Page 25 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses
WHERE A BESOTTED DUKE GETS AN EARFUL
Camille shifted the note she’d received an hour prior into the murky light cast from Edward’s carriage lamp and read it for the hundredth time.
…the society would be delighted to discuss the new species of plum tree…please contact us to arrange a time at your earliest convenience…
And the closing line, one seizing her insides until she struggled for lucidity.
Congratulations on your engagement to the Duke of Mercer.
Camille forced the air trapped in her lungs into the frigid London evening and rapped on the trap to tell the coachman to pick up the pace.
Murder would not be good enough when she got her hands on him.
And once she was done with Tristan, she was going after her brother. He’d commented, very subtly over kippers and toast, about running into Tristan at White’s.
Oh, both the men she loved were going to pay.
The streets were a catastrophe, filled with hordes preparing for a holiday a mere five days away. The scent of cinnamon and gingerbread wafting from the shops drifted through a crack in the carriage’s window, overriding the stink of burning coal and river blight, a careless delight Camille would have otherwise taken great pleasure in. As it was, keeping the furious crimson haze from spilling out of her soul and staining the city’s cobblestones was taking every fiber of her being.
She scrambled from the carriage when it halted before Tierney House, ignoring the coachman’s offer of assistance, splattering the hem of her gown and ruining her slippers as she landed in an icy puddle. She cursed and took the front stairs like a madwoman, snow coloring the night in a wistful, white mist. Then she did something she’d never done or considered doing and rushed into a private residence without knocking.
Tristan’s majordomo caught her before she’d made it three steps, his startled gasp echoing off the exquisite walnut lining the vestibule. “Not another one,” he huffed and reached for her arm, the ring of keys in his hand jangling.
Camille pulled to a stop, wrenching out of his hold. “Another one?” she said in horror. Oh,oh, Tristan Fitzhugh Tierney was adeadduke. “Where is he?”
“Madam, please, I realize as an actress you must emote but calm yourself.” He smoothed his hand down a severely tailored lapel and pulled himself to his full height, which brought him eye-level with Camille. “My name is Brixworth, and whatever His Grace has done, we can correct. If you’ll only retire to the parlor to your right, I’ll bring—”
“I’m not giving your employer one additional ducalsecondto prepare for this meeting, Brixworth,” Camille returned and marched down the hallway. Paintings of the Tierney ancestors lined the walls, aristocratic disdain shadowing her step as the scent of woodsmoke and sandalwood guided her.
The study door was open. A cozy space bathed in amber housing floor-to-ceiling bookcases and exceptional works of art. And Tristan. Sprawled in a leather armchair perfectly suited to his long, lean body, a stack of letters and a glass on the table beside him, his legs crossed at the ankle and going on for miles. He appeared every inch a formidable aristocrat at his leisure, clothing rumpled but first-rate, hair mussed, jaw shadowed just enough to make him look dangerous.
His gaze lifted to hers and the flash of absolute joy on his face pierced her like a splinter.
Stomping forward, she balled up the botanical society’s letter and tossed the crumpled parchment in his face. “The botanical society is congratulating me on my engagement!”
He didn’t pretend to miss her meaning, a lazy smile drifting across his face. His emerald eyes glowed as he stared up at her, damn him. “You saved me a trip to Edward’s. How fortuitous.”
“You arrogant boor, you controlling beast!”
“Damn, did I miss you,” Tristan said, and before she could blink, yanked her into his lap. For one weak instant, she sank into his hard body, then she stiffened and wrenched back.
“Your Grace,” Brixworth sputtered in dismay from the doorway. “I warned you about the dramatic ones. Much cannot be left on the stage.”
“Let me up,” Camille breathed, struggling to gain her footing, “and I’ll show him dramatic.”
Sliding his hand around her neck, Tristan closed the scant distance between them, pressing his lips to hers as Brixworth coughed and shuffled behind them. A gentle touch but one with enough persuasion to bring her thrashing to an abrupt halt. “I love you,” he whispered for her alone. “I would have told you, bathed you in adoration, if you hadn’t run away from me after what was the most magical night of my life.”
Abruptly, and uncharacteristically, Camille dropped her face to his shoulder and burst into tears. She hadn’t slept more than two hours in days, and this muddle was the last straw. His body shifted beneath her as he waved Brixworth away, the door closing behind the majordomo. With a sigh, Tristan gave up any pretense of propriety and pulled her against his broad chest.
“What is this,” he murmured into her hair. “Botanists don’t cry. Upsets the plants, don’t you know.”
She sniffled. “Well, apparently actresses do. Your…”—she swallowed back a sob and dug her cheek into his fine woolen coat—“favorite.”
He exhaled, the sound pained. “There was one, long ago, as you and the rest of England know. Before the war, before I knew what I wanted, what I needed. It’s so trite a comment to make, and a typically masculine one, I realize, but it meant nothing, means nothing.” His arms tensed around her, his passionate speech stealing in and nicking her ire. “There isn’t anyone else in my mind or my heart. You’re the only woman, no matter what you decide, I willeverask to be my duchess. I swear this to you. C.E. Bellington, botanist and swan tormentor, you are my life. I want you, every part of you. I want a family, a future. I think I always have. I just had to find the courage to admit it.”
She lifted her head, her watery gaze finding his. “You forced the society’s hand. When maybe I needed to do this on my own. When Iwantedto do it on my own.” Bracing her arm on his chest, his scattered heartbeat flowed through her fingertips and up her arm. “How can I stay mad at you when you say all these lovely things and you know I’ve loved you forever? Wanted you even longer.”
His smile was bashful, and he ducked his head with a short, sharp shrug to hide it. “I did force their hand, the imbeciles. I’m a scoundrel, but it felt wonderful. Isn’t this damned title worth anything? Am I not allowed to barter it to buy what I want from time to time? Consider it my ham-fisted wedding present to you. A thousand future discussions with the oh-so-tedious botanical society delegate. They’ll love you because decision-making over where our funds go now rests in your capable hands. Quigley won’t argue, not when he wants a new drawing of some bloody plant.”