Christmas Day
He knew that he shouldn’t have done it, but Lucas had given Jane something to think about with his kiss. At least, he thought he had. She’d been prattling on about how nearly perfect Lord Needles was. And he’d needed to make her stop.
Lucas stared straight ahead at Vicar Jones, seeing the man’s lips move but hearing nothing of the Christmas morning service. His entire mental attention was focused on the pew behind him, where Jane and her parents sat.
And Lord Needles.
Jane had all but melted into Lucas’s arms after their kiss last night. Oh, she’d recovered eventually—going so far as to suggest her reaction to him was nothing more than a touch of light-headedness from the ratafia.
But he’d watched her all night, and she’d not taken one sip of ratafia, nor anything else that would lead to such a display.
No, it was his kiss that had ignited the blush that had so deliciously flooded her milky skin. He knew it.
Lucas licked the seam of his lips, and could swear the taste of Jane lingered there—teasing him, torturing him. It wasn’t their first kiss. No, that momentous occasion had unfolded in the branches of Old Tom, when Lucas was ten. He’d asked Jane whether she’d prefer to kiss a frog or him. When she’d screwed up her face with disgust and answered “Neither!” he had planted an unpracticed peck on her cheek with all the force his bruised ego could manage. She’d screamed, then punched him in the gut. He’d fallen out of the tree and hit the ground hard, his very breath knocked free from his lungs.
Last night’s kiss had produced a somewhat similar effect. He’d forced himself to be patient with her, and the effort had left him dizzy with desire, and the need for much, much more. She’d gasped when her hand had reached out for support only to find his chest. The combined feel of her fingers on him and the breathy sound of her surprise had made Lucas wonder what she would feel like, sound like, look like, when she climaxed. The heady thought had only stirred his impatience and threatened to harden his cock right there, in the middle of his mother’s Christmas Eve party.
And when he’d finally put his lips to hers? Ah, he reflected with satisfaction, it was confirmation that Jane was everything he’d searched the world for. She was his missing piece, tucked away in Surrey, right beneath his nose, all this time.
He’d closed his eyes when they kissed, needing to experience Jane and nothing else. The world had shrunk to just him and her. No family or visiting friends—and most definitely no Lord Needles. The sounds of the holiday celebration had all but vanished. There was just Lucas and Jane, together, as it should be.
They’d not shared another moment together. Lord Needles and Lady Merriweather had occupied Jane’s attention for the rest of the night until the vicar, on his seventh cup of Christmas punch, had mistaken the harp for one of his parishioners and it had been decided the party should end.
Lucas had done his duty and bid good night to all of the guests … save for one. Somehow Jane had slipped by him and left for home without a word. Just as well, he’d thought, certain he could not have hidden his feelings for her.
The vicar paused in his sermon and carefully rubbed his temples.
Poor bastard, Lucas thought to himself, suspecting the vicar was feeling the effects of last evening’s over-imbibing and knowing the same could be said of him.
He turned to smile down at his niece Charlotte and couldn’t resist glancing in Jane’s direction. She didn’t return his gaze—didn’t see him, or was deliberately ignoring him, offering not even the smallest of smiles or nod of recognition.
She’d done the same when he’d found her waiting just inside the church entryway, but he’d assumed that she simply felt a sudden sense of shyness after last night.
But Jane had made it abundantly clear that he was mistaken in his assumption. She was not rude, neither was she friendly. No, she’d been something altogether more irritating: indifferent. As if he was no one of consequence to her.
And when Lord Needles had appeared and she’d greeted him with a sunny smile and an invitation to join her family in their pew?
Lucas had felt physically ill. And angry. And confused. He took one last look at Jane now, willing her to meet his gaze.
But she only stared straight ahead, at the vicar, her eyes showing no glimpse of emotion.
Charlotte tugged on his coat sleeve and Lucas turned his attention back to the child. She pointed to the floor, where her doll lay, then looked at him with pleading eyes.
Lucas bent down to retrieve it, fighting the ridiculous urge to throttle the doll until her head separated from the rest of her silk-and-lace-clad torso.
He carefully sat up and handed her toy to Charlotte, forcing a smile when the girl hugged the doll close.
Lucas suddenly felt an intense desire to be away from … from his family. From bloody Lord Needles. From the woman whose treatment of him made Lucas so angry he’d considered unleashing his temper on a child’s precious toy.
He leaned toward his mother and whispered in her ear, “I’ve need of fresh air. I will see you back at the house.”
She looked ready to argue but relented when Lucas glowered.
He took his beaver hat in hand and stood, stepping around his nieces, then striding down the side aisle of the church, without looking at a single person as he did so.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, pausing for a moment as the bright, clear light reflected off the snow to greet him. Donning his hat and turning the collar of his greatcoat up against the icy wind, he stepped out into the winter morning and let the door blow shut behind him, the loud thwack as it met the church’s ancient frame barely registering in his ears.
Lucas breathed in deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs until they ached from the effort. He repeated the act a second time, the cold crystalizing in his organs, then smashing into a million sharp shards as he released it and attempted to push the pain from his mind, body, and soul.
He clenched his jaw when the anger failed to dissipate.
Lucas strode swiftly away from the church, cutting across the cemetery and heading for the vicarage stables just beyond.
He picked up his pace as he passed the vicar’s house, the wind in his face only urging him to move faster.
His hat flew off and he turned his gaze to it, watching as it sailed on the frosty air back toward the church.
I’m not going back. Not for a bloody hat. Not for anything.
He reached the stable and slowed just as Colin, the stable boy, stepped out from behind the large door, a bucket of mash in his hand. “Lord Cavanaugh, is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine. But I’ve need of my horse.”
The lad immediately set the bucket down and turned to go back inside. “Of course, my lord. I’ll just tack him up for you. Won’t be but a minute.”
“No,” Lucas called out, desperate to be on the move again. “Just his bridle and reins, Colin.”
“No saddle, my lord?”
“That’s right,” Lucas assured the boy, then gestured for him to hurry.
Colin shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the stables.
Lucas paced, hoping the action would alleviate the storm brewing inside of him. But he needed more than just movement. He needed speed. Anger roiled in his belly, demanding release.
The stable door reopened and Colin appeared with Lucas’s gelding, Horatio, in tow. “He was none too pleased to be separated from his oats, Lord Cavanaugh,” the stable boy said warningly, handing the reins to Lucas. “I don’t think the storm that’s coming will do much to improve his mood.”
Lucas looped the leather reins over Horatio’s neck and leapt astride. He sat straight and gathered the reins, eyeing the snow as it began to fall. “I’m afraid that makes two of us, Colin.”
Lucas kneed Horatio into a trot, the horse tossing his head in irritation.
“Lord Cavanaugh, happy Christmas!” Colin shouted, his voice fading in the growing force of the wind.
Lucas tightened his thighs around the gelding and urged Horatio into a canter, Colin’s cheery “happy” and “Christmas” quickly fading away into the chilled air.