All I Want for Christmas...is you Read online

  All I Want for Christmas…is you

  Gayle Eden

  Copyright © 2007-2009 Gayle Eden

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The right of Gayle Eden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Air Castle Books at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition

  Chapter One

  “Good evening, milord.”

  “Happy holidays, milord.”

  “Lord Bennington.”

  “Lucas…”

  “Moncrief...”

  The Earl of Moncrief, Lord Lucas Bennington nodded and touched the brim of his beaver hat, hearing those greetings a dozen more times before he made it from the coach to the club. Once there, he did it all again and again, absent the caped great coat and hat he’d removed, before finally sinking down in a chair, taking a brandy from a passing server and muttering, “It has begun, hasn’t it, Radcliff?” then downing the drink.

  His friend Jerome Radcliff grunted and drawled, “You garner such respect year round, Lucas, 'tis just at Christmas time, what with the guest lists to balls and assemblies making or breaking some hostesses rep for the rest of the year, they are all vying for you at the same time.”

  “I’ll be damned if I know why.” Lucas signaled another brandy and lit a cheroot, his longish raven hair sliding forward as he tossed the Lucifer into a dish and nodded to the server, taking up the second sniffer.

  “Don’t you?” Jerome smiled lazily, his sable brow lifting. “You may have considered yourself off the lists years ago, but you still have a title and fortune, a reputation as an astute man of business, and blue blood runs through your veins. Unlike me, whose ancestors diluted the lines a bit—you are a man of esteem and reputation.”

  Lucas grunted and blew a stream of smoke, his violet eyed gaze going over the lanky and relaxed Jerome, who was six years his junior at only thirty. Though the thirty six years wore well on Lucas, who had only a few sprinklings of distinguished silver in his raven mane, and whose high cheek bones and aristocratic handsomeness had drawn comments in his younger days, he knew that feeling of being in another category, the category of older and out of the game gentleman, who had their nose to the grindstone during their prime years, trying to save the family fortune from the recklessness of the generation before him.

  Jerome was not even titled, though wealthy, and only Lucas knew that the whispers and rumors that Jerome was a bastard were true, he still could reach out and grasp whatever he wanted in life, whereas Lucas saw that it was too late for him.

  “Are you attending the Fairchild’s ball?” He asked eyeing Jerome’s undone neck cloth and rumpled shirt, which likely scandalized the elder lords at the club. But then, Jerome tried his best to do just that.

  “Of course.” Jerome glanced at him and raised his half-full glass, his mouth holding a laconic smile. “I have a wager on the Carlyn beauty being the belle of the ton this year. No sure bet, that. However, this season appears to have presented a crop of lovely fillies, a hundred beautiful, single females. It always amuses me to watch the lordlings run after them like a pack of wolves.”

  “At least they have marriage in mind.”

  “Um. Sniffing fortunes instead of skirts… ‘Tis unnatural.” Jerome chuckled low. “I let them wed them at least, before I bed them.”

  Lucas shook his head, grinning, though he knew well enough that women sought out rakes like Jerome as lovers. He looked away and around the tables at the mix of peers, many old widowers and bachelors, puffing clouds of cigar smoke to hang in the air, and drinking port. God, do not let that be me next year.

  “I suppose I must attend.”

  “You must,” his friend said. “If nothing else but to join me in the card room. You know I cannot abide those sorts of things beyond an hour.”

  Lucas laughed. “Ah. I see. Well, I shall of course oblige, if only to relieve you of bit of that useless fortune you throw around.”

  There followed the usual back and forth, the kind of ribbing friends will do. Though they were in many ways opposite, in one thing they were very similar, their feelings about the ton and the fickle oft shallow ways of the society they moved in.

  After an hour of conversation, Jerome unfolded himself and stood, casting Lucas a glance before he departed and saying, “It is nice, my friend, when you do not take your life so seriously. If I did not know that you had at least kept a mistress in your prime, I would call you a monk, so seldom do you relax that aloof and intimidating reputation of yours, and amuse yourself.”

  Lucas merely smiled wryly and nodded, watching him leave and then swiftly following, nodding, bowing, doing the whole formal leave taking again, before he made it out of the rooms, on the street, and into his coach.

  He arrived in Upper Brook Street and his townhouse, stepping inside and shedding his coat and hat, the scarf, groaning mentally as his butler, Cubbage gestured to the overflowing tray of calling cards and invites.

  “They have come steadily all morning, m’lord. Shall I put them with the others?”

  “Yes. Please, Cubbage. Just dump them on my desk. I’ll go through them later.” He headed up the stairs and to his rooms, where his valet Feyer had already laid out his formal black and white.

  “I’ve ran your bath, sir.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see to the rest, Feyer.” He was tugging off the neck cloth as he waved off the slender man.

  “Very good, sir.” The man turned on his heel and left.

  Lucas tossed the neck cloth and his jacket on a chair, removing his collar as he walked to the tall windows in the sitting room, which set in the center of the upper apartments, between his bedroom and the bathing chambers.

  As he noted the first minute flakes of snow trickling down, he also observed all the elaborate doors of his neighbors. The rows of mansions across the street had wreaths and bows, the trappings of holiday décor. As did his own, though he could not say if there were bows, bells or holly, because he had been in a distracted mood, since the New Year meant another year added to his age.

  A coach churned up the street, squeezing between the many closed carriages and hacks going to and fro. The public vehicles sporting red ribbons on the lanterns, bridles with bells jingled merrily. He undid his shirt and pulled out the tails, feeling a tinge of envy for Jerome and his peers. If he had it to do over, he would have taken into consideration what his life was going to be like when his fortune and future was secure, and there was nothing left but to live.

  However, he had missed his chances, and there were a dozen young and wealthy lords for every deb and unmarried on the mart. He was out of the race before it started. Raking his hand though his hair, Lucas turned away and went to the bathing room, stripping down to his swarthy, broad shouldered, and still muscular frame, and easing into a large steaming tub.

  He went under the water and emerged, slicking his hair back and laying a moment in that preoccupied muse, trying and failing to recall the mistresses and affairs, the sexual trysts he fit in between his busy hours. He did not consider time then, in context of what the future would look like. Just as he did not realize that
every hard-earned success and every ounce of respect he’d gained, may work against him in some aspect of his existence.

  He had everything that he had been determined to achieve, wealth, preserving the holdings, estates, and investments, a reputation that was taken seriously. Nevertheless, what he had missed and what passed him by now, was so glaringly apparent.

  Almost two hours later, he stood by that window again, dressed formally in snug black trousers and polished Hessians, white shirt and cravat, a formal black coat. His shoulder length mane tied in a que, which threw his aquiline features in prominence, marking that blue blood that Jerome loved to tease him about.

  He enjoyed another cheroot while watching the congested vehicles carrying titled and gaily dressed guests to a dozen balls. The Fairchild’s being the coveted one, for the duke and duchess’s gatherings, particularly during the holidays, was the place to be.

  He looked down at the cheroot, sighed and then walked over to toss it in the fireplace, before gathering his lined cape and hat, and heading down the stairs. May as well get the bloody thing over with, he thought. One good thing about having gained the rep he did, one did not have to appear gay, cheerful, and gushing. He may even manage some amusement via Jerome’s observations whilst at cards. The dear boy did have a way with words.

  * * * *

  The Fairchild’s ballroom was a mad crush. The orchestra played from the greenery swagged balcony twenty feet up. Around the marbled floor was scarcely a path to traverse, even in such a massive room. Chandeliers sparkled down on richly gowned and bejeweled females, their male counterparts in everything from conservative black to more flamboyant brocades and wine red. The champagne flowed, laughter, talk, the scents and sounds of London’s cream de la cream at their merriest, filled he air.

  Lucas had long since done the gauntlet of receiving lines, and bowed and kissed hands, looked at faces that were familiar blurs as he saw them daily, every season, for too many years. New faces, young debs and fresh bucks, it was as if they swelled and grew in number and nothing changed save the fact those who wed or engaged from the seasons before.

  He did not see Jerome as yet, and found a space by one of the pillars beside an area arranged with a green velvet setae and table. The table sufficiently cluttered with holiday berries, ribbons, and topiaries of scented cinnamon and mint. The decorating of trees for the holiday was certainly embraced by the Fairchild’s, for there were several around with everything from white ribbon and doves to sparkling gold and red stars. It was one week before Christmas and it was snowing out. He tried to recall what he had done differently for the past fifteen Christmases, and could not.

  As his gaze was moving idly around, his shoulder against the pillar and his spot hopefully, affording him a respite, from being socially energetic, which took on a somewhat frantic tone at these things where the loftiest titles and noble faces were won’t to be common. Lucas looked past and then back at his right, where in the corner stood the groups of bluestockings, wall flowers, and old maids, as well as the overlooked, who were normally distinct simply by the fact that among their company seemed to be turbaned dowagers, widows and lower ranked or non-titled.

  In contrast, the belles and fresh debs were in the center of the ballroom floor, being twirled in dance by eligible young bachelors, and some old ones with deep pockets. Their dance cards full and likeness of blond slender paleness, made it almost seem a result of selective breeding that produced so many fashionable and waif like gems, displayed in their best and smiling because of the number of anxious available partners.

  They were awaiting their turn like so many colts at the starting gate, wishing to impress the lady of choice enough to score a point ahead of their fellow contenders.

  As his gaze moved back, he sought and saw the female he had noted too many seasons, though she was only twenty and five now. Certainly, she was young compared to himself. Men were such fools, in Lucas’s mind. Those bucks who waited in line for those ton belles, when there were women like that in the same room.

  She stood with her gloved hand on the back of a chair which the rotund Duchess of Clyburn sat in. Her gown of gold velvet was unadorned though its deep V neckline and shoulder edging, minute, sleeves, and the simple lines, flattered her healthy figure. He noted from the first time he had seen her, some seven years ago, that deep wine red hair. It was done simply, drawn up and back with a few long s-shaped ribbons of it down.

  Lucas thought of that time he had passed her on Bond Street and been close enough to see her topaz eyes. She had met his for a split second and then looked away. It was enough to make him turn and watch her walk to the coach with her maid, distracted until someone bumped into his shoulder. He had discovered through some vague channel that she was the sister of twenty nine year old Bram Shyer, Viscount Brydon. The half sister, to be exact, and her come out at sixteen had been as quiet and as uneventful as succeeding seasons seemed to have been. He never heard her name again, and it was only at these crushes, the ones he made some short appearance, that he would see her again.

  He had thought back when she was that younger age, perhaps eighteen or so that time on Bond Street, that her time on the marriage mart would be short, for she had something unique in both her appearance and her apparent composure, that certainly drew his attention no matter how many new blue eyed blonds and wisps of feminine perfection were hailed year by year. He repeated that thought time again, those men were indeed fools, for never a hint nor sign of male interest showed itself.

  It was a habit for him to notice if she danced or if a male approached her, other than the Viscount, whom he had seen reach her side on occasion and speak to her, apparently in jest. For her attempts to resist smiling where another of those attractive things he’d filed in his brain. That slight upward pull of her dark peach lips, or the time she would bite the fuller lower one before hiding her mouth with her fan.

  Her half brother had no such problem with popularity he had heard. The handsome and golden haired, golden-eyed viscount was quite the ladies man and treated as some sort of delightful rogue by the ton in general. Though Jerome had said the man took it all in stride, apparently was of more substance but knew well the games and maneuvering of the ton, and let them think what they would.

  The brother was nowhere about. Lucas searched and found in memory that the old duchess was some distant kin, the one who had formally introduced her to society. She lived in her brother’s mansion, a few down from his own, and the only reason Lucas did not know more about her was that he realized at least six years ago, at thirty, that he was not on the track with those who were suited to a woman her age. He had long since concluded that his time had come and gone, and he’d not noticed it when it had been happening.

  Some aged gent came amid their group and spoke to her, then leaned down to exchange what looked like a loud conversation with the duchess. Even had the music and talk not been loud, the duchess’s hearing was less than perfect, so apparently was the elder males. Lucas saw Miss Shyer move her hand from the chair and lean down to speak to them, before she straightened and stepped away. She walked to a spot by the window, and one of her gloved hands lifted, smoothing up her nape, as if the heat and crowd or else the stillness of her required pose had made her tense.

  He had another feeling all together observing that movement. It seemed rather sensual to him, as well as her next when she closed her eyes rolled her head back for a second and then lifted her lashes, looking around as if making sure no one had observed her show of strain. It was well known, all those silly rules that dictated poise and gestures, even in a crush this thick. Moreover, he gotten the idea observing her at other times that she found the strictures tiresome.

  Those movements weren’t the first time Lucas has equated sensuality to a woman who had an average handsome face, yet vivid eyes and hair, softly molded mouth and a slim nose. Her height was around five feet and five inches, her body fuller than fashion, but the way she moved and carried herself and the tops of her b
reasts displayed in low cut, fashionable gowns, it certainly captured his attention.

  There had been a time at the theater he had seen her in the Viscount’s box, again dressed simple and yet elegant in black silk. A time when she’d closed her eyes like that during a stirring piece and her chest had rose and fell, as if she were feeling the passion of it. Another still, when he had been riding his stallion in the park on a hot summer evening, and went off the path among the trees to speak with Jerome, and she’d came cantering up with a party and halted whilst they talked with another.

  That time he had seen her obviously not engaged in the others conversation. After she’d looked around idly, she had taken a hanky from her sleeve and pat her nape with it before wiping round the front of her habit between the lapels. It had been a slow series of movements that were nothing and everything, since he’d imagined her dew moistened skin, imagined his mouth gliding over her nape and down between her breasts, before his friend’s nudge had brought him back to the present.

  Lucas looked away now, over the crowd and mentally shook himself even while he observed more arrivals crowding in and gliding down the entry stairs. Already the numbers were in the hundreds and it was yet early. He should find the card room while there was a foot of space to navigate in any direction. Yet his violet gaze moved back to the woman he would prefer to look at, rather than the hundreds of her sex in attendance.

  He was so used to observing her, unobserved, so used to having his private thoughts for years about her, that when he realized she was looking across the way at him—he almost thought he was imagining it.

  He was not.

  For some suspended moments, that faded the music and noise of the ballroom back into oblivion, Lucas did not have to be closer to see those golden eyes he’d seen up close on Bond Street that day, the lashes darkened as was fashion and rimming the tawny color so that they seemed shimmering and feline. Though he kept his posture relaxed, in truth his whole frame was tight. His heart slammed harder and blood seemed to move under his skin like a quickening.