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Excerpt from An Earl’s Christmas Embrace
Turning toward an alcove he had spotted earlier, he couldn’t stop the tension from leaking into his voice. “Beware, Lady Emma. Do not scoff at my actions. There is a darkness in my soul. A good friend and officer died in my arms during the Battle of Hougoumont, leaving behind a widow and child. I hope you never experience the darkness I’ve known, that haunts me whether I am asleep or awake. Now allow me.”
Ravenstone changed topics —and directions—abruptly, before she could respond. Touching her elbow lightly, he walked her across the ballroom to an alcove, discretely screened by potted palms. He escorted her to a green velvet chaise longue, and Lady Emma smoothed a hand over her already neatly coifed hair. He knew her reputation would be in ruins if someone from the ton should stumble upon them in such an intimate situation without benefit of a chaperone. At this moment, though, he only wanted to be with her. His thoughts went to the painting displayed in a place of honor this very night. Of course Emma couldn’t have known it was an image of the very day he had experienced the greatest pain in his life. His thoughts must have shown on his face, for she placed her hand lightly over his.
He abruptly changed the subject, “By the way, where is Lady Lettice? Do you think you could introduce her to me?”
“I’m so sorry, I fear she is suffering a megrim and was unable–”
Ravenstone’s voice cut her off abruptly.
“Ah, look what hangs above us,” he said, lifting his eyes towards the ceiling. “I believe it is mistletoe. You know what this means don’t you? Legend says you must accept a kiss, lest you be doomed not to receive any marriage proposals for a full year, and scorned for the lack. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to invite public disdain by denying my holiday kissing privileges.”
He slowly, slowly, took her hand, turned it over, and kissed her palm. His chest swelled with pride—and something else swelled as well—when a blush stained her décolletage. Keeping his eyes on the rosy glow that spread upward, he asked, “Did you ever hear about the tradition that for every berry in the mistletoe I may give you a separate kiss?”
Her head moved slowly side to side, her eyes locked on his. He continued. “I kiss you first, then I pluck off a berry. When all the berries are gone, so are the kisses.”
With that, Ravenstone lowered his head, “First kiss.”
He spoke against the softness of her skin, and planted his lips tenderly on her forehead.
Reaching up to pluck one of the white berries, “Kiss number two,” he whispered, then kissed each eyelid in turn, finally pressing his lips on her mouth. His hands wrapped tightly in her hair, holding her head at exactly the right angle for his ministrations. His body pressed her back against the upholstered arm of the chaise, and he welcomed the heat she generated. Her response was creating such amazing sensations that he simply pressed closer.
She swayed, and he swayed with her, wrapping his arms around her, intoxicated. He just wanted to hold her close. To absorb her sweetness. Light burst inside him for the first time since that fateful day in France. He had thought he’d rather face an army of Napoleon’s men than consider marriage. But when he was with Emma, anything seemed possible.
When he was with her, he never wanted to let her out of his sight. He loved how she challenged him. Unlike the other women on the marriage mart, Emma wasn’t frightened of his stern expression. He wasn’t sure when he’d started to think of her in such intimate terms, but it felt right. She didn’t pout or flutter her eyelashes ridiculously in an attempt to make him smile. She had enough joi de vivre for them both. A few curls tumbled loose from her coiffeur. He heard her breath catch, but she remained within his embrace, and her eyes fluttered open.
“What?” Ravenstone asked.
Lettice shook her head. She couldn’t answer. She giggled.
Diane Dario 