Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,213

together, and although it appeared he could manage alone, she kept one arm around his back for her own peace of mind. Surely, some woman somewhere would be grateful to Bess for saving his neck.

At the landing, she nudged him toward Uncle Roger’s old bedchamber. Gemma and the servants had vacated the room. A log crackled in the hearth as a wavering flame warmed the bark. To combat the chill, Gemma had procured a nightshirt and cap and placed them on the bed. The linen shirt would be too short for their unexpected guest, but it would have to do.

Bess’s father had once described his brother-in-law as a tiny man with an enormous opinion of himself. She suspected Father’s judgement of his sister’s husband was based solely on the circumstances of their union. When Aunt Esther defied her parents and eloped with the man she loved, her family disowned her. Bess’s father followed suit and never relented, even after their parents passed away. Bess and Gemma might have never known each other if Bess’s late husband hadn’t encouraged a correspondence between them.

The rich Aubusson carpet cushioned her steps as she crossed to the bed and held up the nightshirt. “I trust you are capable of dressing and putting yourself to bed, my lord?”

“Are you offering to be my valet if not?” He joined her at the foot of the bed, standing much too close as he examined the nightshirt. She swallowed a wistful sigh. As a young woman, she’d had a weakness for devil-may-care men like Lord Julius. He was the perfect height for her to rest her head on his shoulder and nestle her face into the crook of his neck. His strong arms would cradle her, his hands gentle on her back as he caressed her.

She cleared her throat and thrust the nightshirt toward him. “Will you please take it?”

A furrow formed between his brows. “You cannot expect me to wear this abomination.”

“I suppose the new cotton is more to your liking?” she asked sweetly before shaking the nightshirt in his face. “This is not Bond Street, sir. The selection is limited.”

He examined the garment, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement, and made no move to accept her offering. The arrogance of pampered lords never failed to stoke her temper. Merrick had been the same, rarely sparing a critical word for those he’d deemed gauche. She had been too infatuated to recognize his poor character at the time, but she was no longer a naive girl of eighteen.

As if to prove it to herself, she adopted a stern tone and spoke with the authority of a governess. “Don the nightshirt, crawl beneath the covers, and I don’t want to hear another word from you.”

When Lord Julius grinned, shallow dimples formed in his cheeks. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when you’re riled?”

“You are so deep in your cups, my lord, you cannot see straight.”

“That is untrue.”

Closing one eye, he tipped toward her. She caught his shoulders to stop his forward motion before they both ended up on the floor.

“I can see both of you perfectly.” Laughing at his own joke, he released one side of the quilt. It slid to the floor to reveal his well-formed chest again. Her heart sped at the glorious sight.

He reached for the nightshirt. His lips twitched in an effort to suppress a smile. “Hand it over, She-devil.”

She passed it to him, pleased by his compliance at last.

“I don’t wear nightshirts.” He winked and tossed it over his shoulder. The garment landed half on the footstool, half on the floor.

His action was audacious, his insinuation scandalous and absurd.

Scowling, she marched to where the nightshirt lay and snatched it from the floor. “Wear it, don’t wear it. It makes no difference to me, but if you catch a chill, you will only have yourself to blame.”

His eyes glittered in the firelight as if he found everything she said humorous. They were the richest brown color, ringed with sooty lashes. Such a gorgeous man. It would be a shame if sickness claimed him before some optimistic young lady had a chance to try and tame him. Bess knew better. Reforming a rogue before he was ready was a hopeless cause. He’d toy with her heart then toss her aside when he tired of playing and would seek a wife more to his liking.

“Please, my lord, I don’t want you to become ill.” Impulsively, she touched his arm. His skin was warm and