Page 11 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

Chapter 3

“Wherein Chance encounters temptation enough to try a saint.”

14thDecember 1817. Corry Brook Farm. Devon.

Chance woke, vaguely conscious of the fact that his nose felt like ice, his feet too, but the rest of him was rather toasty. Still foggy with sleep, he gradually became aware of his surroundings, remembering the snowstorm and the empty farmhouse and… Odette. Though the storm outside battered against the glass and howled softly about the courtyard, in his dreamy state it sounded almost melodic and soothing. Contentment suffused him and he sighed. His drowsy brain conjured her beautiful face, the feel of her mouth beneath his, and his body woke fully before the rest of him, primed and eager for more.

Then he realised why he was so warm.

At once he was wide awake, and too aware of the soft body pressed against his.

Oh.

Oh, this… this was bad. Very, very good… but bad.

Desire lanced through him as he realised her hand rested on his belly, so close to his straining cock his chest locked down tight with anticipation. Her breathing was still deep and steady, and she was quite obviously asleep. She must have felt the cold during the night and gravitated towards his heat, coiling around him like a climbing rose around an arbour. One leg hooked over his and he could feel the intimate heat of her body burning against his thigh. The knowledge that only a few layers of material kept her skin separated from his was torture of the worst kind.

Think boring thoughts, he counselled himself, which was patently impossible. His thoughts had taken themselves gleefully on a wild rampage and were not the least bit boring. Her breath fluttered against his neck, warm and tantalising, and his own breathing became increasingly laboured. She stirred, sighing in her sleep, and her hand shifted a fraction closer to his shaft.

Oh, Holy God and all his angels.

Chance didn’t move so much as an eyelash. He was rigid with tension, his body singing with desire, and he did not know what to do. He did nothing. If he moved, he’d wake her, and she might be afraid… horrified….

“Good morning.”

Chance leapt out of his skin at the sleepy words, murmured against his ear.

“Morning,” he managed, his reply harsh and raspy.

She let out a long, decadent sigh which rolled across his skin and made goosebumps erupt all over him. Then she stilled. Chance realised she had suddenly become as aware as he of their position.

At some point he had squeezed his eyes shut, no doubt to block out the inevitable scene that was about to erupt. Except that there was no scene, no shrieks of shock or disgust. He felt movement beside him and he dared to open his eyes again. Odette had pushed herself up on her elbow, her hand still burning a brand over his belly and creating far too much excitement farther south. She stared down the length of his body. His difficulty was blatant, tenting his breeches in lascivious invitation. Oh, bloody hell. Chance swallowed. Hard.

Her head turned, and she looked back down at him, cheeks flushed, her eyes impossibly dark. Oh, God. She wanted him. He could feel it rolling off her in waves and his skin ached, literally hurt with the need to touch her, to have her touch him. He didn’t move, knowing he could not.

Odette swallowed audibly, snatched her hand back, and then rolled away from him. She stood, brushing down her skirts, and then moved towards the fire, using the poker to stir the dying embers back to life with rather more force than was warranted.

Chance let out a long, slow breath, before forcing his unwilling limbs to move.

“I’ll… I’ll fetch some more firewood,” he said gruffly, and practically ran for the door.

Though he felt like a horny schoolboy, he dealt with his unmanageable body behind one of the sheds. It barely helped. Even the snowstorm that blew icy blasts at his face and the drifts that were up to his knees did little to cool his ardour, for he knew the moment he returned to the farmhouse, she’d be there, alone. The temptation to flirt and seduce had been bad enough last night, but now… after having seen the look in her eyes. Oh, hell. Yet she trusted him, she thought him a good man, and he was damn well going to prove her right. She had been ill-used enough by her uncle, from what he could tell. Where she had learned her disgust of Englishmen he did not know, for she said she’d met no young men outside of him and her cousin, but he would not disgrace himself or his countrymen by acting like a bloody libertine. He’d been a bit of devil during his lifetime, but he was no rakehell, he was a gentleman… or, at least, he knew how to be a gentleman when the need arose. The need had most definitely arisen.

Still requiring a bit of time to clear his head, he walked around to what had been the kitchen garden, to see if there was anything worth eating beneath the snow. After hunting about a bit, he found a basket with a broken handle and filled it with Brussels sprouts, a few parsnips, and some more carrots. Then he went to the potting shed and uncovered some string. It was easy enough to find the paths rabbits took in and out of the garden in the snow, and so he fashioned a simple snare and hoped they’d get lucky. Though it had stopped snowing, it showed no signs of melting and every sign of falling again at any moment. Chance refused to admit this pleased him, or that he did not want the weather to clear. For if it did, they must leave, he would have to return her to the real world where trouble awaited her, and him too. It was hardly an inviting prospect.

With the basket of vegetables tucked under one arm and a few logs beneath the other, he headed back to the farmhouse. He was bloody freezing now, having rushed out without his greatcoat and he pushed through the door, back into the kitchen, stamping snow from his boots.

“Oh, goodness, you are all wet.” Odette fussed about him, brushing snow from his hair and shoulders. “Come to the fire. I have boiled some water, but I found no tea or coffee. A pity there is no honey, either.”

“Hives are over that way,” Chance said through chattering teeth, remembering helping Mrs Burroughs collect the honey as a lad. “I’ll go and look.”

“Non, not now, you won’t. You’ll catch your death. Look at your lovely boots, they are soaked. Take them off.”

Chance submitted as he was wrestled out of his sodden boots and forced to peel off the equally wet stockings beneath. Odette built the fire back up, hung his stockings to dry, and put his boots beside the hearth.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of porridge and a cup of chocolate,” she said with a sigh. “Though you have done very well to bring back such treasure.”

This was added with a grave expression that made Chance smile. Clearly, she did not wish for him to feel his efforts were unappreciated.