Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella by Lorraine Heath

tiny bit of soul that remained in him would wither and die.
    It was an unsettling realization, one he didn’t much like.
    He watched her delicate throat work as she swallowed, her bosom rise with the intake of a long breath as though she were shoring up her courage.
    “I don’t believe we’ve spoken,” she finally said.
    “No.”
    “May I inquire regarding your name? The other gentlemen were kind enough to introduce themselves.”
    “But then I am not kind.”
    Two tiny pleats appeared between her brows. “Why would you say something of that nature?”
    “Because I am honest, at least.”
    “But surely you have a name. Is it a secret? You steal children from their beds? Rumpelstiltskin, perhaps? I would be hard-pressed to see you as Prince Charming.”
    Fairy tales. She’d been brought up on fairy tales, and she seemed to have no awareness that she was wading through a nest of ogres.
    “Come. It can’t be that horrible of a name. I’d like to call you something.”
    He considered suggesting Beelzebub, something to unsettle her, send her scurrying away, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom he simply said, “Rafe.”
    “Rafe,” she repeated in her smoky voice and a fierce longing fissured through him with an almost painful pricking. “Is that your title?”
    “No.”
    “Are you titled?”
    Perhaps she wasn’t as innocent as he’d surmised. She wanted to ensure that she was well cared for, was going to be particular about whose bed she warmed. He supposed he couldn’t hold that against her. She was on the hunt for a man to please, one who would serve as her protector. She had a right to be particular.
    “No,” he finally answered.
    “I see you’re a man of few words.” She gnawed on her lower lip, which served to plump it up and darken its red hue. He wondered how often she’d been kissed. Had she ever let a man press his mouth to hers? Had a man ever touched her skin, trailed his fingers along her high cheekbones, folded his rough hand around her neck, and brought her in close? “What are your interests?”
    “None that would amuse you.”
    “You might be surprised.”
    “I doubt it. I’m a rather good judge of character.”
    “A quick judge, it would seem. I’m left with the impression that you don’t think very highly of me.”
    He slid his gaze over her, admiring the curves, dips, and swells. He couldn’t deny that she was a fine piece, but she would require a certain . . . gentleness and care, neither of which was in his repertoire of behavior. “I haven’t decided.”
    “Unfortunately I have, I’m afraid. I don’t believe we’d be well suited. I hope you won’t take offense.”
    “I would have to give a care what you thought to be offended. I don’t.”
    She opened her mouth—
    “Evelyn, you’re done here,” Wortham said, suddenly at her side. He grabbed her arm and began madly ushering her toward the door.
    Almost tripping over her small feet encased in satin slippers, she appeared to be attempting to shake off the earl. She was gazing over her bared shoulder at Rafe as though she was determined to have the final word, but she was no match for Wortham’s strength as they both disappeared through the open doorway. It was some minutes before Wortham returned. Rafe was surprised Miss Chambers didn’t barge in behind him. No doubt he’d dissuaded her, so as not to discourage any of the lords from having an interest in her.
    “All right, gentlemen,” Wortham said, rubbing his hands together. “Does anyone wish to bid on her?”
    So that was how he was going to handle the matter, Rafe mused. He’d wondered. He didn’t know why the manner in which Wortham was proceeding caused a chill in his bones. The girl meant nothing to him. It might prove interesting to see what sort of value the other lords placed on her, especially if he could determine a way to use that knowledge to his advantage.
    “I say, Wortham,” Lord Ekroth sneered, “I’ll give you five hundred quid