The Viscount's Christmas Temptation Page 5

  “Of course not,” she said soothingly, then tilted her head toward his open carriage door. “Help me up?”

  He swung her up and into the coach without pausing to ask why. Amelia found the ensuing consternation upon his handsome visage to be quite comical, though she strove to keep her amusement hidden from her face.

  Lord Sheffield stared up at her from the icy drive as if he couldn’t quite credit how or why they had switched places. He shook his head and hefted himself back into the carriage. “Are we going somewhere?”

  This time, he seated himself beside her rather than across from her. Her heartbeat quickened. He took up far too much space. The presence of his body snug against hers heated her flesh far more efficiently than any warming brick might have done.

  “Vauxhall,” she answered, without demanding he switch seats. After all, it was his carriage. And a Pembroke was never presumptuous.

  His bright hazel eyes widened in surprise. “The pleasure gardens? Aren’t they closed for the winter?”

  “They do not have to be,” she told him. “Like Almack’s, Vauxhall Gardens is a favorite spot for entertainment. Unlike Almack’s, there are few rules governing admittance. Your entire guest list would be welcome.”

  His lip curled. “Further unlike Almack’s, people visit pleasure gardens for fun.”

  “You don’t have fun at Almack’s?” she asked, too innocently.

  “Tisn’t called the Marriage Mart because it’s conducive to bachelorhood.” His brow furrowed. “Speaking of which, why haven’t you got leg-shackled? You’ve got beauty, brains, elegance, and—as you previously mentioned—aren’t hurting for coin. I cannot credit that a woman with your wit, looks, and politesse should have any trouble at all collecting suitors.”

  “’Tis my personality,” she sighed, affecting a morose expression. “I cannot conceive why my beaux object to my running every aspect of their lives.”

  “Myopic pups, indeed.” The corners of his mouth quirked. “Have you considered—between now and any future leg-shackling, that is—the possibility of spending some time not running things?”

  “Oh, I do,” she said earnestly. “Twice daily! I try very hard not to run things in my sleep, nor whilst cleaning my teeth. Far too difficult to bark orders with tooth powder in one’s mouth.”

  He nodded gravely. “You are as wise as you are practical, Lady Amelia.”

  She nodded back. “I know.”

  But he had taken his own advice, not hers. She cut him another glance. He had broken from his schedule. It was half six on a cold but clear Thursday evening. She could not have planned it any better. “It isn’t yet eight of the clock. Shouldn’t you be at your desk, my lord?”

  He raised his brow. “I would be, if a certain managing chit had but deigned to respond to my missives.”

  “Even could I swallow the absurd conclusion that only calling upon me in person would do, it doesn’t explain what you’re doing in a carriage with me in mid-afternoon.”

  His gaze softened, his voice low and warm. “Where else would I wish to be?”

  She blushed and averted her face toward the window. She’d expected him to appear, counted on it in fact, but she hadn’t imagined—had never once thought—

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there was some value to setting one’s duties aside now and then for a few stolen moments.

  With the right person.

  They alighted from the coach just before the Vauxhall Bridge. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and matched his steps to hers. The wind was sharp and icy as it flew across the Thames and into their scrunched faces. Lord Sheffield put himself between the wind and Amelia, sheltering her as much as possible until they had crossed to the other side.

  Leafless trees provided welcome relief from the direct onslaught of the wind, but he did not release her from his side. They strolled down the paths hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder. Shoulder-to-upper-arm, to be precise. She swallowed. Her throat was unaccountably dry. He was more than half a head taller, and much larger. The difference in their sizes did not make her feel small, but rather, safe. She liked the feel of his warm strong body so close to hers, the way he huddled closer if he detected the slightest shiver.

  Without candles in the lanterns, the “illuminated” walks were as shadowy as the Dark Paths. And without the ten or fifteen thousand people who crowded the walkways during the summer, it was as if the two of them strolled through their own private gardens. She held his arm a little tighter.

  They might have walked for miles, so little did she notice the passage of time. She was too focused on the simple joys of their synchronized steps, the white puffs of vapor as they breathed, the smiling looks they exchanged at this statue or that tower.

  The supper rooms were empty, the orchestra vacant, but rather than lend a desolate air, the grounds seemed all the more magical. Dismal for a party, of course—her toes were freezing and her lips so chapped she barely dared to speak—but she was arm-in-arm with Viscount Sheffield. There were no patrons to contend with, no patronesses to bow and scrape to, no one at all save the two of them. The winding trail their only guide, a smattering of stars their only chaperone.

  Her hands went clammy. She swallowed hard. They were truly alone. Errands in the city proper were one thing, with grooms and footmen at every turn. But here . . . in Vauxhall . . . all alone beneath the stars . . .

  He pulled her into his arms.

  She meant to resist, or at least she probably meant to, but all she could do was gaze up at him without a word. Her blood quickened.

  “We should go,” he said gruffly, his face inscrutable.

  “Why?” Her heartbeat thundered. She gripped his arms tight to keep herself from twining her own about his neck.

  He lowered his mouth to her ear, brushing it with a feather-soft kiss. “It isn’t safe.”

  Her answering shiver had nothing to do with the cold. She couldn’t even feel the weather. Her thighs were flush with his, her breasts against his chest. She had never stood so close to any man, had never fought the urge to press herself even closer.

  “What could happen?” she whispered.

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Anything.”

  Her breath caught at the ragged edge to his voice. At the delicious knowledge that it was she whom he desired, she who caused the tremble in his touch and the glint of hunger in his eyes.

  But her life hung together on planning, not passion. She was much too sensible to allow the wants of her heart to outweigh the wisdom of her brain.

  When he lowered his face toward hers, she pulled from his embrace and walked away.

  Chapter Six

  Benedict passed a sleepless night. The fact of a sleepless night was not so very wonderful, but rather the reason that kept him from his slumber.

  Lady Amelia.

  Because of her, he had twice broken from his schedule since the last daybreak. He’d started by leaving his office before eight the night before, simply because he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer of why the woman who had insisted upon a maximum three hour turnabout for her own missives was refusing to answer his own. And then, after the lovely, charming, romantic, disappointing outing in Vauxhall . . .

  He had returned home. He! Had returned home.

  What did he care for gentlemen’s clubs and boxing matches when all he could think about was the soft, stolen kiss she hadn’t let him take? If only he hadn’t warned her of his intentions . . . But no, he could never treat her dishonorably. Had never treated anyone dishonorably. It was the reason why he selected his mistresses from actresses and courtesans who expected nothing more than a casual physical affair.

  And of course he couldn’t take Lady Amelia as his mistress. Now that he’d met her, he couldn’t take anyone as his mistress, or anything else. They all paled next to her. The debutantes were too shallow, the demimonde too world-weary, the bluestockings too desperate to prove they didn’t need a man.

  Lady Amelia didn’t have to p
rove such a thing. She’d shown him with every word, every action, from the moment of their first meeting. She didn’t need him, or likely anyone. But, oh, if he could make her want him . . .

  The first thing she had wanted was to realize his Christmastide ball, so he supposed he ought to start there. She hadn’t sent him a report this morning, but of course it hadn’t been necessary. By the time they’d stepped foot on the frozen bridge, he’d finally determined what she was about.

  Each location she’d presented to him had been ostensibly what he wanted. Fashionable and unimpeachable. She’d orchestrated tours of perfectly acceptable venues that he would be progressively more likely to abhor. He would never disrupt the holiday plans of others, simply because as viscount, it could be done. Nor could he condone a location—no matter how grand!—that would force him to snub his own friends and family, just to dance within its hallowed walls.

  And it went without saying that pleasure gardens wouldn’t do. Not in winter. The slippery paths, the leafless trees, the high likelihood of guests becoming ill or compromised or losing their extremities to frostbite . . . No, there was only one logical, convenient place to temporarily relocate the Christmastide ball without sacrificing any of its customs or inconveniencing any number of people.

  Lady Amelia was going to get her wish of Ravenwood House after all.

  Benedict scooped up his hat and shrugged into his greatcoat. He had tried as valiantly as he could to spend the scheduled twelve hours before his desk, but here it was three in the afternoon and he was on his way across Hyde Park to let her know she had won.

  Not that he was breaking his schedule. He smiled. The lady was now his business.

  When he arrived at the ducal estate, he was half-surprised to find the butler, not Lady Amelia, at the door. He smiled. It was high time he surprise her for a change.

  He relinquished his hat and coat and followed the butler. Instead of ushering him to a sitting room, the butler strode to the wide, curved stairway leading to the Ravenwood ballroom. He threw open the doors without hesitation and motioned Benedict inside.

  The ballroom had been transformed into a mirror of his own.

  An army of servants lined the walls with gold paper. Kissing balls of bright green holly hung from various chandeliers. There was even a small sprig attached to the archway under which he stood. The dance floor was sparkling and freshly lymewashed. The table linens had all been embroidered with the Sheffield family crest.

  Laughter bubbled deep inside his throat. Lady Amelia would not be remotely surprised to learn he’d come about to her way of thinking. She’d known it would happen even before they had met!

  He spun about at the sound of her voice approaching from behind him. A clump of holly dangled overhead. Perfect. He was standing right beneath a kissing ball. He grinned. He would’ve kissed her even if he wasn’t. The moment she came into sight, he swung her into his arms and covered her mouth with his. She yielded to his embrace as if she, too, had spent a sleepless night yearning for his kisses, for his touch. He held her tight. She was maddening and managing and by God was he going to make her his.

  Her lips were warm, her mouth hot. She tasted like honey and peppermint. Her hair was soft beneath his fingers. He pulled her closer. His body was hard, every pore aflame. He had dreamt of this moment since he first met her. Had dreamt of her hair tangled in his fingers, her curves pressed flush against him. Now that he had her, he had no wish to ever let her go.

  When he finally released her from his arms, he discovered a pair of bright green eyes staring at him from over Lady Amelia’s shoulder. Pembroke eyes. Lady Amelia had not been in conversation with one of the many servants assigned to the ball, as Benedict had presumed, but rather with her brother. The Duke of Ravenwood. Bearing clusters of holly in his arms. Waiting for them to finish kissing so he could manage the stairs without needing to step around them.

  Benedict coughed into his hand, then gestured weakly toward the kissing ball overhead.

  Lady Amelia’s cheeks flushed scarlet.

  The duke didn’t even change expression. He simply continued walking.

  “Sheffield,” was his perfunctory greeting as he passed Benedict, but to his sister Ravenwood muttered a barely audible, “I might’ve known.”

  She turned wide eyes to her brother. “I never once thought—”

  “You’ve never not thought in your life,” he returned without pausing. “If you’re at all surprised, then you’ve only gammoned yourself.”

  Benedict hauled her to his side and gestured at the bedecked walls. “At what point were you going to mention that the party decisions had already been made for me, Ravenwood?”

  At this, the duke stopped mid-step and nearly choked with laughter. “Beg your pardon, Sheffield.” He cast a speaking glance at his sister then turned his merry gaze back to Benedict. “Did you try to get your way?”

  Benedict lifted a shoulder with a self-deprecating smile.

  The duke clapped him on the shoulder, unabashed. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

  Benedict gazed down at Lady Amelia. “I believe I already have.”

  Chapter Seven

  One week. An entire wasted week.

  Benedict drummed his fingers atop his accounts ledger. He wasn’t certain which circumstance was the most surprising: seven days passing since he’d last seen Lady Amelia, or the woman’s absence driving him battier than her presence. She had allowed that single, stolen kiss beneath the holly—and ignored him ever since. He ground his teeth.

  Something had to be done.

  One might suppose he could simply wait two more days until the evening of his Christmas Eve ball, but no. Benedict could not. He had tried.

  It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon and the only thing he’d accomplished in the past seven days was wondering what Lady Amelia was doing—and vainly trying to convince her to spare him a bit of her time. He rubbed his temples. When he’d shortsightedly given her carte blanche on the decorations, he’d inadvertently spoiled the sole reason she’d had to contact him. And so she had not.

  Benedict had jotted missives and left calling-cards and sent a wagonload of flowers . . . to no response. Lady Amelia was not other people. Or even most people. She was unique and fetching and too bloody efficient to pen unnecessary notes to hopelessly smitten viscounts who wished to waste her time eating ices at Gunter’s or visiting the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly.

  Merely wishing for her company was not reason enough for her to grant it. He sighed. The silver lining to her strict adherence to efficiency was that the sole solution couldn’t have been clearer: He would simply have to invent some pretext wherein he didn’t just want her. He needed her.

  And then he’d whisk her somewhere else entirely. Somewhere less tepid than lemon ices and Egyptian relics. She could do those things with anyone of her acquaintance, any time she wished. If he intended to prove that time spent with him was not only an experience worth having, but one she could not have with anyone else—well, he would have to make certain that happened. The sort of evening only a reformed rake could offer.

  But first, he had to lure her from her efficient cage.

  He selected a fresh sheet of parchment and sighed heavily. Nothing for it. He was forced to tempt her with the one thing she won’t be able to resist: the opportunity to lend her quick, clever brain toward the management of his estate. He dipped his pen in the ink and marveled at the steadiness of his fingers.

  A fortnight ago he had balked at the idea of accepting help with a party he had no time to arrange. And now, he was prepared to offer much more than that. He would invite her to share everything. If she would only accept the invitation.

  He smiled. She was not the only one capable of maneuvering others to do her will.

  My dearest Lady Amelia,

  I find myself in the position of requiring an independent perspective on a small matter pertaining to resource allocation, and my head steward shan’t return until after Christmastide. If
you would be so kind as to lend your practical brain to the affair, the problem could be resolved this very day.

  That said, do come at once or not at all—I depart for Grosvenor Square at the stroke of eight. I’ve extremely impractical plans for a loud, bosky evening, and you know how loathe I am to break from schedule.

  Yours &ct,

  Benedict Sheffield

  There. He signed with a flourish and grinned at the scrawled words. ’Twas the perfect mix of annoying and tempting. Either way, Lady Amelia would be unable to resist giving him a piece of her mind. In person. Tonight.

  He franked the missive and instructed his footman to await a reply. In the meantime, he summoned his servants into the main parlor for a brief conference.

  “Soon, you are to expect the arrival of Lady Amelia Pembroke. Some of you might remember her as the young lady who’d brought a book to read and rugs to sit upon in full expectation of being forced to wait to be granted an appearance. From this moment onward, she is to be granted immediate access to anything she desires including, but not limited to, my company.”

  His butler’s face blanched at the thought of accepting a guest without prior appointment. “Immediate access . . . After eight o’clock?”

  “Immediate access immediately. Regardless of the hour.” Benedict turned from Coombs to address the rest of his staff. “Now then. Lady Amelia believes she has been invited to offer suggestions regarding certain resource misallocations in the household.”