Mary's Christmas Knight by Moriah Densley

tenderly, unself-conscious as a longtime lover. Wes let her lead. He simply held her and kissed her, dismissing her unintentional cues to escalate. Kneading a hand down his chest, brushing across his lap, a teasing stroke of her tongue along the side of his — she probably had no idea what to do about being aroused, unaware of what she provoked.
    When he could take no more , he placed a slow, sweet kiss on her lips while he removed her hands from his chest. He laced his fingers between hers then lowered their hands to her lap. Mary’s eyelids opened slowly as though resisting. He liked the smoky, blissful-lazy look he’d put there.
    She looked him in the eye, glanced at his mouth as though contemplating going back for more, then seemed to think better of it as she rested her head on his shoulder again. “Consider it a maybe.”
    He smiled and tucked his arm across her shoulders again. “ Mary, my dear, I consider it a challenge.”
     

Also in the Rougemont Series:
     

    SONG FOR SOPHIA
     
    To win a man’s heart, a woman must have the mind of a diplomat, a general, and Cleopatra, all in one.
     
    Chapter One
     
     
    In Which a Housemaid Manhandles Lord Devon
     
    Anne-Sophronia jolted awake into darkness, choking on broken sobs. She fought a battle with twisted ropes of sheets she finally comprehended were not restraining, cruel hands. A frantic brush over her arms, and she found them slicked only with sweat. No blood. No cuts or glass shards, only scars. She trailed her shaking fingers over the embossed lattice of fine lines on her wrists and the underside of her forearms. The motion stoked both relief and anger as she emerged from the nightmare to wakefulness.
    She thought of the locked traveling case under the bed, containing her stolen three thousand pounds, her mother’s estate jewelry, and a bundle of letters from her one remaining acquaintance. The letters all contained some variation of He is still searching for you, stay hidden, and she read them in moments of weakness as a reminder that her plight could always be worse.
    Yet what she wouldn’t give for the latest Wilkie Collins novel. Or chocolate-dipped strawberries to eat while reading in a shady garden. All morning long, undisturbed. Followed by a ride on a fast Arabian then a dinner party with a controversial gathering of artists who laughed and argued over music and politics until dawn—
    A stab of longing seared her chest. Oh no, none of that! She rolled out of bed and lit a candle, catching her gaze reflected in the tarnished hand mirror. Uncomfortable, she looked away, hardly recognizing the woman with the haunted, frustrated cast to her eyes.
    Sophia lowered her dressing robe , and her heart sank as it did every time she saw her reflection, the chaotic web of ropy scars across her back. Whip marks, still reddened by the slightest irritation, even the gentle rasp of clothing. The purple-grey lines and puckered, glossy texture of her skin hadn’t improved much despite months of healing. She chanted to herself as she had the past several weeks, I am not vain. I am not vain. I am not—
    The choice between pacing the six steps across her servant’s attic quarters or lying on the lumpy child-sized mattress became untenable. Her window facing the east garden mocked her with the illusion of freedom. She blew out the candle, knowing what she would do next despite her better judgment. She draped a shawl over her shoulders and slipped into the service passageway.
    Sophia made no sound as she padded across the grand entrance, perfect planes of mosaic marble cooling the soles of her slippers. Great shadows and dull gleams highlighted the magnificent pillars, balustrades, and dormant chandeliers, making the space appear like a jeweled cavern.
    Lord Devon’s ancestral pile rivaled Olympus: grand, consummately styled, and free from the remotest threat of decay. She saw to the latter personally, one of his forty-member staff motivated by the threat of his