Never this bone-weakening need to be possessed. Never this aching desire to give herself. Her hands must have unbuttoned his evening coat and waistcoat, she thought dimly. They were at his back, beneath both, against the heat of his silk shirt.
She heard her name as his mouth moved from hers to her throat. He was holding her to him so that she could be in no doubt that his desire matched her own.
"Yes," she said. "Yes."
And then the side of her face was against the folds of his neckcloth, one of his hands holding it there, his fingers threaded in her hair. Where was her bonnet? she wondered vaguely. His other arm was about her waist and he was rocking her against him. She could hear the thumping of his heart. And she could feel him drawing deep and even breaths, imposing calm on himself. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax.
God, he thought, it was not easy. It was not easy to love the woman one hated. He held her, his eyes closed, and rested one cheek against the top of her head.
Judith. Perhaps he should not blame her. Not after what he had learned that afternoon. She had been very young, just a green girl in the hands of a rake intent on winning a wager. Perhaps he should forget, let go of all the hatred that had been in him so long that it was almost a part of him.
But how would he ever be able to trust her again? Even at the age of eighteen she should have behaved better than she had. She should not have sent her father. She should have told him herself. He did not believe he could ever forgive her for that even if he could excuse her for the rest.
"You should know better than to walk alone with a man on a dark driveway at night," he said.
"Yes." Her voice was low. She did not sound worried or sorry.
"You never know what might happen to you," he said.
"No."
“Judith.'' He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Call me by name. Just once. Please?"
"Max," she said softly. She lifted her head and smiled up at him a little uncertainly.
. He set his hands at her waist and took a step back from her. He bent down and picked up her bonnet from the driveway, shook the snow from it, and handed it to her. And he buttoned up his greatcoat and drew his gloves from his pockets-he could not remember removing them or putting them there.
"I have been wanting to do that for a long time," he said.
She finished doing up her cloak and looked up at him. "I have wanted it too," she said. A smile touched her lips. "Max."
He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips once more. "My aunts will be imagining that we have been caught and devoured by wolves if we do not appear soon," he said, and he held out a hand for hers.
A minute later they had rounded the bend in the driveway and were in sight of the house. They both chuckled at the surprising sight of a few of the older children with Spencer Cornwell, and Amy too, engaged in a fierce snowball fight close to the front doors.
Late nights seemed to make no difference to children on Christmas morning. There was always far too much excitement ahead to allow them to sleep until a decent hour.
Judith tried to pretend mat she was dreaming and burrowed her head beneam the blankets and pillows. But the chill little body that wormed its way beneath the covers next to her and laid cold feet against her thighs and encircled her neck with little arms was too persistent a dream. And the larger body that launched itself on top of her refused to be ignored.
"Wake up, Mama!" Rupert demanded.
"Are you awake, Mama?" Kate asked, kissing Judith's cheek.
She did not want to be awake. Having lain awake through much of the night reliving the evening, marveling at the wonder of it, dreaming about the consequences of it, she had
finally fallen asleep very late. And she had been having dreams that she wanted to cling to, dreams of strong arms about her and a warm mouth open over hers.
"I am now,'' she said with a sigh, and turned to wrap one arm about each child and pull them into a close hug. "What day is it? I have forgotten."
She laughed as they both answered her question, one in each ear. Of course it was. How could it be any day other than Christmas Day? There was a special feel about the day, as she had said on the way home from church the night before, something that made it different from any other day of the year.
"Oh, so it is," she said. "How silly of me to forget. What shall we do now? Go back to sleep for a while? Or shall we wash and dress and go in search of breakfast?"
She chuckled again at the chorus of protests that greeted her. Even Kate at the age of three knew very well that that was not the routine for Christmas morning.
"Presents first, Mama," Kate said, kissing her on the cheek again and looking at her with wide, pleading eyes.
"Please," Rupert added.
"Presents?" Judith frowned. "Ah, yes, presents. Now let me see, I believe there are a few here somewhere."
Rupert bounced on the bed.
"I tell you what," Judith said. "You two run along and wake Aunt Amy-gently, please-and bring her here while I see if I can find any presents."
"Silly Mama," Kate said, scrambling down from the bed. "You know where the presents are."
Judith reached out to ruffle her hair.
In truth, she thought-and felt guilty at the thought-she would have liked nothing better than to rush through washing and dressing and brushing and all the other tasks that would have to be completed before she could go downstairs to breakfast. She wanted to see him again.
She pushed her feet into a pair of slippers and drew on a dressing gown over her nightgown, then went in pursuit of the pile of parcels that were hidden at the botom of a wardrobe in her dressing room.
She still felt as if she were in something of a daze. She was a woman of twenty-six years, a widow, the mother of two children. And yet she was wildly, exuberantly, head over ears in love. Far more so, she thought with another stab of guilt, than she had ever been with Andrew.
And yet the object of her feelings was none other than the man she had jilted in order to marry Andrew. The man she had feared and disliked at the time and during all the years since until just a few days ago. Not even as long. Even as recently as two days before she had been wary of him, suspicious of his motives. There had been something about him that had made her uneasy.
She smiled to herself as she carried the parcels through to the bedroom and piled them beside the bed. It was herself she had been wary of. It had seemed just too strange to be true that she was attracted to him, that she was growing to like him and admire him, and that she was falling in love with him.
Amy had been right all along, she thought. He had been trying to fix his interest with her from the start. That was why he had arranged all those meetings and outings with her in London, and that was why he had invited her to Denbigh Park for Christmas.
He was in love with her too. If she had had any doubt, then it had been swept away the night before when he had kissed her. And afterward he had led her home, her hand in his, until they had come up to the others, and then liberally pounded her with snowballs as they joined in the battle that the others had started. He had laughed the whole time.
She loved to hear him laugh, to see his harsh features softened and made handsome.
When would he declare himself? she wondered. Today? It seemed likely. It was Christmas Day. And would she accept? She had two children whose security and happiness she must put first in her life. But he knew all about her children and was fond of them, she was sure. And they liked him and his home.
Was it possible that after all she was to be his wife? Eight years after she should have married him?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of the children, bringing Amy along with them.