Charlotte and Daniel nodded in unison. “She did.”
“She is ever so good at it, my lady,” Charlotte said with only a seven-year-old girl’s appreciation.
A flurry of discussion ensued, led by Daniel and Jonathan, as to the best snow to be used for making snowballs.
Weston leaned over and said something to Charlotte. She nodded once and then her small fingers closed around the fork. She speared a piece of cold ham and proceeded to eat. He picked up his gingerbread. “I should be grateful you didn’t realize the extent of their mischievous ways until after you’d agreed to marry me,” he said wryly, waving the confectionery treat close to her lips.
“Are you bribing me, Weston?”
Gold flecks danced in his eyes. “It is a bit past a bribe now that you’ve wed the father of the troublesome pair. I would shower you with jewels and trinkets instead to show my appreciation for your wedding this marquess at Christmas.”
“I don’t require jewels and fripperies.” With a smile she plucked the gingerbread from his fingers. “Surely you have realized the truth by now.”
He lowered his head, his lips so close they nearly brushed her ear. “The truth?” Warmth spiraled through her being at his nearness, heated her blood, and set her ablaze from the inside out just thinking of becoming his marchioness in every sense of the word.
She turned and touched a finger to his lips. “I would marry this marquess any day of the year.”
The End
Coming October 25, 2016 by Montlake Publishing: “The Rogue’s Wager”, Book One in Christi Caldwell’s brand new Sinful Brides series!
The Sinful Brides features ravishing tales of London’s gaming hell rogues—and the women who love them.
MORE IN THIS SERIES
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love
A Marquess for Christmas
Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BIOGRAPHY
Christi Caldwell is the bestselling author of historical romance novels set in the Regency era. Christi blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My Love,” for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set aside her notes and try her hand at writing romance. She believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections and rather enjoys tormenting them before crafting a well-deserved happily ever after!
When Christi isn’t writing the stories of flawed heroes and heroines, she can be found in her Southern Connecticut home chasing around her feisty five-year-old son, and caring for twin princesses-in-training!
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THE ART OF KISSING BENEATH THE MISTLETOE
TANYA ANNE CROSBY
PROLOGUE
SHROPSHIRE, DECEMBER 1823
“Ben!”
The single word was, indeed, a rebuke, but rather than hold in its timbre any true censure, it was gentle, forbearing, and filled with good humor.
“You simply cannot go about dangling mistletoe from your greasy fingertips,” she said. “Tis… unseemly.”
“Why not?”
“No respectable lady will ever accept such a rude proposition—most certainly not your precious Amanda.”
Alexandra Huntington had known Benjamin Wentworth for most of his life, and despite that he looked like a man, at sixteen, he was hardly more mature than a five-year-old—mischievous and easily bored, endlessly seeking the mysteries of life in a bowl of Plum Pudding. In response, he turned his top hat over, careful not to allow the contents to spill onto her mother’s carpet.
“This,” he said, “is a hat—H.A.T.” He assumed the tone of a staunch professor. “Fingers…” He wiggled his digits in front of her. “…have an entirely dissimilar sort of form, like this,” he said. “You must really learn this if you intend to depict them.” He tried to peek at her sketch, and she shielded it from him, rolling her eyes.
“Really, Ben. I am not drawing any part of the human anatomy.” She lowered her nose to her sketch book, trying desperately not to notice that impish twinkle in his eyes. “I am attempting to represent something else entirely.”
“What’s that?” he asked with a note of disdain. “Flowers?”
Alexandra twisted her lips into a grimace, and her delicate brows pinched in disapproval. “Perhaps,” she said.
A lifetime of watching Ben tease his sister for her bluestocking tendencies had taught Alexandra to keep her own predilections well hidden. And it wasn’t merely Ben she had to worry about. She daren’t ever flaunt her passions for fear that her mother and father would empty their bookshelves. According to her father, it was not within a woman’s purview to trouble her pretty head with matters of academia. And, according to her mother, there were more important matters to be concerned over—namely, the full and tireless pursuit of making certain one was not left upon a shelf. Although Alexandra did know a few fortunate young ladies whose fathers had agreed to allow them tutors or private schooling, she was not one of them, and the closest she might ever come to any particular scholarship was through her friendship with Claire. However, despite that Claire’s father and mother had been quick to allow their offspring to do whatsoever their hearts desired, Ben was not quite so merciful with his sister.
Yes, indeed, she was drawing flowers, but it was not for the reason Ben might suppose. She had a keen interest in botany and horticulture, and someday, she desperately hoped to convince her father to build a proper conservatory.
But really, it wasn’t that she didn’t find such great delight in the thought of kissing Ben Wentworth, it was this: There was only one reason he was harassing Alexandra for a kiss, and it wasn’t at all because he loved her. And here was the hopeless dilemma: Lexie did love him.
Desperately, incontrovertibly, and without reason.
Silly though it might seem, she often dreamt about having Ben’s babies—all the while she sat listening to him prattle on and on and on about Amanda Butterfield’s soft, golden hair and her all-too-kissable lips.
“Flowers are boring,” he said in complaint.
“Go bother Claire.”
“She is reading.”
“So?”
“She will box my ears.”
Alexandra began shading a leaf. “And so will I.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will,” Alexandra said, trying very hard to ignore his diablerie, but it wasn’t easy. She returned to her sketch, reinforcing the serrated edges of her rose leaf. Sadly, this was supposed to be the Red Rose of Lancaster she was depicting, but you couldn’t tell its color shaded only with pencil. However, it didn’t matter, because unlike the White Rose of York, which was quite distinctly white, the Rosa Gallica Officinalis, the Red Rose of Lancaster, was really quite pink—as pink as her cheeks must be this instant, with Ben staring at her so intently. “Go away,” she demanded.