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Miss Whitlow's TurnSignet Regency to be released January 2005!ISBN: 0451210352
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| The Contest Answer is "Lady Rowena" |
Prologue
December 1819
George Clasby slapped his friend, Lord Ashbourne, upon the back. “Congratulations, you dog.” Ashbourne had just announced that he and his lady-wife were in the family way. The guests cheered and everyone was happy in love. Everyone that was except for him.
George breathed in the smell of fresh evergreens that had been gathered this morning. The women alternating between song and laughter had decorated every corner of the room in honor of Christmas. He sat next to a well-banked fire that crackled and hissed, adding a warm glow to the festive mood, but George did not feel much like celebrating.
He fingered his goblet of mulled wine and felt sorry for himself. Why had he let himself come to this pass? At thirty-three years of age, he already regretted the choices he had made, the life he led. He glanced across the room in time to see Harriet Whitlow take a hearty bite into a tartlet. He had always thought her pretty, but she was as untouchable as the moon. Her usually pale complexion had turned rosy from the spiced wine that flowed as freely as the laughter surrounding him.
Bitter dissatisfaction twined in his gut as he watched couples that obviously enjoyed their state of wedded bliss take turns under the mistletoe. Lord Cherrington and his tall bride of less than six months kissed longer than George considered necessary.
The statuesque couple stood in the entry way and their heads nearly knocked the ball of white flowers off its anchor. The bride’s parents, and hosts of the house party, merely encouraged the pair each time the kissing bough swayed.
The sight did not mix well with the flavorful wine, George thought miserably. He had not found true love. In fact, he doubted he would ever be allowed the chance. That grim outlook made his spirits sink even further.
“Here now, Cherry, give Artemis some air, already,” Ashbourne yelled. “Let someone else have a go. Clasby, you’ve not been under the kissing bough and it grows late.”
George looked at his friend of nearly five years. “There is not an unclaimed maid who’d be willing and you know it. Besides, you have all wed!”
“That has never stopped you before,” Ashbourne teased.
George tipped his glass and downed the last of its contents. “Very well, line them up and I shall kiss each and every one. A token of goodwill and appreciation for being invited to this fine gathering of friends and family.”
Ashbourne laughed. “All but one. I will not allow my fair madam wife into your clutches lest you make her swoon.”
George knew better. Ashbourne battled a jealous temper that could hardly withstand the sight of his beloved kissing another. But the other ladies gladly joined the line. Lady Rothwell and her daughter, Artemis - now Lady Cherrington, stood under the lavishly beribboned kissing bough waiting for a quick buzz from the notorious George Clasby.
It was rather pathetic, George thought. He felt like a circus attraction. Each married lady giggled and carried on about kissing him. And then Harriet Whitlow stood before him a soft smile and pink cheeks.
Miss Whitlow was highly respected among society. She was kind and conducted herself with complete decorum at all times. She was the epitome of prim and proper. But tonight she looked at him with a mischievous gleam in her eye. He nervously glanced toward her father, Lord Whitlow, who remained deep in discussion with Lord Rothwell, no doubt concerning prime horseflesh.
“Do not say that only married ladies may enter this line,” Miss Whitlow said. He voice was low, breathy and completely at odds with her modest looks.
George’s ears grew warm and his cravat suddenly felt tight around his neck. “Of course not.” He bowed then drew her close but his attention strayed toward her father.
She smelled curiously fresh like the out-of-doors mixed with the scent of cinnamon and oranges. Her fine eyes sparkled and he realized for the first time that they were a lovely shade of gray. And then she lowered her heavy lashes.
George gently placed his puckered lips on hers for nothing more than a peck of a kiss, when her mouth opened. Surprised at her response, he closed his eyes and pulled her closer. His lips automatically moved softly against hers and he expertly teased her with his tongue. She hesitated only a moment, and then she followed his lead.
Unwanted heat seared his midsection and he forgot that he was in the middle of a drawing room filled with guests. He also forgot that he kissed a paragon of virginal morals and deepened the kiss, drinking in the luscious taste of her.
He heard the taunts and whistles of those gathered round and he pulled back immediately. “Happy Christmas, Miss Whitlow,” he said quickly. His breath came heavy.
“Happy Christmas to you,” she whispered. Her lips were swollen and her eyes were glazed in a dreamy sort of way.
It took considerable effort on his part not to pull her back into his arms for a second helping. He could hardly believe that an innocent such as her could kiss like a fiery angel. His lust was dampened completely when he noticed the terrible scowl on her father’s face. Lord Whitlow had seen them.
George gave a quick nod to the angry man and then a short bow to his daughter and quickly excused himself to the refreshment table.
“Oh, well done,” Ashbourne said.
“For a fool perhaps.” George lifted the ladle from the crystal punchbowl. He filled his glass. “Did you see the expression on Whitlow’s face? Another moment under that kissing bough and I’d have been called out or worse.”
“Oh come now, ‘tis Christmas. Even you must be allowed a friendly kiss from a fine young lady.”
George nodded as he drained his cup, but the comment did not sit well with him.
Even you…
When had he become so repulsive to polite society? He had made a mull of his good name without paying the least bit of attention. At first he had thought it merely fun and games. A married lady of nobility had tempted him as a young man and he thought no harm would come to him if he were discreet. Then the few lonely wives of the ton that he had gladly comforted turned into scores and pure folly.
He was in every sense of the word, a rake. And no decent woman would ever willingly take such a libertine for a husband.
