A Magical Regency Christmas: Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel

Then her lips were there, such peach-silk softness, a featherlight caress on his jaw that he should accept as it was meant—but somehow his head had turned—not at all what Christ had meant by turning the other cheek—and his lips had captured hers, his arms drawing her against the burning ache of his body.

Her startled gasp he took gently, even as for one soul-shattering moment she remained utterly still in his embrace. His conscience gave one last, feeble flicker. He must release her, apologise...but her lips moved hesitantly against his and he was lost.

Every nerve, every sinew and muscle leapt to flame as his arms tightened of their own accord, as his mouth returned her shy kiss and took more. Shaken to his soul, he tasted the fullness of her mouth—sweet, so sweet—and her lips parted. His mind reeled, his tongue dipped, found milk and honey, and tasted again and again, while his resolution dissolved, mind and body awash with delight as her tongue met his in hesitant wonder.

This. Just this.

This delight of a woman’s body in his arms, her lips and mouth tender under his, and this burning, this singing in blood and bone that could steal a man’s senses as surely as any siren.

Desire. His body recognised it and responded, hardening, tightening his arms around Polly, drawing her in to the consuming heat, cradling her closer. And she came, soft and willing, body and mouth yielding, melting against him. One hand found the supple curve of her waist, drifted higher against the swell of her breast and he tasted the surprise in her soft gasp.

Desire. A maelstrom threatening to sweep everything away. Sense, honour, both gone, and reason fast fading. One floundering scrap of reason found a foothold, a touchstone.

Polly. This was Polly.

Somehow he broke the kiss, drew back a little, breathing hard. A little more reason surfaced. He shouldn’t be doing this. In a moment he might remember why not...

You’re the rector, for goodness’ sake!

That hit him like a bucket of icy water. He stared down at Polly, dazed. She looked dazed, too. And her lips were damp and swollen. Pink and ripe. Because he’d kissed her. Even as he looked, all the reasons he shouldn’t be kissing her closed in, accusing.

Surely only a complete blackguard kissed a defenceless girl like that? When all she had offered was a sort of sisterly peck on the cheek.

‘I...I have to go,’ he managed. Because God only knew, if he didn’t, where this would end. His gaze fell on the alcove holding Polly’s bed and gave him back the lie. He knew perfectly well where it could have ended. That, right there, in that shadowed alcove, was the natural end for such a kiss.

Somehow he forced his hand to withdraw from the fall of her hair, now tumbled around her shoulders. Had he done that? His fingers shook at the silken caress. With even more difficulty he dragged the other hand from her waist.

‘Polly,’ he whispered. Lord, had he only just seen her? Seen what was in front of him. ‘I’m—’

‘No.’ The luminous golden eyes pleaded. ‘Don’t apologise. Please, just...just pretend there is a little bit of mistletoe above us.’

Mistletoe? God help them both if he’d had that pagan incentive above him!

He was the rector and Polly had confided in him, turned to him for comfort. He swallowed, brutally aware of aching need. Wanting to cast discretion and propriety, not to mention his vows, to the four winds.

He forced himself to release her and stand up, away from the warmth that was Polly. But his eyes—his eyes remained on her face, lost, and somehow found. Until her gaze fell and scarlet mantled her cheeks.

‘I’ll...I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.’

Polly. Her name lay unspoken on his tongue like honey, as sweet and intimate as her mouth itself.

He swallowed. ‘Miss Woodrowe.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll bar the door behind me?’ What the hell would he do if she said no? Refuse to leave until she did?

‘Yes.’

Thank God.

‘Well. Ah, goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Bonny bounded up from the hearth as he headed to the door. He made a mental note that dogs appeared to be very poor chaperons.

Chapter Five

As Polly secured the door, she heard his steps retreating, crunching on the frosty street. With a groan, she leaned back against the door, feeling the bar digging into her back. Her heart still raced and her hands trembled.

She hadn’t known a kiss could be like that. Full of wonder and need and delight. She had let Tom kiss her once years ago. He had seemed to enjoy it, but she had thought it horrid. All hot breath and pawing at her breast. This had been quite different. This had been something joyous and right.

Right? What was she thinking? She’d kissed the rector! No doubt there would be a letter dismissing her from her post in the morning. And this time she’d deserve it. Never mind that she’d meant it as a mere peck on the cheek, a...a kiss of gratitude. It somehow hadn’t ended up that way. How on earth had she missed his cheek?

Because you wanted to miss it?

Because some wanton part of her had wanted to kiss him, had wanted to feel his arms strong about her.

Her cheeks burnt. At best he’d think her shockingly forward, at worst a depraved hussy...although he had been kissing her back. With a great deal of enthusiasm. She pushed that aside. In these matters, from Eve’s temptation of Adam on, it was always the woman’s fault. But how did you explain to a man—let alone a man of God—that it had all been a mistake, that you hadn’t really meant to kiss him at all? Or at least not like that. Not like a wanton. Especially when your heart was still pounding and you could still taste him, wine-dark and gentle, in your mouth. When your breasts ached from being pressed against him and your body remembered exactly where those big, careful hands had touched.

* * *

God in heaven!

Was that what St Paul meant about better to marry than burn? He’d always assumed that referred to the fires of hell, of sin. Or perhaps St Paul had truly considered physical love to be sinful.

Alex’s steps crunched through the frost towards the rectory, as his mind spun dizzily. He hadn’t known. Simply hadn’t known that a kiss could be like that. Like...like an explosion, a beginning and ending all in one.

Better to marry than burn...

‘Evening, Rector.’

‘Good evening, Davey.’ He managed a smile for Davey Fletcher. Prayed the blacksmith hadn’t seen which cottage he’d come out of.

‘That Miss Woodrowe’s a right pretty lass,’ said Fletcher cheerfully, patting Bonny as she nudged up to him.

Yes, well. Not all prayers were answered quite as one might like. He knew that.

Fletcher continued. ‘My boy, Caleb, reckons she’s real nice too, the way she manages all them young ’uns. Teaching them their ABCs an’ all.’ He nodded. ‘Good thing for this village, an’ don’t you think we’re not grateful to you and his lordship for doing it.’ He doffed his cap and went on his way, whistling.

Of course, Fletcher probably thought he’d just been discussing the children’s progress with Polly. As he should have been.

Instead, he’d been kissing her. And there was only one possible remedy for that. At least, there was only one remedy for him in this situation.

He’d somehow always expected the decision to marry—and the choice of a bride—to be a rational, logical process, just like everything else he’d done in his life. Naturally his wife would be a woman he liked and esteemed, someone he could be comfortable with. But tumbling head over heels in love?

Oh, he knew people fell in love. He’d watched it happen to Dominic and Pippa. It had not looked logical at all. Although perhaps that was just their confusion. The actual result had been perfectly logical. He’d seen that before they had. But still, he’d never thought that it would happen to him. Not like that. But it had. Like a thunderbolt. He dragged in a breath, steadied his thinking, reaching for the calm inner peace he relied on. Just because he’d fallen in love didn’t mean it wasn’t necessary to at least behave as though he was thinking rationally. More importantly, he needed to behave with honour.

He groaned. Kissing Polly Woodrowe out of her wits was not the action of an honourable man. Not when she had no one to protect her, to guard her reputation, or to advise her.

Of course it would be different if they were betrothed.

Very different.

Kissing her would be quite unexceptionable. As long as he made sure it stopped at kissing. What worried him was that ensuring that it did stop at kissing looked like being a problem. He was a clergyman, for heaven’s sake!

Apparently he was a man before he was a clergyman. A man who wanted a woman. A woman he liked, cared for and respected. Logically, and thank God he was actually being logical again, that could mean only one thing: marriage.

* * *

The next day it was all Polly could do to keep her mind on her pupils and off Alex Martindale. No letter dismissing her had arrived during breakfast, the children all came to school on time and, apart from an awkward moment over Jemmy Willet’s arithmetic, the day passed uneventfully.

Until Alex arrived as the children were leaving.

They filed out, greeting him cheerfully as they passed. Polly listened as he greeted them by name, asking after parents, relatives, little brothers and sisters. He knew these people, she realised. Knew them and cared about them. They were indeed his flock.

And he was probably quite horrified to think that he had placed a wanton hussy in charge of the lambs.

She shut the door behind the children and faced him. ‘Mr Martindale, about last night, I’m—’

‘Yes. Last night. Miss Woodrowe—Polly—will you do me the honour of marrying me?’

Marriage. In the darkness last night, sleepless in her bed, she had allowed her dreams free rein. And had banished them in the chill light of morning. Alex Martindale could not marry a penniless schoolmistress, whose family did not want to know her.

Surely he knew that?

Apparently he didn’t.

* * *

He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but the mere thought of last night had scattered his carefully prepared speech.

‘Marry you?’ She stared at him as if he’d sprouted an extra head, or possibly horns and a tail.

He cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes. I’d like you to marry me.’ Rather understating the case, but—

‘Why?’

Dash it all! Wasn’t it obvious? ‘You can ask that? After yesterday?’

She stared. ‘This is because you kissed me? You feel honour-bound to offer marriage because you kissed me?’

‘No,’ he said at once. ‘I’m asking you to marry me because I want to be able to kiss you and know I don’t have to stop.’ Her jaw dropped and he followed up his advantage at once. ‘And because I want to kiss you again. Right now.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Right now?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re...not.’

‘No. Because I wouldn’t want to stop. And...’ he dragged in a breath, cast discretion, not to mention delicacy, to perdition ‘...because I might not stop.’ Oh, God! Now she knew, knew the truth. And she’d think him depraved.

‘But, sir—’

‘Alex.’ He didn’t want her calling him sir, or Mr Martindale, or anything else but Alex.

She flushed. ‘Alex, then. Don’t you see? I’m no sort of wife for you. I’ve no money. No connections. I would bring you nothing.’

She was biting her lip in a way that made him want to soothe it, kiss away the worry and then bite it himself. Even as the idea of her feeling unworthy infuriated him. ‘I’m perfectly well off and my own connections are more than adequate,’ he pointed out.

‘That’s just it!’ she said. ‘It...it would be most unequal.’

Ah. Here was the rub, then. ‘And would that bother you if our positions were reversed?’ he asked quietly.

‘Not now,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve learnt better. But before? When I was wealthy?’ Her cheeks flamed. ‘Probably, yes.’

Her bone-deep honesty and humility seared him. ‘Your aunt would have set the dogs on me, anyway,’ he said.

She managed a smile. ‘Yes. Warned me that you only wanted my money.’

He snorted. ‘Like your cousin?’

She flushed and guilt lashed him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have reminded you.’

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not now.’

‘Then do I have your permission to court you?’ he asked.

She blinked. ‘My permission to court me?’

He smiled. ‘Who else should I ask?’

Courting was something a gentleman did to a lady. After asking her father or guardian’s permission. Only her father was dead and she didn’t have a guardian any longer. She had her independence and he had asked her permission.

‘You want to court me?’

‘Yes.’ Alex felt that he was on fairly firm ground here. ‘It’s what a man does when he wants a woman as his wife.’ He’d watched any number of courting couples over the years. Then married them. Rather often the christening was significantly less than nine months later in the village and farming community. He slammed a lid back on that pot of thought at once.

‘What does courting entail?’

Polly’s question had him mentally scrambling. ‘Ah, well, I call on you,’ he said. ‘At respectable hours,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I can bring you small gifts. Flowers in season.’ Please God, by spring they’d be beyond courting.

‘That’s all?’

He blanked out the image of leaving flowers on her pillow. ‘We can walk together.’ That should be safe enough for her. It was far too cold for tumbling maidens in the woods.

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