It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella (9 page)

“One, two, three,” she whispered.

She took two steps into the darkness, pressing her back against the far wall. No need to light a candle. She wouldn’t be here long.

“Four, five, six.”

She braced her hand against the cabinet behind her. Hmm. What was the most likely location of the servants’ staircase and how might she get there the most expediently?

“Seven, eight, nine.”

What was that noise?

“Ten.”

The door cracked open and just before the room was plunged into total darkness again, Oliver Townsende’s face came into focus.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Had he seen her?

Cerian’s heart pounded in her chest so loudly she was certain Oliver would hear.

She’d been back in the shadows. She’d seen him from the light in the hallway, but had he seen her? He moved then, coming toward her, she could tell by the shuffling of his feet on the floor and the intoxicating scent of him moving closer. He bumped into something and cursed lightly under his breath.

Cerian pressed her lips together tightly. He was searching for the candle, she realized with a sinking feeling in her middle.
The candle that was perched in a stick directly behind her in the cramped space
. Oliver grunted as he knocked into something else and Cerian covered her smile with her hand a moment before realizing how entirely unnecessary that action had been. She held her breath, not daring to breathe, lest he hear her.

Could she somehow move the candle out from behind her? Hand it to him perhaps? Oh, yes, because a candle floating in the middle of thin air would raise no questions. She bit her lip to keep from laughing hysterically. Her foot was shaking with the desperate need to tap. She had to do something. She could hear his movements not two paces in front of her. He seemed to be touching everything along the shelf. He’d get to her and the candlestick soon. There was no help for it. She must either declare her presence or put her back against the wall opposite the shelf, suck in her belly, and hope against hope that he didn’t bump into her.

Clearly the former of those two choices was the intelligent, mature thing to do.

So she did the latter.

She knew the moment his hand touched the candlestick. “Ah, there you are,” he said and Cerian’s heart nearly stopped. She curled her toes in her slipper.
No tapping. No tapping
. The flint was sitting next to the candle. Her presence was about to be discovered when the candle illuminated the space, so she did what any reasonable person would do in such circumstances and squeezed shut her eyes. What she didn’t count on, however, was that the man would accidently drop the flint.

“Blast,” he mumbled just before Cerian heard a clatter on the floor next to her foot. She briefly considered attempting to kick the flint into obscurity but she might hit him with it and reveal herself.

Instead, she kept her eyes closed even though it was dark. He turned and his coat brushed her arm. She nearly whimpered. Why did he have to smell so very good? Oh God. Could he smell her? All right, now she was being ludicrous. Ludicrous, it seemed, was the order of the day.

He bent down, she could tell by the sound of his voice when he said, “Where are you?” He was searching, searching along and the floor and—

His hand brushed her ankle and Cerian jumped. Jumped, and if truth be told, squealed the tiniest bit before quickly clamping her hand over her mouth, mortified.

*   *   *

Oliver took a deep breath and let his hand play over the shapely ankle in front of him.

Cerian was here. He’d know the sound of that voice anywhere. Not to mention he’d previously encountered her in this precise location. He hadn’t noticed before, or perhaps he thought he’d dreamed it, but the scent of her perfume wafted in the air along with the scent of the silver polish. He brushed his hand against her ankle again, once, twice. A sharp intake of breath. He braced himself. Would she slap him? Or kick him? He had to smile to himself at that thought.

He took a deep breath. Yes. This situation called for delicacy to be certain. Delicacy and self-control. Another smile.

He drew one finger up her ankle, higher, higher. Another sharp intake of her breath. Her silken stockings beneath his fingers made his hands tremble. He clenched his jaw. He ran his hands up the backs of her calves to her knees. This time her breathing was ragged.

Then he stood. He remembered the space and he’d best have a damn good memory for what he was about to do. He hovered over her, their deep breaths mingling in the small cramped dark space. He reached down, picked her up, and set her on the shelf behind him. She made a small gasp.

“Cerian,” he breathed, just before his lips found hers in the darkness. She was sitting at waist height and he pulled up her skirts and spread her knees wide with his hands. She gasped against his mouth. His arm went around her lower back and he pulled her against him, hard.

This time he gasped. “Jesus,” he groaned. He might as well have entered her then, the feeling was that evocative. Her head fell back and she groaned.

“Oliver,” she whispered just before his mouth found hers again.

His fingers found the buttons on the back of her gown and made short work of them. Her gown gaped away from her chest and Oliver pushed the fabric down, down until his hands found her full round breasts. He bent his head. He had to taste her.

*   *   *

Cerian whimpered when Oliver’s scorching hot mouth found her nipple. Here, in the dark, it was as if all things were possible. As if they weren’t really doing this. It was all pretend. But nothing pretend had ever felt this good before. Her neck rolled on her shoulders and she shivered as one of his strong, warm hands found her nipple while his mouth continued to play, hot and wet over the other one.

His mouth bit, sucked, lapped at her. Cerian’s eyes rolled back in her head. She’d never felt anything like it; she didn’t want it to end. Whatever had passed between them earlier, their agreement to stop pretending, was all a blur of words to her now. She couldn’t even remember what they’d said … exactly. All she knew was that Oliver’s hands were on her body, playing her like a fine-tuned instrument, and she didn’t want him to let go. His tongue flicked against the sensitive peak again, once, twice, and she pushed her fingers through his short, cropped hair, hugging his head to her breast, never wanting to let go.

His second hand moved down, down to her exposed knee and he dragged it along the outside of her thigh up to her hip. Then he traced her skin in a feverish pattern with his fingers. He drew his hand back down to her knee, slowly, so slowly, and inched it up again, this time on the inside of her thigh. Cerian shuddered. She should stop this. Say no. Hop off the shelf, perhaps slap him, and leave. But all she could think about was what he would do next. She desperately wanted to find out.

She held her breath. He drew little patterns on the skin of her thigh with his rough thumb. Then he moved his hand up, up, to the juncture of her thighs. A place that had gone all moist and hot as Cerian melted under his masterful touch.

When he touched the delicate skin between her legs, Cerian gasped and clamped her thighs together over his hand.

He pulled his mouth from her breast and spoke against her lips. “No, Cerian, darling, don’t be afraid, open for me.”

His voice was intoxicating, mesmerizing. She slowly widened her knees.

“That’s it,” he breathed against her mouth. “You feel so good.”

He stroked her once, twice, and she shuddered, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and pressing her forehead against his. His mouth returned to hers and his tongue stroked inside, calming her, relaxing her, telling her without words that he was going to make her feel amazing. And she knew it was true. Every single touch Oliver had given her since he’d brushed her ankle had been better than the one before.

One finger entered her, slid inside so soft, so gentle. She shuddered against him. His other hand wrapped around her back, cradling her against him and then his thumb found the little nub between her legs and he stroked her gently.

“Oh, God, Oliver.”

He kissed her then, deeply, all the while using his finger to stoke the fire that was building inside of her. His rough thumb kept up its pressure against her softest spot and when he began rubbing her in tiny little circles, Cerian gasped.

“Oliver, no!”

“Shh,” he whispered against her mouth. “Just let go.”

Let go? Could she let go? She took a deep breath, let her head fall back, kept herself anchored to him by the arms she had wrapped around his strong neck. His finger moved inside her, and she shuddered. His thumb rasped against her, once, twice, three times. She cried out his name, just before shudders racked her entire body and she sobbed against his chest.

Oliver’s breathing was labored, heavy. His forehead was slicked with sweat and his entire body shook. He kissed her again, deeply. Cerian’s limbs felt languorous. In her entire life, she’d never imagined anything like … that.

He pulled her skirts back down her knees and helped her right her gown, fastening the buttons in the back. Then he pulled her off the cabinet and set her gently on the ground. He hugged her close for just a moment before Cerian, suddenly more frightened than she’d ever been, pulled away from him.

“I must go,” she said, making her way past him and grasping the door handle. “Mama will be expecting me for my nap before the ball tonight.”

But she knew she wasn’t about to get a wink of sleep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Oliver glanced across the ballroom. There she was. His stomach dropped. Cerian was laughing at something Sir Gilliam or Lord Esterbrooke had said. Oliver couldn’t take it. She looked for all the world as if she was flirting with the two men, standing across the dance floor, looking more beautiful than he’d ever seen her with her dark shining hair catching the light from the candles and a lush violet ball gown hugging her curves. Lord Dashford leaned down and said something near her ear and Oliver’s mind exploded with rage.

By God, he was jealous. He’d never been jealous. That unwanted emotion was barely something that had registered with him before. But standing too far away from her, watching her laugh and talk with the two other men, he knew it readily for what it was. Burning, unreasonable jealousy.

Fine. Perhaps he didn’t have the right to be jealous. Perhaps he still hadn’t had a chance to wrestle with the feelings of desire and longing and confusion that their little interlude in the silver closet earlier had stirred up in him. Perhaps he was about to make a giant ass of himself. But Oliver didn’t care anymore.

He marched across the floor toward the little group. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he gave the other men a vicious glare and grabbed Cerian by the hand and dragged her away. “Gentlemen, excuse us,” he bit out.

Cerian tugged against his tight hold but he didn’t give her the time or opportunity to stop him. Instead, he turned immediately and headed for the nearest door. He dragged her into the corridor, down the long end of the hallway and around the corner. Once he rounded the corner, he opened the door to the silver closet and unceremoniously pulled her inside, shutting the door behind them.

Without saying a word, he struck the flint, and the candle that had caused them both so much grief earlier, burst into flame. Then he turned to face her. She wore a look of shock and outrage on her gorgeous face.

*   *   *

The silver closet. It was too much. The images of what they’d done together here only hours earlier flashed through Cerian’s mind like a dirty play. She couldn’t stay in here with him. Couldn’t even breathe.

She stared him down. “What do you think you’re doing, dragging me out of the ballroom like that? The entire room must be agog. We’ll be the talk of the house party.”

“We’re already the talk of the house party,” he replied, leaning back against the cabinet, the cabinet where they’d nearly made love, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wanted to speak with you.”

She tossed a hand in the air. “That much is obvious. What do you have to say?”

“Do you really think you’ll be happy with someone like Sir Gilliam? Or Esterbrooke?”

Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”

“You seemed to be quite cozy with both men in the ballroom just now.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Cerian pressed a hand against her heaving chest. “Cozy? How dare you? You have the audacity to question
me
when Lady Selina has been chasing after
you
for days?”

“I never seemed as if I was interested, did I?”

If she hadn’t been so shocked by his words, she would have slapped him. “I didn’t see you turning your eyes away this morning when Lady Kinsey was speaking to you in the breakfast room. And she seemed to be on
full display
at the time.”

The muscle in his jaw ticked faster. “I wasn’t looking at Lady Kinsey,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

“You might have fooled me.”

He tossed a hand in the air. “So I’m wrong about you flirting with Lord Esterbrooke? And Gilliam?”

She pressed her hand to the wall to steady herself. “Flirting!”

“Yes, flirting. That’s what it looked like from where I was standing.”

They hurt, these accusations. They hurt more than she could say. Especially when Oliver was standing there looking so blasted good in his formal black eveningwear and acting as if he hated her. It hurt even more because she had feelings for him. Feelings that were stronger than anything she’d ever expected. If she’d doubted them before, their interlude earlier had taught her. She cared for him. Deeply. And here he was accusing her of flirting with those two sops in the ballroom when she had simply been doing her level best not to appear as if anything was out of the ordinary. As if she hadn’t just gone and fallen in love with the one most inappropriate person in the entire house party. No, wait, the entire
country
.

Blast it. He would never understand her. He couldn’t understand her. He might not have been raised to be a duke. But he was raised in this world. A world of flirting and backstabbing and political alliances formed through marriages. There was nothing in this world for her. She
must
remember that.