One Wicked Christmas. Amanda McCabe

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      One Wicked Christmas

      Amanda McCabe

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      London, 1806

      Lady Cassandra Osborne is ready to take a new lover to her bed—and knows exactly the man she wants: Sir Ian Chandler, her late husband’s rakish best friend. The single kiss they’d shared had made her feel alive again, awakening dark needs she didn’t even know she had…though Ian had quickly pulled away. Cassie is sure he doesn’t want her, until their reunion at a Christmas house party tempts them to succumb to the desire that has haunted them both….

      Dear Reader,

      I love Christmas! The cool weather, crackling fires in the fireplace, champagne punch, my grandmother’s toffee and sugar cookies, time with family and friends—it’s a beautiful time of year.

      It also seems like a wonderful time for romance! I’ve read Regency Christmas stories every year since I was a teenager, and I loved having the chance to set Cassie and David’s story at Christmas--their tale of true love found in unexpected places just seemed perfect for the holiday. Carols, mistletoe, parties, a sleigh ride—what could be better?

      I also loved Cassie’s friend Melisande—so much that I am in the process of writing her story now. Stay tuned! And happy holidays…

      Amanda McCabe

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter One

      London, December 1806

      “My dear Cassandra. There are so many handsome men here tonight. You must choose one and take him to your bed immediately, before you quite wither away.”

      Lady Cassandra Osborne choked on the sip of claret punch she had just swallowed. “Melisande! Someone could hear you,” she protested as she deposited her glass on the tray of one of the footmen circulating through the crowded ballroom. She had been friends with Melisande, the Duchess of Gifford, ever since they were children, and she knew she should be used to the outrageous comments by now. But they still tended to catch her by surprise. Even when she was secretly thinking much the same thing.

      “Nonsense. We’re all alone here in our little corner, no one is listening,” Melisande said. “And I have been meaning to talk to you about this for some time now.”

      Cassandra laughed. “Talk to me about my habits in the bedchamber?”

      “My dear, as far as I know you have no habits in the bedchamber at all, except for sleeping—alone.” Melisande sipped at her own punch as they both studied Lady Clarke’s ballroom. It was the last ball in London before everyone scattered for Christmas, and the vast, gilded space smelled of pine boughs twined with red and white hothouse roses. The wine and punch flowed freely, and the laughter and chatter were growing louder and more merry as the evening went on. Cassandra had sought a quiet corner to take a breath; she hadn’t gone there to be interrogated about her romantic life by her friend.

      Or rather her lack of romantic life.

      “My life suits me very well,” Cassandra said, half-truthfully. She hoped she sounded more resolute than she felt.

      “Nonsense, my dear! How could it?” Melisande scoffed. “Your husband, worthy as he was, has been gone for above a year now. But you still shut yourself away in mourning.”

      “I do no such thing. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

      “Dressed like someone’s old auntie.” Melisande plucked at the plain cap sleeve of Cassandra’s dark purple silk gown. “You are far too young to do this to yourself, Cassie. Not when there are so many handsome men scattered about.”

      Melisande gestured at the ballroom with her glass and Cassandra dutifully studied the crowd. There were handsome men there—Lord Dunphy, Mr. Barrows, the Duke of Wharton. But none of them made her heart beat faster, none of them made her wonder what their lips would feel like on hers, what they looked like under their finely tailored clothes. None of them tempted her.

      And she had been secretly looking enough to know.

      Cassandra sighed and snapped open her black lace fan to try to create a cool breeze in the stuffy room. “Oh, Mel. I confess I have had such thoughts myself lately.”

      “Cassandra! You have?” Melisande gave her a startled glance over the gilded edge of her glass. “Oh, my dear, why didn’t you say anything? I would be happy to help you find just the right person. You deserve a little fun.”

      “I doubt there is the right person,” Cassandra murmured. “I haven’t yet found anyone to tempt me.”

      Except that one time…

      She had been very tempted indeed then. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night when she couldn’t sleep, she remembered how that kiss felt. How it awakened dark needs in her she didn’t even know she had, made her long for more and more. Made her want to tear his clothes away and feel the slide of his body over hers, skin against skin, until she didn’t know anything but him.

      Cassandra wielded the fan faster in front of her suddenly flushed face. Remembering those feelings did no good at all. The kiss had been over much too quickly, and he had backed away from her with a look of horror in his dark eyes. Since then he had carefully kept his distance, maintained a polite concern that made her want to scream with frustration. He certainly wouldn’t get close enough to her to repeat that little moment of giddy madness.

      Melisande was right. She needed to find someone else. But, curse it all, she didn’t want anyone else!

      Luckily her friend wasn’t looking at her to see her pink cheeks. Melisande studied the gathering, her eyes narrowed in consideration, as if she was examining horses at Tattersalls. “What about Lord Meredith? He’s a bit talkative for my taste, but he does have those lovely blue eyes. Or Lord Jermaine? Lady Jermaine says he is very well-endowed.”

      Cassandra had to laugh. “I don’t think so. Not a married man. And not one who is talkative.”

      “Mr. Hatchard? Oh, I know—Lord Phillips! He is so handsome and he seemed to admire you at my dinner party last week.” Melisande sighed when Cassandra shook her head. “My dear, if you are that finicky you will certainly never find a lover. What are you looking for?”

      Ian, Cassandra thought sadly. He was what she wanted, ever since that crazy kiss in the garden—no, even before that. But he didn’t want her. To him, she was just his friend Charles’s widow.

      “Someone kind, I suppose,” she said. “Someone who will understand that it’s, er, been some time since I had a lover. Someone who is handsome, who can make me laugh. Someone like…”

      “Like your husband?”

      Cassandra swallowed hard. She hadn’t even been thinking of Charles, her quiet, gentle husband, at all when she considered what she wanted in a new lover. What a terrible wife she was.

      But then again, Melisande was right. She had been alone for a long time now, and the memories of Charles that had kept her heart warm for many months were fading. The world was becoming a cold place indeed.

      “Yes,” she said. “Someone a bit like Charles, I suppose.”

      “Well, my dear, you must forgive me saying so, but what you need in a lover is someone most unlike your husband.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean you and your Charles were a comfortable old couple from the moment you married, sitting