Cecil drew away, and she felt bereft.
“You know how I feel about the peerage and its unfair privileges,” he said stiffly. “I don’t want the title, but it will be mine until I die. I’ll be responsible for a sizeable estate and all the tenants and other dependents. I can’t escape it—at least, not honorably.” His voice was distant and strained.
“No, you can’t,” she assured him. “You mustn’t shirk your responsibilities.”
“Perhaps I can do some good as a peer,” he said, as if he didn’t believe it.
She watched him, trying to understand what was wrong. “You can—and must. It’s your obligation.”
“Precisely.” He swallowed. “This evening you swore, loudly and publicly, to marry a mere mister. You have your own code of honor. If you feel obliged to change your mind about me…” He choked on the words. “I’ll understand.”
“You are a mere mister.”
“For now.” He gazed at his hands, which trembled slightly. “I understood your statement to be in the nature of an oath—something about dying in a ditch rather than marry a peer. In other words, a promise to adhere to a principle, come what may.”
“What nonsense! I spoke in anger. I didn’t mean it literally.” She caressed the frown from his forehead. “My code of honor is not stupidly rigid like a gentleman’s.”
He let out a long, slow breath. “Darling Dorothea. Will you marry me for better or for worse, even if worse includes a title?”
She put her arms around him. “Yes, Cecil, I will. I love you, and I would never let something as nonsensical as a title get in the way of love.” She smiled ruefully. “And it will make my mother happy. Christmas will be festive after all.”
“Starting now.” He scooped her up and deposited her on the bed, then flung the coverlet after her. He made short work of his shirt and cravat, stockings and breeches, and peeled his smallclothes down. She gazed at him, enchanted. He was definitely ready for her.
He grinned and climbed next to her, pulling her into his arms. “My sweet, my darling.” He slid his hands under the nightgown to fondle her breasts.
She moaned with pleasure and soon was as naked as he, reveling in the heat and slide of skin against naked skin. They shared hot kisses and intimate caresses, until at last he entered her with a few tender pushes and a fierce thrust. “I love you so much,” he whispered.
She throbbed and ached with pleasure. “We’re joined. We’re one.” She laughed. “And we’re being unwise.”
“But not dishonorable,” he said. Together, with murmured promises of love, they celebrated the arrival of Christmastide.
The End
About Barbara Monajem
Winner of the Holt Medallion, Maggie, Daphne du Maurier, Reviewer’s Choice and Epic awards, Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at eight years old about apple tree gnomes. She published a middle-grade fantasy when her children were young, then moved on to paranormal mysteries and Regency romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes (or vice versa). Regency mysteries are next on the agenda.
Barbara loves to cook, especially soups. She used to have two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding (because it was too weird to resist) and to succeed at knitting socks. She managed the first (it was dreadful) but doubts she’ll ever accomplish the second. This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.
You can find details of her work at
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MEET ME AT THE MISTLETOE
~ Book 4 of The Matchmaking Earl Series ~
by
DONNA CUMMINGS
After years of pleasurable but temporary pursuits, Desmond Mayfield enlists his friend, the Matchmaking Earl, to find his perfect match, never dreaming he’d find a love to rival his parents' legendary romance. Then he meets a temptress so enchanting, the very idea of letting her slip away is too dreadful to consider. But while Desmond may have fallen fast and hard, his Siren is determined to allow only a brief holiday affair, unwilling to risk a repeat of her previous loveless union.
It will take all the mistletoe Desmond can find—and all the kisses they afford him—to convince her that theirs is a passion to last through every season.
Chapter One
Desmond Mayfield set his brandy on the table next to him. It had been quite some time since he had enjoyed the quiet of his London club, but a chance meeting with his friend Martin, Lord Hartstone, had convinced him to while away a few hours there.
It was a bit serendipitous, actually, since Martin's assistance was precisely what was needed in the upcoming holiday season.
"Are you still acting as a matchmaker?"
Desmond tried to make it sound as though he were teasing, masking his genuine reason for the question.
"I suppose I am," Martin answered with a chuckle. "Though too often it has been more inadvertent than intentional. My last attempt came perilously close to being a disaster. Fortunately, it all worked out in the end."
Desmond glanced around, as if perusing the wood-paneled room, but actually intent on determining if anyone were near enough to hear him. Fortunately, every member in attendance was seated at a distance, engaged in conversation with other gentlemen, or consumed with the newspapers they were reading.
Still, Desmond leaned closer before saying, "Perhaps I could enlist your services."
Martin's eyebrows flew upwards. "What need do you have of a matchmaker? By all accounts, your days and nights are filled with attentive females."
"I always suspected you were a fan of the scandal sheets—"
"They are certainly a fan of you," Martin snorted.
Desmond shrugged, his lips twitching. "It is time to give them someone else to speculate about for a change." He added casually, "It would also demonstrate you are not an accidental matchmaker. Assuming you are successful, of course."
"I am tempted to consider your proposition, just for the challenge it would provide."
"You would become the newest darling of the scandal sheets overnight. The Prince Regent himself will wish to seek out your services."
Martin cackled as he settled into the leather chair. "I have no interest in acclaim or the notoriety you are accustomed to. And Prinny's marital woes are well beyond my ability to resolve." His expression turned serious. "Is this newfound interest due to your father? That was a nasty spill he took recently."
"Of course it has nothing to do with him," Desmond fibbed. "He would run us both through if he thought we considered him frail, all because a horse got the best of him." He winked. "It would speed his recovery, though, if he believed I was finally heeding his advice about matters of the heart."