Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,215

into a metal bucket. “He snores something fierce.”

Gemma, who was knitting winter hats and mittens for the youngsters, cleared her throat. “Robbie?”

“I am not telling tales, Miss.”

Gemma raised her eyebrows. “Are you embellishing?”

The boy dropped his head, his face red. “Not a lot,” he mumbled.

Bess hated to see the servant called out for being a typical boy. “I’m sure it sounds louder in a quiet room,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. That must be it.” Robbie returned to his task with a shy smile.

“Shall we look in on Lord Julius together?” Gemma asked.

“I suppose we should.” Bess set the dusting cloth aside. “Then we can determine if he snores like a bear.”

Robbie snickered.

Gemma crinkled her nose at Bess, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Don’t encourage him.”

Bess led the way to Uncle Roger’s bedchamber and pressed her ear against the door.

“I can’t hear anything,” she whispered.

“Should we wake him?”

Bess shrugged. She’d threatened to wake Lord Julius early, but she hadn’t had the heart to carry through. He’d had a rough evening, and even though it was his own fault, a few more winks wouldn’t hurt him. Nevertheless, she wanted reassurance he hadn’t turned ill in the middle of the night. She eased the door open to peek inside. The counterpane was pulled over his head. If not for the dark spikes of hair poking above the covers, it could have been anyone in the bed. The heavy quilt rose and fell steadily, providing no cause for alarm.

Robbie had done a fine job of keeping the room toasty and had taken it upon himself to drape his lordship’s drawers over a chair by the fire to dry. Satisfied, she backed from the room. A puddle of white on the carpet caught her eye.

Is that the nightshirt? Of all the— He was nude beneath the counterpane.

Bess huffed and pulled pins from her hair.

Gemma gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Teaching the rogue a lesson,” she hissed. “Hold these.” She pressed the pins into her cousin’s hand, tousled her own hair, and marched into the bedchamber.

Chapter Three

Julius was having a marvelous dream. Silky soft fingers tunneled through his hair and stroked the rim of his ear. Nails lightly caressed his back. Cool air touched his skin, slowly rousing him from sleep. He murmured as heaviness settled between his thighs. He’d always fancied a morning tup, but he was certain his bed partner was a figment of his imagination.

A she-devil with hair the color of honey, lips like plump cherries, and a tart tongue he’d been tempted to quiet with kisses last night. The encounter with the provocative widow was hazy in his memory, but he recalled holding her close. Her warm hand had splayed on his chest as her eyes heated with desire. He’d seen the look many times from other women. Sometimes, if both parties were agreeable, it resulted in a night of shared pleasure.

“Are you awake, my love?”

Julius yelped and flipped to his back, jerking the covers to his chin like a virgin spinster. “Lady Hadley, what are you—”

“It is Bess, my lord. Elisabeth, actually, but everyone calls me Bess.”

Gooseflesh raised on the back of his neck. The widow gazed at him with tender green eyes, her expression dreamy. Her mussed hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her cheeks boasted a rosy glow as if she’d been thoroughly tumbled. Lying on her stomach, she propped her chin in her palm. Her bare legs were bent at the knees and her shapely feet dangled in the air.

The heaviness in his groin throbbed. “Er…” He licked his lips; his mouth was as dry as if he’d stuffed it with cotton. “Did we…uh…”

“Oh, yes, my love!” She scrambled to a seated position, folding her legs beneath her like a child and clasping her hands to her bosom. “We are betrothed.”

Betrothed? Julius gulped. No, he would remember if he’d done anything that stupid. “I believe I misheard you, my dear lady. Did you say an arrangement exists between us?”

Her bottom lip drooped into a pout. “Surely, you haven’t forgotten. You asked me what type of lady I was, and I declared I was the marrying kind.”

The marrying kind. A vague recollection of a conversation floated just out of reach.

“You offered for my hand last night,” she said. “I accepted. Don’t you remember? I called you my very own scoundrel for Christmas.”

The words crystalized in his memory. Egads! She had said those exact words to him.

He sat up too fast and his head spun. His fate stretched before him