But today was Christmas Day. And he had to let her go.
Arran scowled. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Sure, it had been a night like no other, and when he’d lay there spent, his chest cushioned by her breasts, while her fingers stroked the back of his neck, he hadn’t wanted to move, ever. But Rachel had her own life to return to, and he was expected in London to meet his contracted fiancée and make the formal announcement. It didn’t matter that it was now infinitely harder to imagine himself married to Lady Sarah, dispassionately selected by his parents for no other reason than her suitable lineage. Every Marquess of Kyle had wed in such a manner. He didn’t have the luxury of ‘Mr. Elliott’ to choose a woman he truly wanted, to wake up each morning with her warm naked body pressed close after hours of sexual excess.
No, his foreseeable future was cold duty.
“Arran?” said Rachel sleepily. “Is something wrong?”
Startled, he glanced down to see his hand had tightened on her shoulder. Christ. He needed to pull himself together. “Nothing at all. Well, apart from this room being icier than the North Sea.”
“I’ll get up and stoke the fire.”
“No,” he replied. “I’ll do it.”
It was freezing without the protection of the heavy quilt, and Arran gritted his teeth as he wrapped a spare woolen blanket around himself and marched to the fireplace. It took a lot of coaxing and more wood, but at last a hearty blaze sent welcome warmth into the room, and after re-lighting the tallow candles, he slipped behind the screen to make use of the chamber pot. Rachel had risen as well; her scampering footsteps and yelp of dismay as she tested the temperature of the remaining fresh water in the bucket almost made him smile.
Far too soon for his liking, they were both refreshed and nearly dressed. There were so many things he wanted to say as he assisted her with the laces of her stays and gown buttons, but what the hell could he say, really? You are special. We have intense chemistry, and I like you very much, but I cannot court you because my parents chose a bride for me and signed a bloody contract. It was their dying wish, and in my world only the lady can cry off…
“Last night was…” he began, wanting to curse when the right words wouldn’t form.
She turned her head and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach those expressive hazel eyes. “I’ll remember it always. Now I know how it should be in the bedchamber, I shall expect nothing less.”
The thought of another man bedding Rachel, pleasuring her and hearing her orgasmic cries made his fists clench, so Arran swiftly moved away to fetch his discarded cravat and retie it around his neck. “I hope you’ll join me for breakfast before you go. What time does the stagecoach depart?”
Rachel grimaced. “I’m not sure. I’ll need a new ticket. Goodness, I hope there is a seat available inside the coach. Otherwise I will perish as an iceberg.”
“Do not worry, I’ll ensure you have the best seat possible. Whatever it costs.”
A half hour later they descended in silence to the dining room. It was already half-full and abuzz with chatter and people wishing each other a Merry Christmas as they breakfasted on toasted bread with butter and preserves, and hot tea. A few hardy souls even had tankards of ale. And yet the merriment around him, the sight of so many real married couples and families laughing, drinking their tea, sharing stories and adoring looks, cheering the antics of an elderly man who had swept his wife under a mistletoe wreath for a kiss, only irritated him.
The Marquess of Kyle might have staggering wealth and vast lands, but all the men in this room had something he didn’t. A wife they’d chosen themselves, a woman they admired and lusted after. Perhaps even loved. After last night, he bloody well envied them.
“My goodness, Mr. Elliott. You’ll curdle the butter with that scowl.”
Arran glanced down at Rachel, who smiled too brightly. “Saucy-tongued minx. Go and find us some seats, and I’ll order us breakfast. Tea? Or ale?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Tea, definitely.”
As reluctant as he’d ever been, Arran found Mrs. Vine. For an extra coin, the inn offered coddled eggs and thinly sliced ham as well as the toasted bread and butter, and he discreetly slipped her a shilling for a heartier breakfast. At least here Rachel could eat well; stagecoach inns could vary greatly in quality. Perhaps he could arrange for a parcel of fruit cake, bread or pasties to take with her. Damnation, he didn’t want her to be hungry. And her shawl was far too thin for the weather. What she really needed was a proper cloak, lined with satin…
“Morning, sir!”
He winced at the familiar voice that indicated a thumping return to reality. “Merry Christmas, Simms. You are revoltingly chirpy.”
His coachman grinned so widely it nearly split his grizzled face in two. “I actually slept. Merry Christmas to you. And your lady friend.”
Arran glared in irritation at the older man. “I take it the carriage is ready to depart?”
“Ah…unfortunately not. The smithy did not have the correct sized bolt we need to repair the axle. He said he can fetch one from one of the neighboring villages, but it will take a few days...”
“Fine.” The word leaped from his lips before he even had time to think.
“Somehow I knew you wouldn’t mind,” said Simms with a wink.
On another occasion, he might have heaved his coachman into the prickliest shrubbery he could find. But the thought of a few more stolen moments with Rachel almost had him dancing a jig. And he did not bloody dance.
“I will pay you to get out of my
