Free UNDER A CHRISTMAS SPELL by Barbara Monajem

The office of a warehouse near the Thames , London , December 1815
    “The war is over,” Lord Valiant Oakenhurst said. “I’m not involved in the game anymore.”
    “You’re not doing much else,” said the Master of the British Incubi, at ease behind his massive desk. “Unless you’re planning to return to the family fold.”
    Valiant gave a tiny internal shudder. Not only did he find the estate of his pompous father, the Marquis of Staves, completely unbearable, but he wasn’t wanted there. Inevitably he caused trouble. Far better to cause it in places where his unusual abilities were appreciated. In some ways, wartime had suited him very well, but now he wanted...
    He wasn’t going to get what—or rather, whom—he wanted, and it was irrelevant to this discussion. He glared, wondering why the annoying fellow still wore a mask. Secret identities shouldn’t matter anymore. “You know I can’t return to the bloody fold.”
    “Precisely, so you may as well make yourself useful. Sit down, Lord Valiant. Your restlessness irritates me. This won’t take long.”
    Valiant shrugged and took the proffered chair.
    “We wish you to awaken the sensuality of a Miss Southern, but there cannot be a genuine liaison except in the lady’s imagination,” the master said. “Her virginity must remain intact. In fact, you must not even attempt to kiss her.”
    Valiant narrowed his eyes. “Or else what?” He’d had enough of being judged as if he was still the fifteen-year-old who’d been removed from Eton for deflowering a respectable virgin.
    The master didn’t answer his question, merely saying mildly, “It’s only for a fortnight. “You will send her erotic dreams and cast admiring, even smouldering glances at her, to get her, er, juices flowing, so to speak.”
    Valiant huffed. “For what purpose, if she is to remain a virgin? I don’t relish playing the tease.”
    The master gave an amused snort. “You’ve lied, cheated and murdered for your country, and yet you object to a little sensual teasing?”
    “The war is over,” Valiant repeated. “I’m tired of playing those games.” He was stuck with his magical abilities—or at least they seemed magical when he tried to explain how they worked. Plenty of men and women were competent seducers, but few could plant images in the sleeping minds of their targets, rendering them helpless with desire. No wonder incubi and succubi had been seen as demons for centuries, but that was unfair. Val had no wish to harm anyone. He’d been forced to use his abilities in unpleasant ways during the war, but in peacetime, he shouldn’t—and wouldn’t.
    “War is never truly over,” the master said heavily. “England will always need gifted individuals to protect her.” He straightened and steepled his fingers together. “However, that is neither here nor there. Miss Southern is an intelligent woman of excellent breeding, with a moderate fortune, but she refuses to marry where she does not feel affection. We hope that the awakening of her sensual side will make her more amenable to, er, falling madly in love.”
    This made no sense at all, but the master never orchestrated anything without good reason. “Why do you care whether she marries?”
    “I don’t, but someone I value does. You’re not the only person with obligations.”
    How typical of the master to combine a reminder that one was beholden with a cheap show of sentiment. “How very affecting.” Valiant sneered. “What if the stubborn Miss Southern falls in love with me? You may end up owing your valued someone far more than you do now. I warn you, my obligations don’t extend to marriage.”
    “Then you’ll have to tread carefully, won’t you? Although come to think of it, marriage may be just what you need—but not to Miss Southern.” He passed a folded sheet of paper across the desk. “Here are your instructions. You are to attend a Christmas house party where Miss Southern will also be a