Once Upon a Christmas Eve(8)

Sarah gasped as Lord d’Arque kissed her. His mouth opened wide over hers, one thumb brushing her cheek. He held her with sure knowledge and embraced her as if he’d won the right.

He pulled her tighter against him, her breasts crushed against his hard chest, one of his legs thrust into her skirts between her thighs. He angled his face over hers and nipped at her bottom lip.

“My lord,” she whispered between their mouths.

“Call me Adam,” he demanded, and then thrust his tongue into her mouth, preventing her.

She moaned.

She couldn’t help it. It had been years since anyone had touched her like this—Sir Hilary’s chaste peck hardly counted—and the only other man to do so hadn’t had a quarter of Adam’s skill.

He made her feel. Made her want to cast away her inhibitions and doubts and just let him do as he wanted with her.

The thought brought her up short.

She’d felt this way before…and that man had taken everything she’d offered up and then thrust her away.

Not again.

She tore her mouth from his. “No.”

“Sarah,” he murmured, and her heart clenched at the sound of her name on his lips.

She couldn’t let this happen.

She turned her head to the side.

He pulled back and she could actually feel his gaze on her.

Then he abruptly let her go.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice flat and formal.

She looked at him and saw that everything she’d discovered in him was gone. His face was without expression, as closed as a locked gate.

“My apologies if I’ve given offense.” He bowed, pivoted, and left the room.





Adam took the stairs two at a time as he made his way to Grand-mère’s room. What a fool he was—becoming jealous over a country squire and Miss St. John. She was a respectable lady, determined to marry some poor man and birth a pack of blond, brown-eyed babies, chubby cheeked and solemn.

He paused on the landing. Damn, Miss St. John’s babies would be adorable.

He shook the ridiculous thought from his mind. Perhaps he’d contracted a brain fever from the snow tossed in his face. If so it was a relief: he’d be dead within a week and out of his misery.

He turned his thoughts to Grand-mère as he continued up the stairs. She’d seemed better this morning. Perhaps she would be well enough to travel in a few days. He could leave Hedge House and never see Miss St. John and her respectable ways again.

The thought made him unaccountably irritated.

When he pushed open the door to Grand-mère’s room, she was sitting up in bed enjoying a late breakfast.

“How are you feeling, darling?” he asked her, bending to kiss her cheek.

He straightened and examined her critically. Her cheeks seemed to have more color than yesterday.

“I’m feeling much better,” she said, but her voice was still weak and she started coughing as soon as the sentence was out of her mouth.

Adam looked on with barely concealed concern as she bent over, gasping for breath.

“Perhaps…” She stopped to inhale and take a sip of her tea. “Perhaps we can continue our journey tomorrow?”

Adam pasted a smile on his face. “The roads are near impassible,” he lied. She was clearly in no condition to travel. “I think we shall stay another week—until at least after Christmas.”

She took his verdict with better grace than he’d expected.

“Then sit here and tell me what is happening in the house.” She indicated the chair next to her bed.

He did as instructed, lowering himself to the chair and giving her a report of the holly hunt…with several key moments omitted.

But perhaps he hadn’t been as discreet as he thought.

Grand-mère half closed her eyes and said, “Miss St. John seems an interesting gel. What do you think of her?”

He paused to choose his words carefully. “She’s intelligent, quick witted, and bent on marriage.”

Grand-mère’s eyebrows rose to points above her eyes. “She told you this?”

“No.” He shrugged. “But the three gentlemen invited to spend the holiday at Hedge House are unwed and of age. No doubt she’s thinking of ensnaring one of them.”

“Hmm,” his grandmother hummed noncommittally. “Her mother probably made the invitations.”

He tilted his head. “You think Miss St. John is uninterested in wedding?”

Grand-mère waved an irritated hand. “Most ladies want to be married. I’m only suggesting that she may not have had these three gentlemen in mind.”

Adam looked away from her, his mouth twisted. “It hardly matters to me. I have no intention of marrying—and certainly not Miss St. John.”

“Not all marriages are as vitriolic as your mother’s and father’s,” Grand-mère said softly. “A wife—a partner—can be a great comfort.”

Adam stared at his grandmother. If he ran mad and some day decided to marry, he might choose a woman such as Miss St. John.

But that was never going to happen, and besides.

The lady was clearly not interested in him.





Chapter Seven



That night Prince Brad took the frog to his bed and laid her on his pillow.

“Oh no,” said the frog. “I’m a frog, not a toad. I need water. You’ll have to fetch a basin.”

Brad muttered under his breath, but as the queen had followed him to his bedroom to see to the comfort of their guest, he was forced to comply.

The frog jumped into the basin of water beside Brad’s pillow and sighed sleepily. “Good night.”

“I hate you,” Prince Brad replied.…

—From The Frog Princess



Three days later Adam lounged in the sitting room. It was after dinner and the party had all crowded into the room, where a silly game was in progress.

He took a sip of his brandy and watched Miss St. John—Sarah—as she tried to find the other members of the party. She wore a scarf tied about her eyes and she walked haltingly, her hands outstretched, and with a small smile on her face.

He hadn’t spoken to her save to say, “Good morning” or “Pass the bread” since he’d kissed her.

Which was all for the best. He knew that. She wasn’t for him, and that strange feeling of…intimacy, of recognizing someone alike in mind and soul, all that had been false.

There was a cheer, and Adam looked up to see Miss St. John holding Dr. Manning. The doctor was smiling gently as Miss St. John ran her fingers over his face to try to guess who he was.

Rot.

Adam threw back the last of the brandy in his glass and stood.

“Had enough, d’Arque?”

The soft voice was St. John’s, and Adam paused to look at him. The other man was watching him carefully and for once without malice.

Adam inhaled. “As you can see, sir.”

“I never took you for a man who retreated from…festivities.”

Was St. John…approving of Adam’s interest in his sister? The world had turned upside-down. “Perhaps then you should revise your opinion of me.”

St. John glanced at his sister and then at Adam. “No, I don’t think so.”

Adam gritted his teeth. “Good night, sir.”

The other man inclined his head and drawled, “My lord.”

Adam strode from the room, a sort of black mood overcoming him. He’d done the only thing he could, he thought as he sprang up the stairs. He’d let Sarah go when she requested it. Had backed away.

Had conceded the field to other men.

Respectable men.

He paused at the top of the stairs and grimaced. St. John had come close to calling him a coward and perhaps he was.

He turned and strode to Grand-mère’s room. He knocked softly on the door before opening it.

Inside, Cannon was perched in her chair by the bed, her head at an awkward-looking angle, asleep. He approached the bed and saw that his grandmother was asleep as well. She lay there, her white hair tucked beneath a cap, her hands holding the coverlet to her chest.

Her gnarled fingers were bent by arthritis, the backs of her hands bruised and liver-spotted. The sapphire ring looked huge on her bony hand.

She looked so frail.

He turned and found a blanket, then gently draped it over Cannon and left the room.

He wasn’t yet sleepy, so he made his way to the library. He’d found in the last several days that though the Hedge House library was small, it had several interesting and rare books.

But when he entered the library door he found a light within.

Sarah was at the far end, her back to him as she perused the shelves, her candle held high.

He turned to retreat, but he must’ve made some noise.

“My lord,” she called.

He stopped without facing her. “I thought I told you to call me Adam.”

“Adam, then.” He heard her venture nearer. “Have I offended you?”

“No.” He closed his eyes.

“Then will you look at me?”

Had she no sense of self-preservation?

But it was as if he were controlled by an outside force…or perhaps merely her voice.

He turned to face her.

She wore a blue dress tonight, the color of a robin’s egg, her hair bound simply at her nape. Her eyes were wide and uncertain, but her chin was level and proud.

She was irresistible to him.

He prowled toward her, feeling a sort of reckless urge rise within his blood. “What is it you want, Sarah?”