her into a lady capable of stealing a man’s breath. ‘What is in the basket?’
‘A very early Christmas present for you.’ He placed it on her lap. ‘I thought you needed cheering up.’
He had bought her a hat! Or perhaps a muff, or a pretty shawl. A lady could not accept articles of apparel from a man, she knew that. Tess used to sneak into the back of the room when Mrs Bond had given the lectures in deportment that were intended to prepare the young ladies who had been sent to the convent to finish their education. Tess should not have been there because, obviously, she was not going to be launched into society or have a Season, so she had no need to know all about attracting eligible gentlemen in a ladylike manner. But it had been a pleasant daydream.
Those rules did not apply to her, she decided as her fingers curled around the sharp corners of the basket. I am not a lady. I am an impoverished...orphan. A bonnet is not going to compromise me.
The basket seemed to move as she opened it, and then a small ginger ball of fluff scrambled out and latched on to her wrist. Needle claws dug into her skin. ‘Ouch! You have given me a cat?’ Not a hat. Was he drunk?
‘A kitten.’ Alex came to his knees in front of her, tossed aside the basket and tried to prise the ferocious little beast from her arm. ‘Ow! Now she has bitten me.’
Good. ‘He has bitten you. Marmalade cats are usually male.’
‘Really?’ All she could see of Alex was the top of his head as he bent over her and wrestled with the kitten. The top of his head and those broad shoulders... What was it about that part of a man? Or was it only his? Tess had not reached the age of three and twenty without having admired some good-looking men from afar, and being closeted in a convent did nothing to suppress perfectly natural yearnings, however sinful those might be.
His big hands were gentle, both on her wrist and with the kitten, who was becoming more and more entangled in Tess’s cuffs. ‘Little wretch,’ Alex was muttering. ‘Infernal imp. If you were a bit bigger, I’d skin you for glove linings, I swear.’ But she could hear the laughter in his voice as he did battle with his minuscule opponent. ‘I wonder if tickling will work.’
Abruptly the needles were withdrawn from her wrist, there was a scuffle under her elbow and the marmalade kitten shot out, skidded across the polished boards and perched on the cross-rail of the table.
Alex lost his balance, pitched forward and for an intense, endless, moment her arms were full of his solid torso, his mouth was pressed into the angle of her shoulder and her face was buried in his hair.
He smelt of soap and clean linen, the now familiar citrus cologne and something...simply male? Or simply Alex? His hair was thick and tickled her nose, and when she shifted to support his weight her fingertips found the nape of his neck, bare and curiously vulnerable. His lips moved against her skin, she felt his hot breath and the tension in his body, then he was pushing back, rocking on to his heels, his eyes dark and his expression unreadable.
‘Hell’s teeth—’ Alex huffed out a breath and smiled. It seemed a trifle strained. ‘Sorry, I do not mean to swear at you and I certainly did not mean to flatten you. I seem to be making a habit of it.’ Whatever he had felt in her arms it was not excitement, delight or any of the other things her fantasies had conjured up with a dream lover. Naturally.
‘Why did you give me a kitten?’ Tess asked, more tartly than she intended.
Alex shrugged and stood up. He had the sense not to carry on apologising, she noted. ‘You are miserable. I thought it would cheer you up. Ladies seem to like small baby creatures to coo over.’
‘I cannot speak for the ladies in your life, my lord, but I do not coo. And do they not prefer diamonds?’
‘I am surprised at you, Miss Ellery. What do you know about ladies who prefer diamonds?’
‘Why, nothing.’ Tess widened her eyes at him innocently. ‘But surely your mother or sisters—or your wife, of course—would prefer a gift of jewellery to kittens?’ She knew all about kept women from the whispered conversations when she joined the boarders after lights out. They all had brothers or cousins who were sowing their wild oats in London and they exchanged confidences about who were considered the worst rakes, the most exciting but dangerous young men.
‘Hmm.’ Alex shot her a quizzical look, but she dropped her gaze to her scratched wrist and began to wrap her handkerchief around it. ‘I do not buy my sisters or my mother presents, and I am not married.’
‘No, I suppose I should have deduced that you were not.’ Tess tied a neat knot in the handkerchief and looked up.
‘Indeed?’ His eyes narrowed and she discovered that relaxed, amiable Lord Weybourn could look very formidable indeed. ‘And how did you arrive at that conclusion?’
‘How did I deduce that you were not married?’ Tess swallowed. She had strayed into dangerous personal territory and she could only hope he did not think she had been fishing...that she had any ulterior motive. She fought the blush and managed a bright smile. ‘It was easy from what you said about Christmas. If you were married, your wife would not allow you to spend it cosily beside the fire with your brandy and books. You would be out visiting your in-laws.’
‘So you imagine that if I were to be married I would live under the cat’s foot, do you?’ The relaxed, rather quizzical smile was back again.
‘Not at all. But visits to relatives are what happens in families.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I am out of practice with them.’
‘That is a shame.’ She dreamed about being part of a family, a real family, even if there would be bickering about whose turn it was to entertain the awkward relatives for the holiday season. It was a long time since she had experienced a Christmas like the ones she had enthused about in the carriage. A long time since she had known a family, and this man had that gift and was apparently happy to throw it away.
‘A shame? Not at all.’ Alex moved away as the landlord, followed by a maid, started to bring in their dinner. ‘It is freedom.’
They said no more until they were alone again. Tess ladled soup into bowls while Alex shredded roast chicken into a saucer and put it down for the kitten. ‘There you are. Now leave my boots alone. What are you going to call him?’
So I’m going to have to keep him, am I? Trust Alex to give me a kitten, not a bonnet. ‘Noel,’ she decided, adding a saucer of milk beside the chicken. ‘Because he is a Christmas present.’
‘You really are an exceedingly sentimental young woman.’ Alex passed her the bread rolls. ‘Butter?’
‘Thank you. And I am not sentimental, it is you who are cynical.’
‘Why, yes, I cry guilty to that. But what is wrong with a little healthy cynicism?’
‘Isn’t it lonely?’ Tess ventured. It was ridiculous, this instinct to hug a large, confident male. Perhaps that was how lust seized you, creeping up, pretending to be some sort of misguided, and unwanted, compassion.
‘What, forgoing gloomy evergreen swags, tuneless carol singers, bickering relatives
