A Grosvenor Square Christmas

Considering she owed him her life, Rowena could hardly turn down a simple request to meet Gabriel in the parlor. Nor could she tell anyone she was going to meet a man either. Julien would insist on accompanying her, and she did not need a chaperone. She was the mother of three and a widow. She was a dowager, for goodness sake—and didn’t that title make her feel elderly! Her reputation was not at stake. She could be alone with the man who had saved her life, and there was nothing scandalous about it. Nothing. Nothing at all. And as soon as her heart listened to her mind, it would stop thumping wildly. Her skin where he’d touched her, where his breath had caressed her, would cease burning.

  “I cannot believe I did not recognize him immediately,” Julien was saying as he led her back to the circle of her sons and their wives. “We should do something to thank him for all he did for us.”

  “Is he in need of anything, Rowena?” Sarah asked. “Was that why he wanted to dance with you?”

  “He is not in need of anything,” she said, “and I do not think he wants to be repaid. He helped Julien and me because it was the right thing to do, not because he expected anything in return.” But what did he expect now? What did he want from her? A kiss? She shivered in anticipation. More than a kiss? Oh, yes, please.

  “The man is still doing good deeds,” Raeven said. “The French would love nothing better than to capture the sly French Fox.”

  “And the English are grateful for his services,” Bastien added. “Our family, in particular, owes him a debt of gratitude for saving maman’s life.”

  “Really?” Felicity clapped her hands. “How romantic!”

  “It is not romantic,” Julien said. “I am pleased for the man, grateful to him, but I cannot help but wonder why he asked you to dance, ma mère.”

  Everyone looked at her expectantly. Rowena straightened her shoulders and rose to her full height. “And why should a man not ask a woman to dance? I am not yet so old or ugly as to be incapable of attracting a man.” And suddenly she needed to prove that to be true. She needed to feel attractive and desired again. Gabriel made her feel that way.

  The group fell silent, all staring at her with shocked expressions. Except Bastien. He was grinning. “Well said, Mother.”

  “Not well said,” Julien cut in. “He is at least ten years younger than you, ma mère.”

  “What are you saying, Julien? That I am too old to attract a man like Gabriel?”

  “He is a footman!”

  “Not anymore,” she shot back. No, he had ceased being a mere footman when he’d saved her life. And tonight, tonight he had practically swept her off her feet. He was so much more than a footman.

  Sarah stepped forward. “Julien does have a point. Perhaps the man is a fortune hunter.”

  Rowena scoffed. “Do you think me so bad a judge of character?”

  “No!”

  “Ma mère!

  Everyone was speaking at once, arguing and gesturing wildly. A few people nearby turned to watch the Valère family antics with curiosity. For her part, Rowena only wanted to escape. Was Gabriel already in the blue parlor?

  “Stop,” Armand said quietly. It was as though a thunderbolt struck. Everyone stilled. “If maman approves of the man, then I do. Without him, Julien and, consequently, I might be dead.”

  Felicity put a hand on his arm. Rowena felt tears sting her eyes, and she gave Armand a grateful smile. Now was her opportunity. “Excuse me,” she said. “I must find the ladies retiring room.”

  “I will come with you,” Raeven said.

  Rowena gave the girl a look, and Raeven shrank back. “Actually, Bastien was just about to ask me to dance.”

  With a nod, Rowena walked away, crossing the ballroom with her head held high. She had crossed this very same ballroom an hour or so ago when she had arrived, but she felt different now. Then she had been tired and annoyed that she was expected to attend the ball. Now she practically glided across the floor. A man had asked her to dance with him. A man had touched her lips, had seemed to desire her. Good Lord, she might even now be going to meet him for a tête-à-tête. She felt giddy and elated and light as air.

  She had not felt this way since…since the first years of her marriage to Philip. She smiled as she thought of him. Philip had loved her so, and he would not begrudge her this romance so long after his passing. He would have wanted her to be happy, to enjoy life.

  The sounds of the ball faded quickly when she stepped into the entrance hall. It boasted a gently curved white marble staircase with ornate ironwork and bright blue carpets. The iron railings were festooned with fragrant boughs of greenery. A servant of indeterminate years—perhaps thirty, perhaps closer to her own age—stood with his back to the wall, staring above her head.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Your Grace.” He stepped forward, and she realized that he must be the butler. He did not wear livery; instead, he was dressed in a dark suit of rather fine material. He was a typical butler—a handsome man, noticeably tall, with a full head of brown hair and a pleasing, if stony, face.

  “Are you Lady Winterson’s butler?”

  “I am Philbert, her ladyship’s butler, Your Grace. How may I be of service?”

  “I was looking for the blue parlor, Philbert.” Rowena felt her cheeks heat and she willed herself to stop blushing. She was no green girl. She was doing nothing scandalous—well, not so very scandalous at any rate.

  “The blue parlor, Your Grace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Right this way, Your Grace.”

  He led her across the entrance hall and to a door, which was slightly ajar. “This is the music room, Your Grace. If you pass through it, you will find yourself in the blue parlor.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stepped in front of the door, blocking her path. “You will need this if you are to enter the blue parlor, Your Grace.”

  She looked down, expecting him to hand her a lantern or a candle in case she desired more light, but instead he held out a small leaf. No, actually, it was not a leaf at all. “Philbert, this is mistletoe.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I do not need mistletoe, Philbert.”

  “Of course not, Your Grace.” But he held the mistletoe out to her nonetheless.

  “Philbert, I do not want the mistletoe.” How would she explain to Gabriel why she was carrying mistletoe? He would think she wanted to be kissed. Did she want to be kissed again after all these years? She rather thought that yes, she did. But she was not going to use mistletoe to accomplish it.

  “I am afraid you may not enter the blue parlor without it, Your Grace. I have my instructions, you see.”

  She stared at him. “Are you suggesting I must take the mistletoe or you will not allow me to enter the blue parlor?”

  “I do not make the rules, Your Grace.”

  She was wasting time, and this conversation was ridiculous. She yanked the mistletoe out of the butler’s hand and said through clenched teeth, “Thank you, Philbert. That will be all.”

  “You are most welcome, Your Grace.” He stepped aside, and she could have sworn that the man winked at her. But that was not possible, was it? Servants did not wink at their employers’ guests. This was turning into a strange night. A very strange night, she thought as she pushed the door to the music room open and strode through it. She felt foolish carrying the sprig of mistletoe in her hand, but she did not set it down. She should have. Something made her cling to it—nervousness or hope or…anticipation?

  She continued to walk, her legs feeling heavier with each passing step. Where was the sparkle and lightness of the ballroom?

  At the far end of the music room another door greeted her. This one was closed, and she paused before it. This must be the door to the blue parlor. Her hand shook as she reached for it. Was Gabriel already inside? Had he given up on her? Had he changed his mind and decided he did not want to meet her at all?

  And was she going to stand here all night like a ninny?

&
nbsp; Rowena opened the door. The room before her glittered with the flickering light of a dozen candles. Hothouse flowers graced several vases, their intoxicating scents permeating the air. On the floor a sparkling path of winking spangles led to the man on the other side of the room. Gabriel turned to face her. Her legs went from feeling as though they were made of lead to feeling as though they were supported by nothing more than water. She wobbled slightly before she regained her balance and took a step forward. Into the room. Onto the magical path.

  “You came,” he said simply. She saw his gaze drop to her hand, and she realized she was still clutching the mistletoe. Oh, why had she not tossed it on a table in the music room?

  “Have you brought me something?” he asked.

  “No.” She held up the mistletoe, looking for somewhere to toss it. “I was given this—”

  His brow rose. “By whom? Another man desiring to kiss you?”

  “No, of course…” She blinked at him. “You desire to…to…” She could not even say it. Her mind whirled, and she felt as though she’d been enchanted by the candles and the glitter and…him.

  He moved to close the distance between them, and she caught her breath. He smelled of something dark and masculine—leather and spicy musk. It had been a long time since she had been surrounded by such a masculine scent. She gripped the mistletoe more tightly, and he reached for her wrist, wrapping his fingers about it and lifting her hand.

  “Does that shock you?” he asked, the heat of his bare fingers penetrating the fabric of her gloves. “That a man would want to kiss you? You are a beautiful woman, Your Grace.”

  “Rowena,” she whispered, wanting to hear her name on his tongue.

  “Rowena.” He did not disappoint. His lips wrapped around her name, his voice making her shiver. “May I tell you a secret, Rowena?” His hand trailed up her arm until he reached the top of her glove. She gasped in a breath at the meeting of flesh against flesh. A fire seemed to kindle within her, sending sparks, as bright as the spangles littering the floor, coursing through her. His fingers were rough and callused, and she could imagine the hardened skin caressing the softness of her breast, bringing her nipple to a stiff, aching peak.

  “What sort of secret?”

  “An old secret.” His finger lingered on the bare skin between her glove and the sleeve of her gown.

  “Please.” She did not know, exactly, what she was asking. Please would he continue to touch her or please would he tell her the secret. She only knew that her voice was husky and low, and she could not manage to speak above a hushed whisper.

  “I have been in love with you for years. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you.”

  “But…I…” She did not know what she had thought he might say, but that was not it. He couldn’t have been in love with her all those years ago, and how could he love her now? He did not even know her. But she did not know the French Fox, and she’d fallen in love with him—with his courage and arrogance and fearlessness.

  “I know what you will say,” Gabriel murmured. “You were married and I was hardly even a man, but in all those hours we spent together, I came to know you and to love you. My feelings were genuine and pure. The duc was a good man. I loved him like a father.”

  A father? Her heart sank, heavy with disappointment. “And I am certain you loved me in the same way. Like a mother.”

  “Oh, no ma belle. I do not think of you in that way at all.” The look in his eyes, filled with passion banked and waiting, told her exactly how he thought of her now.

  She shook her head, overwhelmed by the desire she saw in his gaze. “I am far too old for you.”

  He laughed, and the sound rumbled through her. “You, old? No, Rowena. You are young and lush. What is ten years when I have waited for you so many more?”

  “You cannot mean what you say.” But, oh, how she wanted him to prove her wrong.

  “If my words do not convince you, then allow me to show you with my actions.” His hand moved from her arm to cup the back of her neck. His fingers were cool and firm and they plunged into the hair at the base of her chignon. His other arm wrapped about her waist, holding her firmly, bringing her body to his until they almost touched. She had not been held like this in longer than she could remember. She should tell him to unhand her, but for the life of her, she did not want him to release her. She wanted him to pull her closer until she was pressed against him, until their bodies were flush with the warmth and heat of each other. His shoulders were wide and his chest broad under the tight coat he wore, and she had noted his muscular legs in his tight breeches. What would his body feel like twined with hers? She imagined it would be something akin to warm steel…

  She looked at his face and saw in it traces of the brave man he had been all those years before. He would have given his life to save her and Julien. But she remembered something else as well. Before that awful night, before the revolution, she could remember passing him in the halls of the chateau. He always had a smile and a pleasant word or nod for her. He was always at her elbow if she had need of anything, always eager to learn or to please her. She remembered looking forward to seeing him each day and thought they might have been friends had their stations in life not been so different.

  Could they be friends now? Could they be more than friends?

  She felt his fingers splay on her back, sending little rays of warmth up her skin. “May I?” he asked.

  Oh, she knew what he was asking. He wanted to kiss her, but it was so much more than that. He might as well have asked, may I steal your heart?, because that was what he was doing. The French Fox had captured her, taken her captive.

  He waited for her response, patient as no untried youth could ever be. She found that her heart still pounded from anxiousness, but also from the elation and the thrill of being in a man’s arms—a handsome man. A man she desired. “Yes, you may,” she answered him, eager for the feel of his lips on hers.

  She did not wait for him to kiss her. She rose on tiptoes and bridged the gap between them, pressing her lips softly to his, feeling the shock of heat flare between them. Ah, delicious, delicious heat that radiated from her lips to her cheeks and down to her chest. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples sensitive as they hardened into tight buds.

  For a moment, he did not move, did not respond. Rowena was afraid she had shocked him, but then his mouth slanted over hers, his lips gentle but oh so persuasive as he captured her with a kiss. He coaxed her lips open and slid his tongue inside her mouth, teasing her with a light, playful stroke. The heat swirled lower, settling in her belly and trickling down until she felt the first stirrings of desire.

  How had she existed for so long without this delicious sensation racing through her? How had she lived all these years without the feel of a man’s body pressed to hers, the touch of his mouth on her?

  The answer was quite simple: she had not really been living at all.

  Gabriel’s head was spinning. He was completely sober and yet he felt as though he were mightily foxed. Kissing Rowena was not at all like he’d imagined. It was so much more.

  It seemed impossible that after all these years and all of his fantasies—his very detailed fantasies—he finally held her in his arms. She was kissing him back, responding to his touch. It seemed impossible that the protective numbness he’d cloaked himself in all these years should fade away as easily as the morning mist. Quite suddenly, he could feel the incredible softness of her skin and the weight of her thick, dark hair on his fingertips. It seemed impossible that the ice around his heart should melt, and the old feelings, the old affection for her, should return so strongly and so completely.

  She wrapped her arms about him, pressing her body closer to his, curling into him. She fit him perfectly, and he could imagine sliding into her, feeling her arch beneath him as he pleasured her. At the thought, he knew he must taste her. He broke their kiss and slid his mouth to the curve of her jaw. She smelled like lavender, and he inhaled, determined to se
ar the scent in his mind. He wanted to remember everything about this moment. His lips brushed the hollow beneath her jaw and then teased the skin of her neck. She shivered and whispered his name.

  The sound of his name on her lips was enough to send him over the edge. He struggled to control his desire. He had waited for her all these years. He could wait forever if need be. He broke the kiss and looked down at her, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.

  “Tu es si belle,” he murmured. “I am afraid of what might happen if we continue this way. Je te désire, Rowena.”

  She swallowed. “I want you too, Gabriel.”

  “Then you must allow me to call on you tomorrow. I will court you as is proper and ask you to marry me every day until you agree.”

  “Marry you?” Her eyes flared with shock.

  Had she thought he wanted her as a mistress? He would never dishonor her so.

  “But how can you want to marry a woman my age?”

  “Yes.” He chuckled. “What was I thinking? A beautiful, vibrant woman in the prime of her life. How could I want to marry a woman like that? How could I want a woman like that in my bed?”

  “Gabriel!”

  God help him. He should not speak this to her, but it was true. He wanted her. He wanted to hear her moan his name, feel her shiver with the pleasure he gave her. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her while she slept, wake with her in the morning to see the sun shining on her porcelain skin. He wanted to watch as, over the years, lines and creases deepened on her skin, her hair turned gray, her gait slowed. Gabriel could only dream of being at her side for all of it. He’d never thought to have this chance with her, and now he clenched his fists to keep from going too far. “I do want you in my bed, Rowena,” he said, watching the lovely flush of color on her cheeks. “I have been imagining such a thing for many years, imagining all the ways I might pleasure you.”

  She sighed, her breath shaky as her breasts rose and fell. If her reaction was any indication, she wanted him too.

  “Will you allow me to call on you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered without hesitation.

  “Good.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. They stood facing one another, hearts beating as one, attempting to catch their breath.

  “This room”—she indicated the parlor—“the glitter, the flowers. You planned this.”

  “I prayed for this, Rowena. And you came to me. Do you like it?”

  “I love it.” She smiled shyly. “But you did not need the mistletoe. I wanted to kiss you.”

  “And I you, but I am confused. I did not give you the mistletoe or plan for you to receive it.”

  “But Philbert—”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “It seems we are the fortunate couple this season. Once again, this ball has worked its magic.” He brushed his lips over her knuckles. “And now I fear we must say au revoir before we are discovered.”

  “Goodbye?” She blinked at him. He was backing away, unable to remain in this room with her and not kiss her again, not push her down onto one of the lovely chaises and kiss her until they were both senseless with need.

  “Until we meet again.” He had almost reached the door when she stepped toward him.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped abruptly, and Rowena noted the way his expression turned steely as though he were prepared for the worst sort of news. She had not thought to mention her sons, to mention that Julien, in particular, would not approve of a match between them. At one time, she would have seen his point. Was she not too old to be matched? Was she not too old to be courted? She had thought all of that behind her, but now…now she wondered if such a thing was possible at her age. Was she being silly? Would she become the laughingstock of the ton if she fell in love with and married—good Lord, she was a grandmother!—married a footman?

  But when she looked at Gabriel, she did not care. When she looked at him, she saw the man who had been there in her greatest hour of need. She saw a man she knew she could rely on. She saw a man whose eyes reflected desire for her.

  Did she really care whether Julien or Bastien or Armand approved? Did she care what the ton whispered about her?

  No. She had faced worse fates than swirling gossip or the censure of her children. Her sons would come around. She would insist upon it. And the beau monde could go hang itself.

  Rowena crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped her arm about Gabriel’s. He smiled down at her, surprise in his eyes.

  “I do not want to say au revoir.”

  He raised a brow. “No?”

  “No. Do you know what I do want, sir?”

  “I hope you will always tell me. I will give you anything you desire.”

  “I want to dance again. I want to dance with you all night.”

  His lips curved. “What will people say?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Exactement.” He bent to kiss her hand, and when he looked up at her from under his lashes, his smoldering blue-green eyes were full of promise.

  With a lightness in her step she had not felt in years, she allowed herself to be led from the blue parlor. In the entrance hall, the fragrance of pine and beeswax mingled, and the outer door opened and closed, giving her a glimpse of the snow falling outside. “Gabriel,” she said happily. “It is snowing. We will have a white Christmas.”

  He smiled, led her inside the ballroom, where the music swelled with passion, and took her in his arms.

  When all was quiet in the entrance hall, two figures stepped out of separate nooks. One was Lucy Frost, Lady Winterson. The other was her faithful butler. The two glanced at one another, as though exchanging a secret, and then as one turned toward the music room. Philbert held the door for his mistress and followed her through the music room to the blue parlor.

  Once there, Lucy put a hand to her mouth and drew in a delighted breath. “There, on the floor, Philbert.”

  “I see it, my lady.”

  “One of them must have trampled the mistletoe,” she said. “I am afraid it cannot be saved.”

  “I will cut another sprig, my lady,” he said. “If you require it.”

  She bent to lift the crushed leaves and held them up, smiling at him. “Do you know, Philbert, I do believe this sprig still has some magic left.”

  The End