That night Prince Brad had just begun cutting into his beefsteak when the doors to the royal dining room opened and the frog hopped wearily in.
“Pardon me,” said the frog, “but I do believe you forgot your promise to me.”
There was a short silence from the royal family before the queen turned a gimlet eye upon her son. “Bradley, is this true?”…
—From The Frog Princess
Adam watched as Miss St. John’s eyes widened at his words. They really were rather lovely eyes—a light brown surrounded by thick, dark lashes.
He was playing with fire, he knew. He should’ve walked away from Miss St. John the moment he’d realized his hunger for her.
Instead he’d traded quips with her, badgered her into responding, and, worst of all, inhaled the scent of roses in her hair like a starry-eyed schoolboy who’d just discovered his cock.
Pathetic.
And now, to cap off his insanity, he was making plans to kiss her.
His mouth twisted in self-mockery as he turned away to sip his tea. Why else make the suggestion of a stolen kiss as prize? Surely he knew well enough his own wants and desires by now. After all, he was five and thirty and had lived a life of debauchery. He’d never given an unmarried lady reason to hope for marriage—or anything else—with him.
But the thing was that he enjoyed speaking with Miss St. John. Enjoyed the sting of her barbs and the way she looked so indignantly at him.
Were she already married or widowed…
There was a burst of laughter from the table, and Adam glanced up, realizing he’d missed something as he was musing.
“No, no, the ladies must choose their partners,” Charlotte St. John said. “I think it only reasonable.”
“But there’s four gentlemen to three ladies,” Lady Margaret pointed out. “Someone will have the advantage of an extra person.”
“Actually”—Kirby cleared his throat with a slight grimace—“I wonder if I might be excused due to rather painful chilblains on my feet.”
“Naturally, my lord,” Mrs. St. John said with a sympathetic smile to Kirby. “Perhaps you can help me in planning the placement of the decorations for the ballroom while the others go on their adventure.”
Kirby nodded, looking as if he were having second thoughts about forgoing the holly gathering. If he truly were interested in Miss St. John, he might’ve realized the holly hunt was a perfect opportunity to woo the lady alone.
Adam hid a smile as he took a bite of gammon.
“Youngest first,” Jane St. John proclaimed, either ignoring or not hearing her sisters’ dissents. “Let me see…” She took her time in examining Manning, Sir Hilary, and Adam. “I choose Dr. Manning.”
That gentleman glanced quickly at Charlotte St. John before smiling and bowing to Jane.
Charlotte St. John looked between Adam and Sir Hilary. Adam winked at her and she blushed a deep—and quite becoming—rose.
“Sir Hilary,” Charlotte St. John proclaimed.
“Honored,” her choice intoned.
“Oh dear, Miss St. John,” Adam murmured, turning to her, “it seems you are left with only me.”
She pressed her lips together, looking less than pleased.
Which caused her mother to hastily say, “I’m sure everyone is quite happy with their partners.”
“Let’s leave at once after breakfast,” Jane St. John exclaimed.
Which was how, half an hour later, Adam found himself trudging through calf-deep snow, the eldest Miss St. John stumping along mutinously beside him.
All around, the bare branches of trees and the evergreen boughs bore a thick frosting of snow. The sky was a crisp blue, and the new snowfall was pristine and lovely.
A true Christmas scene, Adam thought cynically.
He threw his head back, inhaling freezing air and exhaling it in a great white cloud. “Ah, how wonderful is the country air.”
Miss St. John glanced at him, her eyebrows so high in disbelief they disappeared into the fur-trimmed hood she wore. “I would never have taken you for a man who enjoys the country, my lord.”
“No? But then you don’t entirely know me, Miss St. John. As it happens I grew up in the country.”
“You did?” she gazed at him with the same amazement she would have worn had he declared he’d been raised on the moon.
“Indeed.” His lips twisted. “My family’s country estate is outside Bath. Close enough to London that I could venture there several times a year, had I the desire—which I most certainly do not.”
She knit her brows. “But…you must not have been on the way there with your grandmother when your carriage wrecked?”
“Oh no,” he replied carelessly. “Our destination was a cousin of my grandmother’s. A lady nearly as old as she and quite bad tempered. Grand-mère enjoys inflicting our presence upon her for Christmas and then arguing in a veiled sort of way for a month or so.”
“That…” She screwed up her lovely red lips. “That doesn’t sound nice at all.”
“It isn’t.” He shot a sideways glance at her, noticing how the lightly falling flakes of snow caught on her eyelashes. Her cheeks were a bright pink and her mouth was wet and red. Dear God, she was beautiful. “I generally hide in the library. The old girl has quite a good library.”
“The library?” she asked, as if he’d confessed to a taste for keeping newts. “I hadn’t thought you a reader, my lord.”
“And yet I am quite literate,” he replied. “Histories and plays, philosophy and the odd scientific tome. Even a novel every now and again. Will wonders never cease?”
The color rose in her cheeks, and she averted her eyes from him. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I meant no disrespect.”
He was about to brush aside her apology when the snow on a branch directly above her head picked that moment to fall.
Miss St. John’s head and shoulders were covered with cold melting snow.
For a moment she stood frozen in shock, her eyes wide and outraged.
Adam simply couldn’t help it.
He closed his eyes and laughed.
Loud and ringing in the still winter air, he laughed and laughed and laughed—
Wet snow was shoved unceremoniously in his face.
Adam sputtered and opened his eyes to the sight of a sodden harpy with two handfuls of snow lunging at him. He ducked.
She followed.
Her eyes gleamed with righteous rage.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Adam caught her and pulled her against his chest.
Sarah stared up into Lord d’Arque’s face, startled by his swift action. He’d wrapped his arms around her, and he held her tight against his broad chest.
As if he embraced her.
She inhaled and smelled mint and tea and something lemony, and her breath hitched.
“Do you concede the battle, Miss St. John?” he asked, his voice deep and slow.
“I…” He was so close.
And so big.
The snow fell forgotten from her mittened hands.
His eyes dropped to her mouth and his head bent toward hers.
Her heart started beating so fast she knew he must hear it.
“Over here!” The shout, coming from just ahead of them, drove them apart.
Lord d’Arque stepped back just as Jane walked out of the copse of trees. The doctor was a step behind her, carrying the basket that was meant to hold their holly.
Jane waved to them. “You had better hurry! We’re almost to the holly behind the thicket.”
She turned and disappeared around the trees, Dr. Manning trailing behind.
Sarah busied herself smoothing her skirts, suddenly shy. “We should continue on our way.”
Lord d’Arque gave her a look she couldn’t quite read and picked up the basket she’d dropped when she’d gathered the snow to attack him. “Lead on.”
She nodded, picking up her skirts and stepping through the snow carefully. “There’s more holly up ahead past the copse.”
He didn’t answer.
She inhaled, desperate for something to say. Her face was hot and she ached low in her belly. Had he been about to kiss her? Or was she merely imagining things?
She felt quite cross for a minute. Surely she didn’t want Lord d’Arque to kiss her? He was a rake.
And yet…
“Do you always decorate Hedge House for Christmas?”
“Yes?” She peered at him sideways. “It’s tradition. Don’t you bring in green boughs and holly at your houses—or at your grandmother’s cousin’s house?”
He had a strange little twist to his mouth. “My grandmother’s cousin isn’t one to make merry. She provides a feast and plenty of mulled wine, but that’s all. I don’t celebrate Christmas at my residences.”
She stopped. “Not at all?”
He shrugged. “I give a purse of money to each servant and direct the cook to serve them plum puddings and goose on Christmas. Besides that, no.”
“But why?” Sarah frowned as she attempted to step over a snow-covered log. Really it was much too big and she wasn’t sure she could straddle it. “I always loved the Christmas season as a child. We would have guests and games and puddings and—”
She broke off with a squeak as he wrapped his hands around her waist and simply lifted her over the log.
He set her down and arched an amused eyebrow at her.
“Thank you,” she said somewhat breathlessly.
“Not at all,” he drawled, turning to continue on their trek. “My own childhood Christmases were not so idyllic. There were no guests and no puddings.”
“Oh.” She studied him. Lord d’Arque seemed quite stoic about his lack of childhood Christmases. Except…he was such an expressive man usually, even if it was often in mockery. His very lack of expression now seemed most suspect. She cleared her throat and asked hesitantly, “Was there a reason your family didn’t celebrate Christmas?”
“Not an ideological one, certainly.” He gave her a sardonic glance. “I hardly hail from Puritans.” He faced forward again as they trudged on. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Both my father and mother had numerous affairs.”
Sarah blinked, feeling a little shocked. What did one say to such a confession?
But he didn’t wait for her response. “No, I think my parents were simply too caught up in their own battles and petty arguments to bother with Christmas.” He shrugged carelessly. “And then they died on Christmas Eve when I was thirteen.”
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Lord d’Arque continued for another few steps before realizing. He turned and looked at her.
What…what was she supposed to think of his story? She couldn’t feel sympathy for this man. She couldn’t.
And yet, staring at him standing in crystalline snow, the flakes blowing against reddened cheeks, his eyes unable to hide his sadness, she felt herself fall headlong.
He wasn’t just a rake. He was a man. A man with feelings—well hidden, but there all the same.
She licked her lips. “How did they die?”
He glanced away. “They had an argument. Yet another argument. My mother shrieked that she was running away with her lover. My father forbade her, even though he had mistresses of his own. She made to run from the house, but my father caught her at the top of the grand staircase.”
Sarah drew in her breath, not wanting to hear what came next, though it had happened long ago.
“They fell,” he said, his voice flat. “All the way down the staircase. My mother broke her neck and died instantly. My father broke both arms and also hit his head. He never woke up again, though it took him another week to die.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said with real regret.
He turned to her. “Why? It happened over two decades ago, and besides you never knew them.”
“Yes, but I know you,” she replied gently, “and I am sorry that such a terrible thing happened to you.”
He shook his head and whispered, “You are too soft, Miss St. John. If you’re not careful, someone may take advantage and pierce your vulnerable heart.”
She lifted her chin. “What makes you think someone hasn’t already?”