Maid Under The Mistletoe (The Mapleton Family Saga #1) - Annabelle Anders Page 0,13

disappeared the moment she did.

Miss Drake had hopped a few times and seemed to be wiggling her behind as she struggled to climb back onto the landau. She’d almost succeeded only to fall backward, one foot remaining on the high step revealing a finely shaped ankle for him to ogle.

“Charlotte!” He stepped forward and took hold of her waist. Instead of assisting her up right away, however, he leaned forward and inhaled. “I’ll retrieve it for you.”

But neither moved. In fact, his hands grasped her tighter.

God, this was inappropriate. Dishonorable. Reprehensible even. He lashed a thousand other insults at himself but still refused to let her go.

He imagined his hands sliding around her waist––tugging her flush up against him so that he could cradle her softness with his body. He imagined removing her bonnet so that he could see if her hair was as golden as he’d imagined it to be. And then dropping his lips to taste the skin along her neck.

“My lord.” The words emerged from her on a gasp. “Please.”

Please what? Release her? Leave her be? Or spin her around and claim her lips with his own.

The sound of a male voice clearing nearby jolted him. One of the manservants.

Miss Drake practically flew into the vehicle, quickly located the parasol and scrambled back out. Anthony made no attempt to assist her this time.

“Charlotte.” He could not resist saying her name. Anything to delay her disappearance. She halted and then turned slowly to face him.

Her eyes reflected the same tumult he felt.

But she shook her head. “I––cannot. You…” She shook her head again, and then more firmly. “I am Drake.”

Yes. She could not be Charlotte to him. And yet he stepped forward, eliminating all but a few feet of distance between them. “Miss Drake. Yes. But thank you. Both my mother and my sister will be happy with their gifts.” Taking hold of her free hand, he lifted it to his lips and bowed.

Her fingers were slim and fragile, as he’d expected. Her subtle fragrance tantalized him, as he’d expected. His lips craved to touch more than just her gloves, as he damn well knew they would.

What he’d not expected was the wave of rightness that crashed over him in that moment. As though he’d found a missing part of himself.

But when he glanced back up her expression tore at his heart. Because again, he recognized all of his own longing reflected there, but along with that, he saw what he could only conclude to be fear.

No, not fear, he corrected himself. Sheer terror.

Chapter 5

Impossible Thoughts

Charlotte sighed heavily.

The trip into town had been nothing less than a disaster.

But wonderful.

Tragically wonderful.

Because her heart had cracked wide open. Yes, such a thought aptly described the pain inside her chest. And now her splintered heart was causing intermittent bursts of elation, quickly followed by equally powerful catapults into devastation.

Foolishness! She knew better. To give into such an attraction meant only one thing for a servant girl. Her father would roll over in his grave if she were to go that route. He’d roll over if he knew she’d contemplated it even for a second.

Which she had not.

Pressing and brushing clothing allowed her far too much time to mull over the hopelessness of all of it. Perhaps she’d been mistaken. She’d imagined the earl’s attentions. She hadn’t eaten anything that morning. Would not that cause her to feel so lightheaded in his company?

But when Miss Fairchild began talking of her pending betrothal, a heavy sadness invaded her soul.

“He ought to have given me the gift, wouldn’t you agree? I hadn’t thought that he might be so stuffy, but he is considerably older… So very rude of him, though. For as long as I can remember, Lord Mapleton has been my father’s choice, but not mine. His lordship can be awfully dull, you know. And he’s not as good looking as his brother.” Miss Fairchild examined herself in the looking glass and sighed. “Lord Mapleton is the earl, though. He holds the title. How could I settle for anything less?”

“How indeed?” Charlotte mumbled. She’d brought out a red velvet evening gown for Miss Fairchild to wear to dinner and spread it across the bed.

Charlotte’s father, as a well–liked vicar, had introduced Charlotte to more than a few prospective husbands over the years. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, thin ones, a few had even been handsome and one of the older ones had been wealthy. In each of them, she’d looked for that