One Wicked Christmas Page 2

  Cassandra relaxed just a bit. Now all she had to do was avoid him for the rest of the evening….

  She was there. Cassandra.

  Sir Ian Chandler managed to greet his friends, talking and laughing as he drank a glass of wine and studied the dancers, but the only thing in his mind, in his senses, was Cassie. She had disappeared into the swirling crowd, but he knew she was there. He forced down the raw urge to push through all the knots of people between them and grab her in his arms.

  He hadn’t seen her since that day they got caught in the rain and he gave in to the wild urge to kiss her. That need had plagued him for so long, driven hotter by the smell of her lilac perfume, her smiles, the touch of her hand on his. Every time he saw her that need grew, made him more insane.

  Cassie was his friend, his oldest friend’s widow. She relied on him, and he relied on those days when they were together, walking in the gardens, reading together, playing duets at the pianoforte. She was a wonderful, serene oasis in his rakish life, a place of light and sweetness he had come to crave. He had plenty of women eager to come to his bed; Cassie was different, apart from all of that. He shouldn’t want her that way.

  But he did want her. So very much. Especially after that taste of her.

  Afraid he had disgusted her, frightened her, he decided the best thing to do was to leave her alone for a time. So he took himself off to Bath, putting up with his sister’s matchmaking efforts, dancing at the assembly rooms, playing cards, drinking the foul water, trying to forget Cassandra. Yet she was still there—especially in his erotic dreams at night, when his sweet, dear friend was not so sweet at all.

  “Hello, Ian,” he heard her say softly behind him.

  For an instant he thought her voice was just another dream, but then her hand touched his sleeve. Even through the superfine fabric and the kid of her glove he could feel the warmth of her skin.

  Don’t be such a fool, he thought harshly. This is just Cassandra—your friend. Charlie’s widow.

  And the woman he wanted to be so much more than that.

  He turned and made himself smile at her, gently, affably. He couldn’t frighten her with the lustful turmoil that twisted inside of him. “Cassandra. You look lovely tonight.” And she did. Even in her subdued purple gown, with her dark hair drawn back in a simple knot, she outshone everyone else in the ballroom.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” she said with a tentative smile. “How have you been?”

  “Very well. Bath is very—wholesome.”

  Her smile widened. “That must have been a nightmare for you, then. You’re probably glad to be back in London.”

  He was glad, since it meant he could see her again. He studied her carefully, the slight blush in her pale cheeks, the wary light in her gray eyes. Did she remember that kiss? Did she hate him for it?

  His heart ached to think she could hate him. Yet she still smiled at him, and she didn’t move away from him.

  “I won’t be in London for long, I fear,” he said.

  “Oh? Are you spending Christmas with your sister’s family?” she asked.

  A hand traced over Ian’s, quick, insistent. He turned to see Melisande, Duchess of Gifford, smiling up at him slyly. “My dear, he is coming to my house party for Christmas,” she said. “Aren’t you, Sir Ian? You have already accepted, so you can’t say no now.”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed as he studied Melisande. They had been friends for a long time, often seeing each other at risqué house parties in the past, though she had never been his lover. She smiled at him now like the cat who got into the cream.

  And he had said he would go to her Christmas party, blast it. It had seemed like a good place to get on with the business of forgetting Cassandra.

  “Really?” Cassandra cried. “So am I! We will get to spend the holiday together.”

  “Isn’t that delightful, Sir Ian?” Melisande cooed. “Just one cozy little countryside Christmas.”

  Ian’s hand flexed into a fist. Delightful was the very last word he would use to describe it all.

  Chapter Two

  “A glass of mulled wine, my lady? It should be warming after such a chilly journey,” Melisande’s butler said, holding out his tray laden with silver goblets as Cassandra stepped into the foyer.

  “Thank you, Smithers,” she said. She handed her snow-dusted cloak to a footman and gratefully took a cup. The drink was still so warm it steamed, and it smelled of rich spices and fine red wine. It made her feel like Christmas had truly come.

  “Her Grace and the other guests are in the drawing room, my lady.”

  The other guests? Including Ian? She had been thinking about him being here ever since Melisande had said she invited him. “Am I the last to arrive?” she asked, carefully neutral. It was bad enough that she was so unsettled by all these new feelings for Ian, this missing him. It would never do if everyone else could see it, too.

  She especially did not want Ian himself to know, but she feared he probably did. He knew women all too well.

  “No, my lady. Her Grace is still expecting several others, I believe.”

  “The snow has probably delayed them,” Cassandra said. The flakes, so delicate and pretty, had begun falling halfway through her journey, until even warm bricks and fur-lined robes couldn’t keep the cold at bay. She hoped Ian wasn’t out there in it.

  But she also didn’t want to see him again just yet. Not until she could prepare herself.

  “I will just join the others, Smithers,” she said. She put her now-empty goblet back on the tray and made her way slowly through the foyer and along the corridor toward the drawing room.

  She had been to Melisande’s little manor house several times. It was not Melisande’s husband’s grand ducal seat, but her own cozy little pleasure place not too far from London for parties and gatherings. But Cassandra had never been there at Christmastime, and she made her way slowly as she marveled at the beautiful decorations. Swags of greenery tied with red bows looped around picture frames and hung from the plasterwork. Vases on their marble stands were filled with holly bouquets, and kissing boughs of branches and ribbons were in every doorway. Somehow the whole house even smelled like mulled wine, sweet and spicy and warm.

  She could hear the laughter from the drawing room even before the footmen opened the doors for her. It was already loud and merry, punctuated by carols from the pianoforte. I Saw Three Ships played slightly off-key, as if the musician had been dipping into the wine. Cassandra smiled at the sound. It had been so long since she enjoyed a Christmas! So long since she had had fun.

  And she intended to have a lot more fun before the holiday was over, if all went according to plan. She was going to leave the old, staid Cassandra behind.

  She smoothed her hair and her dark red carriage dress before she stepped into the room. Her gaze quickly scanned the gathering, but she saw right away that Ian was not among them.

  Lord Phillips, however, was there. He stood by the pianoforte, turning the pages for Melisande’s cousin as she banged out the song on the keys. He looked up at Cassandra’s entrance, and a quick, wide smile flashed across his face.

  Cassandra smiled back. Lord Phillips really was quite handsome, with his auburn hair and green eyes, his even, aristocratic features and easy smile. His shoulders were also rather broad and strong-looking under his well-tailored coat. He was easy to talk to, quick with a joke. He didn’t make her feel nervous when she spoke with him.

  Yes, he was a good choice to help her get back into the world of romance and flirtation. But…

  But he was not Ian. No one else was Ian.

  Ian doesn’t want you, she reminded herself sternly. Not in that way. That kiss, which had awakened so many things within her, had made him leave her. She couldn’t let that happen again. Having Ian for her friend was so much better than not having him at all.

  If only she could forget the way his lips felt on hers, the way he tasted, the way his hand slid over her skin.

&nb
sp; Cassandra shivered and gratefully accepted another glass of wine from the footman. Melisande rose from her settee across the room, where she sat with two of her admirers, and hurried over to greet Cassandra.

  “My dear! You are here at last,” she cried. “Isn’t this weather beastly? I hope the others arrive very soon.”

  “I am quite glad to be here,” Cassandra said, returning Melisande’s embrace. “The house looks so festive.”

  “We’ll have games of blind man’s buff and hide-and-seek later, and of course more carols, if someone can persuade my cousin to let someone else have a turn.” Melisande led her toward the cozy groupings of chairs by the blazing fire. “Now, Cassie, I have assigned you a chamber right across the corridor from Lord Phillips, and you will sit with him at dinner. It is all arranged. Now, you must be bold.”

  Bold? She felt like a scared little rabbit, peeking out of her forest hiding place for the first time. But it was past time for her to come out into the light again. She took a long sip of her wine and gave Melisande a determined smile.

  “Now, come and meet Mr. Evans and his wife, this is the first time they’ve attended one of my little soirees,” Melisande whispered. “I think they are a tiny bit nervous, though I cannot imagine why…”

  “Good afternoon, Sir Ian. Such a wretched day for a journey.”

  “Indeed it is, Smithers,” Ian said as he stamped the snow from his boots and slid out of his greatcoat. “I’m just glad I didn’t attempt to drive the curricle from Town.”

  Though trying to maneuver the little, high-perched open carriage through a sudden snowfall just might have been preferable to how he did spend the journey. Alone in a closed carriage as he thought about seeing Cassandra here. He had had a hard enough time controlling himself at the ball. Here, at one of Melisande’s famously romantic house parties…

  Ian shook his head hard. He would just have to try to stay away from her, to be polite and friendly, and not give in to the primitive urge to grab her in his arms and devour her delicious mouth all over again.

  “Her Grace and the other guests are in the drawing room, Sir Ian,” the butler said. “I’m afraid I must see to an emergency in the dining room, but there is wine and refreshments laid out in there.”

  “Thank you, Smithers. I know the way.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Once the butler was gone and Ian was alone in the foyer, he took a moment to make sure he looked suitably civilized before he faced Cassandra. As he shoved his fingers through his hair, pushing back the tangled strands, he glimpsed a chart laid out on a nearby table.

  It was the chamber assignments for the guests, neatly lettered cards with each person’s name slotted into a specific doorway. He was in the Red Room, he noticed. And Cassandra was in the Gold Room, at the opposite end of the corridor.

  “There you are at last!” he heard Melisande cry. “I was beginning to think you had gotten lost, Ian, darling.”

  Ian looked up to grin at her. “And miss out on one of your famous parties, Mel? Never.”

  Melisande laughed as she came to slip her hand around his elbow. “I didn’t think you would, but then again you have been acting so oddly lately. One never knows.”

  “Oddly?”

  “Hmm. So distant and serious, as if you had something quite weighty on your mind. Most unlike you.” She tapped her free hand on the chart. “Are you happy with your room arrangement?”

  “All of your accommodations are most comfortable, Melisande.”

  “Yes, I do want people to be—comfortable,” she said with a trilling laugh. “And you are quite near to Mrs. Raye. She was asking me about you last week. It seems she met you at the theater and was quite impressed.”

  “Mrs. Raye?” Ian asked, confused. He couldn’t even remember the lady. That wasn’t like him either. Another sign he needed to quit thinking about Cassandra. “I’m not really interested in any—activities this Christmas, Mel.”

  Her brow arched. “No? Darling, are you quite sure you’re not ill?”

  “Not ill. Just not interested at the moment.”

  She still watched him doubtfully. “Well, if you do change your mind, Mrs. Raye is in the Chinese Room just opposite yours. I have several little matchmaking schemes this holiday.”

  Ian laughed. “When do you not?”

  “You do know me well. But this time it is rather special, for a good friend who needs a little romance in her life. She had been alone too long.” She tapped at Cassandra’s card and then at the one on the chamber next to it. Lord Phillips. “A rather good match, don’t you agree?”

  No, he certainly did not agree. Ian scowled down at the cards. His hands curled into tight fists to keep from tearing them out. “You’ve matched Cassandra with Lord Phillips? That milque-toast?”

  “Yes. He rather reminds me of Charles, and she seemed happy with him. You were such friends with them when Charles was alive. Don’t you think this will work out well, darling?”

  Before Ian could make some furious answer, there was a discreet cough from the doorway. “Yes, Smithers, what is it?” Melisande said, turning away from Ian.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace, but something requires your attention in the dining room,” the butler said.

  “Of course,” Melisande answered. “Ian, darling, I will see you in the drawing room. Do talk to Mrs. Raye while you’re there.”

  Then she was gone and Ian was alone with the infernal chart. He stared down at it, so many things roiling around in his heart. Anger, jealousy, a strange possessiveness, and—fear? Fear that Cassie would find someone else. If she wanted an affair, a new romance, he could give her that—no one else.

  For an instant, an image flashed through his mind of Cassandra with Lord Phillips, his auburn head bent towards hers as she went up on tiptoe to meet his kiss. And, damn it all, Ian knew just how her kiss would taste, knew the soft little sound she would make in her throat. How her arms would feel as they twined around his neck.

  And by Jove, but he couldn’t let Phillips or any other man have that from her. A primitive, raw surge of sheer possessiveness deep inside of him swept away all the very good reasons he knew he should not be with Cassandra.

  He reached down and switched out his card with Lord Phillips’s. Now all he had to do was to keep Melisande from checking it before the others got their chamber assignments, and then take the next step in his plan.

  Chapter Three

  Cassandra took a deep swallow of her glass of brandy and stared at herself in the dressing table mirror. It was like looking at a stranger, not the woman she had been all her life. Her dark hair fell in loose curls over her shoulders, clad in a filmy new blue silk dressing gown, and her eyes were feverishly bright. Whether with excitement or fear she wasn’t quite sure.

  She took another gulp of the brandy, grateful for its warm bite at the back of her throat. She almost never drank, but she needed its courage tonight. “You can do this,” she said aloud. “You can.” People had romances every day. Why shouldn’t she?

  Lord Phillips had certainly seemed to like her very much when they talked at dinner, and then after when they sang carols with the others. He had paid her compliments, smiled—touched her hand under the table. He was handsome and seemed kind. Patient. Just what she needed.

  But she hadn’t been able to stop stealing glances along the table to where Ian sat. He had seemed so serious tonight amid the holiday merriment, his eyes full of shadows. It made her long to go and sit with him, to touch his arm and beg him to tell her what was wrong. To just be with him, far away from this party, to be Ian and Cassandra again. To kiss him and feel him kiss her back.

  Then he had glanced up and caught her staring at him, a frown flickering over his brow. He smiled back at her when she made herself smile at him, but there was no teasing glint there to make her laugh as there usually was. And then he turned away from her.

  Cassandra’s fingers tightened on her glass, and for an instant she had the mad urge to go to Ian instead o
f Lord Phillips, to make him talk to her again. But it was obvious he didn’t want her after that kiss. She had to forget about him.

  She quickly swallowed the last of her brandy. Along with the wine from dinner and the claret punch of the carol-singing, it gave her a dizzy sort of courage. She could do this. She tightened the sash of her dressing gown and marched to the door.

  She peeked out carefully before she stepped into the corridor. Earlier she had heard many stealthy footsteps creeping past, the clicks of doors opening and hastily muffled giggles, but the hour was quite late now and everything was quiet. The candles in the wall sconces sputtered low, casting flickering shadows on the silk wallpaper and the flowered carpet runner. A low moan sounded from behind one of the doors.

  Cassandra almost turned and ran back into her room. Don’t be a coward, she told herself sternly. She was lonely, she wanted romance in her life. She just had to go and find it.

  Even if it was not with the man she really wanted.

  She tiptoed over to the door of the Blue Room, where Melisande said Lord Phillips was lodged and where he was expecting her. Carefully, she tested the brass handle, which turned easily in her hand. Everything was dark over the threshold, except for one bar of snow-silvery moonlight that fell from the window across the foot of the bed.

  “Be brave,” she whispered. She slid into the room and softly closed the door behind her. She leaned back against it for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the shadows. She could see the looming shapes of a wardrobe and dressing table, the flicker of a dying fire in the grate, the large, satin-draped bed.

  The figure lying under the rumpled blankets, turned away from her on his side.