Helena Fitzhugh looked about the library. She was under the impression that Andrew would meet her here. Most of the other gentlemen had left to shoot pheasants with her brother and most of the ladies had gathered in the solarium to while away a winter morning chatting and playing parlor games. She and Andrew would have a lovely hour alone.
But Andrew was nowhere to be seen. Baffled, she headed toward the door. Viscount Hastings, her brother Fitz’s best friend, appeared in the doorway, blocking her path.
“I see we’ve met under the mistletoe, Miss Fitzhugh.”
Helena looked up. Sure enough, there it was, a sprig of green leaves and milky berries, tied with a bright red ribbon—something she’d yet to see anywhere else at Henley Park.
She glanced at Hastings. “You mean, you have maneuvered me here in the hope of gaining a kiss?”
He smiled and braced a hand on the door frame. A big man, Hastings. He’d rowed for Eton and Oxford and still retained a rower’s powerful build. “Am I that transparent?”
“Like the walls of a greenhouse, my lord Hastings.”
He was entirely unchastened. “You’ve always said you like a man of purpose. It was a near nigh impossible task to lure a lady as clever and wary as you into my depraved clutches—which goes to show you how much thought and exertion I put into this undertaking. You ought to reward me on the principle of the matter alone.”
She tsked. “I really ought to, ought I not? Alas, I’m afraid I cannot consider plotting to get me under the mistletoe, however difficult a task, a worthwhile endeavor.”
He looked her up and down. “Then kiss me because you want to.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
If one analyzed Hastings feature by feature, he probably wouldn’t be called handsome. But the whole was greater than the sum of the parts and he had long been considered a highly attractive man--proof that God was sometimes absent-minded and gave gifts where none were deserved.
“You mistake my amusement at your conduct, sir,” she said firmly. “I laugh at you, not with you. And I do not like rakes at all.”
“Neither do I, as a matter of fact.”
“You are a rake, Hastings.”
His eyes widened. “My goodness, that is terrible. How did that happen? I was such a good little boy once.”
She didn’t want to admit it, but she did find their banter enjoyable on occasion. Such as now. “Don’t sound so surprised, Lucifer himself was once an angel. Anything can happen when you decide to cavort in sin.”
His eyes were the warm color of cinnamon. His gaze, however, was as hot as whisky going down her throat. “I sense in you a kindred capacity for sinning, Miss Fitzhugh.”
She felt a flutter of nerves. Did he know about Andrew? Surely he couldn’t.
“You imagine things, Hastings.”
“Don’t try to deny it—I am never wrong on these matters.” He stepped closer. “Why have you never chosen to sin with me, Miss Fitzhugh?”
She was not about to let him intimidate her. She leaned in also. “I have standards, sir. I require my partners in sin to be sincerely devoted to me.”
“I have been sincerely devoted to you ever since we first met lo these many years ago,” he murmured.
He had a voice as seductive as moonlight. She hardened her resolve. “You say that to all your women.”
“Not all. Far from it.”
She ignored the quiver brought on by those softly spoken words. “One of your past lovers is deaf, if I’m not mistaken. It doesn’t count if you neglected to say it to someone who anyway couldn’t hear. Now won’t you be so kind and let me pass unmolested?”
“You’ve come closer to me, Miss Fitzhugh. You are daring me to kiss you.”
Was she? She did not plan to find out. “How well you read my every last hidden intentions, Hastings,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “Why, instead of keeping you at an arm’s length out of honest disdain, I must have been secretly scheming to drive you mad with desire.”
“No scheming necessary, Miss Fitzhugh. You drive me mad with desire by merely existing.”
He excelled at sweet nothings. And from time to time, as much as she hated to admit it, some of those sweet nothings lingered in her mind, like caresses. “Oh, you are good, Hastings. You must be the poet laureate of the rakes.”
“Lust drives all life and therefore all artistry. And what is the urge to mate but the most primal urge to create and bring something new into the world?”
“A musician too. You are conducting a veritable crescendo of passionately empty declarations.”
He bowed slightly. “As long as I leave you breathlessly satisfied afterwards, Miss Fitzhugh.”
She grew warm. “That you do by merely existing, Hastings. Every time I look upon I’m breathlessly satisfied that I’ve never felt the slightest compulsion take up with you.”
He gazed directly into her eyes. “Liar. You’ve felt the compulsion all right. You’ve let your prejudice stand in the way of our pleasure.”
She took hold of his jaw, freshly shaven and smooth. “Then think of my suffering these many years for the want of you, Hastings. My flesh, my heart, my soul—all parched with yearning. Caught in a maelstrom of feverish desires, desperate for the sweetness only you can offer.”
His breath quickened--as did hers. His lips were well-molded and sensuous. And for all his dissipation, he smelled wholesome, like newly woven tweed—with a hint of pipe tobacco.
They were under the mistletoe after all.
She let go of his jaw and ducked out from underneath his arm. And when she was safe from his grasp, she said over her shoulder. “Alas, it appears I must suffer more lonely unfulfillment in the years ahead.”
“Witch,” came his response behind her.
She was pleased as she sauntered away—and completely breathless.
###
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