Free The Scandal Before Christmas by Elizabeth Essex

rest of her—waiting until she accepted him, and then did more than accept him, until her lips began to move tentatively beneath his.
    “My God, Anne. You taste so sweet.” He slid his hands up her sides to her neck to cradle her face, and fan his thumbs along the taut line of her jaw. To hold her while he began to explore her open mouth with his tongue, tasting first her lips, and then the pearly softness inside.
    The honeyed warmth of her mouth suffused him as she began to kiss him back in earnest.
    He tipped her head to the side, increasing the angle more to his liking, encouraging her with his hands and his mouth and his response, to deepen the kiss. Her response was slow but steady and in another moment, she was timidly tasting his lips, opening her own to let him explore the tart sweetness of her mouth as he wished. And soon she was kissing him as if she were born to it, her tongue twining with his in heat and abandon.
    Her hands crept up to his lapel, fisting up his coat, pulling him closer so the wool of her bodice pressed again his chest.
    His hands swept down the graceful column of her neck to find the soft sliver of bared skin so he could—
    In the distance, a loud slam penetrated the warm cloud of his brain—someone was at the door. He turned his head to listen. “Pinky?”
    Anne, pulled away and stood for a moment with the back of her sleeve pressed against her mouth as she tried to recover herself. And then she began to hastily button up her sleeves. “Oh, Lord. Pray it was he, and not my mother listening at your door.”
    “Shite.” He swore before he could think better of it. But there was no time for apology.
    Pinky’s voice was raised to carry down the corridor. “No, sir. If you’ll just but wait a spell, I’ll fetch the captain for ye.”
    Shite, shite, shite. Ian knew exactly what that sort of noise meant. He cursed his luck and set Anne away from him, and found he had to draw a deep breath into his lungs, and clear his throat before he could speak. “Anne?” he asked as he quickly set to rebuttoning her clothing. “We have to get you all to rights.”
    She nodded and put her hand up to make sure her pins were still in place in her hair. And then she said, “Wait. Your cravat.” She tugged it into place and smiled—a small, shy, disheveled smile that made her seem young and pretty, and he had to kiss her again.
    But he could press only the quickest of busses to her swollen lips before the sound of the door opening made them spring apart, and his father, the Viscount Rainesford, barged his way into the room.
    The viscount doused them with them with one cold, assessing glance. And then he said in his usual, sneering way, “When you’re done with your doxy, I’d be pleased to see you in the drawing room. Although why you cannot act like a gentleman, and keep yourself from toying with the servants in your own house, is beyond me.”
    Ian felt, rather than heard, Anne’s silent gasp. And there was nothing else he could do to protect her, but brazen it out, and once more lie for all he was worth. “For pity’s sake, Father! She’s not my servant, she’s my wife!”
    The moment Ian said the words he wished them back.
    “Wife? Her?”
    For now he had exposed her to an even greater scrutiny. His father took another step or two into the room, his narrow gaze focused on Anne, his displeasure and condescension written all over his face.
    Ian stepped in front of him, belatedly blocking his way. “I will meet you in a moment, sir. In the drawing room. You intrude upon our privacy, and are not welcome here.”
    “Interrupted a little tête-à-tête, as the damn French would have it? Well, at least I know you’ve been doing your duty on her. Have you gotten her with child?”
    “Not here.” Ian’s voice was as commanding and cutting as he could make it, and his father, thank God, for once responded as a normal human being should.
    He stepped back. And though he did not apologize, as a