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Once a notorious rake, Camden Folk, Marquis of Warbury, is now consumed by desire for only one woman: beautiful young widow Frances Burdett. And the Yuletide festivities at his country estate present the perfect opportunity for seduction…
After her brief and unsatisfying marriage, Frances Burdett swore never to become tied to another man. Then a passionate kiss under the mistletoe reawakens longings she thought buried forever. But can she give in to the pleasures of the body with a rogue like Cam—without losing her heart?
About the Author
BARBARA MONAJEM grew up in western Canada. She wrote her first story, a fantasy about apple tree gnomes, when she was eight years old, and dabbled in neighbourhood musicals at the age of ten. At twelve, she spent a year in Oxford, England, soaking up culture and history, grubbing around at an archaeological dig, playing twosy-ball against the school wall, and spending her pocket money on adventure novels. Thanks to her mother, she became addicted to Regency romances as well. Back in Canada, she wrote some dreadful teen melodrama, survived high school, and studied English literature at the University of British Columbia. She spent several years in Montreal and published a middle grade fantasy when her children were young. Now her kids are adults, and she writes historical and paranormal romance for grownups. She lives in Georgia, USA, with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.
A Lady’s Lesson in Seduction
Barbara Monajem
Author Note
My gratitude goes to Kathy Payne, who helped me with the Latin motto of the Folk family. Needless to say, any errors are mine.
Since this is a novella, I couldn’t include anywhere near as many Christmas traditions as I would have liked. I hope you enjoy those you will find. I love customs to do with food, so I searched the Internet for a recipe for the beverage called lamb’s wool. There are many variations out there, but essentially, it’s made of ale or beer, apples, sugar and spices. Find yourself a recipe and try it! It’s festive and delicious, and if you are a teetotaler or want to share it with children, you will be happy to know it works fine with non-alcoholic beer.
Wishing you all a very Happy Christmas!
Barbara
Dedication
To Katherine Briggs, author of the delightful children’s story Hobberdy Dick, about a hobgoblin who protects a house in Puritan times. Dick is the inspiration for the hobgoblin hovering unseen in the background of this story, adding a wee bit of magic to a Christmas tale.
Contents
Camden Folk, Marquis of Warbury, dumped an armful of holly cuttings on the vast dining table at his country estate. A vigorous tramp through the home wood to collect greenery, one of the pleasures of the Christmas season, had heightened his anticipation. Soon Frances Burdett would arrive, and after a year of patience—and no women—he would finally get on with his life.
Not that he’d chosen to be celibate for the past year. He’d merely lost interest in dalliance, but he knew what had caused the problem and what would fix it. Once he’d seduced Frances Burdett and made amends for the past, he would go on his merry way once more. Back to the good old days when he’d indulged himself with many women, made a point of giving them as much pleasure as possible, and then moved on—no harm done.
He smiled at his mother, who was fashioning evergreens into swags to decorate the banisters. ‘Here you are, Mama. Tomorrow we’ll go to the orchard for mistletoe.’
Edwin Folk, his cousin, dropped a bundle of holly onto the table with a groan. ‘More walking about in this frigid weather?’ He stripped off his gloves and went to warm his hands at the fire.
‘Think of the reward at the end of it, Edwin,’ Lady Warbury said, tying a strip of red silk around a sprig of rosemary. ‘We’ll make kissing rings, and the house will be filled with lovely young ladies.’
‘If they get here,’ Edwin said gloomily. ‘It’s started snowing again. Do you think it will be bad, Cam?’
The marquis shrugged. They were almost certain to be snowed in, probably without some of the kissable ladies, but the only one he cared about was Frances Burdett, who should arrive at any moment. He’d had to resort to subterfuge to get her here at all. She’d made it clear to the Polite World that she didn’t blame him for the death of her husband, but she’d refused to talk to him after the accident and still treated him with the barest civility. Most likely, she despised him. He couldn’t fault her for that.
But now, after more than a year’s mourning, she’d told everyone that she would never marry again.
And Cam knew why.
Not that he could tell her that, or how he knew. But if only he could manage to seduce her, he could prove to her that her husband’s cruel verdict—that she was a cold, passionless woman—was entirely wrong. Such a young, desirable creature shouldn’t cut herself off from the pleasures of life, and he meant to make sure she didn’t.
It was a case of honour. Of living up to the family motto, ‘Do no harm.’ For her own sake as well as his, he must succeed in seducing Frances Burdett.
‘What else do you want, Mama?’ he asked. ‘Hawthorn? Ivy?’
‘No hawthorn.’ His mother raised her hands as if to ward off evil. ‘Thomas says it’s bad luck to cut hawthorn except when it’s in bloom.’
‘Very well—what the Druid says, goes.’ Mr. Thomas Lumpkin, whose enormous beard and study of pagan customs had earned him the nickname of Druid, had first come to Warbury Hall to study its history but had soon become his mother’s friend and lover. Cam didn’t know which lore he believed and which he didn’t—lately, he mostly didn’t—but tradition mattered at Warbury House, and he didn’t begrudge his mother and Lumpkin their fun.
‘Dear me, it has started to come down, hasn’t it?’ said his mother, watching the steadily thickening snow. ‘I hope some of our guests arrive.’
Cam laid his gloves on the table and wandered to the sideboard to pour brandy for himself and Edwin. ‘I could do without most of them.’ He’d supported his mother’s plans and encouraged Edwin’s infatuation with Almeria Dane only because Frances Burdett was the girl’s chaperone. He couldn’t think of any other way to get close to Frances for long enough to win her over.
‘The young people can be counted upon to enter into the spirit of the festivities,’ Lady Warbury said, ‘unlike some thirty-year-old curmudgeons I know.’
‘I’m not yet thirty, nor am I a curmudgeon,’ Camden said. ‘I’m simply, er, past the age of youthful folly.’
‘What nonsense,’ his mother said. ‘As I have recently proven, one is never too old for folly.’
He snorted. ‘I can’t argue with that.’ Her love affair with the