Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon_Regency Novella Read online

  Closing her eyes, she envisioned him, not in the full garb of a fencer, but bare-chested with his hands wrapped in cloth, and short pants to enable easy, swift movements—his hands raised in defense as he danced around the boxing area, keeping space between him and his opponent.

  A sound from within had her lids snapping open once more to see Brigham standing again and pacing before the hearth, his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of the coat he had yet to remove.

  Something was amiss with him, Mellie was certain of it.

  Never had he arrived at Hockcliffe with such a dark cloud looming over him, his shoulders caving in, and dark shadows under his eyes, indicating he hadn’t slept well for some time. His usual carefree manner and jovial nature was lacking, as well, and never had he outright avoided her presence when in residence. It was a fact that they’d never shared a marriage bed, but Brigham hadn’t ever called off on a meal with her or evaded her company.

  Whatever weighed on him was great enough that he did not seek to burden Mellie with it. What the man did not realize was that his avoidance made it all the more important to her to discover what had him so crestfallen…and repair it.

  In any way she could.

  Yet, Mellie was at a loss for how to discover anything if he continually sought to evade her.

  But she had her own plans for his short stay at Hockcliffe.

  Perhaps it was possible to combine those two goals: help banish his melancholy mood and repay his kindness.

  She’d lived for so many years under a black cloud of grief, and Mellie did not want that for Brigham. All she needed was time to reconnect with him, and she could certainly restore his happiness.

  The last several months, with no ailing mother to keep her occupied, had opened her eyes to many things—namely, hope for her future. She’d been blessed with a kind, compassionate husband who had done everything in his power to help Mellie and keep her mother comfortable during her last years. It was time Mellie was there for her spouse.

  On the morrow, Christmastide morning would dawn, and Brigham would likely speak of his intentions to depart Hockcliffe.

  Her future—and his—hinged on the present.

  Not tomorrow, not a fortnight from now, and certainly not a year from now when once again Brigham returned for his short holiday stay.

  Mellie glanced down at her tightly bound cloak and hastily unbuttoned it until her midnight blue sash was visible beneath. A quick touch at her ear confirmed that her hair was as it should be, pinned at one side and hanging freely down her back. Her cheeks were already rosy from the harsh December cold.

  She lifted her chin and grasped the latch on the door; the freezing metal could be felt even through her gloves. A part of her shouted to withdraw her hand and return to the manor, await Brigham therein. But another—much louder—part of her, willed her to push open the door.

  And greet her husband as if they both belonged at the steward’s office.

  An overpowering heat gathered at the apex of her thighs, and her breasts swelled, pulling the material of her gown tight across her chest.

  Something about the entire situation was intoxicating, and her mind swam as if she’d overindulged in dinner sherry.

  As soon as she entered the cottage and closed the door solidly behind her, she and Brigham would be alone, without a soul to interrupt them.

  Her brow furrowed. This was possibly the first time since they were young children gallivanting between Hockcliffe and Tapton property that they would be unequivocally alone. Even at Hockcliffe there were always servants close at hand, and Brigham’s sister and her family normally arrived with Brigham from London.

  They’d shared sparse few moments in his study the day before, but they hadn’t been truly unaccompanied there either.

  But here, in this cottage, they had no fear of a servant stumbling upon them.

  Smiling brightly to hide her own nerves, Mellie pushed the door open and greeted Brigham. He no longer paced the room but sat behind the modest desk. “Good morning, my lord.”

  His eyes narrowed behind his rounded glasses before widening. “Mellie?” He swallowed hard before continuing, leaning forward in his seat. “Ah, what brings you all the way out here? It is dreadfully cold outside.”

  “I walk most mornings and noticed someone was here.” There was little reason to confess that she’d followed him to the cottage, when in fact, her daily walks did take her by the steward’s residence on most days. “When I saw your horse tied outside, I figured I should stop and inquire if you were in need of anything.”

  Their eyes remained locked when Mellie pushed the door closed at her back and stepped farther into the room, which suddenly seemed smaller due to her presence—and his. Neither so much as breathed. Mellie stifled her breath for fear she’d startle him from his silence, and he’d send her back to the manor. But as for Brigham, she was uncertain what kept him frozen before her. He did not stand to greet her nor allow his eyes to release her stare.

  Mellie was not versed in matters of the flesh; indeed, she’d never even so much as discussed the topic with anyone. The hard stare locked on hers proclaimed she was to learn today—this very moment if Mellie had any say in the matter. Brigham, the man she’d adored in her youth whom had given her everything in her adulthood, was the only one she trusted wholeheartedly. He would not lead her astray nor cause her any harm.

  “Thank you for your concern and thoughtfulness, but I am merely studying the ledgers”—he tapped his finger on the open book—“before Briars returns from holiday.”

  Brigham’s head dropped, and he focused on the tome before him once more…however, he didn’t demand she leave.

  And so, she slipped her arms from her cloak and deposited it on the chair across from the steward’s desk and then proceeded to remove her black gloves, one finger at a time until her hands were bare. She set the accessories on the chair beside her discarded overgarment.

  Not once did Brigham glance up from his work, though the stiffening of his back indicated he was acutely aware of Mellie’s presence. To test her newfound power, she paced slowly around the desk he sat behind until she was at his back.

  “Do allow me to assist you in your examination.” She leaned in close, certain her breath caressed his neck. “I have often wondered what kept the steward so busy nearly all year round.”

  “Yes, busy man—much to do—“

  Mellie placed her hands on Brigham’s shoulders, once more surprised at their broad width, as he tensed beneath her touch.

  For a moment, she kept her fingers still, begged her hands to apply no pressure to him for fear he’d push her away, but when he remained silent and still for several minutes, Mellie gently kneaded his stiff shoulders. Her heart beat erratically within her chest, her nipples hardening more than before as the material of her shift agitated the tender buds.

  His entire body shuddered under her fingers.

  Her breath hitched, and she leaned ever closer as his heady male scent surrounded her. It was a tempting mix of the stables from his ride here and something far earthier, as if he’d spent time in the woods. She knew this to be impossible, for he’d departed the manor and rode straight to the cottage, so she figured it must be a scent unique to him alone.

  Instead of relaxing under the gentle pressure of her hands, his shoulders only became more rigid, and his head lifted from his work to stare out the far window.

  The cords of his muscles flexed under her hold, causing a tingle to course down her spine, and her knees to weaken.

  Why had they waited so long for this moment?

  Her arousal at their mere touch was nearly enough to send her crashing to her knees. For her to beg him to remove his coat and unfasten the long row of buttons down her back.

  Mellie remained silent, allowing her hands to wander from his shoulders to his upper arms, the cut of his jacket straining over his biceps. She wondered what other surprises he kept hidden under his proper attire.

  Her cheeks
flushed at the thought, but she refused to back down.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Mellie saw that his eyes had drifted shut, his lips pressed tightly into a firm line.

  Was it possible he did not welcome her advances?

  Chapter Six

  Alarm bells—no, ear-piercing sirens!—went off in Brigham’s head.

  This was not how things were supposed to progress. Mellie was not to be at the steward’s cottage. She was not meant to remove her cloak and her—gulp—gloves. And she, most definitely, positively, unquestionably was not destined to place her bare, naked hands upon him in such an intimate manner.

  Naked… His mind spiraled to more than just her hands being bared before him.

  Oh, dear blessed Father above.

  Brigham was losing the thin thread of composure he’d held on to since her arrival in the doorway.

  Her breath was like a warm summer breeze on his neck. She was so close, a lock of her long, reddish blonde hair fell upon his shoulder. Blast it all, but he had to halt himself from reaching up and bringing it to his nose. Would she smell of strawberries? Vanilla? Perhaps she’d have the scent of blueblossoms clinging to her as she had on their wedding day.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, concentrating on why he was at the steward’s cottage in the first place.

  Yes, he remembered. His mind was foggy with lust, but he did, indeed, remember his purpose herein.

  He’d come in search of a private space where he did not have to fear interruption for the specific purpose of thinking through all he was to say to Mellie when next they met. He’d thought to outline a conversation where he would confess his misdeeds and beg her forgiveness, then and only then, would they speak of the past and decide, as rational adults, if they had a future together or if their time to be a true wedded couple had come and gone while both were preoccupied with other things. Certainly, Mellie’s ailing mother had been far more important than their marriage, though Brigham knew his work in London hadn’t been imperative enough to keep him from his husbandly responsibilities.

  Bloody hell. He never should have abandoned her for his lofty aspirations among the ton. It had taken him five long years for this truth to break through his thick head.

  …and now it could be too late.

  What had they been speaking of before she placed her hands on his shoulders?

  Mr. Briars, his steward.

  For some reason, speaking of the servant in this moment—as Mellie’s hands moved from his upper arms, back to his shoulders, and down toward his chest—did not seem a wise choice.

  Or even a discussion Brigham capable of.

  He exhaled, his breath leaving him in more of a moan than a sigh as his eyes drifted closed.

  They were alone and over a mile from Hockcliffe manor and two miles from town. No one was close enough to give this private moment an ounce of propriety. But then again, he and Mellie were husband and wife and were not in need of a chaperone.

  Her hands drifted lower still, nearly reaching his stomach as they glided over his jacket.

  “You are very tense, my lord.” With his eyes still closed, he could feel her lips by his ear.

  “Brig-ham,” he hissed and immediately sucked in his breath as something grazed his neck, directly behind his ear.

  “Yes.” The single word quaked on her lips. “Brigham.

  At his name on her lips and her closeness apparent, his manhood stiffened and became so rigid he fairly ached with agony.

  He’d sought out this cottage to gain some distance from her, not be confronted by his own lack of restraint when it came to his wife.

  Brigham leapt from his seat, his action causing Mellie to take a step back as he sidestepped the chair and turned to face her. Her hands were still held in midair, and her face paled with fright before color blossomed in her cheeks.

  He’d wanted to speak with her, not cause her embarrassment or fright.

  Reaching forward, he took her hand in both of his, marveling at how small it was nestled in his. How warm her skin was. How smooth her fingers were.

  Suddenly, she was against him, yet he hadn’t moved. The straining bulge in his trousers pressed insistently to her belly.

  Mellie had been the one to close the distance between them.

  He was all hard contours to her soft curves.

  There was no chance of Brigham hiding his arousal from her, and the knowing look in her green eyes told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  “My apologies, Mellie,” he whispered low. “I have been under immense strain lately and my body—it is not—“

  She pulled her hand from his grasp, and Brigham feared he’d insulted her, caused her humiliation no woman should experience at the hands of her husband, yet she did not step away nor flee the cottage.

  Instead, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck…and pulled his lips to hers.

  It was heaven, yet burned like hellfire.

  It was Brigham’s salvation, but would surely result in his being thrown into purgatory.

  This was what he’d been longing for all these years; however, never did he delude himself into thinking he deserved it.

  Melloria, his first and only love, pressed close; their mouths locked together as each struggled to hold on.

  Her ripe mouth anchored them together as she pressed her body to his, claiming him as hers. Though Brigham had always known he belonged to her and only her. Her lips were lush and sweet, and he wrapped his arms about her waist to keep their mouths locked. As if sensing his heightened arousal, she ran her fingers up his neck and tangled them in his curling hair, holding his face to hers.

  Her tight grasp on him was unnecessary, as he had no urge to let her go, no desire to allow her to slip away from him.

  Tentatively, Brigham’s hands moved lower until they cupped her bottom, and he gently kneaded her rounded derriere gently as they deepened their kiss.

  He wanted this moment to last forever—if only to delay the inevitable.

  To avoid having to confess his failures in London and his regrets about having abandoned her all these years. His remorse for being gone when her mother passed away. And the heart of the matter, that he was too foolish to realize the import of it all until after everything he’d worked so hard for had been crushed. All these years he’d spent countless hours away from home. And when he was in residence at Hockcliffe, he’d droned on and on about his reform bills, the important men he’d met with, and the topics of discussion labored over during their meetings. All things that had been significant to Brigham, while Mellie suffered neglect at the hands of her estranged husband.

  In response to his wayward thoughts, Brigham pulled her closer still, his knees touching hers through layers and layers of skirting and underpinnings, yet urging her thighs to spread. Oh, how he fought the impulse to dispel with the material that separated them, that kept his eyes and hands from the rounded flare of her hips and her from touching the corded muscle of his chest and shoulders.

  They’d been wedded for years, but Brigham had never tasted the nape of her neck, never allowed his fingers to trail up her bare legs, and certainly never thought he’d ever have the right to have his lips upon hers.

  Only in his dreams did he touch her like this—with reverence, adoration, and awe.

  Brigham breathed deeply through his nose so as not to displace their mouths, yet the action served only to fill his entire being with her scent. So uniquely Mellie.

  Not that of a berry or vanilla or even blueblossoms. No, the scent that clung to her was as if every flower, every blossom, every sweetness came together just for her; to blend as one to make her extraordinary fragrance. It was not something carried by any local mercantile, nor the creation of the esteemed Floris of London. Certainly, if he could bottle Mellie’s essence and sell the concoction, they would never see a day without immense wealth.

  Brigham scoffed, breaking his lips from hers. He would never, ever allow another to get close enough to bask in
her fragrance.

  She was his. Had always been meant for him. Surely, he’d been created specifically to love and cherish her. The way their bodies melded together now was evidence of that fact.

  They both panted hard as Brigham looked down into the green eyes that’d haunted his nights since before he recognized their connection. But what did he see therein?

  Chapter Seven

  Mellie could not remove her stare from Brigham. He was everything she’d always wanted. He alone was the one man who could provide her with protection, security, comfort—and, dare she dream… love. However, even in this moment, she sensed him retreating into his proper, gentlemanly shell. The mask he always wore in her presence.

  He could not hide his desire for her. His need was evident. There was no masking the throbbing manhood in his trousers or the scorching arousal apparent in his intense stare.

  The time gifted to them did not allow for games or distractions. She would not stand by while Brigham sidestepped her and denied them both what they so evidently needed.

  Tightening her arms around his neck once more, Mellie brought his lips to hers as she pushed to her tiptoes. Besides a chaste kiss in their youth, she’d never kissed another—and she certainly enjoyed kissing Brigham, as well as the power she felt as he melted in her arms during their embrace.

  For once, she was taking the lead in their relationship. She was in control, and she dictated when, where, and how far this intimacy went.

  She was a vixen, a siren, utterly wanton…and Mellie didn’t care a whit.

  Brigham’s touch did this to her. It was as hot as the blaze in the hearth and thawed the frozen bits of her heart.