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“Scottish New Year?”
He nodded. “Aye, I always sought to be the first-foot.”
“The what?”
“The first guest to set foot in a house after midnight. It’s a Scottish custom. The first visitor bearing gifts who crossed the threshold was the first-foot.”
“What sort of gifts?”
He closed his eyes, smelling warm butter. “Mrs. Robertson baked shortbread. Even when I was in trouble, she’d let me have some for Hogmanay. The Robertsons were fair-haired and short. It’s good luck for a first-foot to be dark-haired and tall.”
“Like you,” she breathed. “And handsome? Is that especially good luck?”
“So says the tradition.”
“All of Dundee hopedyouwould be their first-foot, then?”
Lucifer was vain, and so, too, are you!
Reverend Robertson’s words had flown out of his mouth at James, along with spittle, when neighbors asked for James to step over the threshold first for Hogmanay.
“I haven’t celebrated properly in years. Not in London. But I’d like to.”
“James, let’s be sure to do that!”
After answering her questions for a while about the holiday and its traditions, he remembered what she’d said earlier. “So your governess didn’t take to calling you Grasshopper?”
She laughed, her voice froggy, and she cleared her throat. “No. She wanted me to be a lady. I suppose that’s what she thought my parents engaged her services for, after all. She was far harder on me than they were. Perhaps they relied on her to be.” She shrugged.
“She didn’t like it when you ran through the grass?”
“Of course not. My hair came loose. My cheeks were pink. I breathed like a horse and perspired like a laborer. Totally unacceptable.”
“Hmm. My most cherished memories are of you with your hair loose, cheeks pink, breathing—”
“You!” She laughed and covered his mouth. “Don’t be indecent.”
He kissed her hand. “Is there anything we’ve ever done that’s truly indecent, Clara?”
His voice was serious, and she seemed to take his question in the same vein, visibly pondering it. He could all but see her eyes turn dark with vivid memories; a flush colored her cheeks.
“I know what everyone else would say,” she whispered. “Yet I can’t muster a single regret.”
“You should have seen me after I left your house that first night, rejected. Maybe I regretted my rashness then. Now I thank God for it.”
She laughed huskily, pressing her face into his neck. “You gave me a great deal to think about after that visit. I didn’t know what it was like for you…”
James made a sound of disgust, remembering. “I owe a bottle of whisky to half my employees for bearing my company during that time. Chavers especially.”
She laughed harder, causing her soft breasts to jiggle pleasantly against his chest, which had the predictable effect. When she caught sight of the swelling protrusion in his trousers, the hungry sound she made in her throat tightened his bollocks.
Clara’s hand stroked his hardness. After a minute, he slid her body over his more fully, her warmth perceptible even through her blush-colored skirts. She kissed him, tasting him deeply, and he ran his fingers through her bound hair.
His fingers sought her pins, wanting her sun-warmed, silky hair down.
“James! No! We’re not in your drawing room!”
He laughed tightly. “Can we trust in the privacy of this place, Clara?” He was a second away from pulling up her skirts.
Groaning, she shook her head. “Anyone could happen upon us. The groundskeepers. Help from the house, delivering a message about luncheon…”
She rolled off of him and sat up, breathing hard. She looked around, and not seeing anyone, reclined by his side. Touching his cock through his trousers, she said, “We should return to the house before lifting my skirts. But if you don’t mind leaving on your—”
He stilled her hand. “Nay. Let’s go to your bedchamber. I want your hair down, you sweating like a filly, and—”
“Come,” she said, standing.
