He shifted in his chair but found it difficult to retain a word she said tonight, because he could not stop wondering if he had made an error. For the past months, he believed these nightly meetings were to make sure of his daughter’s happiness, never realizing he might just be stealing time to be alone with a companion for himself.
Gods, he was an old fool.
And a nervous one. He shifted to sit on the front edge of the desk as she continued on without a clue to what he was really thinking about her. He had to admit the more he watched her talk, the hungrier he became for a taste of her lips.
It was probably a mistake to wish, to hope, that he might not be rebuffed should he try to kiss her. It had been an eternity since his wife’s death and years since he’d indulged in any sort of romantic affair. Fearing he was staring, he fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, and touched something else.
He withdrew his hand. “Devil take it!”
“Your grace?”
“Oh, um. Forgive me. It’s mistletoe. Again.” He stared at the cutting, wondering how and when he’d been gifted with this mischief-maker. “I…”
He looked at Gillian Thorpe. She had been the last person to stand close to him. She was the last woman to be in his arms in fact, aside from Jessica. The woman turned her face away, but he caught a glimpse of her cheeks reddening.
“If there is nothing else, I’ll take my leave,” she whispered.
Gillian Thorpe had planted mistletoe on him and was now too shy to go through with it.
“Actually,” Nicolas said as he held the mistletoe over her head. If she wanted a Christmas kiss, who was he to say no? “There is one thing. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Thorpe.”
He leaned forward slowly, giving the woman time to flee should she have changed her mind about kisses. When she simply stared at him, eyes wide, he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers. He kissed her very softly, slowly nibbling until she sighed.
Gillian leaned into him, her hand rose to touch his jaw, and then she teased her finger into his hair.
Nicolas went up in flames.
He captured her face, drawing them dangerously close together. Their simple mistletoe kiss became so much more than he was ready for, so very quickly. He had his tongue in her mouth, his palms sliding toward her breasts, before he came to his senses.
He broke the kiss to apologize, panting hard. “Forgive me, Mrs. Thorpe. I have forgotten myself.”
She stood slowly, gripped the back of her chair and, without looking at him, nodded. “Goodnight, your grace.”
“Until tomorrow, Mrs. Thorpe.”
It was not until she was gone that he could breathe properly.
Dear God. His cock was as hard as an iron spike from that one single kiss.
What the devil was he to do now? He did not really regret that kiss. It had been so long. He’d enjoyed it and believed, aside from a little embarrassment afterward, she had too.
He raked his fingers through his hair, uncertain of whether he needed to apologize or not. And now that he’d kissed her sweet lips, how was he supposed to resist wishing to do so again?
Chapter 4
Gillian peered outside, watching Jessica and Mrs. Warner walk the snowy gardens with Lord James. She was vastly annoyed. She had been duped into leaving the room, returning to discover Mrs. Warner had taken Jessica outside without inviting her to go along, too. The duke would not be pleased if she was negligent of her duties. Of course, Mrs. Warner was certainly a suitable chaperone, but Gillian believed her utterly biased toward Lord James’ likely suit.
“Ah, there you are, Mrs. Thorpe,” the Duke of Stapleton exclaimed.
“Good morning, your grace,” she murmured trying not to blush.
He smiled softly as he drew near. “How fortunate I am to find you in this out of the way spot. Were you waiting for me?”
Gillian blushed deeply. She was outside his study door, so of course it might look that way to him. They had kissed after all. He might imagine she’d want to do so again.
Judging by the way he regarded at her now, he wasn’t concerned she might be dangling after him. Which she wasn’t. She desperately wished he would forget they had kissed. “I assure you it was not intentional. I wanted to see if the weather outside had cleared enough for a short walk. Oh look,” she said quickly, “there is Mr. Whitfield at last, joining your daughters for a stroll about the grounds.”
“I sent him out to put a stop to my daughter’s rather transparent attempt at matchmaking,” Stapleton promised as he brushed against her side. “Forgive me for teasing you today. I know you are the model of propriety.”