Page 7 of Buon Natale, My Wicked Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #18)

Evan stood in front of his hunting lodge, which was a little west of Whitestone Manor.

He watched Lady Wyndam’s luxurious coach approach as it turned along the drive.

He knew the conveyance carried Mrs. Angela Berry.

He couldn’t deny the sense of excited energy surging through his blood.

The lady wanted to be alone with him; she wanted to be courted.

He certainly wanted to be alone with her.

He’d had two whiskies already to calm the fire rising in his blood.

Now, he wasn’t sure those libations had not made things worse.

For the first time in over a decade, he was palm-sweating, uncertain about how to approach a woman.

There were many reasons for this. The most worrisome thing was the strength of his own attraction to her.

As for courting her, he might not know enough about American women and not enough about her as an individual woman to plan the right way to court her.

Unfortunately, he had already used the tactic of highlighting the ways she differed from the women in England, the way she wore her hair and the way she dressed.

He’d done this as part of his mission. To make her feel a little off balance, to make her feel unsure and to look to him as a source of guidance and security.

In the days that followed, for the first time since he’d begun to work for the Home Office, he felt like a reprobate for having manipulated a target.

But not just a target but a woman whose large, emotive hazel eyes had touched him deep inside.

Eyes that had haunted his dreams at night and crept into his thoughts during the day.

And then she sent that letter. That incredible letter.

Court her?

Yes, he wanted that too. He wanted to court her in the way she needed to be courted. The strength of his desire to please her ran counter to the needs of his mission. He would have to balance these two opposing drives within himself.

That she’d sent the letter itself hadn’t impressed him as much as the content.

He’d expected a letter, but he had expected her to ask his advice on selecting her dresser or something like that.

Instead, she had made demands of him in opposition to his suggestions.

It showed a strength of mind that he hadn’t expected.

The carriage came to a stop. He was so wound up that he didn’t wait for the coachman; he went to the carriage and opened the door. The windows were open, and the interior was illuminated enough so that he could see the pale tan oval of her face and meet her hazel eyes.

Eyes that glittered with happiness. Happiness to see him? Or just excitement over the situation.

“Welcome, Mrs. Berry.” He reached out, and she placed her pale gray suede gray gloved hand in his hand, which he lifted to his lips.

It took him a few moments to even be able to have an awareness of the other occupant, an auburn-haired woman of mature years.

“This is my lady’s maid, Mrs. Davies.”

He turned to Mrs. Davies and smiled. “Welcome to Briarwood House, Mrs. Davies.”

He moved away from the door to allow the coachman to set up the steps.

Then Evan helped Mrs. Berry out of the carriage.

Once she stood beside him, he observed her.

Did she wear that dark blue dress of heavy wool with the prim white lace collar on the high neckline to defy his previous suggestion that she wear less conservative clothing?

The dress was well-tailored and clung to her curves.

The very primness of the garment teased his desire to see her curves stripped bare.

Inwardly, he shook himself. He had best focus on the importance of his mission.

They would only be intimate should it please Mrs. Berry.

Yes, he could overwhelm her with a romantic, sensual seduction.

Easily he could do this. It was apparent from their meeting the other day that she desired him.

But he didn’t want her that way.

She was a woman with a strong will and a strong intellect. He wanted her to choose a dalliance with him with both her will and her intellect.

A dalliance?

Really? Was that what it was to be called?

An inexplicable hollowness settled into his stomach.

A sensation that unnerved him. Of course, it would be a dalliance.

What else could it be? What else would he want?

He didn’t want to wed the woman. Aside from not being ready for marriage, his uncle, the Duke of Holsworthy, would only accept an English noblewoman for his bride.

Not that he wouldn’t go against his family’s wishes; he wasn’t a puppet of his family, after all.

But how happy would an American woman be as the wife of a duke’s heir? Marriage alliances with men of his rank were alliances of two families and a matter of social roles, not romance.

And a woman like Mrs. Berry, while she might indulge in a brief dalliance, would not be happy in the position of long-term mistress.

Despite her modest dress, she possessed fabulous wealth.

His superior’s intelligence had revealed not only that she had inherited wealth from her late husband but also that she’d been paid extravagant wages by her late father-in-law, which had been increased by astute investments by the family.

He’d never been intimately associated with a woman like her before. And he could have intimate access to her only for a fleeting time.

That was what logic had to say about the matter.

Yet, his emotional reaction still unnerved him. It was an unexpected weakness on his part. And an unpredictable variable at that.

The coachman had helped Mrs. Davies out of the carriage, and she was directing him to unload the luggage. Soon, two chests sat on the drive. Only two. So, he learned another thing about Mrs. Berry: she was an efficient traveler.

Angela stared up at Lord Ashington. When he first opened the door and reached to take her hand, his expression revealed his happiness at seeing her. It had instantly relieved her sudden anxiety to be there. It had also made her tingle from head to toe with an answering joy to see him.

Now, his expression had become not quite guarded, but she could see nothing but his surface charm.

And his sensual appeal.

A wave of heat made her want to retrieve her fan and wave it in front of her face. But how could she? The chilly breeze would make such an action seem silly. Or too revealing.

Well, she could hide behind charm as effectively as he could. She could also use her own sensual appeal to tease him. Dare she hope to put him off his balance and ruffle that appearance of cool control?

Perhaps.

She did pull her fan out of her reticule. “Oh please, Evan, I am famished and longing to have a rest. Couldn’t we leave all these arrangements for the luggage with the servants?”

She casually placed her folded fan’s handle to her lips.

Kiss me.

It had been years since she had used her fan to convey such tempestuous messages. Would he be able to decipher such a coded request? Was the language the same here in England as it had been in her youth in Italy?

The way his body seemed to suddenly freeze. The way he stared at her. The way his pupils had enlarged, making his green eyes as dark as agate. It all made her heart rate increase, her mouth went dry, and her belly felt lighter than air.

Apparently, he could read her message, or at least something close to her meaning. Tingles rushed through her at her daring, at the thrill of this game.

He grasped her hand.

The strength of his grip sent a renewed rush of tingling anticipation through her that made her gasp.

Her legs were so weak that she found herself stumbling a little as he led her towards the hunting lodge.

At the steps, he stopped. She looked up into his eyes, and he stared down at her, his eyes still darkened with passion.

Not just lust but passion. She was sure of it. A bolt of joy spread through her, and she gasped with the intensity. She was trembling so hard now, all over.

Surely, he wouldn’t kiss her here so publicly.

Her legs left the ground, and her belly seemed not only lighter than air, but it seemed to float as he lifted her into his arms. She had sucked her breath in, and looking into his face, seeing the skin stretch tight over his cheekbones and his jaw held tightly as well, she forgot to breathe again.

He looked so fierce.

Another thrill raced through her at her ability to make him react like this. Carrying her, he took the steps two at a time, rushing towards the door to his lodge so quickly that she bounced, and he held her tighter against his hard, warm body.

Apparently, the butler had left the door open, and they entered.

He carried her through the entryway, his boots echoing on the polished tile floor until they reached a small chamber.

He entered the chamber and then kicked the door closed.

Large south-facing windows caught the afternoon sun, but the furnishings were a blur to her as he quickly lowered her onto a chaise longue, and she fell against the plush cushions.

A soft place to fall for sure. All else remained a blur as her attention stayed focused on his face.

He spread his body over hers, pressing her into the pillowy softness.

At the sudden contact with his hard, long, lean, muscled body, she gasped.

He stared down at her; the tightness of his skin over his cheekbones and the firm clench to his jaw made him look as fierce as a hawk.

She trembled harder than ever, weak all over.

She gasped louder and more sharply. He brought his mouth over her open lips.

The heat of his whisky-scented breath told her that he had opened his mouth as well, and the touch of his tongue on hers, all wet, heated silkiness, sent shocks of fire through her.

This was no gentle kiss of sweetness. He thrust his tongue against hers again and again.

The shock of the fierce kiss sent wave after wave of fire through her.

His erection pressed against her midsection, hard and hot, even through their clothing.

Or was that heat from the fiery desire surging through her own lower belly, down into her intimate flesh?

She wasn’t sure.

He touched her cheeks, cupping her face and angling her mouth to suit himself.

Weak with need, she groaned deep in her throat and thrust her tongue back against that blade of flame that his tongue seemed to have become.

A tingling ache in her nipples caused her to arch her back until her breasts pressed into his chest.

His erection seemed to grow harder, larger. He lifted his head and turned away, then gasped deeply for air. His body shook against hers, and his cock throbbed. “My God,” he said.

His words seemed more like a prayer for mercy than an exclamation.

As much as his rough kiss had excited her, it proved to fall a little short of her previous idea of being wooed. She placed her hands on either side of his face and turned his head so that he faced her. “Kiss me again, my lord. But properly this time.”