An Affair Before Christmas

“Future duchess,” he observed.



She leapt from her chair. “I’ll be off to my own chamber now.”



“Too late. You’re compromised.”



“In case you didn’t notice,” she said, “your heir is here as well. So who compromised me? Prepare your breach of promise suit, Your Grace.”



“I will,” he said, half under his breath. She whisked through the door and he reached out for his water glass. The water felt like a cool benediction on his tongue, sliding down his throat.



He was tired.



But he was alive.



So with his glass, he saluted the Child whose birth was about to be celebrated. “Thank you.”



It sounded odd, whispered in the room. No one was there but his sleeping cousin, no one but a decrepit duke and the trace of a woman’s perfume.



So he said it again, more loudly.



“Thank you.”



Off in the distance the bells continued their wild jangle, and the Duke of Villiers turned on his side and fell into sleep, a clean, healing sleep.



Chapter 54



Christmas Day



Poppy woke up blinking because the bedchamber was full of light—a hard, crystal sunlight. She walked to the window to find that at some point during the night it must have sleeted, because the soft mounds of snow had transformed into a shining, sharp world of icy crystals. Light skittered along the curve of icy-looking snowbanks. Ice coated every twig of the hawthorne and fell in great icicles from the eves of the south wing.



Christmas morning.



Ever since Poppy was small, she had always welcomed Christmas. Her mother rarely lost her temper on Christmas; it was a quiet but celebratory day. They would sit about and her mother would let her skip her three hours of harpsichord practice, and the hour with the song master and the hours dancing. She even watched as Poppy played spillikins, though she always refused to play herself. And they would have gilt-topped gingerbread men to eat, a trip to church with warm bricks at their feet, and finally a roasted peacock for dinner.



There was a sound of feet and then warm arms wrapped around her waist from behind. “Come back to bed,” said a sleepy voice.



“It’s Christmas,” she said.



“Let’s celebrate.”



“Not by that!”



“Why not?” He was nuzzling her neck, which was very sweet.



“Christmas is—Christmas is special,” she said, pulling away.



“You are special.” He reached out for her again.



“Fletch, it’s morning.”



He blinked at her. “So?”



She wiggled away. “It’s not only morning—it’s Christmas morning. All of that”—she waved at the bed—“it isn’t seemly for the morning.”



His expression darkened a bit. “What do you mean by seemly?”



“I couldn’t—” She stopped. It almost sounded as if she’d heard herself say this before. Her mind skipped back to herself, lecturing Fletch on the inappropriateness of openmouthed kisses on a Christmas some years ago.



He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.



“I can’t be French all the time,” she said slowly.



“I wouldn’t want you to be.”



“I won’t always feel like making love under a tree.”



“Not even behind the curtains?”



“No.”



He was grinning now. “I can live with that. Because there’s always the bed. Look at me, Poppy.”



She met his eyes.



“No—look at me.”



She started to blush. “It’s morning, Fletch! My maid will be here any minute.”



“She’ll either knock first or learn to,” he said. “Now look at me, Poppy.”



She started chewing on her lower lip, but she let her eyes fall below his neck. He wasn’t wearing drawers. His legs were long and very strong. It was those legs that plowed through the snow last night once he decided to carry her home. And his arms…she loved the way the muscles bulged in his forearms. He’d carried her all the way home as if she weighed no more than a feather. Poppy had nestled against his chest, her whole body boneless and soft and whispered things to him that she was fairly sure he couldn’t hear.



Plus, she liked the way his chest came down into a hard little series of valleys. There was a little arrow of hair. And there it was. Not that it could make her blush anymore. Still, her glance lingered in an affectionate sort of way. And even looking made her feel that melting surge of heat again.



“Well,” she said briskly, to cover up the fact that her knees felt a little weak, “I looked.”



“What did you see?”



“Are you looking for compliments?”



“Absolutely.”



She turned up her nose. “You look like a perfectly healthy male in your twenties.”



He took a step toward her. “Don’t I look like the person you love?”



Their eyes caught, but it was time for the truth. “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, John.”



“Like someone you married not just because your mother wanted you to?”



“I don’t think”—her voice caught—“I don’t think she had anything to do with it. Not really.”



“Like someone who will be there, beside you, every day for the rest of your life?”



She managed a wobbly smile at that one.



“Poppy, what did you think that Christmas was for?”



“Nibbling on gingerbread men?” she whispered.



“I’m your Christmas gingerbread man,” he said, just a quirk at the corner of his mouth betraying the fact he was laughing.



Poppy gathered herself together. “Are you saying that making love to one’s spouse on Christmas is seemly?”



He smiled at her as if she’d won the village archery contest. “I am.”



“And are you saying that making love in the morning is also seemly?”



“Yes. If not vitally important.”



“And that”—and she had to say this one slowly, because it was so important—“that you won’t lose interest in making love to me if I don’t act like a Frenchwoman?”



“And I don’t want to have to drag you out under a tree all the time either.” He tilted up her face. “Don’t you see, Poppy? I love you. I loved you enough to give up sex because you didn’t like it. Now that you do like it…well, I’d like to do it anytime you’ll let me. Under a tree, sure.With a French accent, mais oui. But snuggling in the bed with my oh-so-English wife, after she gives me a lecture on flying squirrels’ toes, always.And for our whole life. So will you, please, come back to bed now?”



There were tears in her eyes. “I think,” she said softly, “that I would like to marry you.”



“You are married to me.”



“I married a duke,” she said. “I would like to marry you. My John, who happens to be a duke.”



He swept her up in his arms. “Perdita, will you marry me?”



“Yes,” she gasped.



“Good. Then let’s seal our engagement.” He swept her off toward the bed and then said, “Are you going to protest?”



She shook her head.



He deepened his voice to a silly imitation of a preacher. “It’s most unseemly for unmarried people to make love.”