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squee-by-kate.pngA Wallflower ChristmasA Wallflower Christmas is the story of Rafe Bowman, an American businessman who comes to London to marry an English bride. All the original wallflowers appear in the novel, and at Sybil’s request I’m sharing a clip of a scene between Evie and Sebastian

[Ed note: happy sigh].

Evie has been separated from the notorious Lord St. Vincent, while he has gone to visit his ailing father. In spite of the comfort of familiar friends, Evie is lonely and longing for her wicked husband . . .

[poor evie… doesn’t your heart just break for her…]

And now for some what you have been waiting for – the devil himself – Sebastian Lord St. Vincent 😉

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

A Wallflower Christmas A Wallflower Christmas by Lisa Kleypas **Oct 14, 2008**

Back in the comfort of her guest room at Stony Cross Manor, Evie bathed in a small portable tub by the hearth, sighing in relief at the feel of the hot water against her stiff, aching limbs. Sleigh rides, she reflected, were one of those activities that always sounded better in theory than they turned out to be in reality. The seats on the sleigh had been hard and lumpy, and her feet had been cold.

She heard a tap at the door, and the sound of someone entering the room. Since she was shielded from view by a standing fabric screen, Evie leaned back and peek around the screen’s wooden frame.

A housemaid was hefting a dripping metal can with rags tied at the handles. “More hot water, milady?” she asked.

“Y-yes, please.”

Carefully the maid poured the steaming water at the end near Evie’s feet, and Evie sank deeper into the bath. “Oh, thank you.”

“Shall I come back with a warming pan to take the chill from the bed, milady?” The long-handled covered pan was filled with live coals and run between the sheets just before bedtime.

Evie nodded.

The maid left, and Evie stayed in the bath until the heat began to dissipate. Reluctantly she stepped from the tub and dried herself. The thought of going to bed alone—again—filled her with melancholy. She was trying not to pine for St Vincent. But she woke up every morning searching for him, her arm stretched across the empty place beside her.

St. Vincent was the opposite of everything Evie was . . . elegant, dazzlingly articulate, cool and self-possessed . . . and so wicked that it had once been universally agreed he would be an absolutely terrible husband.

No one but Evie knew how tender and devoted he was in private. Of course, his friends such as Westcliff and Mr. Hunt were aware that St. Vincent had reformed his former villainous ways. And he was doing a remarkable job managing the gaming club she had inherited from her father, rebuilding a faltering empire while at the same time making light of the responsibilities he had assumed.

He was still a scoundrel, though, she thought with a private grin.

Standing from the bath, Evie dried herself and donned a velvet robe that buttoned along the front. She heard the door open again. “Back to w-warm the bed?” she asked.

But the voice that answered wasn’t the maid’s.

“As a matter of fact . . . yes.”

Evie stilled at the sound of a deep, silky murmur.

“I passed the maid on the stairs and told her she wouldn’t be needed tonight,” he continued. “‘If there’s one thing I do well,’ I told her, ‘it’s warming my wife’s bed.'”

By this time Evie was fumbling to push the screen aside, nearly pushing it over.

St. Vincent reached her in a few graceful strides, folding her in his arms. “Easy, love. No need for haste. Believe me, I’m not going anywhere.”

They stood together for a long, wordless moment, breathing, holding tight.

Eventually St. Vincent tilted Evie’s head back and stared down at her. He was tawny and golden-haired, his pale blue eyes glittering like gems in the face of a fallen angel. He was a long, lean-framed man, always exquisitely dressed and groomed. But he had not been sleeping well, she saw. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and signs of weariness on his face. The touches of human vulnerability, however, only served to make him more handsome, softening what might otherwise have been a gleaming, godlike remoteness.

“Your f-father,” she began, staring at him in concern. “Is he . . .”

St. Vincent cast an exasperated glance heavenward. “He’ll be fine. The doctors can’t find a thing wrong with him, other than indigestion brought on by rich food and wine. When I left, he was leering and pinching the housemaids, and welcoming a score of obsequious relations who want to sponge off him for Christmas.” His hands moved lightly over her velvet-covered back. His voice was very soft. “Have you been a good girl in my absence?”

“Yes, of course,” she said breathlessly.

St. Vincent gave her a disapproving glance and kissed her with a seductive gentleness that sent her pulse racing. “We’ll have to remedy that immediately. I refuse to tolerate proper behavior from my wife.”

She touched his face, smiling as he nipped at her exploring fingertips. “I’ve missed you, Sebastian.”

“Have you, love?” He unfastened the buttons of her robe, the light eyes glittering with heat as her skin was revealed. “What part did you miss the most?”

“Your mind,” she said, and smiled at his expression.

“I was hoping for a far more depraved answer than that.”

“Your mind is depraved,” she told him solemnly.

He gave a husky laugh. “True.”

She gasped as his gentle, experienced hand slipped inside her robe. “What part of m-me did you miss the most?”

“I missed you from head to toe. I missed every freckle. I missed the taste of you . . . the feel of your hair in my hands . . . Evie, my love, you are shamefully overdressed.”

And he picked her up and carried her to bed . . .

© Lisa Kleypas. All rights reserved