A Sinful Regency Christmas. Ann Lethbridge

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      Lord Phillips had certainly seemed to like her very much when they talked at dinner, and then after when they sang carols with the others. He had paid her compliments, smiled—touched her hand under the table. He was handsome and seemed kind. Patient. Just what she needed.

      But she hadn’t been able to stop stealing glances along the table to where Ian sat. He had seemed so serious tonight amid the holiday merriment, his eyes full of shadows. It made her long to go and sit with him, to touch his arm and beg him to tell her what was wrong. To just be with him, far away from this party, to be Ian and Cassandra again. To kiss him and feel him kiss her back.

      Then he had glanced up and caught her staring at him, a frown flickering over his brow. He smiled back at her when she made herself smile at him, but there was no teasing glint there to make her laugh as there usually was. And then he turned away from her.

      Cassandra’s fingers tightened on her glass, and for an instant she had the mad urge to go to Ian instead of Lord Phillips, to make him talk to her again. But it was obvious he didn’t want her after that kiss. She had to forget about him.

      She quickly swallowed the last of her brandy. Along with the wine from dinner and the claret punch of the carol-singing, it gave her a dizzy sort of courage. She could do this. She tightened the sash of her dressing gown and marched to the door.

      She peeked out carefully before she stepped into the corridor. Earlier she had heard many stealthy footsteps creeping past, the clicks of doors opening and hastily muffled giggles, but the hour was quite late now and everything was quiet. The candles in the wall sconces sputtered low, casting flickering shadows on the silk wallpaper and the flowered carpet runner. A low moan sounded from behind one of the doors.

      Cassandra almost turned and ran back into her room. Don’t be a coward, she told herself sternly. She was lonely, she wanted romance in her life. She just had to go and find it.

      Even if it was not with the man she really wanted.

      She tiptoed over to the door of the Blue Room, where Melisande said Lord Phillips was lodged and where he was expecting her. Carefully, she tested the brass handle, which turned easily in her hand. Everything was dark over the threshold, except for one bar of snow-silvery moonlight that fell from the window across the foot of the bed.

      “Be brave,” she whispered. She slid into the room and softly closed the door behind her. She leaned back against it for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the shadows. She could see the looming shapes of a wardrobe and dressing table, the flicker of a dying fire in the grate, the large, satin-draped bed.

      The figure lying under the rumpled blankets, turned away from her on his side.

      At first all she could hear was the thunderous pounding of her own heart, but then she made out the soft sound of light, steady breathing from the bed.

      It was now or never. Seize the moment—or die a lonely widow. Cassandra sucked in a deep breath and let the dressing gown slide from her shoulders to leave her clad only in her silk chemise. The chilly air rushed over her bare skin, making her shiver.

      Before she could flee, she rushed to the waiting bed and climbed up onto the high mattress. The warmth of a man’s sleep-hot skin crept out to wrap around her, and her heart ached to be so near another person like this again. Her bed had been so cold for so long.

      Her husband had been quick in his lovemaking, kissing her, lifting her gown and finishing. But she remembered the things she had wanted to do with him, dreamed of doing. Things her married friends whispered about. Things that lately she had dreamed of doing with Ian. She gathered all her scattered courage and reached out to lightly slide her hands over his shoulders.

      His bare shoulders. By Jove, he slept naked? She hadn’t even thought men did such a thing. His skin was warm and slightly damp, like smooth satin over hard iron muscles. Lord Phillips was stronger and larger than she had imagined. Fascinating. She traced the tip of her finger along the groove of his spine to where the sheet draped over his lean hips, hiding the rest of him from her.

      Was he taller, as well? How could that be?

      A rough groan broke the silence of the room. “Cassandra,” he muttered, and suddenly he rolled over and caught her around the waist, carrying her down to the bed. His body was hard and heavy over hers as his mouth closed over hers in the darkness.

      Cassandra couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She gasped, and his tongue took advantage of the small sound to slide deep against hers, greedy, hungry. It was overwhelming, overpowering….

      Wonderful. She couldn’t believe anyone could kiss like this. Why, oh, why hadn’t she tried kissing strange men sooner? His teeth nipped lightly at her lower lip then his tongue soothed the tiny sting and all she knew was the delicious fire that swept over her skin at that touch.

      He tasted of wine and mint, of something dark and rich, and he smelled of sandalwood soap….

      Sandalwood? For one flashing instant she remembered the way Ian always smelled, so clean and exotic at the same time. The way his hair felt under her fingertips. Soft, like raw silk. Just like the hair that slid over her skin now as his open mouth traced a hot ribbon of kisses down her neck, over her bare shoulder.

      But Lord Phillips’s hair was close-cropped.

      Her eyes flew open and she stared down at the head against her shoulder. The dark head. She froze in panic.

      “Cassie,” he muttered. “What’s wrong?”

      What was wrong? She was in bed with Ian, that was what was wrong!

      And yet it felt so horribly, wonderfully right.

      Cassandra pushed him away with a shriek. Startled by her sudden move, he fell off her body back to the bed and she sat up straight. She jerked up the sheet to cover herself in her thin chemise, but that unfortunately left Ian quite naked. The beam of moonlight turned his lean, glistening body to pure, molten silver.

      And, damn him, he didn’t seem in the least bit concerned that he was naked. He sat up beside her and knelt back on his heels, staring down at her in concern. His hair was tousled from the touch of her fingers.

      “Cassie?” he said hoarsely.

      “You— What are you doing here?” she stammered.

      Much to her horror, a grin touched his lips. “I think that was obvious. I was kissing you, until I was rudely interrupted.”

      “But you—you …” Cassandra had no idea what to say, what to do. Nothing in her oh-so-proper upbringing, or her equally proper marriage, had ever prepared her for a situation like this. Finding herself in bed with the wrong man.

      The man she had secretly wanted to be in bed with more than anything.

      Ian slowly stretched out on the mattress again, his head propped on his folded arms as his beautiful body was spread before her. His broad, smooth chest, tapering to a lean waist and narrow hips, his long, hair-dusted legs, the hard evidence of his arousal …

      No! Cassandra snapped her eyes closed. But she could still see him there.

      “Expecting someone else, were you?” he said, and he sounded so infuriatingly satisfied with himself.

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