Mischief and Mistletoe - Stacy Reid Page 0,19

was no shyness when I coaxed your lips to part for me. No fright when I touched my tongue to yours. You hurtled towards the desire sweeping through you…and I can tell how you would approach everything with such unrestrained passion. Whether it be reading, dancing, riding a horse, playing matchmaker, or…kissing.”

A crack of thunder saved her from replying. Though she couldn’t imagine what she might have said. The sky opened, and rain fell in torrents.

He started rowing the boat toward the bank closest to them but paused after glancing behind her. Callie knew what he had spied. The cottage.

Dear God! Not the cottage!

“We should head back to the estate,” she cried out.

“You’ll catch your death by the time we reach back there,” he said, grunting with the effort to row as fast as he could toward the embankment leading to the cottage.

With a sense of shock, she realized she had fallen into the trap of her own making. What would the viscount say…or do when he saw what awaited them inside the cottage?

Chapter 8

It was a mad dash through the rain, and Graham held onto Miss Middleton’s hand as she slipped in the mud. He caught her, and the blasted woman laughed, lifting her face to the rain. Her bonnet was soaked, and she already appeared like a drowned rat. If he had taken several minutes to row them back to the estate, surely, she would have drowned in the deluge.

He tugged her forward. To their misfortune, the cottage had been unoccupied for several months and should be dusty and uncomfortable. He hoped there was no roof leakage. An ominous rumble of thunder shook the sky, and he feared they were in for a winter squall. They clambered up the slight steps, wrenched the door open, and spilled into shocking warmth. Graham’s steps faltered, and he looked down at her. Miss Middleton withdrew her hand from his and stared up at him with wide eyes.

“You have been rather busy with your mischief, Miss Middleton,” he murmured, surveying the exceptionally tidy and toasty room which held a roaring fire. “It seems there is no end to your deception.”

Her affected serenity was momentarily ruffled, then she rallied and replied, “Not deception, surely, it is more gentle encouragement. Quite a different thing altogether, I am certain you would agree.”

He swore under his breath. “Is that the distinction you used to justify your action?”

She pursed her lush lips. “Yes.”

Shameless minx!

The interior of the cottage chased away the chill from the rain, and it had been recently aired and cleaned. The scent of lemon wax was redolent on the air. Pinecones, evergreens, and mistletoes decorated the tight room, and there were fresh linens on the bed. Surprise jerked through him when he noted the carafe of wine on a small table by the windows. There seemed to be marzipan, gingerbread, and cake as well on a large white platter. Good God.

“However did you get the servants to go along with this madness?” They must have questioned her intentions and gossiped amongst themselves.

“My papa usually lamented that I was a silver-tongued devil,” she said with a quick smile and her usual buoyancy. “But I conveyed that these orders were”—her eyes flitted everywhere but at him—“from…you.”

Her impudence knew no bounds.

She strolled over to the hearth, and untied her bonnet, then rested it on the mantle. Then she tugged off her coat and gloves, placing them on the grate near the fire. She did not appear as wet as he’d imagined, but her dress clung in a few damp places. She kneeled and removed her half-boots, revealing white silken stockings. She stood, faced him, then lifted her chin in challenge as if to say, ‘I did it and there is nothing you can do.’

Something primal in his gut stirred, a direct response to that defiance.

Humor lit in her expressive eyes, and her lips curved. “I can see that you want to roar but you are restraining yourself. How admirable that you are not a gentleman to give in to excessive display of emotions.”

How utterly delightful she looked, and he did not miss the guilty flush on her cheeks. Yet he was not angry.

“I am not angry.” Mystifying indeed.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said softly.

He walked over to the fire, never taking his eyes from her. He shrugged from his wet jacket and removed his waistcoat, then also removed his boots, which felt waterlogged.

Her lips parted, and she bit her bottom lip, a nervous gesture, but