The dance came to a welcome end, so after delivering the girl back to her mother, he strode through the crowd, dodging acquaintances and ruffles to make his escape through the French doors and to the terrace.
Bloody freezing.
Deserted.
Lamps had been lit along the wall of the house and frost crystals sparkled off the stone, but the candlelight barely penetrated the night.
Out here was solemn and bitter cold whilst inside all was cheer and genial warmth.
He paced the bleak flagstones.
Agreeing to Charlotte’sdealhad been a mistake. He ought to put a stop to the whole matter. After all, he was a duke and so–
“Your Grace?”
And why had she stopped calling him Marcus?
“Miss Webster. I will be departing shortly but will send the carriage back for you and Dinah. Return inside. It’s too bitter out here.”
“But you promised to attend my Christmastide events.”
“And I have attended.”
He could sense her just behind him. Heliotrope. Warmth. Honesty.
“Not for very long. But…how has it made you feel?” she whispered. “Surely it reminds you of the Christmases with your parents, when we were young. The fun and laughter?”
He breathed deep. Gritted his teeth. “Return inside, Miss Webster.”
“I do not understand. Have you not enjoyed it? The dancing and–”
He swivelled.
She was too close. Torrid fire before a backdrop of frosted stone. The only damn warmth in this cold night.
“Oh, yes,” he growled, “it reminds me of all that. And moreover it reminds me…”
A line creased her brow, the lanterns lighting her eyes to stars. “What?”
“You have no wish to know.”
“Yes, I do.” Then she sealed her fate as her gloved hand touched his sleeve. He could see her skin pebbling with the chill, the necklace he’d gifted her so long ago encircling her throat, breath misting with his own – entwined.
“Damn it, Charlotte, this is what it reminds me of.”
And he yanked her into his arms to kiss her.
Kiss her how he’d yearned to all that time ago.
But he was no longer a young lad so instead of some naïve brush of lips, he ravished.
Searching and urgent, crushing her to his body, kissing with an ardour that devoured him whole.
And despite the cold, Charlotte was anything but.
She was molten, passionate, and all he’d thrown away.
His lips seared to her cheek, earlobe, the scent of heliotrope so sweet while heady desire coursed its way through his veins, hardening loins in a moment, melting all restraint.
