kept the wheels in the melted ruts, carved by other travelers. She was aware of their arms touching, though she had her hands folded in her lap. And, when she put her hood up, enough to keep her neck warmed and hair dry, she could still watch his movements and note from the inches between in his parted coat, as his boots were braced up on the rest, that he had powerfully strong legs, and from the occasional gap in his coat sleeve and glove, when he adjusted the ribbons, that his wrist was dark and sinewy.

"We shall turn there, just ahead.” She pointed to a fork and nearly obscured sign. “The cottage is nestled near the woods, but the horses will know it by heart."

Again he was silent, but she caught the tail end of his glance at her, having felt that he did a time or two on the journey. Old Meg's cottage was in view. She slid back the hood, worried that only the merest wisp of smoke came out of that chimney.

Lord Jared got the buggy close to the door, and set the brake, tying the reins before jumping down. When he came round and reached up for her, Clare told him, “There is a step here...."

"There is no need for it."

She leaned over as he caught her under the arms, her gloved hands went to his shoulders, and though he set her down slowly, there was a whoosh of both their breaths from the contact. Even through clothing and gloves, the awareness of male touching female was there.

Clare opened the carriage door after hastily pulling away. “Those two.” She pointed. “If you could bring those in?"

He nodded and she went on to the cottage door, knocking and calling out before going in.

* * * *

Jared Burke, Lord of Winterchase, had to duck his head to get through the cottage door. His eyes adjusted to the dimness eventually, and he held the heavy crate and basket, standing there rather awkwardly, having been unwelcome in most homes so long, that he rarely set foot beyond the doorway, even in his own tenants residences.

He saw the woman, Clare, whom in his mind was Aaron's sister; a faceless woman to him until his arrival, a female he thought nothing of at first, given his experience with the sex. But gradually, over dealings with Aaron and such, he came to regard her with skeptic disbelief, with every sensible and kind reply to his missives, as well as reports on the stewardship of Hambelton, which invariably had her name on them when he went over them with Aaron.

Jared would not call himself curious about things anymore. He had long since lost any desire for the world and it him. Humanity was distant, life reserved for those participating in it. He had learned too thoroughly that he was born and had lived in a darker place, where people viewed him as less than human and more an aberration.

Yet he found himself at Hambelton at Aaron's request, a place of warm colors and light and life, despite what he knew of the siblings grief and circumstances. There was warmth in the house, and amid brother and sister, that he already knew of from the young man's musings. Even the servants there were as parts of the family, not invisible nor formal, but rather gracious to all, and without the least stiffness.

And here, now, he found himself in a humble cottage, having driven Clare, whom he had not avoided, but not sought out, as he was apt to stay very aloof in any case, observe the life of others in that detached way, that long became a preserving habit to him.

"Here now, let us get you up and beautiful for your Christmas meal,” Claire was saying, leaning over a quilted bed, helping to raise a frail and silver-haired woman. She had shed her coat, and for a moment he was distracted by the female form in rose wool. Though he had already noted the thick chestnut hair bundled in a net, he had not before been close, nor inclined to note Clare's height, or the obvious curves of a woman fully ripe and mature.

"Oh, My lord. Forgive me."

He jerked his eyes to Clare's face. She was smiling over her shoulder.

"You may set those there on the table.” She nodded. “And would you mind building up the fire? There is a shed behind the cottage, and the wood box looks low."

He had not done such tasks since his army days, but had no problem doing so; merely he was surprised that Clare was obviously here to care for the old woman. He took the things to the table, laying his hat upon it, and having to watch his head on the rafters while he found the back door.

Gathering kindling, he took it inside, seeing from the corner of his eye that Clare had extracted a new blue flowered gown and robe from the crate he carried in, and was putting it on the woman.

"My goodness, you shall look stunning in this. Here now, lift your arms, love, and then I will do your hair with ribbons."

Old Meg's voice reached him as he went out back, saying, “You should not be here today. Not with the guests and the master Aaron home finally. Christmas is for the young, to make merry and be joyful. Not for a lady such as yourself, to be bathing and dressing these old bones and going on about me."

Bringing in the bigger logs, then removing his coat and setting to remove ash, to start a better and warmer fire, Jared heard Clare scold affectionately, “Nonsense. Cook himself was up early, making your favorites, and Mrs. Hanson and Molly worked for months on this gown. ‘'Tis their Christmas gifts to you, and ‘tis my own privilege to be here, and see you all prettied up, sitting at that table before I leave, enjoying Christmas. You gave Aaron and myself so many when we were young."

Standing to dust his hands, waiting for the splinters to catch, he glanced over seeing the woman dressed in the blue robe and gown, her face a wrinkled but kind and eyes so blue they rivaled the robes in color. Clare sat behind her on the bed, brushing thin white hair, so fine the scalp showed between. Holding ribbons in her teeth, she caught his eye and winked, which Jared in general understood but felt too surprised to react.

Over the next hour, he was made to remove the crates, and watched while Clare spread the table with linen, set it with fine china and started tea. She uncovered a tray with a silver dome, which held a steaming plate of food and extracted two silver candlesticks, which she put in tapers and lit.

"Would you carry her here?” Clare held out a chair she had cushioned.

He felt his skin tighten, walking to that bed, having touched people more in the last hour than his last ten years, and expecting the worst from the woman. In his white ruffled shirt, having discarded jacket and neck cloth to see to the fire, Jared bent down and scooped the woman up. She weighed less than a child, but her gaze at his face was bright and young, which also caught him off guard as her frail arms went round his shoulders.

"Had such a thing happened in my youth, I would have stories to tell, eh?” She laughingly whispered as he carried her over and gently set her down. “A handsome Lord to carry me in his arms...” Her crepe-like hand patted his face as her hands slid down. “Thank you, my boy."

"You are most welcome.” he rasped feeling tingles from the surreally of that affection. Turning to hide any visible reaction by tending the fire.

"Sing for me, Clare. Oh, what was that song, we used to sing it every Christmas?"

Clare laughed, “Now Meg, you recall the tone of my singing, and if we wish his lordship to stay warm and not dash out in the snow, perhaps it would be prudent to spare him that particular torture?"

"Listen to you,” the old woman said, “Did I not tell you enough, that a joyful sound is all that is needed, and that what is lovely to one save that which lifts the heart and sprits? Come, my girl, ‘tis the heart that counts, and the intent of the giver."

"Oh, very well, I cannot deny you.” Clare began to sing an old carol.

Jared looked down into the flames, having been prepared for the screeching of a scalded cat or mad bird. But as he listened to a rather plain, in tune female voice, singing words any soul knew, but with true heart for an old woman, here in this tiny cottage.

His mouth relaxed without meaning too. The hint of a smile tugged at one corner, when those notes wavered, and she stumbled over words, making up a few that sounded close enough. He was aware she was setting out the food, pouring the tea and cleaning up the cottage, moving about as she sang, unpacking from the crates all sorts of useful goods.

He turned and saw her then, standing by the window, singing that last verse once more, gazing toward the table and the woman who listened. And as much as he'd banished softness or feeling from his heart long ago, Jared could not help but feel the emotion pouring out between them; that distance somehow shrinking from such heartfelt emotions. He quickly put his own reaction down to the smallness of the cottage, and the fact that he was witness to something not normally a part of. He reminded himself that he was yet again merely an observer, distant from the two.

The last note ended, and those frail hands were clapping, and for a second Clare's smile touched on him, including him, as she seemed to be doing from the moment they arrived. He saw those gray eyes more lavender with the rose gown she wore, and saw Clare for perhaps the first time, as a young, handsome woman. In his sight, with that smile on her lips and shining in her eyes, he did not think he had ever seen anything more captivating and beautiful.

"Kimball will return for the things, so do not fret yourself with cleaning up,” Clare was saying to the woman whilst putting on her coat and gloves. So Jared put his own outerwear on, then waited by the door.

There were more soft words exchanged between the two, before he held the door for Clare to step out.

After taking a step, Jared looked back, not just imagining that the old cottage was warm and bright, transformed from their entry, where shadows and coldness had met them. The old woman sat gowned and beribboned, eating from a china plate, the candles sparkling, and the whole of the cottages plaster walls, bathed in bright amber.

Outside in the winter and snow, he helped Claire to the seat and went round, turning the buggy once more, looking back as he tooled down the lane, seeing the thick smoke puffing up and the cottage windows warm and aglow the site of a welcoming and snug little home.

Peeking at Clare, while she looked around at the countryside, Jared could discern past the rim of her fur-edged hood, the flush from the warm cottage still on her creamy skin, and that relaxed set of her true pink lips, which seemed to be smiling even when she was not. She turned and caught him. Jared intended to look away, but saw from those gray eyes, that she was openly scanning over his visage too.

Used to aversion or at the very least fear, as if his very eyes could curse someone with his own darkness, he was surprised when she murmured, “Why, your eyes are not black at all, but a deep brown. Quite my favorite color in eyes,” She grinned happily. “I had an uncle once, he died when I was, oh ... six or seven. But being a ship's captain and dark, he fascinated me. It was if the world blew in with him, and that sack of fruits and nuts he would bring for Aaron and I. And the tales he told. Oh my, his adventures at sea. It was almost as if I could look into his gaze and see it all happening...."

Jared didn't know what to say, and in fact looked away while still registering the fact this woman neither feared him nor treated him with aversion. He did not know, as she was a warm person to all in the house, if it was for him, or part of her nature, or how he should respond, since he had no light quip or equally amusing family to speak the same. He was completely disconcerted.

She sighed and went on chatting in that pleasant voice, “I do love the winter. The snows at least. Everything is so bright and pure. One should love the spring more, don't you think? Yet even on rainy days in winter, when we are locked up tight in the house, and drafts have the wind wailing. I may not love that part of the cold, but I gather my favorite books and some fleece, and settle myself in the corner of the library. Though I read and enjoy it, I seem to find myself watching the icy rain strike the windows, and lose pleasant hours that way."

He searched his brain, and said gruffer than he intended, “Aaron mentioned your love of books."

She apparently overlooked the tone, “Yes. I read very early. Papa.... Papa insisted on it. He allowed me to be tutored with Aaron until he left for more formal schooling. Then Sir Riley stepped in, after Papa died, ordering all that I wished from the London shops. And, we would go up on occasion, to do business, and spend hours in the museum. I have an affection for some books more than others. I believe, that comes with age and maturity ... But fairy tales and those sea stories will always catch my eye. I read them and think of uncle's voice telling the tale. I imagine it is my way of keeping him in my heart, and recalling him with joy and laughter, that sense of wonder for the character he was, rather than thinking of his passing."

He could so vividly picture her as she described, snuggled in the library on some winter day with a book. He knew from Aaron that she spent the bulk of her income on books, to fill the library and a smaller one above stairs.

She broke through his musings. “There, take the lane between the two cottages, and ‘tis the one on the right."

He realized they had come upon a cluster of cottages in a row, likely farm workers who were income to Hambelton. He drove up to the one she pointed out, noting that it was smaller.

Going through the motions once more, of lifting her down, this time smelling the scent of lilac and some powdery fresh fragrance coming from her, like a blooming flower in the dead of winter. He carried the assigned burdens, ducking under the doorway and finding the one-roomed cottage sparse but clean. Closing the door, leaning against it, he watched while she merrily greeted four youngsters standing by the fire.

They were like stair steps, clean bathed and slick haired, two girls, and all in their best, which was much mended, and was obviously donned for Clare.

"Lord Jared Burke, Earl of Winterchase. Please meet the Beckett's. Jack here, is the oldest at fifteen.” She touched the boy's shoulder. “Then Jeannie, who is fourteen, Matthew is ten. And, this little beauty, is Paige."

He nodded as they bowed and curtsied, noting the boys looked at him in some fascination, and he did not know if it was the usual dislike, or the fine cut of his clothing which any farm lad would note on a gentleman.

The open hearth was lit. Claire turned meeting his eyes. “You may place those on a bench.” She turned back to the children and took off her coat, putting it aside and clasping her hands. “Now then. Close your eyes and make your Christmas wishes."

He saw each child close their eyes, their hands reaching out to clasp brother or sister.

"Good health, and good harvest, plenty of work for me,” Young Jack said seriously. “Blessing on Miss Clare and Master Aaron.” The girl Jeannie said, “That my training be done and I can come to work at Hambelton. “The boy Matthew murmured, “Not too cold, but enough so my neighbors need wood chopped for coin.” The others laughed, and Jared saw a sheepish smile on the boy's face. Then the youngest Paige, a pretty girl with white blond hair and angelic face said, “That someday I may sing on the stage, and bring joy to the world. That I might bless the ear with my gift, which Miss Clare says, must be shared. So that her generosity on paying for the lessons might not go unrewarded."

Clare cupped their cheeks, kissing them, which brought a profuse red to the older boy's faces. “You shall have your wishes. I promise you.” She said when their eyes opened, “Now. Same as last year. Jack, you unpack the crate, and Jeannie set the plates, Matthew, you will have the goose to carve once it is set, and Paige will lay the forks."

He stood back with Clare, watching as the children spread the table with a red cloth, and eye each other with grins, uncovering the goose, fresh vegetables, plum pudding, and Christmas punch. When all was set, Jeannie lit candles and they held hands, singing a carol and hymn, which put chills on Jared's nape, so pure and beautiful was their combined harmony, and young Paige, sang alone one verse, that showed the promise of an operatic gift being developed.

Jared looked down to see Clare had taken his arm. She said to the children, “Enjoy the meal and do not forget to be abed and asleep, when the clock strikes nine, for Father Christmas must come."

Page looked up from sipping her punch. “Did you see him?” Her eyes were wide.

Clare looked up at Jared. Frowning and asking seriously, “Could that have been the bit of red on that fellow we spotted on the way, My lord? I do believe I heard bells ... and didn't you mention some jolly laugh on the wind?"

Jared knew to play along, though he was worried that he could not sound so convincing as Clare, and he was not even sure why he allowed himself to indulge her or the children. He managed, “It certainly seemed so to me. I know no other who dresses in so bright red. And...” he searched his mind for tales not told to him, but overheard from the soldiers, “I saw sleigh tracks, most surly."

While the children gasped and laughed excitedly at the table, he saw only Clare as she squeezed his arm and whispered so softly, “That was wondrously clever of you.” Then before he could respond, or register the emotions from her impulsive touch, though he did not know how he would have, she was putting on her coat amid farewells and cheers, and they were back outside.

After lifting her up, seating himself, he turned the buggy and whilst driving glanced at her. “Who will bring the gifts?"

"Kimball. He always does.” She glanced at him. “Scarves and warm gloves, socks and fruit, nuts. He may seem aged, but he is clever and quick, and he has a knack for slipping in unheard.” She chuckled reflectively. “I so wanted to do it myself when I began, having seen my mother knit socks and scarves for the Vicar to disperse, and watched her sew costumes for plays, do the rounds of hospitals, with gifts she made. It was much more than just doling out money, she labored lovingly over every single piece. But I cannot sew, and am even worse at embroidery. And Kimball was so distressed when I attempted to slip in a cottage and nearly fell into the fire, after tripping over a stool, that he will not allow me to come along.” She sighed, “I seem to have neither stealth nor grace either.

Again that muscle relaxed beside his mouth, and he turned his head before she could see the smile tugging there. Jared would disagree on the grace part, since there was something warm and soft in everything about Clare.

She directed him to a small farm before talking once more. Jared felt the taps of snow on his beaver hat, felt a flake or two on his cheek and heard under the pleasant sound of her musings, the jingle of the harness.

Though her every word registered, he tried to reconcile today with reality, having flashes of himself when young, dealing with his volatile parents, recalling glittering and elaborate holiday gatherings, not in the guests and rich foods, the lit mansion, but the quarrels and fights lasting all night, and the sounds of boots on the stairs as men came to his mother's chambers. He recalled those duels, always prodded on by his father, his responsibility to fight for honor when there was none, and uphold a rep too black to be called anything but ... And, his own reckless disregard for his life. By the time he was sixteen, he had drink, women, and wildness in his own life, following in footsteps that he detested, but needing some release from the turmoil.

Jared recalled that Christmas too, though the details were a fog, because of the shock, of Helen hanging from the rafters, and the red blood soaking her silver gown, dripping onto the floor below...

"I am chattering your ear off?"

He realized he was scowling and felt the tightness in his body and voice. “Not at all.” He glanced at Clare, guessing, when he saw her smile fade, that the ghosts lingered in his eyes. “Please, go on. You were speaking of Ivers ... the farmer."

"Yes,” she said, though her gaze searched his face, in a way that he knew her thoughts were not on the words. He looked back at the road.

"He lost his legs. His son takes care of the farm, his wife has passed, and there are no other children. But he has great pride, too much at times, and though all neighbors help each other, he refuses unless he can return the favor. So he has taught himself to repair tools and fashion reapers, and has invented quite a few things he may give them to ease their work. You must not mind if he seems gruff and rude, and you must ignore whatever he says, that may be amiss. For he still feels the pain from the legs that aren't there, and his son says, dreams of himself walking and running again."

He had heard as much from wounded soldiers.

But she went on gently, “He loved his wife, and was one of the best dancers about, they tell me. The harvest gatherings were a special time for himself and Jane, for they would dance and walk miles home, courting as young lovers."

Jared glanced at her, surprised, despite her age of twenty-six, that she would mention that. Young females were oft missish and silly about such things. One of those contradictions that people oft raised their daughters on. Claire met his glance and wrinkled her nose. “Tis rare enough, don't you think, in this world of arranged marriages, that courtship and weddings, the relationship, has real meaning?"

He had no idea, given his experience with the union. “I suppose so."

She nodded and looked back to the road.

"Why have you not wed?” He heard himself asking without intending to. “Aaron said. That you declined a season because of the mourning period. But he rather thought it was his own life ... so unsettled, that deprived you of it."

"Goodness, no,” she exclaimed softly. “There is nothing in London I desire. I enjoy the trips there and find it exciting, but I wanted no season to husband hunt. Though I enjoy the young ladies he has brought down, can admire their sophistication and town bronze, it is not in my nature at all."

She admitted, “My sewing and singing, as bad as it is, also includes painting. And should some gentleman be checking the usual requirements for a wife, I fall woefully short. No, I am blissfully content to pretend ignorance of things other females are either in agonies or raptures about, when it comes to a season. Here, I am simply Miss Clare and no one minds my shortcomings."

Jared had seen females of every sort in his lifetime, had lived amid the fast set and knew in his youth, both the coy deb, and, the calculating lady. He could not put Clare in a category from today's events, any more than he could before he met her. As much as he could have told her that those things she counted as losses, proved nothing about the woman's character, or her being a fit wife, they were nearing the farm and he held his normally silent tongue too late, mentally muttering as he helped her down, that he was so remote from everything, he could not seem to remove the rust from his manners and skills to make polite conversation.

* * * *

Ivers was all that she claimed and more, Jared found upon entering the roomy farmhouse. The son, a brawny man of mature age, mumbled as he bade them enter, “He is in a fit mood. I have the wife and children to see to, so I will wish you both merry now, and bid you overlook any insult.” He bowed to Jared then went for his coat and wool cap, adding over his shoulder, “Blessings to you both."

Jared followed her to the table, setting the items down while he eyed the man by the roaring fire. Clad in plaid shirt, cap and wool breeches, with the missing lower legs evident by the folded under edges. The man still held brawn in his upper body and still looked of vigor, though his face was lined with pain and what could be sadness, but came across as disgruntled as he puffed his cob pipe.

"I've brought your Christmas, meal,” Clare told him. “Kimball says to greet you warmly for him. And Mrs. Hansen will need eggs delivered next week."

The man grunted, saying around his pipe. “Foolish to come out on such a day. No sense at all gadding about spreading good cheer. What's so good about this year, that any other does not bring? And Christmas ... Hah."

Clare looked at Jared and hid as smile, motioning him to assist her in setting the table.

Jared did, finding more substantial portions and sweets being the bulk of the dishes. Though as Ivers grumbled about the weather, last year's crops, and the son who had too many mouths to feed, and on and on and on, he thought it would take more than sweets to get the old grump less sour.

As he moved around the table, Jared had forgotten his own limp, until he heard the man fall silent, and saw him staring at him, as if he had not noticed him before.

The old man stared. When Jared had to take a step, to set a candle in its holder, he heard the under the breath comment of, “Got that falling off a horse, no doubt. You fancy gents and your sports. Decent man looses his legs and his livelihood, and what's your sort know of it, even a limp to some wealthy lordlings ain't likely to do more than keep you off the dance floor."

He heard Clare gasp and then mutter something. But Jared looked at the man, meeting his eyes under those pulled down bushy brows. “You have two good hands that supports you, and a son who works your land, and likely tolerates your ungratefulness. I do not consider that the existence of a man who needs pity."

"I do not want pity! I said no such thing!” Ivers face was red and his big fist thumped on the chair arm.

But Jared said quietly, “Then be gracious and thankful, particularly that you have a home and son, a family, and to Miss Clare, who has more of a need to be home with her brother, than to venture out in snow to bring you this Christmas meal."

The old man looked strangled for a moment, before he jerked his head to gaze in the fire.

Jared was almost reluctant to look at Clare. It was nothing to him, and he had done, as she requested not to. He bloody well dreaded the moment their eyes met. He had just proved his harsh and cold character.

But Clare was standing with her hands on the back of a chair, looking at him calmly but with great feeling in her eyes. And Jared had his own feeling, that he done something right, though he didn't know what, until he heard a nose from the old man.

Ivers looked at Clare, and not quite meeting her gaze, said gruffly, “Return my greeting to Kimball, and tell Mrs. Hanson that young Tom will bring her eggs. And ... and, I thank you ... for the meal."

"I shall, and you are welcome,” Clare said, though she was looking at Jared. “His lordship will bring your chair closer.” She nodded.

Jared did so, lifting the man and the chair so that Ivers sat at the table. When he was about to leave, as Clare was getting her coat, he found a hand covering his gloved one on the table. He met Ivers gaze, not expecting, but hearing him say low and out of Clare's hearing, “There's no heart so big nor warm as hers. Any man or beast that refuses to admit it is worse than low.” Those eyes watered and the man swallowed. “Sometimes her joy and kindness is more than I can stand. I long to see her and yet when she leaves, I miss my own dear one, ‘til I hope she never comes again, to remind me."

He removed that hand and Jared nodded, going on to join Clare and watching her latch the coat, wondering and supposing, that she already knew that about Ivers. And thus, she excused his gruff manner. Before leaving, he looked back at the man. Ivers was drying his eyes on the handkerchief.

Later as he helped Clare up, the Earl had to wonder that there were so many who had joy and tears, pain and hardships, and it seemed obvious that Clare understood it all.

It was edging toward evening as they headed back. He thought of Aaron, the young buck he'd found wet and freezing, having gone to some hunting lodge and ventured with his party for a night of revelry in the village. Aaron had been robbed and beaten, and was too foxed to feel the mess his hands and face were in. While Jared bathed and bundled him in blankets, getting coffee in him by the fireplace, the boy had murmured one thing before sleeping, “Poor Clare, what a burden I am to her. How I have brought her more tears and worries, when I love her so."

He had thought it a wife until he realized, later, when Aaron was sober and dressed, that it was a sister. And Aaron had said, “There is no one like Clare, who loves me as I am, when I am less than I should be.” That handsome face had smiled past cuts and bruises, and Aaron murmured, “And who is there to hold her and assure her of right things? Clare is so giving, and strong, that we all take it for granted that she doesn't need anything else."

Later, he recalled viewing the townhouse Clare had refurbished, finding it dignified and comfortable, a proper home for a viscount, yet with warmth and ease where anyone would feel at home.

Jared looked at Clare again and saw that she was watching a rabbit scurry across the snow, leaving tracks and sniffing the air. He mentally shook his head, for he felt as if he had spent days in her presence instead of hours, so new were the thoughts and emotions that had passed through him; like channels in a cold and frozen stream, slowly thawing and allowing trickles of water to pass through. After so much stillness, so much immobility, being encased in his shell, it would take time to allow it and not instantly shut down, as was his instinct. It was real and yet surreal. He had spent a few hours in the presence of someone who treated him like a human again.

Chapter 2

At the estate house, Claire waited while Kimball came for the horses. She spied several coaches and buggies, and told his lordship, “It looks as if guests have arrived. I must refresh and get those gifts wrapped.” They walked toward the entry. “Feel free to join the entertainment. Kimball will have water heated for bathing should you require it first."

He nodded, and nodded again to the butler Oberto, who looked as if he were more interested in watching the goings on in the blue parlor, than taking their coats.

Seeing that the group was playing parlor games, he walked with Clare up the stairs, removing his hat and coat as she was, spotting the maid he'd noticed before, coming down the hall.

She curtsied. “Your baths are ready and steaming. Hot drinks too, fresh clothing laid out. I spied the buggy coming."

"You are a wonder, Molly."

The maid beamed. “Thank you.” Then, she winced. “Oh dear, pardon me, but I've the buns to glaze for Bartos and the Mrs. Han..."

"You may go.” Clare pat her shoulder. “And when all are served, please all of you, carry on as you wish. The guests may ring for something, but I won't have your own Christmas less festive by running yourselves ragged."

"Oh, no, Miss. Bartos has cooked plenty, and we've wine and sweets in the kitchens.” She laughed. “Kimball has partaken so generously, both he and Oberto, that Mrs. Hansen said he was going to end up carrying the firewood to the barn and serving the horses to the guests."

When she ran off, they continued. Clare stopped after pulling her sitting room doors wide, seeing indeed a bath and hot drink, and smelling her lilac bath oil. “Thank you, for everything. You were most patient and helpful today."

His lordship paused, holding his coat and hat, then bowed before turning to his own chambers. Clare lingered, having imagined a hint of warmth and softness in his eyes. Then telling herself the day was made for it, and thus she was imagining it. It would be wondrous, she thought, if she could bring some warmth into his heart.

Later as she bathed, lying in bubbles and scented oil, having sipped a brandy-laced coffee whilst watching the flames. She could hear the house humming with voices, detect the laughter ringing and smell the scents of pumpkin pie. She had not been able to make everyone's Christmas better, but she hoped that those homes she visited were lighter of heart and more joyful.

Clare dried and put on a flannel robe, leaving her hair down as she heard the male servants come for the tub emptying. From the wardrobe, she took the brown paper and her supplies, and the gifts, setting all before the fire.

She was muttering to herself, trying unsuccessfully to hold the curling paper down and cut it with her sheers, so that she could wrap. “Oh the blazes.” She pushed her hair back off her brow, “After I did so well on my stamping too.” She looked at the designs she'd stamped on the paper, thanks to Kimball making them for her, after realizing she wasn't that good with her paints.

Clare sat back, smacking at the paper flat again when she realized her parlor doors were still open. His lordship stood there, looking as if he had stopped in mid stride when she'd been yapping to herself. He wore dove gray trousers and a white shirt, his boots, but his raven hair was still damp.

"Are you having troubles?” He spoke finally.

"Yes.” She laughed. “Do come in. I need another pair of hands, because I refuse to butcher this wrapping terribly, after I have done so well at the designs."

He moved inside the room, coming to her by the fire, and she hoped he was looking at the paper, because she was looking up him, at those muscled legs, the tapered waist and broad shoulders. The sinew of his neck showed, and his sleeves were turned back exposing strong forearms and wrists. Clare quickly looked back down at the paper. “Sit there on that end, will you? Hold the edges down."

He lowered himself to the floor. She felt guilty, suddenly recalling his bad leg—it was hard to recall it when he was so healthy and strong. But he stretched that leg out and had the other under him, as on his knee while his hands held the edges of the paper down.

The fire warm, their positions so close. She heard the sheers cutting through the paper, which occasionally crackled. Having been on her own knees, she did not realize where she was headed until she neared the edge, between his hands. He was bent slightly, as was she, and their heads bumped.

"Oh. Sorry.” She carefully cut the last inches, feeling his breath stir her hair, his eyes upon the top of her head. She'd ducked it lower, yet was too aware of both his heat and scent. Her hands were none too steady when she folded the mittens and scarf in the paper and applied gluing to the edge.

Clare could tell he was looking at her. She became conscious of both her unbound hair, and the fact that she wore a robe ... One that had a V-neck with lapels turned back, one that was tucked closed, but she was obviously nude beneath, and Clare was suddenly mortified to have put him in such a position.

When she put the gift aside, she sat there, head bowed while the fire crackled, and tried to clear the discomfort out of her voice. Still, it was weak when she whispered, “I am truly sorry, Sir. I was not thinking. I spend too much blasted time with myself ... and have forgotten propriety. I cannot tell you how sorry I am, and you must think me dense. For a woman my age, to have completely forgotten the state of my..."

"This piece is ready."

She let her eyes jerk over to his hands only, seeing that he was indeed holding the next piece for her to cut. Clare did, careful to keep her head lower, but still unable to avoid passing under his, feeling his breath and eyes again. She was trembling, red faced, for the first time in memory, and angry with herself that her sense had left her, obviously, the moment she had seen him in the doorway.

She cut several and put the scissors aside. Saying nothing while he took the glue and brush and began helping to wrap. Clare wrote the names on the proper ones, then pushed her hair back over her shoulder, as yet unable to meet his gaze, moment by moment, more annoyed at herself for not bloody thinking.

Clare could not have fallen into greater mortification, than the moment her brother appeared in the doorway.

"There you are, and Lord Jared too.” He leaned against the door, smiling, and looking at them, his black curls tumbling over his brow, jacket gone and neck cloth undone. “I was coming to fetch his lordship, for cards, but I see Clare has got you helping with gift wrapping."

Clare looked at him, forcing a smile, praying, that he would not notice her hair down or her mode of dress, and thinking he would likely. She said, “I needed two extra hands and he graciously offered to help."

Her brother's green eyes were sparkling. “You do love playing Father Christmas, Clare."

"Do go, and play cards. I am almost done here.” Clare looked at Lord Jared, realizing too, that his state of dress was not formal and that his black hair was still drying obviously.

"Perhaps later.” He was gazing at Aaron.

It was when she too, looked at her brother, that Clare noticed his between them glance altered, only she thought, not for the reason she suspected, but rather as if something occurred to Aaron. He suddenly became serious, saying in a voice she knew to be fake, “I'll just leave you to it then. But I must get Molly to bring up some of the cookies to you. Bartos has outdone himself. We have the vicar and Lady Stroud to make up our pairs...” He stepped away and waved at them, “Carry on. All is in hand down here."

When he had gone, Clare sat there waiting, counting seconds off in her head while Molly came up. Then feeling another surge of heat in her face, that the maid would surely notice her state of undress. She even cautiously met Jared's eyes, likely revealing her every thought, before looking in the fire, aware that he merely sat as he had been, and met her look with no obvious expression.

Molly came bustling in, cups rattling and coffeepot steaming. She set it on the table, two feet away and bustled back, before returning with a plate of cookies, “Glory, but you should hear that Lady Meller sing, Miss Clare. She sounds like an angel, she does.” Then she was gone.

"How many are left?"

"What?” Clare rasped bringing her eyes to meet those dark brown ones.

"You've more to wrap..."

"Yes. These.” She pointed to a stack. Then looked up again. Though he kept his gaze on hers, she had a feeling it had moved in the past moments, that likely nothing escaped his notice; from her hair to her bare feet, nor, she realized, whatever she had unknowingly displayed when she leaned over to cut the paper. Clare groaned mentally. Then she swallowed a lump and tried once more, “If you will but wait a moment, I will dress."

He looked at the mantle clock. “We should have these done in a trice. Here, take the roll, and after you cut them all, we can take a package each."

She did so. Doing it slower and more self consciously, but there was nothing for the situation. The tension was there and palpable. It was not just in her own tone and thoughts, but she heard something in his, and Clare knew from the careful movements that they were each very conscious of everything.

As she was doing the last package, he stood and came back with a plate of cookies, which he set down by her bent knees, then a coffee, before he sat more flat with his legs out, booted ankles crossed, quietly watching her sort the stacks and put them in cotton sacks that the housekeeper had made.

Clare arose, feeling his eyes on her while she was placing them on the table, beside the door, where Kimball would expect them, then coming back to sit as proper as she could, with her legs to the side. She held her hair back as it slid forward until she could sip the coffee. Finally, Clare looked at him, finding no pretence there, that he had not been looking at her.

"Dinner will have been laid out. A buffet in the dining room."

He dipped his head slightly.

Clare couldn't breathe properly. “I've hired an orchestra to come by and the ballroom..."

"Clare."

"The ballroom ... is...” She set the coffee down and jumped up, fleeing to her bedchambers and sitting on the side of the bed. Her hands covering her face, she tried to gain some semblance of her usual calm, or at least her humor, which should have prevailed and saved them both any discomfort.

What is wrong with me? She thought on a groan. How could I be so stupid?

It was the doors clicking in the sitting room that brought her hands down. Clare arose and went through, to see that he had left. The sitting room doors were closed.

It took some doing to collect herself; fresh air on her face, by opening the window, and finally combing her hair, putting it in a braided bun at the nape, covering that with a net of gold. She donned her white stockings and gold silk gown, a simple choker of black with a topaz stone, and then her heeled black velvet pumps.

Clare stood at the mirror and smoothed the straight lines of the gown over her stomach, suddenly thinking that the fashion of low bodices and this gown had one, the off the shoulder miniscule sleeves, the absence of under-things, was certainly rather daring. Whilst in London, she hadn't paid any mind to dampened petticoats, gowns that clung to female forms, seeing the tops of breasts of all sizes whilst arms were covered in gloves, legs by the long hem.

But for herself, suddenly, it seemed that her breasts were too bare. She had never noticed that her nipples and areola were outlined, or the way a gown wanted to cling to her thighs. Clare groaned and hurried to the wardrobe, taking down her long black lace shawl with a foot of fringe. After pulling on her black gloves, she placed the shawl on, immediately releasing a gust of air in thankfulness. It was covering much, despite the lace being sheer and the fringe ended at her calves.

Feeling much more comfortable, she hurried below, pasting on a smile for the group standing and sitting too, in the formal dining room, serving themselves from the delicious platters and bowls lined up on sideboards. Clare greeted everyone, noticing the daring cut of Lady Holt's white gown, how the black haired woman's creamy breasts were exposed at the top, much the way they all were, even the Vicar's wife, who had on a fashionable green and black. Amid getting herself a plate of food, she realized rather humorously she was overdressed.

"You look beautiful, Clare,” her brother said, from the head of the table, having to call it over the chatter and laughter.

Clare smiled and thanked him. Then stood with her wineglass. “A toast please, to welcome my brother home. And to congratulate him on his twenty-fifth birth date.” People were standing with their glasses. “To Aaron Ross, Viscount Hambelton. Blessings of the seasons, and may you have as much joy in life as you've brought to us."

There was a resounding hear hear, then her brother said quietly, “To my beloved Claire.” which only a few heard, but Clare had and blew him a kiss.

As she was sitting back down, she caught a movement and realized that Lord Jared was seated at the other table with two of the elder gents: One blind and one deaf, brothers of the Vicar. Not a foot from her elbow. He had been looking at her for she knew not how long. He was now dressed in dove coat and cravat of silver and white.

He looked quite handsome in his intensely dark way. He silently lifted his glass and drank. Clare nodded and then hastily turned her attention back to the merry guests. She made herself, for fear of the strange emotions stirring her. It had less to do with Christmas and thanking him, and more to do with an awareness of him as a man. And Clare was not pleased with herself for her earlier stupidity.

On her left and right, she tried to follow the happy chatter, mostly dealing with upcoming parties at their own homes, or talk of London. Half way through the meal, Sir Riley arrived, jovial and red-nosed, he had brought his eldest two sons, who came to Clare and kissed her cheeks, then on to Aaron, whom they knew well.

The informality continued, along with servants coming back and forth, some of the men leaving to smoke or find the library for stronger drinks.

Clare talked another half hour to vivacious Lady Meller, who's blond hair sparkled with gold pins, and whose wit she found naughty enough to cause her to burst into laughter more than once. After a few minor incidents with spilled wine and such, she excused herself, and went to the kitchens since Molly was busy helping the females with the stains.

"Aaron must hire more help, next year,” she told a plump Mrs. Hansen, who was in black silk with her iron gray hair up and netted. The housekeeper was jesting with Bartos, who had donned formal tails, though still cooking away.

"We are doing fine.” Mrs. Hanson shook her head. “We are all in such sprits, that we are enjoying this.” The woman tasted from the spoon Bartos held up, then nodded and grinned at him. She walked to the window. “It is almost dark, and still snowing. Perfect for a Christmas."

"Yes. How is Peter? I assume he has had dinner. Goodness knows, those toddies have either cured or kept him foxed."

The woman laughed. “He has eaten. Once all is settled in the house, the lads and Kimball will play cards with him. Oberto and I will put our feet up and enjoy some spiced grog."

Smiling, Clare looked between the housekeeper and cook, thinking herself truly blind, obtuse, not to have discerned the two were a pair. Oberto a widower, Mrs. Hansen widowed young, and the both of them in their fifties, still attractive.

She decided she was not needed, and bid them fetch her should they need extra hands, then went out, seeing young Toby stacking dishes on a pushcart, and had all in hand as most of the guests were enjoying desert and coffee.

Clare walked through the main hall, hearing the music. The orchestra must have arrived safe and were tuning up in the ballroom. The doors were opened between rooms, save the library, where the billiard table and a bar was set up. One of the backrooms, which served as garden room during summers and had French doors, she had set aside for the ladies, as it was decorated in cabbage roses and for more feminine comfort.

Leaning just inside the small ballroom doorway, she saw the men helping to arrange the chairs and tables. Aaron's friends still jesting, and quite willing, apparently, to light the tapers in the candelabras. A chandelier hung from the scrolled plaster ceiling, and the white marble floors gleamed. There was iced punch and wine on the long far table, cakes, cookies, and even coffee steaming in a silver pot.

Clare grinned, watching Lady Meller tap her brother on the shoulder. As the musician was tuning, he spun the woman out on the floor; the two of them garnering calls from the others as they glided beautifully together.

Clare stayed there, greeting the rest who entered, jesting and chatting with some until she spied Lord Jared coming from the direction of the library, having his coat and hat.

Excusing herself, she strode up the hall, catching him by the door. “You aren't leaving?"

He shook his head. “No. I am driving the buggy for Kimball."

"You don't have to."

"I shall see you later.” He put on his coat and buttoned it, and set his hat atop his head. He was pulling on gloves when Oberto opened the door.

Hurrying to one of the long windows, she saw Kimball, bundled and apparently slipping and sliding his way in the new snow. Clare giggled, seeing the need for a driver, as his Lordship helped Kimball inside the carriage, and climbed up to the seat.

It was likely her imagination, but she thought she heard a distinct deep laugh as he tooled down the drive. The lanterns were lit the posts as he passed them showing the gleam of wet snow on the coach. But for some reason Clare savored the moment, the fact that Lord winter-heart, was going to play Father Christmas.

Chapter 3

She did not worry until the hours were passing. The dancing would last ‘til early morn. It was more the state of the roads that had Clare slipping out of the ballroom, having danced with her brother and his male friends, before sitting with the older ladies and talking everything from ailments to London news. She watched out the window, seeing a dark sky but sparkling white ground, and the tick of the clock seemed to draw out for ever so long.

When the buggy did appear, she sighed in relief, went through the kitchens, waving to the servants who were sitting or seeing to dishes. Going out the back door, she hugged her arms and watched it tool into the coach yard.

It was Lord Jared who descended from the seat. She thought he took a long time at the coach door, before she saw him come around and go up the apartment steps, carrying an unconscious Kimball over his shoulder.

When he returned, she watched him leading the horses inside. Clare headed that way, keeping to the cleared snow, but knowing her velvet shoes were going to be wet and ruined.

He was expertly undoing the trace and harness, leading the horses out and to their stalls. When she was on the flagged yard, he had pushed the buggy in beside the sleigh and coach, and was hanging up the harness. He went through the side door and into the main stables. She followed, her breath misting out as she entered to find him brushing down the mounts.

Quietly Clare fetched oats and took them to the horses, aware when he looked at her.

"You should not be out,” he said quietly. “Tis colder and too wet. You will ruin your gown."

"My shoes are done for,” she agreed, but finished the feeding then dusted her gloves, folding her arms again and watching him brush down the next horse.

"What happened to Kimball?"

"He is fine. Simply had too much Christmas wine.” He put the brush aside after the last mount was done, and they stepped out between stalls.

"Old Meg was your nurse?"

"Yes. She had been with my mother and my grandmother, so she is a part of my family. Though, she would not stay here, in the house, when she grew too old to do for us."

He nodded and looked down her, then murmured, “Your shoes are running black."

"Oh dear. That means my stockings and feet will be too.” She chuckled and wrinkled her nose.

She had no notion he would, but he swept her up in those strong arms and began carrying her to the house.

"I can walk back. The damage is done."

"'Tis no burden, Clare."

"I am no small woman.” She had instinctively put her arm around him, and all of her earlier awareness returned with a vengeance. His dark hair felt cool and silken and the strength of him bearing her weight indeed, made it seem effortless. Clare had all sorts of emotions clamoring inside being held by him. “Your leg..."

"Is fine.” He carried her to the kitchen door and then set her down. “The muscle shortened after the surgeons were done. It does not pain me, only makes my gait less balanced."

She watched him remove his wet hat, swallowing down the sensations running though her. “The dancing is in full swing."

His gaze seemed to be touching her everywhere, her face and hair, down the gown and back up. “Thank you, no. Clare. It is nothing personal, but I would like to decline."

"Of course.” She searched his shadowed face too, sensing he had been thinking of his past, or perhaps never stopped doing so. “Well, I must change now, I will slip up the servants stairs."

She went inside. He followed, nodding to the servants who spoke. As Clare went up the narrow stairs, he was behind her, and they entered the upper hall, looking at each other a long and heavy moment, before going to their chambers.

Clare had to strip down after removing her shoes, and it took some oiled soap to get her feet pink again. The floor vibrated with the orchestra music. She decided that she too had spent her time with the guests, and it had been a long day. She pulled on her warm flannel gown and slippers, belting on a robe, before putting her feet up by the fire and brushing her hair.

Sifting her fingers through the strands, which ended below her breasts. She was in a deep muse, wondering what dark thoughts the Lord of Winterchase was having? And experiencing again, that odd mix of feelings, that she had not expected when the day had started.

Clare recognized that compulsion in herself to help people, to try and fix things, or at least provide some listening ear. This was much much more, though indirectly it was that. She had realized today, at some vague point, that the dark Lord stirred something deeper in her; something that had been dormant. She had every impulse to feel more of it, yet knew it could be pushing and rude, or as earlier today, a completely embarrassing situation. She had no experience with such a sudden awakening of feelings.

For god sakes, she thought, he was close to her brother, and had helped him, the last thing she wanted was to have him never come to Hambelton again because she'd made him uncomfortable or—god forbid—came off as a woman trying to flaunt herself.

The thought was so humorous that Clare snorted on a laugh, having never claimed nor even been considered a flirt, and looking nothing like a femme fatale. She let the brush relax in her hands and wiggled her toes on the low stool. He would not think that, she reckoned. But the impulses in her, both human and woman, weren't separate enough at the moment. She wanted to be around him more, to talk to him. But she didn't want to push herself on him in any unseemly way.

Arising, Clare put the brush away, walked rather aimless to the window seat and drew up her knees. She was no schoolgirl, not even in the flush of youth according to the standards. She was a mature and responsible woman, who set out to be gracious and kind, and who did not, or would not, ever, let herself be forward to any man....

Yet, there had never been one she had even had to consider her actions around. The fact that it was Winterchase, and given all of the things surrounding him, she was completely stunned. Yes, he was aloof and brooding, cold, and in some ways closed off. But that did not matter to her senses, which saw more in his looks, found his scent pleasing, and was aware of a male virility and strength in him. That dark potency ... It, whatever it was, stemmed from her female body, no matter what her heart and soul was apt to do, in terms of being a caring person.

This was entirely different, and still, it mingled with the other.

"Bloody hell. I am giving myself a headache.” She rubbed her forehead against her knees, feeling her hair slide around her like a cape. “Get hold of yourself, Clare. You are normally such a sensible woman."

She raised her head, rubbed her nape and arched a moment, to release the tension. Reaching up she unlatched the window a bit, breathing some of the cooler night air.

Rising to her knees to look out, her heart squeezed. Footprints below, and her gaze following them by a faint lantern glow, recognizing that dark figure standing in the shadows, a cheroot glowing as he smoked.

Clare sat back and lowered her head onto her crossed arms which were on the ledge. She must not continue this line of thinking. She must treat him well and kind, warmly, and smile and talk, when he was apt to listen. In the morning, during the sleigh rides, and later when there was skating. She would be her normal self, gracious and smiling, and she would not allow her mind her wander in any other way.

But as she latched the window, saw him walking slowly toward the hedges and bench, and as she later lay in bed, she pictured the contrast to the cheery guests being inside the house, laughing and talking, and that lone figure sitting in the cold and darkness, alone with his tortured memories and thoughts. It hurt and it took everything in her not to dress and go to him, not to reach out and give him some touch, that would show him that not everyone defined him the way the world did.

Chapter 4

Jared could not get Clare's face out of his head. Nor, could he get her off his mind. He felt the brisker air touching his face, ruffling his hair, and shivered, not because of the cold, but because his body, whilst in that sitting room with her, had come alive as it had not in too many years. He had been stirred by her scent, her voice, the look in her eyes.

At a discreet address in London where he could ease his loins for a price, and had done so whilst there, though with less emotion than it took to see to any other of his needs, like eating and drinking. He laughed cruelly, thinking, even the whores knew who he was, and for certain, he did not have the choice of them. Months ago, the last time he had gone there, he had taken what was offered, paid and left, sitting in the park shivering and feeling so sick his guts twisted. At one time he had glutted himself on flesh, as he'd glutted himself on drink, and he had felt nothing then save a gnawing in his guts that nothing felt as it should, nothing gave him what others had, or touched him beyond a few seconds of expending his feeling of isolation and separation. His own self loathing and self hate was sufficient, without letting himself feel it from the rest of the world.

But not Clare. Clare did not look or act, or even have to hide what she felt. Because she was warm and caring, and he discovered today, very much a woman, aside from the lady who bestowed gifts and smiles on others. She was all woman for a few moments today, one who had exposed a desire, that shook him to the core.

Looking down at the tip of the cheroot, Jared mused that he did not trust himself, and that, was a complete shock. Because in most of his life, he only had himself to trust. This was different, being around Clare, particularly when he realized she was feeling something other than Christmas cheer. It caused a struggle between two beasts inside him. The one who knew to stay back and not feel, and the one that responded to the awareness and that voice, and those soft gray eyes. The one who knew a woman like that would touch him differently than any other.

He should never have come. And now, he admitted why he had. Aaron was his own man, other than a mentorship, a friendship, he did not need his emotional support. Aaron was mature and a full fledged man, ready to make and accept responsibility for mistakes and choices. It was all of that, of Clare, the missives, the curiosity, that a woman like that existed ... and a touch of envy for the kind of relationship they had.

Well, now he knew her, had seen her, and his skepticism had been proven wrong. But that was not what was happening in that sitting room. Jared knew his dark thoughts and past. He did not trust himself to take any of that for himself, or even let himself think it was just for him. There was too much bleakness in his existence to prove otherwise.

He cursed and dropped the cheroot, then crushed it with his heel. He walked back to the mansion and entered, going up the stairs standing a moment in the dark hall outside of her room. Dew spread over him, chills following, as if his skin was coming alive. He could smell her scent. His heart was beating too fast.

The dream, the fantasy, of being in her arms, of having Clare touch him, of touching her, of everything being real without the consciousness of what he was to the world, or what had happened to make him so—it was for a moment, like a feverish hunger, almost painful, going through his head in vivid images.

He leaned his fist to the wall, his forehead against it, while his breathing bounced back to him, too dark and searing, to be anything but hell's fire. He would never unleash that upon Clare and destroy what little kindness she thought of him, not all of his craving and desires, all the empty places. That she had become stirred by him, was already enough to have affected his actions and feelings today.

Jared pulled away with a groan, mentally cursed himself again, before he continued to his rooms.

* * * *

Clare lay there letting out the breath she'd held whist his footfalls went down the hall. She'd heard them coming and heard them pause. Lying there in the dark, her heart had raced almost painfully, her stomach had cinched tightly.

Now she reached up to wipe the tears from the corners of her eyes, confused and stunned again to realize the intensity of what she was feeling. It was stronger than she first suspected. As impossible as it seemed, she felt moved by him as no other in her life.

Given his reasons and long years of being as he was, she did not know how to find that normal balance of carrying out her intent to treat him. well because of Aaron, and make a man's Christmas merry. Her motives were more, and she struggled with it, long before she found any rest in sleep.

* * * *

The sleigh rides began late, because the house stirred late. And despite of her off night, Clare was up helping in the kitchens to prepare trays, lingering in the hush and warmth, teasing and laughing a bit at Kimball who winced with every step he took.

Most of the guests had left, and when Aaron was bathed and up, only a handful of the younger set came by, as most homes were entertaining their own guests and sharing the week with family.

The sleigh was polished, the bells jingling on the harnesses. Lord's Venter and Wexler, after a bracing breakfast, took turns at the reins.

Clare had dressed in purple wool with her cotton under-slip, her boots and warm stockings. Standing in her coat, with her hair tied back casually, she enjoyed watching them pile in the vehicle, smiling and laughing, hearing the echo of their singing, and witnessing her brother, with his arm round Lady Holt and Meller, flirting outrageously, and in the mood for another joyful day.

Clare blew on the chocolate she cupped, having had her breakfast and coffee early. She stepped down and strolled along the path, around, close to the house, seeing the lads at the skating pond setting up copper braziers, that would be filled with coals, for providing warmth and hanging the lanterns on their stands.

When her brother returned, she was induced to take a ride and accepted. Putting herself between Aaron and one of the fellows, whilst Wexler drove. Clare sang and looked at her brother, sharing those moments of joy without words, realizing that they had overcome and began a life of their own as adults, perhaps finally, making their parents proud, having come through a long stretch without them and overcoming all.

Her face was cold. She exited on the return trip, having waved at people on the roads, sang with the group, whilst passing cottages, where folks came out to wish them happy holidays. Clare felt that she had reminded herself sufficiently what she had to be thankful for.

Aaron jumped out and went to the door with her. “Oberto? Mrs. Hensen, all of you. Bundle up and come out."

Oberto looked surprised. Mrs. Hensen came from the dining room. “What is amiss?"

"Nothing.” Aaron's smile flashed. “Get Bartos away from the ovens. All of you come out ... and dress warmly."

It took awhile. They had to call down to the young men, yet the servants were assembled and Aaron tapped his gloves together. “Get in, all of you, we're going for a ride."

The maids were obviously thrilled, Mrs. Hansen looked as if she would protest, but Bartos took her arm and laughed, helping her in the sleigh. Soon they were all of them on either side, snug in the lap robes. Aaron took the reins, winked at Clare, who was watching from the doorway, and pulled out yelling, “Sing ... make those joyful sounds ... for it is a joyful day."

Clare heard them singing, heard the deep bass of Bartos voice, the tenor from Oberto, and the maids blending in as the sleigh glided across the snowy landscape.

She closed the door and stood a moment in the silent house, no less light or warm, and still smelling of the wonderful scents of Bartos’ confections. Clare knew the people made the home, for as warm and lovely as it was, as comforting, it had been too long sad and void of the sharing and love, that it needed to breathe and be alive.

This was still on her mind as she removed her coat and entered the library. Seeing the fire crackling and feeling the slight draft from one of the exit doors. She spotted the Lord of Winterchase standing out on the walkway, with the door opened at his back.

Jared was in his shirtsleeves, his black hair lying past the collar of his shirt, and the long strength of him displayed in the black trousers and boots. Clare saw that the servants had brought him coffee, the brandy set near by to lace it. He had a cup in his palm, as he stared in the direction the sleigh had taken.

Moving further in, she eyed the craggy profile, the swarthy skin against the lighter surroundings. He took a sip from the cup and turned. Jared came inside, pulling the door closed with a click, the same moment his gaze found her and he seemed to still.

The absence of the draft had little to do with the heat in the room now, or the current that seemed to hum in that four feet between them.

Clare stared at the lips, which she now saw as more sensual, the dark eyes more emotion-filled than she had ever seen them. She gazed down, slowly, and saw his fingers flex for a moment on that cup. She moved then to the chair, where she could lay her coat and gloves. Clare smoothed her hair that was mussed by the hood.

When he moved, it was to walk toward her, a bit past, to set the cup on the tray, leaving behind him the scent of male and winter wind, Even with his broad back to her, it appeared the tension and their breathing was stretching more taut.

They turned at the same time, facing each other, yet their bodies and breathing seemed too constricted for movement.

Not a quip nor amusing observation came to her mind. Instead, Clare ached from the very look of him. “You have not ridden in the sleigh,” she rasped, unable to look from his dark eyes, seeing something there, that was not before.

He held her gaze. “I shall. If you will join me."

She wet her lips, her breathing painful and tense. “Yes. There is a moon tonight. I will ... have Kimball drive us ... it ... should be beautiful ... and..."

He nodded. Yet they seemed locked in place, unable or perhaps, knowing they should not move the distance for fear of their own emotions.

The fire crackled, the clock ticked off unhurried moments, until the jingle of the harness bells could be heard. It was extended moments, longer still, for Clare at least, because of the strain in her body, the tremble in her legs ... and what that dark, shuttered stare did to her stomach muscles, seemed almost excruciating.

There were thuds and thumps from the returning servants. Muffled voices, finally broke the tension. Enough for Clare to turn and gather her coat and gloves, and to walk to the door.

"Do not forget...” Clare managed, with her hand on the latch.

His tone was deep, roughly edged, when he returned quietly, “I shall not forget, Clare. Not a single thing that is spoken or unspoken, between us."

Clare's teeth sank down in her lip. She nodded and left, taking the time, falling against the door, to gulp air and breathe in and out, before facing the guests and servants.

She went through the day, a grand supper, and then watching the others dash up to change and get their skates. All the excitement as night fell ... and stopping abruptly in the hall, seeing her brother, dressed in his coat and scarf, passionately kissing Lady Holt. It reminded Clare too clearly that they were fully grown, men and women, and it perhaps made clearer to her what those feelings were stirring in her own breast toward Jared.

Later, changing her clothing, Clare did not ponder if it was a serious affair for Aaron. Her brother would tell her of something so significant in time.

She bathed in the lilac water, ignored her trembling hands pulling on her silk stockings and sliding a petticoat over her head, gauzy and sheer. She laced up the bodice and tied the bow between her breasts.

Her skin sensitive, her emotions too jumbled to sort. She went through the motions of doing the long latches of the soft dove gray gown. It had a wide low neckline and long sheer sleeves. Clare put on her warm half-boots and brushed her hair, tying it back again, in a simple ribbon, so that the ends rested between her shoulder blades.

Having already spoken to Kimball, she collected her hooded coat and pulled it on, as she took the back stairs. Out through the kitchens and around, she saw the glow of lanterns from the pond, the gliding figures of the couples skating. Somewhere inside she linked the analogy of rushing out into the cold and darkness, only, she was more excited than afraid. Indeed, she did not think she could breathe another second, if she did not take this ride.

She was standing there when he brought the sleigh, feeling more than seeing the moment Lord Jared came to her side. It was his gloved hand that opened the door, and he who helped her in, before settling beside her. Clare rested her hands on the robe across their laps, and the pull of the sleigh began.

It was a moonlit night, and the beams shone down on trees and snow alike. They were going at a slow pace when Clare looked up at that dark visage and found him gazing down at her. Once more his heat and scent wrapped around her; of male, potent man and the differences between her feminine body and his dark strength.

Somewhere in the lane, so far away from homes that it seemed as if they were in a bluish white fairyland. She felt his arm slide round to the back of the seat, behind her shoulders, but was unable to look from him while his head was slowly lowering.

Breath stirred between them, misting and yet burning from parted lips. There was the faint sound of her name on his, before their mouths met. Clare's eyes closed with a flutter of lashes. Her mouth began tingling from the velvet warmth settled up on it. Their breaths shaking now, she raised her hand, reaching across to his shoulder, turning more to meet him.

That was the moment his tongue entered, and they were tasting, rolling their tongues across silken hot surfaces.

Clare made a helpless sound. She felt a tight trembling in him that matched her own. He raised his head an inch, their lips glistening with moisture, eyes glowing before his white teeth pulled the glove from his hand. Then he dropped it, and leaned around her to remove the other.

She felt the warm strength of it sliding along her jaw, cupping the side of her neck, before his head descended again and they were kissing again.

The kisses, deep and sensual, with heads moving and tongues learning and seeking out flavor and textures. When his hold tightened, he slid that ribbon from her hair, Clare felt him separate, to trail his mouth across her cheek, her ear.

Her face was tucked against his strong neck, her hand sliding inside his coat, to rest on his chest, feeling the vibrations of his heart. His hold on her hair was lose, yet fisted, and his mouth, smooth, warm, and moist, skimming across her ear, his teeth raking against the tender skin of her nape. It was maddeningly erotic and she had never imagined her skin and body could come alive that way.

"Clare,” he husked, this time clearly in her ear, as he used that hold to bring her head back. They stared at each other, mouths moistly parted and breath scorching from their lungs.

She was conscious of the tightness in her nipples, the straining of her whole body, and sensual chills on her skin. Conscious of a heat and tension in him too, that bespoke of hot blood running through veins, skin hungers, beyond what was exposed for touching. The hold which arched her neck was somehow sensual and dominating in some male/female way that actually heightened her already aroused senses.

Clare slowly discarded her own gloves before she raised her trembling fingers to his face, lightly touching from temple to jaw, then across those lips, that were sexual and as passion-flushed as her own.

She did not know what showed in her eyes, nor did she care, so intense were these moments, so intense and hungry was that expression on his face. She placed a hand to the side of his sinewy neck, finding the skin warm, feeling the hard pulse, and reached, this time, for the kiss herself.

They kissed, long and deep, sluggish and shallow, kissing as if taste was not enough, and texture stirred even more craving. It progressed, flowed, altering to catch their breath, with a press of only lips, or something more erotic, when his tongue laved leisurely across the surface of her bottom one, before delving in again.

Their hands skimmed, fingers flexing, adjusting when encountering boundaries of cloth. But it was both ravenous and sensual and almost painfully inadequate to a passion that was building by the moments.

* * * *

It was Jared, who felt the turn of the sleigh and lifted his head, putting space between them, to see they were in a field, and Kimball was starting back.

Jared then gazed down at the woman with her head against the seat, her hair loose, mussed around her face and over her coat. That coat was loosened by his hand, which still rested on her warm nape. He stared into her eyes, a lighter gray and glowing with passion and desire. Her lips, like his own, were kissed sensitive and swollen. Clare's face was exquisite, alluring, in its expression of womanly hungers.

He knew from her tentative start, that Clare had not been kissed before. Her instincts however were both exceptional and stunningly sexual. With his body taut and his emotions warring, Jared waited for the sleigh to turn and then kissed her again and again, this time leaning more over her, and letting his free hand undo her coat latches, then running his palm over the warm silken flesh of her upper chest. Finally, where he longed to touch, down to the breasts, that were generous, with nipples hard against the softness of her gown.

He kissed the corners of her mouth, her ear, and the scented curve of her neck, trying to contain a fire in his blood, that was trembling through both his body—and had his scorching breath blowing from his nostrils.

At some point, they knew they must stop, mutually, gently they pulled back. He none too steadily latched her coat. He sat to her side again rubbing his hands over his face and releasing what he hoped was some of that tightly coiled desire, with a long exhalations of breath, feeling her smoothing her hair and tuck her gloves in her pocket.

Jared felt her hand under the lap robe seek and hold his tightly. He weaved their fingers together, their grip almost painful as the distinct sight of the manor house was coming into view. He shifted his booted feet, not actually needing the robe, and already too confined and fully aroused. But touching her anywhere, even her hand, was amazing. He held on, unwilling to release it for a moment.

* * * *

By the time Kimball pulled the sleigh up, they were folding the robe and thanking him with false cheerfulness as Jared set her down.

"We should go to the pond..."

"Yes.” he said, not wanting to but realizing he could not drag Clare off into some dark corner, or rather, that he should not.

They strolled down to the pond. He watched Clare go to her brother, then borrow skates, to glide with him across the ice. Jared stood back, enjoyed a cheroot to calm himself, and answered a question from one of the ladies about something in general. He accepted a warm chocolate from someone else.

But his eyes were on Clare, watching her graceful movements, seeing her laugh and spin, the hem of her coat belling out, recognizing that she and Aaron had skated together likely as children. Clare had grace, it was simply that the life and joy, the happiness in her could not be subdued.

They made the others laugh, engaging in a mock tussle, then tossing snow. Aaron skated to the edge, scooped some and threw it at her. Jared heard a high scream of indignation from Clare as the wad hit her neck. She was bending over shaking it out, while the others paid Aaron back for her, pelting him, while he tried to skate away then tripped and fell, sending them roaring with laughter when he slid several feet into a bank on his backside.

"I'm frozen now.” He heard Clare laugh. She skated to Aaron, helped him up, and after some teasing, they hugged and parted.

Jared met her gaze as she skated toward him. Her cheeks were red, her hair loose, so that wet strands clung to the curve of her jaw. Her coat was still undone. She stopped in front of him.

"Give me your arm."

He gave it, and she held to it while detaching the skates, then handing them off to someone else, before asking, “Is that chocolate warm?” and eyeing his cup.

"Not anymore.” He led her to the copper braziers, and lifted the pot, refilling his cup. She did not take it, but let him hold it, while she stood still in front of him and took sips, warming her backside by the coals.

As Clare had her fill, she rolled her lips, meeting his gaze when she did so, and sending his blood pumping through his body too fast and hard. Clare may not know sensual signals, but her instincts were perfect.

The laughter of the others was behind them. He flickered his gaze to see they were occupied, before tucking his hand under his elbow to remove his glove. Jared put it in his pocket and reached out to smooth those wet strands of hair from her cheeks, feeling the chill on her skin, yet unable to resist next, touching her lips and feeling the contrast of her warm breaths.

* * * *

Clare too, was conscious that none of the tension and feelings from that sleigh ride had left either of them. She was conscious that her kisses stirred him as much as his had filled her with keen emotions.

Though the night before she had acknowledged her different feelings for him, she didn't know this part of herself, and had never felt so light and yet so heavy with the awareness of sexual desires. Those things invading her body from the intimacy of his tongue entering her mouth, and of hers entering his.

Kissing had seemed such a tame word before. Now it wasn't. It was more than touching, though his touch alone had brought a pleasurable ache. She had let a part of him inside of her, tasted his flavor and secrets, the dark and hot passions of a virile man. As much as she should be able to act normally, and be gay and witty, she could not be so with him.

Looking into his face, more closed now she realized, from a different tension that he did not hide from her, or could not. The difference in his eyes, that seemed not cold, but warm, glittering with fires, that belied that chilliness attributed to him by the world.

She felt her breaths tremble out, trying to lessen a tension that did not ease. Finally Clare turned to watch the others, feeling him, so close behind her that his warmth and scent was on every indrawn breath.

They began to gather their things when too cold and wet to continue the fun. Her brother's group, linking arms going to the house. Clare and Jared helped the lad snuff out the lanterns and gather them, watched the hiss of the coals being emptied, before walking back with the lads, making light conversation, as they helped them replace the items in the carriage house, leaving the copper to cool a bit before bringing it in.

Clare and his lordship walked back and though the kitchens. Jared, taking his own pail of hot water up the servants stairs, and Clare, warming by the fire, while Molly insisted on fetching hers, afraid she'd scald herself because her fingertips were red and stiff.

She went to her room and stripped. Shivering, although she could see the reflection of the glowing fire behind her. She stood at the vanity and piled her hair up, cupping the water and sighing at the heat on her face. Drying that, Clare soaped her cloth, bathed, and then dressed in her lavender robe, before she dumped the water out the window.

Seated by the fire, she combed her hair and tucked it behind her ears, feeling the heat finally seep into her bones. The others planned chess and cards, likely a lazy night. All were chilled and ready for warm wine, food and cozy chats. She could hear them calling to servants, who were fetching wet coats and clothing to dry out, bringing water. There were thuds and thumps, but all she could think about was the door down the hall, the man stripping and bathing, the man who was supposed to be cold, yet who had awakened fires in her that she had not known existed.

When the sitting room doors parted, Clare looked up to see one of the maids pushing the cart inside. “Don't get up, Miss. Sit there and warm.” She brought the cart forward with its covered servers. “There's wine and fruit and nuts, some wonderful cheeses. Will there be anything else?"

"No. Thank you. I'm done for the night.” Clare laughed and adjusted to reach the cart. “I'll see this gets down in the morning."

"The others are done in too, I think. Most have settled in.” The girl left.

Clare arose to close the sitting room door. She saw Jared step out of his rooms. He was wearing a white shirt with ruffles, not tucked in his black trousers and half undone. Still the thin material showed his broad, muscled shoulders. His hair looked wet and mussed. He went down the servant's stairs with the pail he'd carried up.

When he came up, his eyes spotted her ... and this time, they both knew she was aware of that silk robe, of her hair being down, and her nudity beneath.

He walked toward her, pausing a moment to visually search her face, before he allowed his eyes to go over her creamy throat, that deep v, and the outline of her breasts. Further, to the silky material clinging to her limbs and down to her bare feet.

He met her gaze, and whispered low, “You are beautiful in your desires, Clare.” He swallowed. “I must not hurt you, in any way. I could not bear it.” His hand raised to brush his fingertips across her brow. “But neither can I bear the thought, of not touching you as you desire. It would be my pleasure, to bring you to the fullness of it, though I am the least who should."

Clare shivered as his hand went to the side of her throat and caressed just under her hair.

His tone was rough, almost too deep to hear, “You are light, Clare, and all the shadows in me are drawn to it. You are warm, and those cold places long to know what that is like. You are more of everything, that I have never believed or known. Because I am, what I am, I know the very violence of these so common things you evoke, could devour all of you; body and blood and bone—Your soul, Clare. Your warm and giving soul."

He murmured thickly, “It is like a beacon that has shone into this dark and cold place I dwell, offering me what no other, what life, has not."

"Jared.” Her eyes were watering from the raw emotions in his voice, now showing plainly in his face.

But he put his fingertips to her lips and held her gaze. “Let me give to you, Clare. And let that giving be as it is, and not what the world would call taking. I will receive more than you can know, more than I explain."

"Yes..."

"Shhh.” He shook his head and whispered almost roughly, “Do not touch me too deeply with words, Clare. For I do not trust myself, not to rob you of all, in my famine."

Clare reached up for his hand. She led him inside and closed the doors, doing the latch. When she turned, she was gathered in his strong arms. Her body instantly electrified by his heat and strength, her heart pounding from the feel of him through such thin layers. His hands were smoothing, holding, grasping sensually, as a lover would.

He moved his head, kissing her deeply, then raised it and held her close a moment as a shudder worked through him.

Turning, they were further in the room when he said, “You were eating? Please finish.” He led her over and then reached her the wine before taking the seat opposite the tray.

Clare sat, because her legs were weak. She sipped her wine, not touching the food as she held his gaze, watching strands of his raven hair dry, noting his relax posture, wrists loosely on the arms of the chair, legs slightly parted and the strength of his thigh muscles evident.

There was something stirring in the half undone shirt lying against his chest, in the contrast of white against the sinew, silk against masculine skin. And there was everything exciting in that face, with those kiss—damp lips and slightly heavy lids over dark eyes. He was a tall man, broad and honed, and his darkness and dishevelment was as sexual as the expression in his eyes.

She ran her thumb over the silver cup and let her gaze drink him, as she would not have thought to do before. “Do you wish to talk?"

"No, Clare. And neither do you.” His lips curved slightly, almost helplessly. She was so fascinated by it that she gazed at them, watching as he murmured, “Some hungers aren't for words and food..."

She set the cup down and arose, and stood by the fire, looking into the flames—realizing she felt no fear, only that overwhelming need for him.

There was a soft sound before Clare felt him behind her. And, she did feel him, height and strength, pure masculine heat.

Jared moved her hair to the front, his hands resting atop her shoulders before his fingers slid under the material, and he began easing the silk robe down.

It caught at the waist and on her elbows. Clare sucked in her breath; her eyes closed, a shudder of pleasure taking her while his warm mouth touched her and his palms skimmed back up her arms.

He kissed little by little, across her shoulders, holding her hair up to scrape his teeth against her nape. His mouth moved open and scorching, over her shoulder blades, his hands moving then, sliding under her arms, around, to cup each breast.

She arched her neck, filling his hands more with her soft breasts, moaning at the scrape of her nipples against strong male palms. His fingers flexed, his hands massaged. Clare had to lean back against him.

His mouth and hot breaths stirred her hair at the temple. Her head against his breast, restless now, when he took the nipples between his fingers and plucked them gently and rolled them between his fingers in a caressing way, while his head lowered to capture her mouth in a kiss.

Her moan was lost in his mouth as those hands flattened under the mounds, over her ribs, sliding palm down where the silk pooled. Her hands came up, her fingers threading through his silken dark hair. She felt both the sensual slowness of his palms rubbing her, and the incredible pleasure that burned her nipples and seemed to make her breasts tighter and fuller.

The muscles in her stomach jerked when his hand rested there. She turned her head for his seeking lips to score across her throat.

"Jared ... Jared,” she murmured, breathless, her hands restless in his hair and her body consumed by sensual chills and erotic heat.

He brought his hands back to her breasts and stepped back. She could feel him lower on one knee. He eased the silk down, bit by bit, over the top of her buttocks, slower still, across the mounds. And then, with his hands on the sides of her thighs, dragging it down her limbs, to the floor, where it pooled around her bare feet.

Where she thought he would stand, she felt instead, the dampness of his lips on her upper thighs, the back of her knees and up to her spine. His hands flexed on her hips and his teeth scraped against her skin. Clare whimpered at the lave of his tongue, and did not think her legs would hold her. His lips were searing and smooth, his tongue laving and tasting her skin like a man who needed to taste, who enjoyed her taste, and it did as much to her heart as to her body.

Jared stood and turned her, having her in his arms, when his mouth touched hers again for a greedy kiss that was shockingly forceful, yet it met her own craving. Her hands tangled in his hair. Suddenly breath pushed out heavier, faster. Clare gazed at him in a sensual fog when they separated, she felt the silk of his shirt against her breasts, the warm skin and muscle beneath.

Jared held her gaze with incredibly beautiful dark eyes, his hands skimming her back, pausing on her buttocks. He seemed to be focused entirely on her expression. There was tension in his, and that glow of desire but Clare recognized that he was drinking in her responses. She lowered her hands, first to his throat, then skimmed under the silk at his shoulders, feeling mounds and slabs of carved muscle.

She bit her lip, pulling back enough to fumble but undo his buttons, then used her hands to discard the shirt completely.

Her vision filled with ridged brown flesh, with a stomach so rigid it looked carved, and male nipples a dark peach that there peaked. She saw the scars too, one on his shoulder, one under his rib, another going around his side. But they were not flaws on such a potent man. Clare glanced up, and managed a smile despite her tense arousal. “You are impressive, my Lord."

He gazed downward, watching her soft white hands moving over his chest. His own then, sliding to her spine, to allow her the space she wanted, to smooth her palms over him. When Clare pressed her lips to his throat, then planted soft kisses across his chest, she felt his large frame shudder, before he brought her close again, and put his lips to her ear, saying gruffly, “Your touch feels wonderful, Clare.” Then he kissed her and picked her up, carrying her to the more shadowed bed and laying her down.

Clare lay watching him, as he gazed over her moon-bathed form. She had no thought to cover herself, not even when his gaze lingered on her breasts. It made her feel beautiful and womanly.

He placed a knee on the bed and then was over her, his one leg beside her hip, the other between her silken limbs, making her completely aware of her nudity.

His palms beside her shoulders, Jared looked down her, then adjusted to bring his mouth to her breasts.

"Oh...” Clare jerked. Her hands went to his head. But his warm lips and sensual mouth continued to caress. His hands were cupping them. She arched, feeling the pull of his slow suckling, the scrape of teeth, and the flicker of his tongue as it rolled over and around her nipple. It went on and on, laving and kissing both, until they were more sensitive, aching, and only soothed when the silk of his tongue and lips were covering them.

Clare grasped with a sense of mindless pleasure, that he wanted to taste and suckle her so badly, she could feel that in the way he did so, whilst at the same time, he was absorbing her pleasure in it.

Still holding them in his big hands, he went lower, to kiss her ribs and run his tongue erotically to her navel. He did it in a slow drugging manner that was so highly erotic the room seemed to heat by degrees. Still her skin became more and more responsive to his touch, his breath fanning where tasting left a damp spot.

Clare's legs moved restlessly, her hips arched instinctively. She felt that shock of swollen nerves, between her legs where that muscled thigh brushed it.

His breathing too became louder, darker. Jared sat up on his knees, his hands dragging down her body to the tops of her thighs. Wetting her lips, Clare watched him through the veil of her lashes, seeing the moment one hand moved to her curls. He teased gently in them, glancing up at her a moment.

"I feel feverish ... “She tried to fill her lungs. “Your hands your mouth, I never imagined anything could feel like this."

"Your hungers and pleasure are exciting to watch. To feel the tension from it humming in your frame, reflecting on your face.” He observed her as his finger slid between the lips. “Beautiful..."

She gasped.

He husked, “You are more than warmth and light. Here you are hot and flowing, and passions burning, hungers tightening.” He touched low, reaching the entry of her sex. Clare felt the flow of hot liquid before he slid the pad of his finger back to an aching sensitive spot, rubbing it delicately, yet in a way that sent fire up her spine, and instinctively, had her opening her legs, bending her knees.

* * * *

Jared was past the pain of a thousand hungers, beyond intoxicated by Clare. Her kisses, the sight of her lush body and round curves, of her cream skin and hardened pink nipples. He was feeling in his hand, the soft curls between her legs, having touched the entrance of her sex, and felt the sticky musk that reflected the arousal he had watched increase with each touch and kiss.

Her hair lay mussed around her face, strands across her shoulder, and one at the edge of her quivering breasts. The perfect mounds were tight and chilled, the tips fully firmed. Her stomach quivered. Here, where his finger touched, she swelled and firmed with each abrasion.

Her hands grasping the covers, he watched the moment her thighs parted more and her knees bent slightly, knowing that flowering and opening was a craving to be filled. Feeling something clamp tighter in his gut and chest, conscious that he was the one opening Clare to her pleasures and desires, that she was flowering to his touch.

Jared wanted to give her everything he had been unable to share with a woman in too many long years. He slid his finger down, sinking it unhurried into her snug wet sheath, feeling the muscles grab it, milk it, even as her eyes widened. She looked at him in slight panic.

But Jared couldn't speak himself, so ensnared in the erotic tautness of what he was doing, and that it was Clare he touched. He began to smoothly slide it out and in, watching her panting lips, her fluttering lids, deliberately stroking her. Until she groaned and arched her neck, her eyes closing, but her hips thrusting gently back, sinking down, and moving round instinctively.

Her sweet scent reached him. His mouth watered so quickly that he wet his lips, having never felt the desire so fully to plunge his tongue inside and drink her passions.

But Jared felt her moments synchronize with her harsher breathing, filling the space, matching his own. He was caught up then in her impending climax .

He withdrew his finger smoothly and eased off the bed, sliding her to the edge with sensual roughness. Her head lowered, her lashes lifting the moment he parted her legs wide. His thumbs exposed the tender flesh inside her nether lips. Then Jared held them apart with two of his fingers, using the other to rub and circle those nerves faster and firmer, wetting it, then rubbing and feeling her thighs tremble against his legs.

Clare drug her hands over her face, moving her head restlessly, moaning low over and over. Her finger went between her white teeth and she bit down hard, her face in beautiful ecstasy the moment she climaxed, shuddering, jerking, shivering through the strong pleasures washing over her.

Chapter 5

Clare lay with her head on his chest, her leg over his carved, swarthy thigh, and her arm across him. He had gathered her up the moment the last quiver faded. They tumbled to the bed together, holding close for long, silent moments.

His hand was caressing her hip and back, their eyes watching the bigger snowflakes fluttering past the window. Jared raised and rolled her to her back, leaning over to kiss her, hot,clinging and thickly sexual. She skimmed her hand down his arm, his back, and then rested it on his hip.

"I need to build up the fire,” he whispered and kissed her again, before getting up.

Clare pushed the covers down and slid in while he did so. Setting up against the headboard, watching his body by the flickering lights, seeing him finish the wine from the decanter, before scrapping that longish hair from his face. When he came back to the bed, he stood there a moment, and she knew he was telling himself to leave.

Clare whispered, “Sleep with me. Let me hold you tonight, for a few hours, at least."

He hung his head a moment, wiping an unsteady hand down his face, before he looked at her, and said honestly, “I am fully aroused, Clare. The only thing that is leashing my own hungers, are these breeches I wear.” He looked very tormented for a moment. Then, surprised her by laughing harsh and cursing at the same time.

Jared sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to her for several ticks of the clock. Then he lay back heavily, his head landing on her thighs. With his hand splayed on his stomach, his other turned wrist up, across his brow, he husked, “I'm not an animal, Clare. I did not kill my wife, nor drive her to it."

Clare reached to cup his jaw, letting her fingers glide across his mouth. “Jared. I do not fear you in any way, I am neither frightened of you, nor what you will do...."

His hand moved from his brow and captured hers. He held it for a moment. His eyes were closed when he explained, “She had a lover. After the marriage was consummated, she didn't come to my bed for most of that time. And, to be honest, I was no more faithful than she. Not much more, than my father had been; raking and gambling, fighting duels at the drop of a hat.

I had no feeling for her, and she had less for me. But we did not quarrel, because there was nothing to care that much about. We lived our lives separate. I was drunk, as usual, when she came to my bed the month before Christmas. Too drunk to reason why. It was only after she killed herself ... with help, and no, I do not know who helped. But it was only after that, I knew it was likely my heir that bled from her."

"Oh, Jared."

He shook his head as if to refuse her sympathy. “Then, Clare. I would have been no father. No more than mine was. The backlash and the rumors, the deaths of my parents. I was at the bottom long before I wed, before that happened, and had no further to fall, to wallow in the worst. I deserved it all, in some sense. Because, though I did not murder her, I had killed and wounded men at my father's behest..."

"Jared, you don't have to..."

His head turned, his raven lashes lifting to look at her. “I'm not just the man who took your brother in and helped him. I saw in Aaron, more than I had been, a young man confused and hurting. But I was not that, Clare. I was enraged, dark and bitterly drowning in hate. There was nothing, no words, no sex, no touch, no kiss, no one ... living or dead, that I felt no more than contempt for. No one more so, than myself."

Clare felt his fingers very tight around hers. She knew he was caught up in the emotions. “And you took it to war..."

"To war, yes,” he said absently. “But more than that. I was reckless, captured, beaten, thrown in a hole for twenty miserable days. I couldn't even die easily.” He laughed hollowly and released her hand. Sitting up, he scraped his hair back again.

Clare gazed at his back, seeing the marks though faint now and pink scars from some sort of flailing.

He murmured, “My war was personal. Once I was rescued. I fought against my life and myself, and fooled myself that I had gotten it out of me, by the time I took that bayonet to the leg and was discharged."

Clare could imagine. “But you came back, and met yourself..."

"Oh, yes.” He paused for long moments. Then said with rough bitterness, “It was everywhere. No one was going to let me bury it. I sold the estates and used the money to get me far from here ... But there was no running. I may have burned out the fires of hate, but the bitterness and coldness remained. So, I returned and opened Winterchase. And I have grown used to the shell, the detachment, that I suppose is deserved, for why should anyone forget..."

Clare waited a space, then whispered, “Come to bed. I want to hold you."

She saw him shudder, heard a sound from him. He sighed and pulled off his boots, then lifting his hips, after unlatching his trousers. She caught only a glimpse of indented hip, sinewy flank, and the dark black curls around his sex, before he was under the covers.

He slid close and pulled her down, holding her in his arms some time, without their lower bodies touching. His scent and heat however was mingled with her own. And the heat of arousal, the tension of it, emitted a primal aroma from him that both fascinated and enlightened Clare.

"I am a virgin,” she whispered.

"Christ, Claire. I know that.” He groaned and buried his lips against her throat. She discerned that he was still struggling, still being extremely careful and conscious of his every movement.

"I am content with what my life is.” She ran her fingers through his hair, then nudged his head back, and sat up. “But I am also old enough to make decisions that have to do with what I desire.” Clare slowly pushed him to his back, then peeled the covers down. She eyed the sinewy length of him, dark against her sheets, the scar on his knee and the full thrust of his sex rising from that cluster of hair.

"I desire you.” The black curls hair went a few inches down the inside of his thighs, somehow sexual against the round muscles. Gazing at that pulsing flesh, she thought it virile and sensual, the crown flushed and sleek, the shaft veined and silky looking, the length and breath potent and erotic.

Reaching her fingers out, Clare brushed the head, then gazed at him to find that struggle in his face and eyes. “I see no darkness here, other than passion. I feel no coldness, save the distance you put there, because you do not trust yourself."

She skimmed her hand down it, then rolled more, to lean over him. “You will not harm me, Jared. You have awakened some part of me, that will not sleep, until I have fed those hungers in return."

His hands skimmed up her back, he lowered her, so that she lay over him, her legs on either side of his hips, but conscious of that sex against her buttocks.

"There does not have to be a joining, Clare."

She kissed him softly, saying against his lips, “Then show me ... show me, Jared."

He groaned and rolled her to her back, sliding down, to suckle her breasts and kiss them hotly. Then Jared moved up, until she felt the rigidity in him, felt the smooth heat of his sex, the crown of it against her moistness.

"Don't move yet,” he sounded desperately tense and cupped her face.

Clare bit her lip, feeling him wet himself there in her moisture, before sliding between the lips, keeping a shallow cadence that she could not tell if it pleased him or made it worse. His eyes were closed, his arms and back taunt with strain, his breathing was shuddering as he moved his hips slowly.

"Oh, Jared...” She rubbed his back, wishing he would let go and unleash himself.

"Please, Clare,” he sounded strangled. “Don't. God ... don't.” He suddenly jerked and then trembled, his legs shivering between hers. She felt the seed pumping into her curls. He lay there breathing heavy into the pillow, before he sat back and moved from the bed.

She watched as he cleaned her, hissing a bit at the sensitive nerves, swelled again from his sensual rubbing. After washing himself, though he looked sleepy-eyed, he began to kiss her and moved down her body, parting her thighs and exposing her like before, only this time, his head lowered, his mouth and tongue touched her.

Clare grasped the covers and groaned. She felt his mouth, his tongue, but also his fingers teasing her entry and back between the globes of her backside. He was hungry, sexual, taking while giving, and she climaxed swiftly; shivering, looking down, watching, as he fit his tongue in deep and tried to devour her.

"My.... God.” Clare fell back when he arose. She had never imagined such intimacy was possible. She had the feeling too, that Jared was being an exceptional lover. He had laved and kissed her there as if he had been craving to do so. It was that, which sent her over an edge she had scarcely been aware of standing on.

She heard him by the wash bowl but could not move her liquid bones, until she saw him dressing.

"You are leaving?"

He leaned and kissed her, then slid on his trousers, his shirt. “I cannot fall asleep here, Clare. The servants..."

She sighed and pushed her hair back, leaning on her elbow to watch him pull on his boots. “Jared?"

He pulled on the last boot and looked at her.

Clare scraped her teeth over her lip. “You will stay the rest of the week?"

He nodded.

"You will..."

"Clare.” He groaned and propped his elbows on his knees rubbing his face with his hands. “This has been ... a day, a few hours, of intense intimacy. We are both caught up in it."

"I want it ... all, from you."

"God, please.” He arched his neck, his eyes closed as he let his hands fall heavily down. “You're just awakening, Clare. You do not know..."

She said strongly, holding the covers to her as she arose to face him, “I very well do know. I'm not some silly young girl. But if you do not want me..."

He grabbed her, pulled her to him so that his face was against her stomach. “Not want you. Not want you, Clare. I am mad with wanting you. But I know what should be, and what is, because of what I feel and what you are experiencing for the first time. I am not calling you childish, but I have the experience to know differently. And it is because of that I will be a part of your pleasures, but not your regrets. I refuse that, Clare."

She stroked his hair, then pulled back, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, her body flushed and hair mussed, keeping her thoughts shielded for a moment too.

He stood and readied to leave. Clare let him. Knowing that act was just as telling as his protestations. Jared did not wish to hurt her, only bring her pleasure. He had been so cut off from love and from true desires so long, that he expected her to feel some regret down the road that she had allowed this encounter with him. Never, she thought, never.

Clare climbed back in the bed and lay an hour before sleep. She was changed now, altered in her feminine soul, and she knew it. But she regretted nothing, save the fact that he had moved outside of her body instead of in it. She also understood why Jared put those barriers up, and why he fought, and yes, tonight, confused them. Inside that darkness was not really cold, but banked fires, passionate fires, that had flickered over her and gloriously warmed her with desire.

* * * *

The following day was normal, breakfast, and since Aaron and the men were playing billiards, Clare went for a ride with the ladies, finding herself laughing in spite of her preoccupied thoughts, somewhat envying their carefree spiritless, wondering too, at their boundless energy.

Luncheon had been served. Clare was surprised when Jared joined them. He did not participate with more than a few comments, but who could, as the others seemed to speak of their London life and of things they all knew in common, which Clare was only aware of through Aaron and gossip rags, yet not minding being entertained by listening, rather than taking part. It saved her from having to act normally when she did not at all feel anything but Jared's presence.

When the table was being cleared, she glanced at Jared, who was rising, that their eyes met. She realized that he too, was holding onto the edges of his control. From that point, her own nerves were taut, her mind stirred by images of the night before, recalling the heat of his skin, the taste of the kiss, his large, masculine body on her sheets.

There were moments it seemed a dream, but then her body would recall the touch of his tongue to her nipples, or what he done, between her legs. The arousal would intensify until she had to find a distraction.

Clare played cards and had tea with the ladies, before she welcomed a few guests, though could not recall what they chatted about. Dinner was nearly twice as difficult as lunch. By the time it was over, Clare put on her coat, and fled to the back courtyard. Sitting there, watching her frosty breath push out and eyeing the piles of snow on the fountains and observing a tiny bird hop along the edge of the wall. Clare's mind was churning through the night before.

Obsessively, she reasoned, since he was as fully in her mind as he had been in her sight today. His voice, his scent, details from those scars, to his sinewy spine and the way his thigh felt under her palm. She tucked her chin against her chest, her arms folded and her eyes closed. She must not, and yet she wanted him, wanted to go to him, to kiss and touch and feel him.

She lifted her lashes, staring down at the snow, but not moving as she heard the crunch of boots.

Jared came to stand very close. The front of his coat touched her back. The smell of a cheroot he smoked, the scent of brandy and man, wrapped around her once more.

The silence was there, the tension too, under the creak of snow, a slight ruffling sound as it fell from branches and slid from the fountain. She felt the movement and heard the hiss of the cheroot when he tossed it, then felt him nudge her shoulder as he offered her a sip from his cup.

She unfolded her arms and clasped the cup, tasting coffee and then handing it back. Clare leaned back against him, indulging just a moment, and nearly moaned as she felt him lower her hood then stroke her hair, which was back in a net.

"'Tis colder out,” his tone sounded distant. And that comment meant more than the words.

"Yes,” Her rasp was not much better.

His hand went down the side of her face. Clare closed her eyes tighter. His fingers caressed her, his palm warm and manly scented, rough but wonderful. When he removed it, she felt the loss. Then Jared came round to sit beside her, his knees a bit splayed creating a gap in his great coat, his hands on the cup. When she looked at him, his gaze distant ... nevertheless, she knew he was aware of everything that she was.

Clare rested her forehand on his shoulder only a moment and whispered his name, before she lifted it and stood, quickly, fleeing inside the house.

* * * *

It was a game she saw through, and it was in no way pleasurable, to play out the hours until bed, trying to avoid what she really wanted. Clare's head ached by the time she went up the stairs.

Lying on her side, her knees bent, she wept from the tension, from the ache in her stomach; a hungering that was deeper and growing, until she told herself that he was right, it was reckless and risky. He held much back from her, that fully leashed, would not stop a storm of need in them both.

Clare slept fitful and sparse, awakening to freezing rain that was liquefying the snow.

"You are not getting ill?” Her brother asked as she joined in the library after lunch.

"No. I'm perfectly fine."

His green eyes went over her. “We were a bit too high spirited, perhaps. Cutting up your peace..."

"No.” She laughed. “It has been wonderful. All of them are wonderful. I am simply falling into a brood with this messy rain, after all of that beautiful snow."

He left the desk and came to join her on the sofa by the fire. In his shirtsleeves, and with his hair in a usual muss, he spread his arms on the back, those long legs out and looked at her again. “Did you find my gift?"

"Um, yes.” She patted his leg. “Thank you. I will assume it was your good taste and not some lady friend who helped you pick out the necklace."

He pretended affront, then grinned. “Yes. I had help, but there was love behind it."

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I know that. Did you like your gift?"

"Of course. You spoil me, sister dear. It must have taken your monthly income, pulse a serious book depravation to get those pistols."

"My, goodness yes. I shall have to go the winter reading the same things over again,” she teased, murmuring, “Just don't shoot anyone, they are for displaying only."

"I'll try and remember that.” He stroked her hair. “Are you lonely, Clare?"

She raised her head, looking at him. “What makes you ask that?"

His handsome face and those eyes were still too probing. “Because I have grown up and am no longer a selfish boy. I have freedoms and am allowed to indulge myself in affairs, as any man will."

"Is there someone..."

"No. Clare, and we aren't going to turn this conversation around.” He grinned. “Now, would you like to come to London?"

"Gracious no. I mean, I will visit you, go up when I like. But you must not think that I lack anything. I have friends here, and my days are full."

"That's not what I mean."

She flushed. “I know what you mean, Aaron, and I assure you that you needn't concern yourself."

"You always have a home here..."

"I will know when it is time to leave, Aaron, when you pick a bride and set up your nursery."

"Clare. Clare...” He shook his head gazing at her. “You do not lie very well."

She swallowed. Her heart suddenly thumping. “Whatever do you mean?"

He sighed and moved his arms, sitting forward after drawing his legs up so that his arms rested on his thighs. “I wish ... more than anything, I wish...” He looked into the fire. “From the time I met him, I thought, Clare would understand him as no one will. If he would but meet her, then he would no longer cut himself off from the world nor feel alone."

He glanced at her. “But he is hard and cold because he must be. And though I have observed more than you realize, whilst he has been here ... I have seen changes. I would not have you hurt, Clare."

"Why does no one believe I can see to myself?” She said gruffly, then stood, to walk to the mantle. Placing a hand on it, Clare did not look at him. “I am old enough to know what I am about."

"Don't get angry,” he chided softly. “I am merely saying, that it comes natural for you, to care and to give of yourself. But not to him. Perhaps not to most men. And I love you; I care for him as an elder brother, a mentor, and a friend, we have a bond that I may not even have had with my own father, because of what Jared has experienced. And despite what my thoughts may have been. I do not think he would mean to hurt you, Clare, ‘tis only you give yourself wholly, and some men cannot. Some people...."

"I know ... I know.” She looked at him. “I love you, too Aaron. Please, do not worry about it. Life is not some book or play, and people are not perfect. Not even me. I can be as selfish and self-serving as the next person. Do not give me credit, or rather wings and halo. And I am not fragile. If we are grown, then we make our choices and live with the results of them."

He looked at her before he nodded and sat back again. “You are changed too, Clare. Because he came here..."

"Yes,” she admitted it.

He sighed and looked around the room. “I love you, Clare. I am sorry for ... everything before."

"That is over and done. I love you too. Now, stop fretting and go join your friends. They will leave on Friday, and you with them. Go on."

He arose and came to hug her. Saying after another squeeze and perhaps unused to being so open himself, “How am I, at playing brother now?"

"A pain in the backside.” She teased and pulled his unruly hair.

He laughed, wincing, bussed her cheek, and then left her.

Clare's smile faded. She went to the sofa and sat down heavily. Well, that certainly proved something ... that she was very, very bad, at hiding what she felt.

Chapter 6

The day before everyone was to depart Hambelton, Clare was in such a state, that she had to build up her nerve everyday, each hour before, to get through it. She had to watch her step, to pretend it was as any day in her life.

But that very day before, she found herself looking at Jared, watching him walk the muddy grounds, and at dinner and after, sitting far, but close enough, observing his dark hands, hearing his voice ... to look at him when he was not attending. A dozen times too, raven lashes would lower, and his gaze was on her, watching her walk to the window, or lift her tea cup, speak to the guests. As if no one existed around them, there was an unbroken thread of emotions, desires that they were fighting every second to deny themselves.

As night fell, Clare dragged upstairs, bathed and changed. She found herself pacing like a caged lion, memories, words, she longed to say, fears of never seeing him again, torturing her mind. Clare pulled on her robe and slippers and fled to the library.

Closing the door behind her, leaning against it, and lastly closing her eyes ... she'd seen who stood by the French doors, watching another hard rain.

As soon as Jared saw her though, he was across the room, taking her in his arms. Their mouths met hungrily, with trembling breaths mingling. Her hands in his hair, and his, restlessly firm, possessive, as his ravenous kiss grew deeper and wilder.

Clare heard the thunder, the sharp strike of freezing rain pelting against the windows, but as if dying of thirst, she clung to Jared, and stole as much from his mouth as he took from hers.

Stumbling, moving together, across the room to the sofa, they did not stop kissing even to fall upon it, Clare beneath him, her legs parting to fit him between. Feverish and mindless, lips separated, only to drag across cheeks and down throats. Her hands pulled impatient at his shirt. His slid his between, untying the robe, skimming up her gown until it was pushed above her peaked breasts.

"Take it off me,” she whispered, too confined by the material. She helped him remove the robe and the gown, thinking only clear enough to whisper, “Lock the door,” before she was kissing him again.

At some point Jared left her and locked the door, pulling off his shirt, his boots, then his warm body touched her again. Her hands on his spine. Her legs restless against his, Clare bit at his neck, his shoulder, before his strong hands grasp her, slid her higher, so he could suckle her breasts.

Moaning, arching, she held his head to each, wanting him desperately, and seeing the flush on his lips when his head raised. He looked at her with burning yes, and an intensity of desire so profound, she shivered.

Jared raised and eased her off the sofa, down to the carpet. He moved up. On his knees, between hers, he unlatched his breeches, skimming them down over taunt sides and muscled thighs, giving her a glimpse of his fully distended sex, before he lowered himself.

"This time will hurt, Clare,” his voice was rigidly gruff, his lips skimming across her face.

"I know. But the next will be better."

"I promise you.” he answered in her ear, as his hips flexed in, and the crown of his sex touched hers. “Open for me, Clare."

She bent her legs, widening her knees a bit. Feeling wonderfully, his strong thighs inside of hers, his sex nudging in, his rigid breaths stirring her hair. She arched her neck, seeing his eyes closed and his face a picture of tense craving.

When he was in an inch, he arched his hips and pressed hard, all the way.

Clare's nails dug. Her body jerked. For a moment she could not unlock her throat. The stretching and fullness, the stinging, was a shock. He was fully embedded inside her and she felt every inch of it.

His body was racked with shudders. “I'm sorry for the pain, Clare."

"'Tis nothing, Jared,” she lied as tears trickled in to hair.

He began to move, gently in and out. “You lie, darling. Your muscles are locked so tight from the sting that I can barely get inside you. But beast that I am, Clare, I can feel only pleasure."

She tried to focus on those muscles and relax them. “Pleasure I'll give you, and gladly."

He cupped her face, moving then with a steady in and out, revealing an expression of struggling between the pleasure he felt, and the regret for her pain. He was though, soon drowning, and that was not long going, before he pulled out of her completely, and spilled his seed.

But there was hardly a moment broken. Even after the quake left his frame Jared arose to clean her with his damp shirt. He lay his nude body down once more, kissing Clare, laving over breasts, down to the sensitive spot between her legs, holding her curls open for the tender lave of his tongue, for the suckling of his lips, that brought her to a climax.

The storm picked up outside. They lay by the fire, their arms and legs tangled, eyes open to the shadows flickering on the wall. His hand rubbed her arm, her lips at his throat kissed gently.

When he turned to her again with longing clear on his face, Clare opened and arched to meet his thrusts.

Jared was less in control, filled with a desperate passion as if he may never feel that again. He was solidly thrusting, his hips meeting hers completely, his sex was touching deeper. Clare held to his upper arms, her neck arched and her breathing as dark and rapid as his, her legs shifting high to take each forceful drive.

"Clare.” He was thrusting faster, clearly losing control.

"Yes ... Yes.” She dug her nails in his skin, feeling his hands slide down and grip her thighs, slanting her higher still and driving faster.

At the moment he swelled inside her, Clare whispered brokenly, “Stay ... stay ... do not leave me yet."

"My seed..."

"Please, Jared!” She ran her open mouth over his nipple. “I want to feel it."

He groaned and trembled, but pumped fast and deep, releasing in her, a warm spew that was both soothing and sexual.

Clare shuddered and whispered, “Oh yes, darling ... yes."

When he ceased trembling, his hands released her legs. Jared rolled to his side, separating their flesh, and covering his eyes with his hand a moment.

Clare was catching her breath and felt the seed sticky on her. She blindly reached for the shirt to cleanse herself. She handed it to him.

He laid it on his groin, still not taking his hand away. Jared sat up eventually and cleaned himself, then bent his knees, his elbows on them, while he raked his hands through his hair. “That was reckless ... so foolish, Clare. I should have stayed in control."

She laid a hand on his arm, and when he looked at her she said, “What is the worst that can happen? I would not mind having your child."

"Clare, my God.” He cupped her face. “It would be scandal and ruin. Another life that I have destroyed."

She covered his hands with her own, looking into those worried eyes. “Not if you could love me, Jared. If ... somewhere in the future, you would let me love you."

She saw the astonishment ripple over him, as if he had never thought she would say such a thing. “Oh, Jared ... you are not hard to love at all.” She pulled his hands down. “I am not speaking of only warmth and light. But of depth that can overcome any darkness."

"Clare. This is all so new for you..."

She was shaking her head. “No. But I would not have you doubt what I say."

She got up, and slipped her gown on, then sat upon the sofa, regarding him there, bathed in the firelight, his hair mussed, his shadowy eyes full of that tangled emotion. He was a magnificently dark male animal, but not in the way the world saw him, nor in the manner he'd come to see himself.

Speaking softly she added, “Should you want me, you can come and court me properly. But it will end this way, because I think, despite what you suppose, we are matched in our passions. Light to darkness perhaps, but I am no more tamed in my need of you, than you are with me. I am no more gentle in my thoughts when you kiss me, or look at me, and my heart and blood races. Our bodies do not care, what the world or anyone else thinks. And I, my Lord, I only care, what you think."

He swallowed and looked away, breathing in then out long, in that heavy way that showed Clare he was dealing with something unexpected. He arose slowly and pulled on his trousers, but sat down in the same spot as before. “I did not come here for this, Clare. To change your life..."

"Did you not?” she whispered. “I rather think that you did, and perhaps, did not realize it. Just as I have thought of you, helping my brother, and read your missives and wondered..."

"Perhaps, but not this way."

"I could fall in love with you so easily, “she admitted. “I am not so sure, that I haven't already."

"There is much you don't know...” he began,

But Clare said, “In your past? And what is that, but a past. I only care so much as it troubles you. I could love you, Jared. Spend my life with you, and bear your children. But I do not want less for myself. I realize it has been fast, a mere few days. But, as there is a chance that I shall not ever see you again, then my pride does not matter to me, so much as I speak honestly while you are here to listen."

He came to her and sat beside her, drew her in his arms. Her head on his chest, his hand cupping it, he husked, “You offer life to a man who has been dead, you give passion and warmth to one, who has known only cold. My soul trembles to believe it possible, that it is me ... such as I am ... that you desire."

Clare lifted her head, looked into his face. “You would give me my desire too; for children, for love, and someone to hold, who may hold me. Do not feel you must answer now, Jared. I would rather that you were assured in your heart and mind, that it is possible."

He confessed then, as if the walls came down, “I can't let you go, if I do, I will not believe it. I will think it was a dream."

She laid her hand on his chest, over his heart. “Here you will know. Where life and passion and all that you have given me, where that came from.” She touched her hand to his cheek.

He kissed her palm.

"Trust yourself, Jared. I will be here, waiting."

* * * *

Clare saw her brother and his group off with many hugs and kisses. She was on the steps, when Jared was prepared to leave, having saddled his mount and ridden it close to her. She had said all that was in her heart for now, knowing she must let him go and hope he would return.

She looked up at his dark hair ruffling, and swarthy face made ruddy by that brisk wind. The cape on his greatcoat flapped as he steadied the stallion with a flex of his muscled thighs. His gaze seemed to drink her, and Clare could smile, for she believed in all she had said, and her heart was at peace with bidding him farewell.

"Safe journey, my Lord,” she spoke finally.

"I shall see you, Clare ... if..."

"You will see me.” She waved to him. Turning to go inside.

* * * *

Jared rode the stallion at a brisk gallop for the first few miles. It was a dark gray day, and colder. As he neared the forks that would take him to Winterchase, he pulled the mount to a skidding halt.

He thought of the darkness there, the isolation, the tangled growth that shut the world out, and him in. It was, as he was—something with the potential to be filled, yet a façade of intimidating coldness and so empty inside. From the time he had moved into it, it was as dormant and dark as he, no breath, no life, no light and warmth.

"Clare ... Clare.” Whispered through his head.

Jared shuddered and saw her face, felt the touch of her skin on his, and the sound of her whispers in his ear.

I could love you.... I could love you....

Jared groaned deep from his soul. He wheeled the stallion then heading back to Hambelton, as fast as the mount could run.

Mud flew from the road. He hardly felt the cold wind rushing through his hair. When he reached Hambelton, Jared cut across, galloping through the yard.

"Clare! Clare!” He cried out loudly, dismounting while the horse was still running, his eyes aching, until the moment the door sung wide—and Clare was there, holding her skirts—then running down the steps to meet him.

They met, with arms going around each other. He lifted her off her feet, holding tightly and husking in her in ear, “Clare ... Clare..."

"Yes, my love.” She was weeping, smiling, holding him even tighter.

A shudder went through him. “I did not get five miles down the road."

She laughed through her tears and caressed his hair. “Because you forgot something. You forgot to take me with you."

He made a rough sound and buried his face in her throat.

As he turned once with her held in his arms, Clare saw every servant at Hambelton on the stoop, smiling and watching them. “Molly,” she called out gruffly, “do pack my trunks. And Kimball, ready the coach for us. His Lordship's horse has had quite a run."

"There will be a wedding first!"

Clare felt herself set to her feet, but Jared was cupping her face, speaking to her, when he answered loudly, “Fetch the vicar, then Toby. And the Beckett's, whom I have promised to take to Winterchase and see tutored, And old Meg is coming with us, if you have to carry her here in her nightgown."

It was Mrs. Hansen who said with dry humor, “How about you come in, your Lordship, get warm and dried out, and Kimball can catch up to the viscount, so he can give his sister away properly."

Clare's heart squeezed seeing the full bloom of Jared's smile. “If I must, Mrs. Hansen."

"You must, “The woman answered with a laugh. “And we shall give the both of you a wedding to be proud of. One that's befitting a new life for you both, one that your children will hear the telling of."

"My children.” Jared whispered painfully looking into Clare's eyes.

"Yes, my love.” She kissed each palm and then took his hand to lead him inside. “The family you will have, to fill your home with brightness and joy. You shall realize that winter is only a season, despite the cold, there is something warm to be found in it."

"A heart, Clare. Your heart?” He pulled her to a stop, searching her face.

She nodded laying her hand over his. “And yours, my lord?"

"Forever, Clare,” he promised. “Forever."

* * * *

Five years later. Christmas morning. Winterchase.

Clare wiggled her toes, frowning in her sleep at something vaguely annoying. When the feeling persisted, she opened her eyes and glared down at the huge dog with its nose under the covers.

"Jared! Beast is upstairs again."

"Go! Stop that, you mutt.” She was drawing her legs up, trying to keep the animal from delving further under the covers.

Jared entered, holding the hand of his raven-haired daughter, balancing the toddler on his hip, though the child looked to be hanging upside down. “Beast!” he shouted. “Cease that. Below, now!"

That shaggy head emerged. Tail down, the dog slunk toward the door, but not before sticking his cold nose on the girl and making her giggle.

"It's Christmas morning, “Jared smiled at his wife. “We've been up for hours already.” He shifted, trying to get the lad to stop wiggling, but of course it didn't work.

She pushed her hair back out of her face, patting the bed for the children to join her. They did, the girl scurrying up, and the baby, Jared leaned over to hand her, before sitting beside her, against the headboard.

"You weren't up all night with my brother. I adore him, but his friends seem to grow louder, more energetic, or is that my old age?"

"Not old age, darling. He keeps doubling the number of visitors he brings.” Jared touched her cheek. “But we've guests coming this evening, and since the servants do better under your direction—"

She snorted. “Men say that, to avoid domestic responsibilities.” She kissed the child, handed it to Jared, then crawled across him, ignoring his slap on her rump through the thin gown.

"I'll take them below while you dress. They enjoy listening to Paige practice, and the boys are down from school."

"Since when?” She peeked around the screen.

"Since dawn.” He tried to look around it, and raised his brow. “I will be right back."

Clare sponged off and eyed the red silk gown hanging on a hook, her cream slip and the sheer stockings. Her smile was soft, for she was reflecting on the years being wed to Jared Burke. As soon as her brother gave her away, he carried her to Winterchase, and after they glutted themselves on loving, she set to hiring a staff and he worked hard clearing and refurbishing the estate, until it matched its former impressiveness.

Inside Clare brought elegance and light, outside Jared took down the barriers between himself and the world.

Not counting her own two children, he had indeed brought the Becketts’ there to live and have them educated, and the girls trained in music and art. They treated him like a father and friend, making him smile often, engaging him in life as he had never been before. Jared gave of himself and allowed others to return it. Even Meg, whom he carried to dinner every evening, and patiently listened to her stories. With his children he was a strong father who sometimes looked at his wife with tears in his eyes when they laid their head on his shoulder or stroked his face.

As a husband, Jared never let her doubt his desire for her. He spoiled her, Clare decided, not only in letting her run whatever she wished, but in their intimate life, where he took her through passion and did things to her body that left her in awe. Every day Clare fell in love with him, and every day, at some moment when they eyes touched, he would unknowingly reveal to her his own amazement that she was here with him and that his home was full of love.

There were times still, when she knew Jared tired to cover what he felt, but they were too good at reading each other, too apt to whisper and cry out when their bodies were bare and their touches and loving was reaching for each other's hearts. Then her dark lord surrendered and would unleash his desires, knowing, trusting Clare to accept them gladly.

Clare jumped as Jared appeared behind the screen.

He kissed her bare shoulders, his hands seeking her full breasts. “The mutt is contained below. The children are content and seen to.” He nibbled exposed skin.

She laughed and turned in his arms, sliding hers around his neck. “You are too obvious, my Lord."

"Am I, my lady.” He moaned, kissing her neck. “God, you smell like sleep and lilac..."

"Yes,” she breathed. “Now carry me back to bed."

He did, pulling off his clothing and scrambling under the covers with her. In the middle of a passionate kiss they heard the dog barking, the sound of cook's spoon beating a pan as he tried to round the mutt up. Their daughter was screaming with laughter, which frightened the baby, and Paige's voice trying to soothe him.

Jared raised his head and eyed her sourly. “Dare we hope that we are not needed to end whatever crisis has occurred?"

He loved a crisis. Clare's raised her hands, dragging him back for a kiss, and then rolled until she lay atop him, looking down. “You have an urgent need, my Lord. Very urgent indeed."

His low laughter rumbled, still thrilling her with it's sound. His hand slid down feeling her dampness. “Um, not nearly as vital as yours, my lady."

Clare raised her hips, sliding down on his sex and causing him to growl. She began to move, to make sensual love to him.

Jared husked, “You have quite a dominant streak, Lady Burke."

Head back, she moved on him sensually. “And you, are wonderfully indulgent about it."

He laughed rather helpless, caressing her breasts and whispering, “And here I thought it was only my heart you wanted."

She paused and ignored his grunt at her stopping. Clare lowered her head, her hair sliding around as she leaned close to his face. “I have that, Jared. Forever."

"Yes, darling.” He smiled softly and arched his brow. “Did I sound as if I were complaining about your ... current position? I was not. It's Christmas after all, and every Christmas you..."

"Jared.” She laughed and kissed him. “I do believe you are actually spoiled."

"Not at all,” he murmured and flexed his hands on her hips. “Come now, sweet, passionate, woman, give me the rest of it."

She bit his ear and sat up, undulating once more.

"Yes, Clare ... God Yes...” His head went back into the pillow.

Clare whispered as she felt him swell and shudder, “I love you, Jared."

"I love you, Clare.” He held her tightly. “You do make ... Christmases wonderful."

Clare smiled and relaxed against him. Here in his strong arms, he made her feel wonderful too.

The End

About the Author:

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

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

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

Other books by Gayle Eden available at

www.alinarpublishing.com

The Christmas Ball

Shay O’ Sullivan never expected to go to London and have a Season, as most debs do, but she had been determined to have her fairy tale. Slipping uninvited to a Christmas Ball, she found more than she bargained for when she fell headlong into the arms of seductive rakehell, Lord Derrington and lost her virtue and her belief in dreams as the morning dawned. Now, five years later, she is unintentionally swept up in a crowd headed for another Christmas celebration and another night of magic and who should be sitting across from her in the coach, but the dangerous rogue himself!

Thrown together once more by Fate the two lovers have never forgotten the secret that they shared. Far from erasing those memories, time has only served to fan the flames of passion and desire even hotter than before. But this time the dawn hour will find their hearts ensnared with a greater enchantment and a restored belief in the happily ever after magic of a Christmas Ball.

To see her other novels, visit:

www.evesromance.com/

An Alinar Publishing Production

www.alinarpublishing.com

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