The Mistletoe Wager. Christine MerrillЧитать онлайн книгу.
Harry helped her up the short step that led to his bed, and jumped up himself to sit on the edge, beside her.
He brushed a lock of hair off her face and kissed her, and it was a pleasant surprise, for other than one brief kiss when he had proposed, and another in the chapel after the wedding, he had offered no displays of affection. But this was different. He rested his lips against hers for a moment, moving back and forth, and then parting them with his tongue.
The longer he kissed her, the more she was convinced that she could feel the kiss in other parts of her body, where his lips had not touched. And when she remarked on it, he offered to kiss her there as well, and his lips slid to her chin, her throat and then to her breast. It was wonderful and strange, for it made the feelings even more intense, and he seemed to understand, for his lips followed the sensation lower….
The Mistletoe Wager
Harlequin®Historical
MILLS & BOON
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Author Note
When I set out to write about Christmas in the Regency, I had to unlearn a lot of our current Christmas traditions. Much of what we do now to celebrate the season did not become popular until Victorian times. No Christmas cards or Santa, of course. And Christmas trees were still quite a novelty in the early nineteenth century.
With no television or radio to entertain them, people passed the time eating and drinking holiday foods, and playing parlor games. As I was doing the research for this story, I came across a game that didn’t make it into this book. A player must answer every question asked of him with the word “sausage.” When he laughs, he loses his turn.
A week later, my sons returned from summer camp. They had been surviving without electricity for a week, and had learned to play “Sausage” to pass the time.
So although the showier aspects of the Christmas season were years away, people had already found ways to amuse themselves that are still able to tame bored teenagers in the twenty-first century. Very impressive!
Merry Christmas and Happy Reading.
CHRISTINE MERRILL
The Mistletoe Wager
Available from Harlequin®Historical and CHRISTINE MERRILL
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteeen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
Harry Pennyngton, Earl of Anneslea, passed his hat and gloves to the servant at White’s, squared his shoulders, and strode into the main room to face his enemy. Nicholas Tremaine was lounging in a chair by the fire, exuding confidence and unconcerned by his lesser birth. To see him was to believe he was master of his surroundings, whatever they might be. He reminded Harry of a panther dozing on a tree branch, ready to drop without warning into the lives of other creatures and wreak havoc on their nerves.
And he was a handsome panther at that. In comparison, Harry always felt that he was inferior in some way. Shorter, perhaps, although they were much of the same height and build. And rumpled. For, no matter how much time or money Harry spent on his attire, Tremaine would always be more fashionable. And he did it seemingly without effort.
On the long list of things that annoyed him about the man, his appearance was at the bottom. But it was on the list all the same.
The room was nearly empty, but Harry could feel the shift in attention among the few others present as though there had been a change in the wind. Men looked up from their cards and reading, watching his progress towards Tremaine. They were curious to see what would happen when the two notorious rivals met.
Very well, then. He would give them the show they hoped for. ‘Tremaine!’ He said it too loudly and with much good cheer.
His quarry gave a start and almost spilled his brandy. He had recognised the voice at once, and his eyes darted around the room, seeking escape. But none was to be had, for Harry stood between him and the door. Harry could see the faint light of irritation in the other man’s eyes when he realised that he would have no choice but to acknowledge the greeting. ‘Hello, Anneslea.’ Then he returned his gaze to the paper he had been reading, showing no desire for further conversation.
How unfortunate for him. ‘How goes it for you, old man, in this most blessed of holiday seasons?’
The