Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) by Cheryl Bolen

the vestiges of passion.
    Such an intoxicating vision was like throwing kindling upon his fire. As she pressed sultry circles into the muscles of his back, he began to trace a path of wet butterfly kisses along the smooth curve of her elegant neck. And lower.
    When he realized what he was trying to do to the innocent he had married, he bolted up. “You must forgive me,” he managed, his voice still husky and uneven. “I don't know what I was thinking.” He leapt to his feet, his hands curled into balls.
    Her voice trembled when she spoke. “You have no need to apologize. I am you wife, William.”
    He felt so blasted guilty, he couldn't look her in the eye. “If you will forgive me, my lady, I have to sort out a few things.” He turned his back on her and strode to the door.
    What the hell had he been thinking? With his fists still balled, he raced across the cold stone floors of the hall, snatched his greatcoat from the cloak room, and stormed from the house. His boots made indentations in the crunchy snow as he ambled toward the stables that were located a couple of hundred yards behind the big house. What he needed was a good, bruising ride.
    Less than ten minutes later, he was astride one of his former guardian's fine stallions and galloping across the carpet of snow that rose and dipped according to the terrain. As fine a property as Upper Barrington was, it wasn't Hamptonworth. How he wished to be there at the family home where he'd spent every Christmas of his life. It was the home where he hoped to raise his family.
    His family? Since when had the dissolute William Addison, Viscount de Vere, wanted a family? He had never really given the matter much consideration before. Before he learned Robert Pemberton was dying. Before he married Belle. Before he found himself desiring her as a man desires a woman.
    The very memory of holding her in his arms was so indelible he could not purge himself of the continuing pleasure it gave. It was so different from any other physical encounter with any other woman, he was utterly perplexed. He tried telling himself different was not necessarily bad, just perplexing.
    His horse pounded across the snow-covered valley where the only things visible were white slopes and tall, barren trees laced with white against the soft brown of their trunks. So befuddled was he over these novel feelings he was experiencing, he was not even conscious of the cold, not conscious that the snow had begun to come down again, much heavier even than on the previous night.
    As he rode, the sky darkened. Because of his own stormy countenance, he did not notice that, either. It seemed like an affirmation of his mood.
    Why in the blazes was he so awkward about this intimacy with Belle? It wasn't as if he hadn't passionately kissed a woman before. But Belle, he realized, wasn't just another woman. Belle was now his wife. Belle was a woman to be cherished. Good Lord! Belle was the woman who would bear his children.
    That simple explanation cleared his murky thoughts. Belle was not only his wife. Belle was to be his life's partner. And suddenly such a prospect no longer annoyed. Had he looked over the entire kingdom, never could he have found a woman better suited to him.
    She loved Hamptonworth in the same way he loved it. She was attracted to the same authors he was. They moved in the same circles and shared many friends. She was possessed of keen intelligence. In addition, she was loving and generous and was kind to her servants. Her pretty face had become his obsession, and her petite body, his lingering aphrodisiac. But most important of all, they were friends.
    He thought of what he'd told Sir George earlier that day. He and Belle were lifelong best friends. Which was true—though he hadn't realized it when he'd sniped at Sir George.
    Sir George! Now de Vere realized the veracity of his wife's accusation. He was jealous of Sir George in the same way he would resent any man who was in love with his