Aunt Gertrude's Red Hot Christmas Beau: Christmas Belles Page 6

Harlow’s arm came around her as he walked with her toward her dining room. She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he bent near to her ear to ask. He rubbed his fingers along her waist.

  Warmth shot through her. “Not when you pay me the honor of your touch.”

  He tore his gaze from hers to middle space. “May I then do it more thoroughly.”

  “Harlow,” she said and knew not if his name on her lips was an agreement, a warning or just a simple affirmation.

  “Yes, my dear. Let us have your supper. Then we will talk.” He did the honor of pulling out her chair for her and sitting beside her, so close that his calf rubbed against hers.

  “Do that,” she murmured as she leaned toward him, “and I will not be able to speak.”

  “I’d rather, my darling, hear you purr.”

  “You are irresistible, Harlow.”

  “As I hoped,” he said to her with affection in his warm turquoise eyes.

  Warm, hot, aching for the physical delights they’d shared in Margate, she cast her gaze over the tables. She flicked open her fan and set it to work. Harlow arched a brow and chuckled. The devil. She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud, then tore her mind to the business at hand. Yes, her guests were all seated and so she might begin her announcements.

  She cleared her throat and would have stood, but Harlow pointed toward her ice sculpture on the circular table in the very center of the dining room.

  “Dear me,” he exclaimed. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Her four-foot-tall ice centerpiece had been carved by the best caterer in Brighton especially for this occasion. “Indeed.”

  “Trudy!” He sat back and laughed without restraint. “Napoleon?”

  “I thought it appropriate now that he has melted away from us.”

  Harlow sobered. “Pray God, we will have no more wars.”

  “Only peace and prosperity. Even in France,” she said with hope no one would suffer any more cruel battles.

  “And all of Europe,” he added.

  “Time then for me to make our announcements,” she said with a valiant smile and stood.

  Her throng of one hundred plus guests fell silent and raised their faces to her.

  She lifted her glass of champagne. “My dear family and friends, tonight I wish you the joys of this merry season. We’re here to celebrate the end of a very long conflict, to honor those who fought in it and to remember with sweetness those whom we’ve lost to it. May we see no more such conflicts for generations to come. We’re here to raise a glass to all of us gathered here and in the hope that we can perpetuate the peace we’ve won so dearly.

  “This evening, I have the honor to announce a new sign of peace. Three marvelous events within our family. My niece Miss Marjorie Craymore has accepted the hand of my step-son, the earl of Marsden.” A swell of delight went round the room as Marjorie and Griff smiled at each other and nodded to the crowd. “My niece Miss Belinda Craymore has accepted the proposal of the Duke of Kingston.” Those two acknowledged the sounds of joy that went up from the throng. “And my niece Miss Delphine Craymore has accepted the marriage proposal of Viscount Bromley. All three weddings will occur in the next three days and we invite you to attend them with our family. So may I ask you to rise and share a moment of cheer for all here tonight and for all those we love who cannot be here. A very merry Christmas!”

  She sat down, uneasy as she stared at her ice sculpture. Brooding was nothing she did often. But she could sink to it deeply.

  “My dear?” Harlow put a hand to hers.

  Simms bent near. “Madam?”

  “Trudy?” Harlow leaned so close that she felt his breath on her ear. “What’s amiss?”

  “I am.”

  “Madam?” Simms looked at her with alarm on his handsome face.

  “Yes, Simms. What is it?”

  “The footman has returned from Preston Barracks.”

  “Footman?”

  “You asked that he follow Lady Goddard in her coach? And then Lord Tain followed her, too?”

  Harlow was now listening to the butler. “And?”

  “What is it?” she asked Simms.

  “He’s returned. Both the lady and the marquess are safely into the Royal Swan near Preston Barracks off the Lewes Road.”

  “A comfortable place, is it?” Harlow’s brow furrowed in concern.

  “Indeed,” Simms said. “Our man says that the innkeeper told him he gave them both the best room in the house.”

  “Warm, I hope.”

  “It is, Your Grace. He also tells me that the coachman has returned safely to Brighton and his family for his Christmas dinner.” And Simms stepped away.

  “Wait, Simms.” She regarded the dripping form of Napoleon Bonaparte with more compassion than ever she had. “Take him away.”

  “You don’t—?”

  “No. I dislike him. Or rather the thought of him like that. Take him away.”

  Simms departed so quickly he might have been banished by a genie. She sat silently, incapable of discussion as her conscience fluttered around her like a dervish.

  Near her, footmen served courses and more wine and champagne. Three of them appeared at the center table, lifted the platform on which the poor little emperor stood and ushered him away. Gone. Gone from sight as efficiently as the real man had been put away to the far reaches of the earth. Never to reappear or threaten anyone again. She sighed. Happy he was gone in ice, in spirit and in fact.

  Harlow, quiet as a mouse, devoted himself to his supper.

  She was grateful for the silence. Self-examination always required time to rearrange one’s priorities. Improvement cost not only minutes or hours, but a large ration of humility. Her own, at any rate.

  As the footmen came to her to begin the removal of dishes from the first course, Harlow took the opportunity to murmur in an aside. “I applaud you, Trudy. More than that, I am in awe.”

  “I should hear no praise from you, Harlow.” She knew he wished to speak further about her ice man and she was still ashamed of what she’d ordered.

  “You realized it was not fitting to see him thus.”

  “Simms suggested a unicorn. Marjorie wanted a cupid. I insisted on this. Him.”

  “But you exiled him. He is gone. As he should be.”

  She shot a glance at this man whom she cared for quite deeply. “Do you think less of me for ordering this?”

  “On the contrary,” he said as he took her hand and squeezed it, “I think more of you for ordering the ice away.”

  “Do not be politic, Harlow. I am old enough to know ridicule.”

  “And wise enough to see that having him there thusly so was not the most compassionate tone. If we are to have peace—as you so eloquently wished for in your address to us—then we must heal our wounds with kindness and understanding. Bonaparte must have done some good in France, else they would not have kept him as their leader as long as they did. Now he is gone, unable to stir conflict or hatreds. It is our duty not to do that, either. You did the right thing, Gertrude, to have your men take him away when none here may laugh at him. He suffers, we are certain, on that cold forbidding island. His only empire to command, poor bugger. And you recognized that as you looked at him. A woman of my heart, Gertrude.” He raised his glass to celebrate her. “You can not only forgive a man his failures, but also help him find means to become a better man. I would be an ogre to fail to recognize your abilities to see the errors of your own ways and change them. Thank you, my dear.”

  Tears welled up to line her lashes. But she raised her own glass to accept his toast. “You have now witnessed first hand one of my woes.”

  “Willingness to admit one’s misstep—”

  “One’s failure,” she interjected.

  “Misstep, Trudy.”

  “You are kind, dear sir.”

  “As you have been to me.” He smiled and the gremlin who lived in his charming smile came out to play. “Now when may we retire to your room
s, my dear? I wish to tell you more.”

  Chapter 8

  As the two of them took the stairs to her rooms, Harlow examined his motives for his next actions. He must be clear in his own mind so as to do the lady justice.

  His desire for the Countess of Marsden was no sudden or boyish infatuation. Since his entrance to society, he’d heard of her and known that she’d been a lesser nobleman’s daughter, enamored of the theater and swept away from it by an older man who’d spotted her ebullient personality and married her in haste. Harlow had been introduced to her socially God only knew when, decades ago. Harlow had been married and happily so, such that their acquaintance was superficial at first and friendly as time went on. Then suddenly last summer, their relationship budded and blossomed into a surprisingly mad affair.

  He’d loved his wife. Always been faithful to her, as she to him. So the idea of becoming better acquainted with Gertrude never crossed his mind until he was a widower. In truth, not even then. His liking for her had occurred in a flash. Still in mourning last summer, his wife’s passing mellowing in his heart, he’d gone to Margate to a favorite hotel to view the sea and the surf. To hear the crash of waves upon the break wall and to walk barefoot in the sand or on the rocks was the respite he’d sought there.

  When he spied her alone in the dining room, he’d asked the waiter to inquire of her if he might join her for luncheon. Gracious lady, she’d readily agreed. They spent hours over their meal, the minutes radiating out in laughter until it was tea time. They’d adjourned to the hotel’s sitting room for little sandwiches, champagne and more meeting of minds. Then in a mutual and silent agreement, they strolled upstairs to his suite. Within minutes, he had kissed her, disrobed her and, as if he were twenty years younger, he’d discarded his own clothes to savor her skin to skin.

  They’d parted after a delightful supper, vowing to write and see each other again and soon. But he had not written, fearing she might wish to forget their lively peccadillo. Fearing she might think him an aging Lothario. Fearing he must forget their afternoon as a blithe little fling. Her frank words in her written invitation here to her party had filled him with pride. Still, he had not acted on it. His pride, ever his obstacle to much enjoyment in his life, had blocked him.

  Now even with this issue with his son, his pride prevailed. That he would correct when he could. And soon.

  Tonight, he would act in his own interest. Take his pride and his hope in hand and see if this lady might consider more than a brief affair.

  He opened the door to her sitting room and allowed her to sweep past him. The room, subdued in tones of jade and silver, appealed to one’s sense of serenity. A perfect foil to the lady who lived here, the room and the bedroom beyond was a haven of warmth with fires ablaze and a few candles burning low on two chests of drawers and one far-off silver sconce.

  “Shall I ring for Griff’s valet to attend you?” She paused near her bedroom door and one of her bell pulls. In the candles’ glow, she seemed hesitant, uncertain. Her lashes fluttered.

  He cupped one perfect cheek. She was so lovely. Six years younger than he, she bore a few crinkled lines at the corners of her eyes. But her skin was clear, perfect ivory. Her blush, vibrant and quick in response to his words. “I hoped instead I might have your assistance.”

  She stepped toward him and he opened his arms to catch her close. “You may have mine if I may have yours.”

  He kissed her. What better answer could he give her than that? Her lips clung to his, giving him two kisses to his one.

  “Trudy, I do not go into this blindly.”

  Her eyes danced in the firelight.

  Was that hope? Acceptance of his suit? “I’ve thought so often of you, of us,” he told her, “since last summer.”

  “Yet you did not write, Harlow.”

  He felt a stab of conscience at the hurt that stood upon her brow. “I worried.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “I did not have affairs, my dear.”

  “That I know. You had and still have a sterling reputation.” She smiled at that, her praise robust. “I would not have considered doing what I did in Margate if I’d ever known you to be a rogue.”

  He cradled her nearer. The warmth of her body, the strength in her limbs, had his own muscles tensing, hardening. “I hoped you’d think well of me. Still, call it pride, I worried that you would think less of me.”

  “And if I thought less of you for that afternoon’s delights, what would I think of myself?”

  That, he had not considered. “I should have seen that.”

  “You are a man of integrity and morals, that rare creature to worry what a lover thinks of you.” Her words held a teasing note amid her frankness.

  He lifted her chin. She was so lovely. Young and on stage, she must have shimmered in the lights. Still she glowed with the charm of her vivacious personality and good health. “No wonder Marsden adored you. You are a lady of wit and morals, that rare creature to invite a lover to your house party though he was a cad not to write to you as he said he would.”

  “I can forgive a man his foibles, Harlow.”

  He pressed his lips to hers. “I see it.”

  “Can you forgive this lady her forwardness?”

  He crushed her close, sinking one hand up into the silken wealth of her silver hair and sending a few of her pins drifting to the carpet. “May I prove it to you?”

  “Please.”

  “Come here,” he told her, took her hand and led her into her bedroom to sit upon her chair in front of her dressing table. He faced her in the mirror, and toyed with her curls. “May I undo your coiffure?”

  “You like my hair?” She seemed in awe of that.

  “I do,” he murmured as his fingers grazed her hairline at her nape. When she shivered, he asked, “Do you mind?”

  “No, I would welcome your touch,” she said, blushing.

  He loved a woman’s hair. Her hair. Long and delicate as Chinese silk, her silver tresses tumbled from her pins and he caught it up. Whole handfuls of it fell over his palms and through hhis fingers. Other parts of him appreciated her hair too. Her fragrance. Her care of her person. He caught back a small sound of grief. Once, his wife had hair as thick and soft as this. Once, he’d combed her hair. Brushed it. Fashioned braids. Pru had loved his attentions.

  She’d been insistent too that after she left him she wanted him to find another to love. As she drifted away in her final days, she spoke of how she adored him and how he must not live alone. “Love is not finite, George,” she’d rasped.

  He did not argue with her but he thought her wish impossible. Not so, Pru. Not so, my darling.

  Gertrude clasped his hand upon her shoulder and gazed at him through her mirror. “Harlow, if you do not wish to continue, I understand.”

  “No, my dear.” He bent low and placed a tender kiss at the crook of her shoulder. “I had a moment’s memory of my wife. Forgive me that, will you?”

  “I can. This…this affection we have for each other recalls another time and place and other lovers.”

  “It does. My Pru would have approved of you and me.”

  “As would Marsden. He was not a selfish man, nor small minded.”

  “I would have liked him. I wish I’d known him better.”

  She reached up, her hand curving around his jaw and once more, he leaned down to caress her lips with his own.

  He grinned at her. “Shall I make short work of your gown, my dear?”

  “Oh, please do,” she whispered and giggled as his fingers plucked at the buttons at the back of her gown.

  “Stand up.” He urged her up so that he might attack the damn tiny things that kept her from him. He could feel her suppressing her laughter. “These are hideous. Who makes these contraptions?”

  “Gremlins.”

  “Trolls!” He was groping. Fumbling. “Too small and slippery, at that!”

  “I can call for my—”

  “Don’t. You. Dare.”
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  She hummed in laughter.

  But at last he could brush the teal silk from her shoulders down her waist and her full hips. “Step out. Too fine a gown to leave upon the floor. There! Do not move. I shall return.”

  He draped the lovely thing over her chaise longue and returned to her as she toed off her shoes. She was dressed now in her stockings. Pretty things. As opposed to her corset. A mean thing. He went to work on those lacings. “I’ve hated these buggers all my life. Easier to undo than to do. If you’ll just wait a moment…There we are!”

  He stepped around her. His eyes locked on hers, he hooked a finger in the lacy bodice and pulled the bony thing away.

  Her breasts, those glorious full globes that he’d admired and treasured and tasted last summer, sprung free of the whalebone. Her chemise—muslin and quite thin, thank the good lord—clung to her flesh. His knees went weak. His cock sprung up. He was so pleased that part of him not only worked but worked very well tonight. “May I take your earrings away, my dear?”

  She nodded, her eyes brilliant with excitement.

  He fingered her earlobes and removed the heavy diamonds.

  A frisson flashed through her.

  He bit her earlobe—and she swayed toward him on a little moan of delight. “Your necklace?”

  She put her palm to the elaborate piece that formed her parure. “I like to wear them.”

  “To bed?” He arched a brow in feigned horror.

  She burst out laughing. “My nieces joke that I even wear them to the hunt.”

  “Do you?”

  “To be frank? I’ve been tempted. Diamonds have a certain fire. They keep a lady warm when her bed is empty.”

  “Trudy, your bed will be full tonight, I hope, with me and you.”

  She sank against him, her hands fisting in his hair. “Oh, yes, Harlow.”

  He tugged at her chemise. “We must rid you of this.”

  But she clamped her hands to her chest. “Not in such light.”

  “You want to douse the candles? But…but why? I saw you and you, me in Margate.”

  She winced. “I know but... There were more shadows and I hoped you could not see too much.”