Seduction on a Snowy Night Page 14

  They went inside. Despite the late hour, a woman in her fifties dressed in a nightgown and wrapper descended the stairs. Her graying red hair fell to her waist and she was closer to Kitty’s height than Heywood’s, but other than that, she and Heywood bore a decided resemblance. It was in the shape of her jaw, her high cheekbones, and her aquiline nose. So this pretty woman must be Heywood’s mother.

  “My goodness, what have we here?” she asked, taking in Cass and Kitty with a curious gaze as Heywood gave the footman his greatcoat and hat. “I heard the carriage drive up in front and couldn’t believe you would return from your visit to Douglas’s relations in such bad weather.”

  “I’m glad I did. These are two of the ladies I went to visit. On my way there I found their coach bogged down in the snow as they returned from a ball. The weather was already much worse there than it is here, so I dared not go farther north to take them home or else risk all of us becoming stranded.”

  Cass barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the outrageous untruths, but his mother merely murmured, “How very wise of you.”

  “I dropped their coachman off at the nearest inn and brought the ladies here. I didn’t think they should be left alone at an inn, and it wasn’t entirely proper for me to remain there with them. I hope you don’t mind.”

  His mother raised an eyebrow at him. “You know I don’t, though I suspect there’s more to this story than you’re saying.”

  “Would I lie to you, Mother?” he asked, cool as the snow they’d tracked in.

  “If it kept you from getting into trouble? Absolutely.” She swept a weary hand over her face. “But let’s delay this discussion until tomorrow. I’m sure the ladies would like a hot cup of tea and a soft bed right now. So, be a dear and introduce me.”

  Cass tried not to laugh as Heywood, suitably admonished, did so.

  When he was done, Cass said, “We’re sorry to drag you from your bed so late, Your Grace.”

  “Nonsense. I love having guests, even when my son has come by them in a most unconventional fashion.”

  Cass had to bite her tongue to keep from informing his mother just how unconventional a fashion it had been. But Heywood was right—it would serve no purpose to let his mother in on the secret.

  Just then the butler stumbled in, still wearing his nightcap. “There you are, Mr. Fox,” the duchess said. She conferred with him a few moments in hushed tones.

  As he hurried off, she faced them all with a smile. “It’s settled. We’re putting Kitty in my son Thornstock’s bedchamber and Cass in my son Greycourt’s old one. Neither Thorn nor Grey is returning from town until Christmas Eve, and I was planning to put Grey and his new wife in a bigger room upon their return, anyway. Thorn can take one of the other rooms. He’s not picky about such things.”

  “If it helps matters,” Cass said, “Kitty and I don’t mind sharing a bedchamber or even a bed.”

  “Nonsense,” the duchess said, most firmly. “We want you to be comfortable in case you have to stay through Christmas.”

  Kitty’s face showed her chagrin. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but I hope we don’t impose upon you as long as all that.”

  “It’s no imposition, I assure you, though I do understand. There’s no place like home for the holidays.” The duchess patted Kitty’s hand kindly before turning to Cass. “Fox is fetching the maids to make fires in your rooms and put fresh linens on the beds as well as help you change your clothes. I can loan both of you nightdresses and all the gowns, reticules, et cetera, that you might need. Since Gwyn and I are still in mourning, we aren’t using much of our wardrobes at present.”

  “We’d be most grateful for anything you could provide, Your Grace,” Cass said. “As you might imagine, we came here with only the gowns on our backs.”

  The duchess cast her son a look of pure mischief. “Yes, how odd that you ladies left a ball with no cloaks or capes or any sort of protection from the weather.”

  “That’s my fault,” Heywood said blandly. “We were in such a hurry to outrun the storm that the ladies forgot their cloaks in the stranded carriage.”

  Cass eyed him askance. The fellow lied with amazing aplomb.

  But apparently he couldn’t slide just any old tale past his mother, for she turned to stare at Cass. “Is that really what happened, my dear?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Grace,” she gushed, “we were so overcome with gratitude at the sight of your courageous son rushing to save us from certain death that we quite forgot our wits. We left everything behind in the coach—our reticules, our cloaks . . . our senses—in our eagerness to be rescued by our very own knight in shining armor.”

  To Cass’s surprise, the duchess burst into laughter. “More like a knight in tarnished armor, knowing my son.”

  “Good God, Mother,” Heywood grumbled.

  “Oh, dear, am I embarrassing you?” his mother said with what sounded a great deal like glee. “I didn’t think anything shamed you, Son. Before you became a colonel, you were, shall we say, as eager as your older brothers to sow your wild oats. Though it’s been a few years since that was the case.”

  “At least you acknowledge that.” Heywood arched an eyebrow. “And in my defense, Cass has a tendency to exaggerate.”

  “She does indeed, sir,” Kitty said brightly. “How did you know?”

  “I’m good at deducing things,” he said, but he kept his gaze on Cass, as if trying to figure her out.

  Which made her uncomfortable. Or perhaps it was just her inability to breathe around him that was making her uncomfortable.

  “In any case,” the duchess said, “please excuse our havey-cavey household. We’ve been short of staff for some time. So I’ll have to take Kitty up to Thorn’s room myself.” She nodded to her son. “Would you mind showing Cass the way to Grey’s bedchamber? The maid should already be there.”

  “Of course,” Heywood said, with a furtive glance at Cass.

  While Cass was still trying to read his look, the duchess said, “Thank you, Son. I’ll have Fox send someone up with tea as soon as it’s ready.” She held out her hand to Kitty. “Now, come, my dear, let’s go to your room before you fall asleep on your feet.”

  But Kitty was engrossed in observing Heywood and Cass. “You’re standing under the kissing bough,” she pointed out. “You know what that means.”

  Heywood looked up and smiled. “I do indeed.” Then before Cass could so much as think, he bent to press a kiss to her lips.

  It was perfunctory and chaste, meant to appease their audience. Yet it sent a frisson of excitement down her spine. And when she drew back to stare into his face, she realized he’d had a similar reaction to that brief contact, because his eyes glinted with something that looked like desire.

  Nonsense. She must be imagining things. A duke’s son could have his pick of the ladies in society; he’d hardly be interested in a gentlewoman of no rank like her.

  The duchess was watching them now with interest. When Heywood cleared his throat, the woman quickly turned back to Kitty. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said to Cass and Heywood as she ushered Kitty up the stairs.

  Heywood bowed to Cass. “After you, madam. Grey’s room is upstairs, too, but on the floor above Thorn’s bedroom.”

  They followed the duchess and Kitty up.

  Feeling the silence weigh on her, Cass said, “I notice that your mother takes seriously the custom of wrapping greens around the banister rails for Christmas.”

  “My mother takes seriously any sort of Christmas celebration. That comes from having lived for nearly thirty years in Prussia, where they decorate large fir trees for the holiday. Father was ambassador there, you see, so we’ve become accustomed to having a household full of greenery during the season.”

  “Including the fir trees?”

  He nodded. “The British don’t practice the custom, but I’m told that Queen Charlotte always has one in the palace.”

  “How very interesting.”

  “
You have no idea. At some point, Mother will surely have us making the tiny gifts that go on the tree. Since none of us have children yet, Mother invited the servants to bring theirs for Boxing Day, and she’s making sure there’s a gift on the tree for each child.”

  “Oh, how kind of your mother. That sounds lovely.”

  As they ascended the next flight, Heywood said, “It’s a great deal of work. This place is massive, with plenty of rooms. Mother keeps most of them closed up, but the ones that are open she decorates with sprays of holly at the very least.” He looked at Cass. “Incidentally, Gwyn’s room is up here, too, so you’ll have female company.”

  “Gwyn is your sister, right?” she asked, hoping that idle conversation would keep her mind off their brief kiss.

  “Half sister. She and Thorn are twins by Mother’s previous husband, whose death enabled my father to court and marry our mother. Poor Gwyn and Thorn were left fatherless before they were even born. And Grey, whose father was married to Mother before the twins’ father, was left fatherless at a year old. So my father was the only father any of us ever knew.”

  “And now he’s gone, too. Your poor mother, to be widowed three times.”

  He slanted another glance at her. “Do I remember correctly that you lost both your father and your mother when you were young, which is how you ended up living with your aunt and cousin?”

  “Yes. My parents died in a fire when I was nine. My aunt and uncle took me in without hesitation and looked after me from then on. So Kitty is more like a sister to me than a cousin.”

  “And you’d do anything to protect her,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  They’d reached the next floor. He led her down a dimly lit hallway, then paused outside a closed door. They could hear noise from inside.

  “The maid is still setting your room to rights.” He leaned against the wall. “We should let her finish.”

  “Finish what?” she said archly. “Unpacking my nonexistent trunk and setting out my nonexistent clothes for tomorrow? I can handle that myself—I’m quite accomplished at managing imaginary tasks.”

  Amusement glinted in his eyes. “But surely you wouldn’t want to change your own linens or build your own fire if you didn’t have to. And by the way, thank you for not telling my mother what was really going on.”

  “There was no point.” She smirked at him. “Besides, I suspect she will get the truth out of Kitty before my cousin’s head even hits the pillow. Kitty is the worst liar I know.”

  “I suppose that speaks well of her character.”

  “It does. Kitty also has the best character of anyone I know.”

  He searched her face. “Better than you?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m much too cynical,” she said lightly. “While Kitty thinks well of everybody until they prove themselves to be bad, I think well of nobody until they prove themselves to be good. It’s my greatest fault.”

  “I knew it!” he said, startling her.

  “That it’s my greatest fault?”

  “That you were the one who actually wrote all those letters to Douglas.”

  Oh, no. She scrambled to formulate an answer. “I-I have no idea what you mean.” She stifled a groan. What a brilliant response. She would have to do better than that.

  “Don’t be coy,” he said. “We both know your cousin could never manage such deft prose.”

  She wished she could revel in the compliment, but she still hoped to keep her promise to Kitty. “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because in one of your missives to Douglas you used the same line about how you—or rather, you pretending to be Kitty—thought well of everybody until they proved themselves to be bad, et cetera, et cetera.”

  Oh, dear. He remembered that? She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or flattered. “I was merely recalling what Kitty originally wrote.”

  “I doubt that. Between the two of you, you’re the more clever by far. I daresay Kitty would never come up with such a bon mot, much less write it.”

  A pox on him. Why must he be so observant? Kitty was going to be terribly hurt that Cass hadn’t kept their secret well enough to fool him. “How can you know that about my cousin? You just met her. You just met me, for that matter.”

  “True, but I’ve seen enough to notice the differences between you. So why don’t you admit it? Kitty’s letters to Douglas were really your words. Your tales. Your witticisms and observations.” He loomed over her now, his face darkening. “And all the years I was imagining Douglas’s sister, Kitty, as being so sharp and interesting, it was really you I was thinking of.”

  She swallowed hard. He sounded angry, though she couldn’t think why he would be. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters! Until I met you, I had no interest in Miss Isles . . . only in Miss Nickman, the lady who wrote fascinating letters. And now you tell me that the woman who intrigued me was you?”

  His words made her heart clamor in her chest, which was pure madness. “I . . . The writer of the letters intrigues you?”

  “Can you really be that oblivious?” He caught her chin in his hand. “Of course she does. And now I know why.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes shone, even in the dim light of the hallway. He kissed her then, not as he had under the mistletoe, but as she’d always imagined a husband kissing her . . . with a warmth that enveloped her and made her want more.

  When he broke it off, his hungry expression made her shiver deliciously.

  “That’s why,” he bit out. “Because of this . . . this attraction between us.”

  He kissed her again, hot and hard, and she discovered there was so much more to kissing than she’d ever imagined. His mouth not only covered hers but parted her lips so he could slip his tongue inside.

  Oh. Good. Lord. The feeling was beyond anything. Especially when he began to court her mouth with his tongue, sliding it in and out in silken strokes that made desire pool in her belly.

  Eager for more, she looped her arms about his neck and pressed into him. He took that for what it truly was, an invitation to insanity, and pushed her against the door so he could kiss her with abject abandon, his hands roaming the sides of her and his body flush against hers as if he wished to absorb her into him.

  She understood, since she wished the same. No kisses she’d ever had were so all-consuming—the few pecks on her lips by suitors dulled in comparison. He managed to convey such exquisite intensity that it made her ache and want and need anything he would give her. Everything he would give her.

  All too soon he dragged his mouth from hers to stare down into her eyes. “Admit it, you wrote those letters. I already know the answer, but I want to hear you say it.”

  Still trembling from the force of his kisses, she murmured, “Of course I wrote them.”

  “I knew it,” he said, sounding fierce in his satisfaction.

  She would have made some hot retort, but then he bent to kiss her again, blotting out her thoughts about anything but the taste of him and how masterfully he held her. He was conquering her like the bold officer he was, and she wasn’t even trying to resist.

  Lord save her.

  * * *

  Heywood realized what he was doing was wrong. Even knowing that Cass had written the letters didn’t change that. Kitty was the one he needed to court, so the last thing he should be doing was kissing Cass.

  Then why couldn’t he stop?

  Because her lips made him ache and burn. Because he’d spent years wondering about the woman who’d made him laugh countless times. The woman he had thought was Kitty. But it had been Cass all along. Now, despite the late hour, he wanted to keep on kissing her. He didn’t care why. He just wanted to explore every inch of her luscious mouth, to revel in its sweet taste, to soak in her scent—something flowery that made him harden.

  Or perhaps his reaction was fueled by the sensation of her soft body against his.... Damn, but it felt amazing.

  He tugged on her lower lip wit
h his teeth and relished the moan she uttered.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered.

  “You’re right. And yet I don’t want to stop. Do you?” He went back in for more, wishing he could kiss her for hours.

  Suddenly, the door behind her was opening. She pushed him away, and he backed up to allow the door to open.

  He was still fighting for control over his impulses when one of the maids peeked out. “Beg pardon, my lord,” she mumbled, her face reddening. “I-I wasn’t sure if the young miss was downstairs or—”

  “I’m here.” Cass smiled soothingly at the maid. “His Lordship was just telling me about the Christmas traditions of the household.”

  “Ohh!” The maid’s face brightened. “It sounds as if it will be very lovely, Miss Isles. The family brought back some interesting Prussian customs. You will enjoy your holiday here, I’m sure.”

  “So our customs aren’t too foreign for you?” Heywood asked curtly, frustrated at having his interlude with Cass interrupted.

  “Oh, no, my lord. I mean, we haven’t had a chance to do the Christmas part of it yet on account of your family not living here a year ago and being in mourning for your father this year, God rest his soul. But with your brother and mother in charge, it should still be very nice. Or so the duchess promised.”

  “Then I know it will be so.” He smoothed his features into nonchalance. “Now, if you would give us a moment, I have a few more things I must tell Miss Isles.”

  “Of course, my lord.” The maid retreated into the room, although he noticed she didn’t close the door.

  “In the morning,” he told Cass, keeping his voice low, “I want to hear all about how you came to be writing letters to Douglas while pretending to be Kitty.”

  “You are very nosy,” she said with a hint of rebellion. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

  “As Douglas’s closest friend, at the very least I should be looking out for his interests,” he said. “Am I right that he had no idea?”

  “Of course he didn’t. Nor do I see why that requires you to be ‘looking out for his interests.’ ”

  “Because knowing how sisters behave with their brothers, I assume you two were pulling the wool over his eyes all these years as some grand joke.”