The Duke Who Despised Christmas (Christmas Dukes #1)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Q uint had made a grievous mistake.

He had known it the night before when he had been so caught up in the moment and in Mrs. Yorke— Joceline —that he had allowed himself to not just touch her hands, but kiss them. He had known it as he’d watched her flee his study in a swirl of dark, serviceable skirts and crisp white apron, her chatelaine jingling as if in reproach with each step. He’d known it later as he had lain awake in his bed, his lips still tingling with the memory of his mouth on her bare skin. He’d known it as his cock had hardened to thoughts of what he might do with her, were they anyone other than who they were.

And he knew it now as he awaited her in his library, surrounded by the merry Yuletide decorations she had festooned about.

Unable to remain still, he paced the Axminster, scrubbing at his jaw with a gloved hand, so many confusing, complex emotions roiling within him. There was guilt over desiring another woman, and one who was forbidden to him at that. There was shame over having made overtures when he did not know if they were welcomed. There was the anguish of his past colliding with the undeniable force of his future.

God, there was so much. So bloody much. And it threatened to consume him. He wanted Joceline. He could not have her. Everything that had been hateful to him was now somehow comforting and desirable—a woman’s touch, his skin on hers, the revelation of his scars, the Christmas greenery, a Yuletide season unmarred by loss and pain. Hell, he didn’t even mind that his mother was set to arrive soon. When last he had seen her, they’d had a row over his insistence upon hiding away in the north. She had wanted him to return to London and resume his duties. The notion had made him want to retch. That had been a year ago when she had ventured to Blackwell Abbey, only to return to polite society disappointed.

And now…

Well, now, the prospect of resuming his own life—albeit a very changed one—no longer seemed so intolerable. If anything, it felt hopeful . He had Joceline Yorke to thank for that, a capable, beautiful, resilient woman who had upended his sheltered world when she had come to Blackwell Abbey. A woman he owed an apology to for his behavior the previous evening.

A knock sounded at the closed door, a sharp, distinct rap he had come to recognize as hers.

“Enter,” he called, turning on his heel so that he would be facing her.

A click, the slow sweep of the portal, and then she was there on the threshold, unfairly gorgeous with her inky tresses pulled into a neat chignon, today’s dove-gray gown far too staid a color. She deserved to wear rich, bold silks instead of plain wool, jewel-toned hues like emerald to match her eyes and ruby and sapphire. What a travesty it was that she had never been given a Season or a chance to make a proper match, but had instead been sent to service, waiting upon the whims of others.

“Your Grace,” she said solemnly, dipping into a curtsy, her formality firmly in place.

Quite as if he had never asked her to sit with him in his study and partake in brandy—an act itself that was unconscionable for the master of the house. He could blame the rawness of his emotions and the effect of the spirits he so rarely imbibed, but the truth was, it was also her.

“Mrs. Yorke,” he greeted in turn. “Please, come in.”

“The door, Your Grace?” she asked, her eyes questioning.

Good God, he hoped she was not uncomfortable being alone with him after yesterday. “Close it, if you please.”

She did so, venturing into the room in an elegant glide but stopping at a safe distance. “What does Your Grace require this afternoon?”

“You have my assurance that nothing untoward will occur, Mrs. Yorke,” he told her. “Not this afternoon, nor ever again. Pray accept my most sincere apologies for what happened last night. I overstepped my bounds, and I must humbly ask for your forgiveness.”

An expression of surprise flitted over her countenance. “You need not apologize. You are lonely, and your grief and the brandy were clouding your judgment. I understand.”

“I am lonely,” he agreed roughly, the confession torn from him. “But it wasn’t the grief and the brandy that moved me. It was you. However, regardless of what I feel, you have my promise that I’ll not make any further overtures. Your position is secure. I’ll not force myself upon you again.”

Something shifted in her expression. “Is that what you think, Your Grace? That you forced yourself upon me?”

Seething self-loathing rose like a tide. “Of course. I should never have asked you to join me for brandy. Nor should I have deigned to touch you. My actions were improper and inexcusable. I understand why you ran from my study. I vow it won’t happen again.”

She shook her head slowly, moving nearer to him, so that she was close enough to touch and her clean scent of floral soap tantalized him. “That isn’t why I fled your study last evening.”

A sharp pang of uncontrollable longing almost robbed him of breath.

“It isn’t?” he rasped.

“No.” Her green eyes sparkled in the late-day sunlight filtering through the windows, and he found himself mesmerized by the hints of copper and gold flecking her irises, by the shadowy sweep of her long lashes. “I left because you were in your cups, and I didn’t want to take advantage of your grief or your vulnerability.”

His vulnerability.

Not long ago, he would have laughed bitterly at such a notion. For he had believed himself hardened. Impervious. He had believed himself as wizened as one of the ancient oaks ringing the Blackwell Abbey park. But Joceline had changed that. She’d somehow dismantled all his walls, tearing them down until he realized he did still have a heart beating in his chest. That he hadn’t died that awful day two years ago.

And that perhaps there might be a chance he could feel again.

“I wasn’t so soused that I didn’t know what I was doing,” he confessed. “If anyone was taking advantage, it was me. You’re my housekeeper. I’m your employer. You’re young and innocent. I’m…neither of those things. It was unfair of me to press my suit.”

He felt every bit of his five-and-thirty years in this moment. More than that. He felt ancient compared to her. He was a decade her senior. Why hadn’t their age disparity occurred to him until now? Likely, he’d been too preoccupied with their social positions, with his own soul-shattering guilt and grief.

Selfish. That was what he was. He was still alive, when Amelia and their baby were forever lost to him. And here he stood, lusting after a young housekeeper.

He hated himself.

“What if I told you that your attention was welcome?” she asked softly.

A rush of yearning crashed into Quint, so fierce that his knees almost trembled from the force of it. “Mrs. Yorke. Joceline. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I wanted what happened,” she said, laying a hand on his jaw, her touch warm and tender. “I wanted more than that to happen, Your Grace. I know it’s wrong of me. I have no right to feel the way I do for you, and yet I can’t seem to help it.”

“Quint,” he told her roughly. “Call me Quint.”

For somehow, it seemed wrong of her to continue with his title, to uphold the premise of civility, when they had both ventured well beyond the bounds of formality. Everything changed with these mutual confessions. They could never go back to who they had been before. They were Quint and Joceline now, here in this stolen moment, in the haven of his library, where it was no one but the two of them.

“Quint,” she repeated, and then she did something utterly astonishing.

She rose on her toes, sealing her mouth to his, her hand still on his jaw.

His reaction was instant and instinctive. He cupped her face as he pressed his lips over hers. And sweet God, her lips . They were as lush and sweet and soft as he had imagined. They moved against his, beneath his, a revelation for which he found himself wholly unprepared. For a moment, he simply kissed her, his mouth taking what he needed from hers, all the succor, the comfort, the silken heat. But then he couldn’t resist teasing her lips open, his tongue sliding deep to taste her, to draw as much of her inside himself as he could.

She made a low, throaty sound, and then somehow, they were moving. Moving together, as if they were of one mind. Never taking his lips from hers, he guided Joceline backward to a nearby table, where some bric-a-brac was his only impediment to lifting her atop it. He swept it to the floor with an impatient swipe of his arm, dimly cognizant of the sound of breaking glass. Whatever it was, he didn’t care. It didn’t matter more than kissing her. Nothing could.

He grasped her waist and lifted her with ease, settling her on the table so that she was even with his height, all the better for him to ravish her mouth. Because he was suddenly ravenous for her. All the restraint he had been clinging to where she was concerned had been obliterated the instant she had kissed him.

She tasted sweet, like the afternoon tea she must have consumed, her tongue shyly moving against his. He was reminded that she was younger, certainly less experienced than he, and tore his mouth from hers, staring down at her with ragged breath.

“Forgive me,” he managed. “I lost my head when your lips touched mine. I shouldn’t be so rough with you.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she told him. “And you’re anything but rough. I like the way you kiss me.”

“Good,” he gritted, taking her mouth again.

This time, he tried to kiss her more gently, to smooth his lips over hers in slow, determined seduction rather than devouring her. But it was difficult. He wanted Joceline with a ferocity that terrified him. He wanted her despite all the reasons he shouldn’t.

Wanted her desperately.

She draped her arms about his neck, one of her legs wrapping around his hip to draw him closer. And he accepted her invitation, pulling her to the edge of the table so that he could align his rigid length with the apex of her thighs. Although the barrier of skirts and petticoats and apron remained, he moaned into her kiss, giving her his tongue once more.

He was a beast again, but a different sort than the one he’d been. This beast was consumed by desire, his heart pounding, blood heated, the ache of need so sharp in his ballocks that he sucked in a breath as his cock ground against her voluminous skirts, seeking more of her. Seeking her sex.

The thought of flipping up her skirts and teasing the soft petals of her sex had him straining against her. He couldn’t do that, of course. This was too much, too quickly, and their circumstances were tenuous at best. She was in his employ. He couldn’t make love to her and then demand that she inspect his linens and crockery and oversee the sweeping of his bloody floors.

No, they needed time. Needed to make sense of what they were to each other, what they could be. He couldn’t afford to get swept up in desire. Not when so much was at stake for the both of them.

But that didn’t stop him from continuing to kiss her. It merely kept him from taking what he wanted. It kept him from sliding inside her and claiming her as his. Instead, he licked into the honeyed recesses of her mouth, feasting on her as he had been longing to do from the moment he had first set eyes upon her. And she was kissing him back with a fierceness that all but brought him to his knees. It wasn’t expertise so much as carnal need. This woman who had seen him at his worst, who had born his anger with such grace, whose determination had roused him from his self-imposed banishment.

She was a marvel, this woman.

Kissing him so sweetly, with wild abandon. Threading her fingers through his hair. He inhaled deeply of her scent, that floral, delicate soap that seemed so at odds with a woman of her profession and yet somehow felt at home on her. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let her go. To kiss her and kiss her and kiss her.

To—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Your Grace?”

Dunreave’s voice was on the other side of the door, the equivalent of a pail of icy water being dumped over the two of them. Quint and Joceline broke apart, their breaths ragged.

He was reluctant to let her go just yet. This was too new. Too wonderful. Her mouth was lush and bruised from his kisses. Her eyes were dark with desire, her black lashes low. A spirited curl had come free of her coiffure to rest against her cheek, and he instinctively tucked it behind her ear. She was so beautiful, it hurt to look at her.

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Dunreave called again, more loudly this time. “Have you seen Mrs. Yorke? The household is in search of her as the dowager duchess has just arrived with her guests.”

Quint took a step backward at the telling note of pinched censure in his butler’s voice and the news that his mother was here as well. Dunreave knew damned well where Joceline was, and that was the reason he was politely knocking at the library door. Damnation. Quint had no wish to cause trouble for her.

Joceline’s eyes went wide, and she leapt from the table with a metallic jingle of her chatelaine, shaking out her skirts. Quint cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Yorke was just helping me with a small matter of grave import,” he called to his butler. “She will join you forthwith.” He frowned as the rest of the news Dunreave had imparted belatedly occurred to him. “Guests, did you say, Dunreave?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The Earl of Dreighton and his daughter, the Lady Diana Collingham.”

Good God, why had his mother brought the earl and his daughter along with her? Surely she must know that the last thing in the world he would have wished for was unexpected guests.

Poor Joceline looked stricken. Blast it, this was not what he had intended when he had called her to the library. None of it was.

“Thank you for the clarification, Dunreave,” he said loudly. “I’ll need just another few moments with Mrs. Yorke.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” his butler intoned, still distant and disapproving.

“I’ll go, Your Grace,” she murmured, eyes lowering to the mess he’d made of the floor. “I’ll see to it that a chambermaid cleans up this disarray.”

“Joceline,” he implored, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry to Dunreave on the other side of the door, hating the formality that had returned to her demeanor and speech. “Don’t go like this. Not yet.”

“But I must,” she countered, unsmiling. “I am your housekeeper, and your mother has just arrived from the train station. How would it look if I were to linger here with you a moment more, behind closed doors?”

Bloody hell, she was right, and he didn’t like it. Not one whit.

“I’ll want to speak with you later,” he said. “We need to talk about this…about what we are.”

“It’s simple enough to me, Your Grace,” she returned quietly, a sad smile on the lips he had just kissed so voraciously. “I am your servant, and you are my employer. We do not belong to the same world, and it can never be more than what we just shared. Even that was unwise. I never should have been so bold. It cannot happen again.”

This was not what he wanted to hear. Nor would he accept it. Now that he knew Joceline was as drawn to him as he was to her, and now that he’d had her mouth on his, now that he knew how she tasted, the soft sounds of desire she made, the way her tongue writhed against his, he could not pretend none of it had happened. Nor could he pretend that he didn’t want more.

“This isn’t the end of what’s between us, and you know it as well as I do,” he said, needing to hear her confirm it.

But Joceline remained stoic, her housekeeper’s mask firmly in place as she curtseyed as if they hadn’t just nearly made love on his library table. “I’m afraid that it must be. If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I should see to Mr. Dunreave and your guests.”

Frustrated, he watched her run from him for the second time in as many days, knowing there was nothing he could do, thanks to his mother’s arrival with unexpected guests. He couldn’t very well carry on a clandestine affair with his housekeeper whilst Lord Dreighton, Lady Diana, and his own mother were in residence. To do so would only shame Joceline and his mother both.

No, he would have to wait. To bide his time.

And to find a way to get Joceline alone again without fear of interruption.

“Mrs. Yorke.” Mr. Dunreave was stern and unsmiling as Joceline rushed to the butler’s side in the corridor beyond the library.

She was all too aware of the sight she must present, mussed and flushed, her lips swollen from the duke’s kisses. And she was also painfully cognizant of the fact that Mr. Dunreave knew she had been alone with Sedgewick in his library and just how long she had been there. He was a wise man, not easily fooled.

“Forgive me for being absent when the dowager arrived,” she apologized. “I was distracted by some final preparations for the Christmas dinner that His Grace wished to discuss.”

The blatant lie felt wrong, her cheeks heating beneath the butler’s cold regard.

“The maids and footmen are overseeing the trunks and the unpacking for His Grace’s guests,” Mr. Dunreave said. “They have all been escorted to the drawing room for tea and cakes. I’ve taken the liberty of having Mary oversee the opening of two additional chambers for Lord Dreighton and Lady Diana.”

The pointed tone and his critical stare, coupled with all the actions he had taken on her behalf, told her that the butler was quite put out with her.

“Thank you for attending to those matters for me,” she said. “I’ll go and speak with Mary now to make certain she has all the assistance she requires.”

“I rather think it would be prudent for you to come with me instead, Mrs. Yorke. Some tea in your room would be just the thing.”

As the housekeeper, her authority within the household was second only to the butler’s. And despite her passionate embrace with the duke not long before, Joceline was pragmatic. She knew that there was no future for herself and a duke. She needed to keep the peace between herself and Mr. Dunreave if she valued her position, which she very much did.

She needed this situation. It was the most lucrative position she’d had yet, and Mama and the children certainly needed the funds she was earning here quite badly.

“Of course, Mr. Dunreave,” she allowed, pinning a false smile to her lips. “Some tea would be lovely.”

They made their way to the servants’ stair and descended into the maze of passageways beneath Blackwell Abbey, emerging at her room, where the fire was cheerfully burning, thanks to the still-room maid, and a pot of tea was at the ready. The silence that had fallen only served to heighten Joceline’s ever-growing worry as they seated themselves in the small parlor area fashioned for such meetings and she served the butler his tea.

“How old are you, Mrs. Yorke?” Mr. Dunreave asked at last.

The question over her age nettled; the butler was not the first member of a household where she had been in service to question how a woman of her tender age had managed to so quickly work her way to lofty positions. Nor, she knew, would he be the last.

“I fail to see why my age should concern you, sir,” she said politely. “Nor can I imagine that you called this interview with me merely to discuss how old I am.”

“You are a clever woman to be sure, Mrs. Yorke.” He sipped calmly at his tea, unperturbed. “Clever enough to know why the question might be asked of you, I’ve no doubt.”

She stiffened, her spine going straight. “Mr. Dunreave, if you are implying that I am too young for the role of housekeeper, I can assure you that my age is immaterial.”

Joceline took her duties seriously. It was largely a thankless role she played—and certainly an exhausting one. But it was the best position in any household for a woman. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. The best position in any household was wife. That grand title, however, wasn’t achievable for someone like her, who had devoted her life to service.

“That was not what I was asking, Mrs. Yorke.”

Her stomach tightened, dread coursing through her. For if the butler hadn’t been suggesting she was too young to fulfill her duties, then she knew what he had been saying, and it was an even greater insult.

“I am afraid you will have to enlighten me,” she told him coolly.

“Your age matters because I’ve never known a housekeeper as young as you appear to be, and one can only find oneself wondering at the reason. Why should Mrs. Joceline Yorke, above all other housekeepers in England, have found herself in the most powerful position in a household at such a youthful age?”

“I am five-and-twenty,” she defended herself tightly. “I would hardly deem that youthful, nor so extraordinary a feat to become a housekeeper at my age.”

Mr. Dunreave took another calm sip of his tea. “Tell me, Mrs. Yorke, did you closet yourself alone with the master of the last household where you were employed?”

And there it was, the ugly, raw implications the butler was making against her. Even worse, he was partially correct. She had been inappropriate and scandalous with the Duke of Sedgewick—she must not think of him as Quint ever again—but she had never previously conducted herself thus with another master of the house. Indeed, aside from the furtive loss of her innocence with a handsome footman when she had been younger and more na?ve, she had taken immense care to be above reproach at all times.

It rankled that the butler would suggest she had risen to the role of housekeeper through any means other than her own determination and hard work.

“No, Mr. Dunreave,” she said with cool firmness, holding his stare even as every part of her vibrated with indignant fury. “I have never previously closeted myself alone with the master of the house. And nor, I may add, did I do so today. I merely answered His Grace’s summons. He wished to speak about the Christmas menu, as I already told you.”

“For over an hour? My, His Grace certainly did have a fair amount to say on the topic of plum pudding and mince pies.”

The censure in Mr. Dunreave’s countenance and his tone were both undeniable.

Over an hour? It was difficult to believe she had been ensconced in the library with the duke for that long. But perhaps it was true. She certainly had been lost in him, particularly when they had begun kissing. It had been as if all time had ceased to exist. As if there was nothing and no one but him. She had never known anything like it, and she had an instinctive feeling to her core that she never again would.

She forced a smile. “I suppose he is rather opinionated on the matter.”

“And yet, His Grace has not taken an interest in the menu in two years,” the butler observed.

“Mr. Dunreave, is there something you wish to say?” she demanded, losing her patience. “If so, I wish you would do so.”

“There is indeed, madam,” he told her, frowning. “When you arrived, I did my utmost not to judge your youth and beauty, nor to assume you had attained your position as housekeeper by making yourself improperly familiar with the masters of the houses where you served. However, I have witnessed far too much to remain silent about my suspicions. I feel it is imperative to warn you that if you wish to remain here at Blackwell Abbey, you would be wise to stay far, far away from His Grace. The duke has endured more suffering in his life than most, and he does not deserve to be lured by the wiles of a Siren.”

Well, she thought. At least he had finally spoken plainly. It certainly explained his guarded nature where she was concerned. He had always been politely aloof, occasionally looking at her as if she might be hoping to filch some of the silver when he was sleeping. It hadn’t been the silver that had concerned him after all. It was the Duke of Sedgewick.

She gripped her tea so tightly that she feared her cup might break, trying to keep her unruly emotions in check. “You have my word that I do not have any intention of luring His Grace, and I most certainly am no Siren, nor do I have wiles. But let us be perfectly clear. Are you threatening my livelihood, Mr. Dunreave?”

“I need not threaten your position at all,” he bit out. “The dowager duchess is a woman of iron principle. When Her Grace discovers you have been acting the slattern with His Grace, she will dismiss you herself.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, because again, the butler was not wrong. She had been the one to kiss Sedgewick. She had wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself shamelessly against him. And she had wanted far more from him than mere kisses. However, it hadn’t been to gain any sort of favor. What she felt for him was honest and true. She couldn’t defend herself with such a decree, however. If she confessed to what had occurred in the library, Mr. Dunreave would see her summarily tossed out on her ear, with nowhere to stay and no hope of finding a new situation.

“I can assure you, sir, that I will conduct myself with nothing less than the utmost of honor and dignity. I have no designs upon His Grace.”

“See that you do, madam,” Mr. Dunreave said gravely. “I am a lenient man, and I am willing to give you a final chance. However, if there is the slightest hint of impropriety between yourself and the duke, I will be left with no choice other than to inform Her Grace of my suspicions. I can assure you that however much sway you may think to hold over the Duke of Sedgewick, Her Grace holds far more. She will see you gone in the blink of an eye. Do you understand me, Mrs. Yorke?”

“I understand you perfectly, Mr. Dunreave,” she returned with what dignity she could muster. “If you will excuse me, I shall leave you to enjoy the remainder of your tea. There are a great many matters requiring my attention.”

Without awaiting his response, she took her leave, fear warring with outrage. It was as she had known when she had walked into the library earlier, what she had known when she had kissed the duke, and it was the tenet that had guided her these last nine years of service. She did not belong to the charmed world of the aristocracy, and she never would. She was a servant, bound by the strict code of rules that governed her conduct.

And she would need to stay far, far away from the Duke of Sedgewick.

The lives of her mother and her siblings depended upon her, and she couldn’t afford to risk their futures over whatever fleeting fancy the duke might feel for her. In the end, dukes didn’t marry housekeepers. Just as she had been nearly decimated by the disappointment she’d suffered upon realizing she wouldn’t have her Season with her aunt, she would only be crushed when the duke slaked his lust and had his fill. It was the age-old warning every woman in service knew by heart.

One could never dare to reach above one’s station. Because when the inevitable fall came, it was impossible to survive.