With a sigh, that made clear this was an onerous task, Jonathan put his fingers to her cheek and tipped her face to his.

Meg held her breath, which was unwise, because she was already a little giddy due to his closeness, and the dizzying scent of his cologne. She watched, breathless, as his head descended. She saw it then—just before their lips touched—his quirk of a smile. It warmed her heart.

And then everything warmed, because his mouth was on hers, delicious and velvety smooth. It send a shard of hunger and delight through her. It made her want in a way she had never wanted before.

Cold, bitter disappointment scored her as he pulled away, far too soon, but it was only to look into her eyes with an indecipherable expression…before he lowered his head again.

This kiss was deeper. Sweeter. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, against his firm, perfect form as he explored her mouth.

She was barely away of the cheers from the peanut gallery, her mind was so utterly consumed with the delirious sensations flooding her. Thank God he was holding her, or she might have melted to an ignoble puddle right then and there.

When he lifted his head for the second time, it was to stare at her with a quizzical expression she had no hope of understanding. But when he smiled at her, it was one of his teasing grins. The one a friend would offer in a mutually uncomfortable situation.

And oh, uncomfortable she was.

“Happy Christmas, Meg,” he said as he let her go.

Her soul wailed as he did, but she steadied herself by leaning against the wall, and trying desperately not to look at him like a mooncalf. “H-happy Christmas, Jonathan,” she murmured.

And then, with another “Good night” to the girls, he made his way to his rooms, without so much as a single glance back.

Clearly the kiss hadn’t meant anything to him.

Meg, however, was devastated.




CHAPTER 5




JONATHAN TRIED to maintain an indifferent demeanor as he walked away from Meg, but damn. That had been the most amazing kiss of his life. It had been all he could do to not lay her down on the carpet and take her there, right in front of his daughters.

Granted, he hadn’t kissed a woman like that for a long while. Since Tessa, probably.

It had been a long time since he’d even wanted to.

Of course, he hadn’t wanted to, this evening. Not particularly. He’d been goaded into it by his children. But now that he had, now that he’d tasted Meg, experienced the soft delight of her mouth… Hell, now it was all he could think about.

She’d always been a friend—a little sister—to him. He hadn’t thought about her in that way, most probably out of respect for his friend George. How had he never noticed how seductive she was? How sweet she smelled? How had he never truly thought about her as a woman?

Well, he was thinking about her as a woman now, that was for certain.

And then, there was the comment she’d made, about being too old to marry him.

What kind of nonsense was that? She was four and twenty. Hardly an old biddy, though she did kind of look old, in that baggy black frock she always wore. And her hair, up like that in a tight bun. Other than that one night when he’d found her with his children, it had been years since he’d seen it down. His fingers itched to—

“Your Grace.”

He stopped short, stunned to find Rodgers standing right before him. If his valet hadn’t spoken, he might have just plowed right into him.

He adjusted his cuffs. “Yes, Rodgers?”

“Two of your guests have arrived.”

“Really?” So early? Jonathan lifted a brow.

“Yes, sir. A Lord Mattingly and Lord St. Clare. They’re waiting for you in the billiard room.”

Ah, excellent. Drinking partners. Just what he needed to smooth off the rough edges his unexpected encounter with Meg had engendered. “Put them in the west wing, please. Near my chambers. I will go and join them now.”

Rodgers bowed and scuttled off to wherever valets went and, with a smile, Jonathan headed for the back of the house where his friends awaited him.


JONATHAN GRINNED as he entered the billiard room to see his friends, and Christian, stripped down to their shirtsleeves, engaged in a game of billiards. They’d been friends since Eton, and he really liked them all. He’d been delighted when Susana and Christian met and hit it off straight away. Also, it was nice to have another man in the family—one closer than Inverness, at least—to back him up against all the females, as it were. Although he’d discovered, if pitted between Jonathan and Susana, Christian always chose Susana.

As it should be, he supposed.

St. Clare was tall and thin with sandy blond hair with a hint of red in the sunshine, and Mattingly was muscular and dark. They both had a wicked sense of humor and shared Jonathan’s political leanings, which was always helpful in a friendship.

When they saw him, they all crowed a greeting and lifted their glasses.

“There he is,” Mattingly said, pouring a glass for Jonathan as well.

“Where’ve you been?” Christian asked.

Jonathan took a sip of excellent brandy. “Tucking the girls into bed,” he said, nipping at his tongue to keep from babbling the other bit. About the surprisingly scorching kiss with Meg.

Now that he was there, the others laid down their cues, and the four of them sat by the fire and got caught up. It hadn’t been long since he’d seen Mattingly and St. Clare in London, but they always seemed to have scintillating stories to tell. Indeed, they had Christian holding his sides in no time as they told a tale of a brawl in Whites last week between Peter Scofield and Reginald Busk over the debatable virtue of a known Cyprian. Love-triangles were always juicy fodder in the ton, and this one, apparently, was delighting gossips all over town. There had even been a threat of a duel.

Sadly, there had not been a duel. At least, not the pistols at dawn variety. But there had been a battle involving a half-full bottle of champagne and a napoleon—the cake, not the emperor.

“It was a damned waste of Chantilly cream, if you ask me,” Mattingly muttered, refilling his glass.

St. Clare nodded. “And champagne.”

Christian chuckled. “An appalling waste.”

“But you should have seen it,” Mattingly said. “Scofield dripping wet.”

“And Busk, sputtering, all covered with cream,” St. Clare added with a snort.

And then the two of them were off again, laughing so uproariously that Jonathan and Christian had to join in, even though they hadn’t seen it.

There were other stories, not as funny, though. The four of them talked and drank—and smoked the occasional cheroot—for several hours. It was quite grand. And a welcome prelude to the party to come, though the party to come would never be so pleasant. Jonathan resolved to savor this moment with his friends, and remember it when he wanted to tear his hair out in the ensuing days.

But then Mattingly went and said something that completely ruined his mood.

“So tell us about this girl.”

A simple question. Surely not one that should cause such an uprising of bile from his gut.

Jonathan sipped his brandy. It tasted bitter. “Girl?”

“You know.” St. Clare slapped him on the shoulder. “The one you mentioned in the invitation.”

Mattingly fixed him with a somber gaze. “We’re both dying to know more about her. Especially if she comes recommended by you.”

“Indeed,” St. Clare said. “I’ve been looking for a wife for months now, and cannot bear any of those flibberty-gibbets the mamas are proffering this season.”

Mattingly grunted. “Mindless twits. Tell me she’s not mindless.”

“No. No, she’s not mindless,” he said, but it was through tight lips.

“Good.” Both of his friends grinned.

“Is she pretty?” St. Clare asked hopefully.

Jonathan shrugged. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel like talking Meg up. Not to these two. “She’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Christian blurted. “She’s gorgeous. Beautiful, intelligent eyes, lovely brown hair, and a face like a cameo—”

“Surely not like a cameo,” Jonathan muttered, but no one was listening to him. His friends had turned all their attention to Christian, who continued on, for far too long, singing the praises of Meg Chalmers. Over and over and over again until Jonathan wanted to scream at him to be quiet.

He couldn’t though. Couldn’t say anything.

And the damned irony of the situation was that he was the one who had welcomed these wolves to his door.

Judging from their expressions, they were going to eat Meg alive.

In a good way, of course. In a matrimonial way.

But Jonathan couldn’t still the unease in his belly or silence the howling of his soul at the thought of Meg choosing one of them. Marrying one of them.

Because then he’d have to pretend to be happy for them.

And that was a terrible prospect.


SOMETHING STRANGE and wonderful happened the next day.

Meg fully expected to be awakened early by Beth, the chamber maid. She fully expected to spend the day helping the dowager with last-minute disasters and preparations for their guests.

But no one came to wake her up.

When she finally roused, the sun was high in the sky and Susana was sitting in the chair by the window sipping tea. She shot Meg a brilliant smile.

“Oh dear.” Meg swiped the hair from her eyes. “I’ve overslept.”

Susana laughed, a glorious tinkle. “You deserved it. Besides, Mother wants you to be fresh for tonight.”

“Tonight?” she parroted, though she knew the itinerary quite well. Tonight was the welcome party. For the guests. Of which she was now one, apparently.

“The guests have already started arriving,” Susana said. For some reason there was a frown on her beautiful face.

“Have they?”

“Yes.” A snort.

“Susana, darling, whatever is wrong?” Meg knew she should rise from the bed, but it was so warm and comfortable, she just nestled deeper into the down.

“It’s them.”

“Them?”

“The women Mother has invited. I can only assume they are for Jonathan, but seriously, Cicely Peck?”

Yes, Cicely Peck had been on the list of invitations Meg had written. “Do you not like Cicely Peck?”

“Oh, she’s all right, I suppose. But not the sort I want as a sister-in-law.”

“One cannot always choose one’s in-laws.”

“How true that is. But Cicely?”

“Tell me about her.” She hadn’t been around in Meg’s season. She’d probably still been in leading strings then.

“Well, she’s beautiful.”

Lovely. Meg set her hand to her stomach, which, for some reason, had begun to churn.

“And she’s from a good family.”

“Yes. The Pecks.”

“But she’s…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Reptilian?”

Meg burst out laughing and sat up to eye her friend. “Tell me how you really feel,” she jested.

Susana flushed. “I don’t mean to be petty. There’s just something cold and predatory about her.”

“Jonathan isn’t a fool. He will never choose a woman who isn’t warm and sincere.”

“I know.” Susan sighed. “But women often see things in other women that men miss.”

So true. “Who else is here?”

“The Pickerings arrived early. The Mountbattens and the Evertons right after.” Meg nodded. She remembered those families from her season. “And of course, Jonathan’s friends Mattingly and St. Clare arrived last night.”

“Last night?”

Susana huffed. “Christian was up with them ’til all hours and came to bed sotted with brandy and smelling of cheroots.” She put out a lip. “I made him sleep on the divan.”

“Never say you make your husband sleep on the divan!”

“When he smells of cheroots, I do. I made quite clear this nonsense is not to continue.”

“I’m sure he’ll be on his best behavior, now that the party is underway.”

Susana smiled. “Yes. It is. And I cannot wait to get started on you.”

Meg boggled. “On me?”

“Oh yes, darling. Now get up. We have a lot of work to do before tonight!”


HAD she known what Susana had in mind, Meg might have run. Good lord. She’d forgotten how much work it took to prepare for a simple party. There was bathing and powdering and all manner of fiddling with her hair. Susana had brought her hairdresser, but she’d conscripted the dowager’s hairdresser as well because Meg needed to look absolutely perfect.

“Honestly,” she’d complained at one point when one hairdresser tugged her one way and the other another. “I think a simple bun will work.”

They were all—all three of them—horrified.

“A bun will not do,” Susana said. “Companions wear buns. You need an elaborate coif. Remember, you are angling for a high-ranking husband.”