Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,162

He followed her into the library and shut the door.

“Oh, thank heavens.” She flung her arms around his neck. He pulled her against him and kissed her—briefly. As if his mind was elsewhere. As hers should be.

She didn’t care. “Kiss me again. And again.”

He laughed low and complied, and it occurred to her that their kisses were a kind of conversation. A nip here, a lick there, a tangling of tongues, and at times an invasion, a statement of…possession.

Previously, she had balked at the notion of belonging to a man. Now…she quite liked it, if the man were Cecil Hale. And if he in turn belonged to her.

At last he pulled away. “One might think you want to get caught with me.”

She rested her forehead on his chest. “I don’t seem to be able to help myself. Kissing you is such a joy.”

“It is indeed. Kissing you, that is.” He hugged her close, so warm, so strong.

“As long as it’s not my mother, I don’t care if we are caught. I don’t think anyone here would tattle on us, so it wouldn’t harm your reputation.”

“My reputation?”

“Yes, for you would either have to marry me or be shunned by society. You shouldn’t be obliged to make that sacrifice just because I want to kiss you.”

He kissed her hair. “My dear, marrying you would be an honor.”

She frowned up at him. “Don’t be absurd. You scarcely know me.”

“I’ve been watching you on and off for almost a year. I know a great deal about you, all of it impressive.” He took a deep breath, released her, and stepped back. “Kisses aside, I sense that you have information for me.”

She stifled a feeling of loss. Did he actually like the thought of marrying her? He’d said it would be an honor, but that was merely politeness. He enjoyed kissing her, but men were far less discriminating than women. Once again, she mustn’t make too much of it.

She sighed. “Yes, we must talk with Monsieur Dufair. He wants to tell me something about the medallion.” She explained about the drawing. “I don’t think he means any harm, but I prefer not to meet him alone.” She paused, then gave in to temptation. “Did you learn anything from the Contessa?”

“Not really. The only reason to suspect her is that she is here and so is the medallion. From Lady Alice, I learned that she and the Contessa have corresponded for years, that she has a standing invitation to visit here, and that she decided to come for Christmas several days ago—after Restive had won the medallion. If she was at the masquerade, I didn’t see her.”

They found Dufair in the breakfast parlor, sketching robins foraging in the kitchen garden. Cecil shut the door, and Dufair turned from the window with a polite smile.

“You wished to speak to me about the medallion,” Dorothea said.

Dufair frowned from her to Cecil, then nodded. “It is well that you brought Mr. Hale. I find myself on the horns of a dilemma, because you, as a female, might not understand the implications of what I am about to reveal.”

Dorothea let this pass. She was used to this sort of comment, which, she admitted to herself, was sometimes valid.

“But you, sir, as a man of the world, will certainly understand.” He glanced about and lowered his voice. “I am desolated to reveal…that the medallion in Lord Restive’s possession is not the genuine medallion of St. George. It is merely a copy.” He cleared his throat. “Or so I believe.”

Dorothea couldn’t think what to say, but fortunately, Cecil did a beautiful job of acting surprised—but his occupation required dissimulation. She must strive to remember that. “Good Lord!” he said. “Rather awkward, I must say.”

“Awkward?” Dufair cried. “It is a travesty. A breach of honor of the worst kind!”

She managed not to huff. Intellectually, she understood the gentlemen’s code of honor, but practically speaking it was often absurd. “Why do you believe it’s a copy?”

“I cannot be certain, bien sûr, for I had no time to finish my drawing, as Lord Restive and I were about to dine. I must ask him to let me sketch the reverse. Within the intricate design I spied a hidden mark which I am almost sure is that of a London silversmith for whom I design jewelry.” With one of his Gallic shrugs, he added, “A man in my position must find many sources of income. But that is not the point. Lord Restive will rightly be