Page 1 of A Midwinter Wager

Chapter 1

December 1814, Essex, England

The acrid smell of burning filled her nostrils as flames licked greedily at the bed’s ancient canopy. She thrashed about, struggling to escape and yelling for help but stifling smoke seared her throat. Then someone grabbed her and hauled her from the burning bed.

“Cesca, wake up!”

A familiar voice soothed her, easing the painful thundering of her heart.

“Fitz?”

The nightmare faded, and Miss Francesca Heathcote opened her eyes to cool, flickering darkness. Not a fire, just a candle, illuminating the concerned features of Philip Fitzmaurice, Viscount Lonsdale.

She sat up, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, and gazed at him. Then gazed some more.

He should have been laughable, in his borrowed, ill-fitting nightshirt, with his thick, golden hair all tousled, but instead, he looked utterly desirable. As the nightmare receded and Cesca came back to the present, she realized she’d never before seen her friend quite so close to… well, naked.

It struck her with the force of a cavalry charge that Fitz was no longer the boy she’d known, racing across from Beaulieu Manor to show her his new scholar’s gown, or hurtling over fences to impress her when he got his first full-grown horse. He was no longer a fresh-faced youth, graduating with a Classics degree from his Cambridge college, sweetly solemn and proud.

He was a man now and her body knew it. As she stared at the way his muscles pushed against the soft linen of his nightshirt, her gaze snagged on the patch of darkly curling hair on his chest. The breath fled from her lungs.

“Bad dream?” He settled himself on the edge of her bed. He smelled of fresh soap, and the musk of potent masculinity—and ignited something inside her that went way beyond affection.

“Yes,” she rasped, trying to recall how to breathe. “You know there was a fire when I was little—”

“Of course.” He took her hand. “When you upset a lighted candle in your bed. But why would you dream of that now?”

Truth was, the nightmare recurred when she was anxious. Fitz had ridden over from Beaulieu Manor yesterday to wish the family a merry Christmas and inform them he meant to join the Duke of Wellington in France next year, to help rebuild the monarchy of that stricken country. He’d no idea how long he’d be away. Little wonder she was distressed.

She’d been so terrified at the thought of him being taken away from her, perhaps forever, that she’d sent up a prayer of thanks when a sudden blizzard had forced him to spend the night with her family at Fernley Place. But she’d been too shy to tell him—or show him—that her sisterly affection for him had matured to something much deeper and more compelling.

But also more painful.

She licked her dry lips. “Fitz, you can’t be in here. It’s highly improper.”

He frowned. “I’m not going until I know you’re no longer frightened. Why didn’t Alicia come in to comfort you? She must have heard you cry out.”

“Oh, she knows I have the occasional nightmare. She doesn’t bother herself about it anymore.” Her stepsister Alicia cared for no one but herself. No, that was uncharitable. She was young and had recently lost her mama—she might improve with time.

Fitz’s eyes met Cesca’s, and he raised an eyebrow but held her gaze. “What are you looking at?” he asked, in a tone that made her stomach flip over.

If only she could tell him how much the sight of him stirred her blood! But these feelings were too new, too unexpected, for her to know what to do about them. “I’m just trying to remember how you look right now,” she said.

“A mess,” he replied, with a rueful grin. “I wasn’t expecting the snow to trap me into spending the night here. Your father’s nightshirt is too tight across the shoulders and chest.”

She shook her head. “You could be thin, fat, rugged, bearded, scarred, or even mustachioed by the time you return for your first furlough. That youthful look will be gone forever after a few months in the army, so I am painting a picture of you in my mind.” She was trying very hard not to make it a picture of Fitz naked, decidedly difficult under the circumstances. That nightshirt outlined every muscle of his torso.

He chuckled. “I don’t plan to change. I mean to make you proud, to impress you with my military prowess. I’m hoping you’ll miss me—I mean, for who I am, not just for my Adonis-like good looks.”

“Of course, I’ll miss you. I don’t care what you look like really. It’s going to be lonely.”

At this point, it would be flattering if he were to disagree, and say she’d meet many handsome, worthy fellows to keep her entertained in his absence. But he wasn’t one for empty flattery, was he?

“I know,” he said softly, pressing warm fingers against her cheek.

Her breath fluttered. Without thinking what she might reveal, she turned her head and kissed his palm. Immediately, he cupped her face, his gaze searing her skin.

Spellbound, she parted her lips. He was going to kiss her.