Everyn Hurst, Marquis of Coaldrake stepped outside the study doors after sharing morning coffee with the Master and his sons-in-law. He was familiar with both men and seemed to recall meeting the Squire somewhere back too.

Having donned his outer coat, black wool, straight and calf length with wide lapels, he lit a cheroot and walked along the cleared walkway, around the manor, glancing now and then at the birds landing on snow-covered hedges, or statues with odd snow topped heads, ice hanging on their noses and arms.

He had meant to leave, intended to awake early and dash off. But as he had taken a clean change of clothing into the bath, Lord Dudley had been exiting and after a cheerful and delighted greeting by the latter, it was assumed by his lordship that he'd accepted some invite whilst in London, to join them at Broomfield. An invite he could not recall.

Everyn paused at the side of the manor, smoking, and watching the grooms across the way as they turned out the horses and tied them whilst younger stable lads wheeled out soled straw and replaced it with clean. His breath misted after the smoke and he thought of the glimpse he'd gotten of Mary Broomfield's sisters when he'd dressed and gone below, accepting an offer of joining the master of the house and his sons-in-law for coffee.

He had supposed he ought to speak to the man whose house he'd stayed in the night before. The Squire, tall and lean, bearded but bald, was a completely likable fellow. Those Broomfield girls, which he had seen amidst children from teen aged to around five or six, had been herding the bunch down the stairs before him, and laughing, chatting all the while.

Yes, they were stunning. He recognized two from London ballrooms, and clear of the brandy fog he'd had the night before, saw the truth in the rumor that they were unequalled in beauty.

Even the oldest who must have been thirty was quite the loveliest and most graceful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. As they'd turned toward the dining rooms and he toward the study, he'd been somewhat amazed at their smiles and laughter, those of the children, and saw somewhat what Mary had said, for they were apparently happy and joyful, completely opposite of what he recalled from his own family.

His father, His Grace the Duke of Meaberry, or Lord John as he was called, understood so well Everyn's aversion to the bunch, that he never failed to come up with some plausible excuse to prevent Everyn too from suffering through family gatherings.

There was so much fighting, jealousy and bickering, not to mention those lazy fops and dozens of dense debs and more wards than he could recall. That though his father used to remind him that he'd someday be heir, he sometimes muttered to Everyn that seeing as how he'd inherit that family responsibly with it--he perfectly understood his lack of enthusiasm with breeding more.

A soft grunt escaped Everyn as he saw a particularly fine stallion and began to walk toward the stable yard to get a better look at it. He was thinking of how few his pleasures were in life, even in London where he had to drink and gamble just to survive the ton hunting parties. He had long sense developed a hardness and cynicism, an aversion to most of his life. It hardly came to mind that his father had made a love match once, since Lord John's wife hadn't lived but hours after Everyn's birth to savor it. His father had completely given up the London whirl and found his pleasure in books and rambling about the estate, some small measure of peace between the upsets and troubles he had to handle among the family.

"This is a fine animal," Everyn commented to the old groom who was passing by, carrying a length of rope.

The man bowed, "It is, your lordship. Master Broomfield bought him right off the tracks. A real prize, that. We're breeding him."

Everyn asked a few questions while he walked around the animal, which wore a blanket of deep red. He would certainly ask Broomfield to let him know when the mares foaled, and purchase one of the offspring."

He was talking with the groom, listening to the knowledgeable man when the dull thud off hooves drew his gaze around. Everyn forgot what he was saying and watched Mary Broomfield canter into the yard on her mare.

"Excuse me, milord." The groom said and hurried to her.

Everyn saw her spot him, and their eyes met for a moment before she allowed the groom to help her down. Her cheeks were flushed and half her hair was hanging forward from its previous confinement. He watched her remove the top hat as the groom led the horse away, and she walked toward him.

"Good morning."

He nodded, a bit surprised when she handed him her hat. "Would you hold this moment?"

He did, watching her white teeth remove her gloves and tuck them in the hat. As she tried to gather her hair and smooth it, she offered him an impish smile.

"It has a mind of its own." Her tone was rueful.

He managed a smile but found both her movements and the muss of curls quite alluring. He had not recalled the exact shade of her eyes but they were a light hazel, and though he could have compared her to the beauties he'd seen earlier, they did not come to mind at all as he tried to discern just what it was that made her so ... attractive.

That was not the word either, but it sufficed for the moment as he handed her the hat, which she did not put on, nor her gloves. He'd stepped away from the stallion and that movement seemed to make Mary Broomfield glance from his boots to his head, before her eyes met his again.

"Are you joining us for awhile, then?" She turned toward the house; walking and he fell in step with her.

"I've no plans. I did however accept a game of billiards with your father and lord Dudley later."

Her gaze slanted up to his. "You met my father?"

"Yes. I seem to have met him before, but it escapes me when."

She smiled and turned her head, walking to the courtyard, placing her hat and gloves on a bench. He paused too.

"Father gets to London four or five times a year on business. He makes the rounds at his clubs and what not. I expect that's where you met him."

"Most likely."

She looked around. "The family has gone off for their trip to the village, my sisters' play and sing there and some of the youngsters too. They do a bit of shopping, which pleases the locals, and Ruth normally drops off treats and small things for the vicar to disperse."

"You did not join them?"

"No. I am in the village often and do my deeds before they arrive." She wrinkled her nose. "I stay here and direct the staff, prepare for the card party later. I imagine there will be a younger crowd too, doing parlor games and such. It is tomorrow and the next day I will be in demand."

"Why is that?" He liked the sound of her voice, he didn't bloody like that he liked it, nor did he know why he was here still, and sober for god sakes, but...

"Tomorrow is what we call feast day. We have an obscene amount of food and neighbors drop in. I usually do a bit of the baking--the young ones like my gingerbread cookies."

"You cook?"

She laughed, hence he supposed his face showed his doubt.

"Yes. I cook quite well. But it's more that I cook something I like, or father likes, nothing for guests and crowds save cookies and pastry. It relaxes me, actually. I like the comfort and smells, the atmosphere in the kitchen."

His brow rose but he murmured, "And the day after."

"We exchange gifts. Take out the sleigh for a dashing ride, skate on the lake, and normally end the evening just family and closest friends in the parlor. Then, my father sings and reads from St. Luke." She shrugged. "It's an activity packed day, brought to a close by a cozy and relaxed night."

Everyn opened his mouth but she spoke before he could.

"Did you rest well?"

"Yes, thank you." He saw something in her eyes and wished he did not. "Did you?"

"Eventually," she murmured, and he did not for the life of him know why he had a sexual image from that. He doubted very seriously that even a (knowing virgin) would ease her hungers herself, but there it was, an image of Mary Broomfield, nude on her bed, hair spread out, hand between her--bloody hell. He should have departed this morning.

She'd been watching his face. "You are getting that panicked look again," she teased. "I assure you, you have no reason to."

"You have no idea..." He closed his mouth, and then looked around before looking down at her again. "Since it is the light of day, and I have met your father, perhaps I should intr--"

"No," she cut him off again. "Let's not do the formal thing." Her smile came again. "I'm glad you stayed, Everyn. I hope you enjoy yourself, and you are most welcome to remain here the entire week." She picked up her hat and headed for the door, at which she looked over her shoulder and added, "If you get the urge for hot chocolate after your game, I will be brewing it in my caldron ... in the kitchens."

Everyn watched the door close behind her. He had an urge. And that he had it for an unwed woman ... one whom he could not simply dally with ... and one who ... made him laugh, amused and intrigued him ... It was enough to send him round the house and to the study, to that brandy decanter Master Morley had invited him to sample earlier.

"Mary, you are positively glowing," her sister Ruth declared hours later as Mary partnered her in whist.

She had bathed, changed out the habit into her black stockings, velvet heeled shoes and bronze gown. It had long sleeves with buttons from waist to the wide V-bodice, more modest because of her generous bosom but still flattering.

Her hair had been gathered up in a bronze velvet band, left to fall down her back, and she wore jet-beaded earrings. Her sisters wore silver and blue, Paris gowns, which looked stunning on them.

"I've been in the kitchens." Mary grinned.

On the opposite side, Miriam leaned over and whispered, "Did anyone notice our handsome new guest?"

Since he wasn't in the room, and since she did not want to know all about him for some reason, Mary played her hand and jumped up, saying cheerfully, "Goodness, I'd best check on Kit and Janey, the youngsters. I was supposed to set up their next parlor game."

As she dashed off toward the door, Ruth and Miriam exchanged a startled look. Only half-aware that two ladies had sat down across from them, Ruth murmured, "What do you make of that?"

Miriam looked at the door and then back to her sister. "I have no idea. But if it is, what I hope it is--let us thank the fates."

"Hmm," her sister said, casting a brief smile at the ladies who'd joined them. "He is not the sort I would have picked. A rake to be sure, but quite aloof and with a rep for biting off heads."

Miriam laughed but nodded and shuffled the deck. "I cannot see it being him. But our--um, she--is hiding something."

As Ruth began to deal, Miriam leaned over and whispered, "At least they say he is a good lover."

Ruth elbowed her, reminding her that they were sitting with two gossipy dowagers, but later, behind her cards she laughed, "Lucky Mary. If he truly is what they say, perhaps he is like my husband, and behind that ice is all fire."

Miriam's brow rose. "In that case, let us drink to fates, and to Mary." She raised her champagne glass and they toasted, laughing again.

"Did we miss something, some new gossip perhaps?" One of the dowagers asked them.

Ruth swallowed and widened her eyes, lying, "You mean you have not heard?" She then began some outrageous tale, scandalous stuff about a couple who did not exist, all the while ignoring her sisters' eye rolling and snorts.

Mary did set up the next game for the teens that were in the back parlor with a half dozen like age guests. She then checked on the younger children, who were upstairs with their nannies happily applying paints to canvas and munching on treats.

Since dinner was over, and she had not seen him, and since her father and brothers in law had been in the card room, she was chewing her lip, afraid he'd slipped off, as she headed for the kitchens.

Mary waved to the staff, who were beyond the kitchens, in their own dining room, relaxing and eating. She slipped a full apron on over her gown and began gathering items to make her chocolate. As she waiting later for it to boil, she leaned her hips on one of the long slab tables, gazing into the flames before she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.

Glancing over, she watched Everyn enter, apparently he had relaxed too, for his coat was missing and the cuffs of his white shirt were turned up. He wore no neck cloth. Without thinking, her eyes went from his boots, up his muscular legs encased in snug black trousers, over that shirt, which enhanced both his tapered waist and wide shoulders and chest.

As she was gazing over his long raven hair, she knew he was looking at her, and it hardly mattered since she was more flushed eyeing that handsome face, his lean cheeks and sensual mouth, a too arrogant nose and ... those eyes...

"Perfect timing," she managed to quip. And then went over to swing the arm around so that her boiling pot moved from the flames and she could use a cloth and lift it free. She set it on the table and found a ladle. Glancing up at him as she poured the chocolate into mugs she murmured, "You smell of brandy."

His lips crooked slightly. "Gentlemen prefer it to chocolate."

"Not to mine." She handed him a cup.

Taking it he sipped almost cautiously, and then said, "You are a witch. This does not taste ... what is in it?"

"A bit of brandy and cherries." She laughed.

His white teeth flashed and he leaned back against the other table, resting his hips there as he drank.

While she sipped, their eyes held. Mary wondered at all the unspoken messages that perhaps neither of them could quite articulate. She pretended that she was not fascinated by watching him drink, watching him taste and savor, but in truth she was aware of him more than she was of the servants beyond them. She wondered at that, his ability to make her focus entirely on him, be aware of only him.

He emptied the cup and held it for more. After she refilled both she invited, "Come along. I'll show you the best place to drink hot chocolate."

He followed her up the stairs and down the hall on the third floor. They entered a room with dark paneled wood and large windows, window seats too. After lighting only a few tapers, she led him to the far end.

Seating herself, she rested the cup on the ledge while he joined her and gazed down on the sparkling snow. The moon had risen, misty and shrouded, but the lights from the manor shone outward turning the snowdrifts to a diamond like glitter.

The room had mellowed dark floors, much scarred, and he turned from looking out to gaze around. "What is this room?"

"It was where we learned to dance and to fence--not that my father knows that--about the fencing." She chuckled. "We played music here and did our drawing and painting." She pointed to a worn and comfortable chaise across the way in the corner. "Ruth used to make us do skits, and she always, always had to play Cleopatra. She actually made Miriam and I carry that thing with her on it."

He laughed and looked at the ceiling. It had spokes of wood between plaster.

"There's an arrow up there." She pointed. "Father forbade us to do archery in here but--"

"--Let me guess. Miriam was Robin Hood?"

She winced as he lowered his eyes and looked at her. "Fraid not. It was me. I refused to be Friar Tuck. This is what my lack of height and roundness got me every time. That time I insisted on being Robin, and well they were chasing me, and I shot that..." She pointed up, "quite impressively on my back, being attacked by the three of them."

His smile widened but his eyes looked into hers. "Do people compare you to your sisters?"

"Hmm. I suppose, if they notice me at all. It would be reasonable if they did."

"You don't."

"What?" Her brow arched.

"Compare with them."

She raised both brows and blinked. "If you are trying to insult me, you'll have to do better. I have no--"

"I wasn't. Far from it." His smile melted to a more serious look. His gaze went over her hair and gown, returning to her eyes. "In a ballroom full of females, I expect you'd be singular. I'm still figuring out what that means."

"Let me know when you do." She smiled short. "I'm curious, but finding it interesting that we're speaking of my appearance at all. Unless..."

"I'm sufficiently sober enough to agree that it is beyond rude. But you have a rather mystifying allure, Mary Broomfield."

"Meaning you cannot understand why you may be slightly attracted to me."

He laughed. "No. I don't mean that at all." He stood and walked about, standing near the center of the room, his back to her he murmured, "I did say your hair was rather glorious, and today I noticed your eyes ... extraordinary."

Everyn turned and stood there, looking over her posture as she sat, a bit reclined toward the corner of the window seat. "I'm no poet, Mary Broomfield. I detest those fellows who go about quoting verse and rhyme over every belle of the ton. I want to curse what bit of moonlight is shining on your pearl white skin, and that gown.... buttons tempting me to undo and peel it away, from a womanly body that promises to be lush and beautifully curved."

Mary could not breathe for a moment. She sensed, knew, he was not simply trying to seduce her. She knew in fact, that he was fighting the very things he was attracted to. It would be the right moment for her to make him laugh again, to jest, and yet she savored what he'd said, thrilled to it, and felt that current of attraction charge the atmosphere between them.

He was more backlit by the tallow's she'd lit and placed on a low round table. It crossed her mind without knowing that much about him, that he was a man who was not only a cynic but one who did not have intimate bonding, not the real kind of soul sharing or perhaps even have friends he would be open with.

Looking at his aquiline face, despite the sensual stamp, it was the face of a man who was aloof and all of things he'd said, rarely amused, and disengaged from much of life, because it was a jaded and untrustworthy one.

She could see him halving his life between the demands of the ton and his gambling, his mistress tucked in some side street, and none of it really brought him contentment or satisfaction.

Mary imagined that he preferred to pay his mistresses, to buy them jewels, to keep it clear what the relationship was. She did not imagine for one moment that he said these things or exposed his feelings--his struggles even, to anyone.

"That is quite the nicest thing that has ever been said to me." She smiled gently. "It's all well and good when the family, those who love you, pay you compliments. Nevertheless, I will admit, as inexperienced as I am, I am still human enough, old enough, to want that question every woman asked themselves, answered. It never has been, you know, that I am attractive or alluring to any man."

She dipped her head slightly. "I understand somewhat why a man of your position doesn't wish to be attracted or rather act upon it with a.... well, I understand that. But thank you, all the same. It's rather deeper than vanity for me to hear it. I'm sure you understand, since we started this conversation speaking of comparing me to my sisters."

He shook his head looking up at the ceiling. "You are welcome, Mary Broomfield."

She laughed, actually wanting instead to run to him and be wrapped in his arms, to kiss him again and again. "Your chocolate is getting cold. Come, finish it."

He walked over, lowering himself into the window seat and collecting his cup. He sipped and as they sat on opposite sides, no real space between them. He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, resting his head against the side of the niche, much like she did.

"Who won at billiards?"

"Not me." He grinned wryly. "My game was shamefully off."

"Well, if Charles bested you, it is because his father is quite impressive at it. He says that he was made to stand on a box and learn to play before he could walk."

"Um. I believe that."

She rubbed her thumb on the cup absently as their gazes touched. "Of course I am better."

His laughter rolled out. "You lie."

"Yes." She grinned. "I am not even close to a good player."

His brow rose, "Ah, but you can shoot arrows..."

"And bake cookies and make very real looking mistletoe."

His smile lingered as he nodded.

She nudged his boot with the toe of her black velvet slipper. "I am running out of lies to tell. Why don't you tell one?"

"I don't want to kiss your smiling mouth right now. I would want to stop."

Her heart hammered. "Nor I, I would really hate it if you did."

"I don't want to take that band off your hair, see it tumbling and free, nor have my hands in it, on you..."

He'd said it lazily, without a smile, and so intimate she felt sparks skitter up her back. "I could really grow tired of just sitting here, looking at you, wondering things a woman of my good sense shouldn't, and the way you just said that..."

His gaze seemed more silvered and his lashes lowered a fraction, there was a bit of husk as he uttered, "I don't want you, Mary Broomfield. I don't want to feel you trembling and damp mouthed against me..."

She swallowed and jerked her gaze away, looking rather blindly across the room, because her body was alive and aroused.

Mary heard him say, hushed, quieter and deep, "I have no business being here, saying this to you."

Mary glanced at him. "That isn't a lie."

He set up and put his cup on the sill, his hand reached out so that his fingers touched her cheek. "You are right. It's not."

Wetting her lips, Mary reached up and covered his hand. "It's quite wonderful for me." She whispered, "I don't know if you will appreciate what I'm saying, or what I mean. But this ... this excites me. It makes me feel more aware of myself, just extremely feminine and I suppose, sensual. It's all new to me, and rather selfish I suppose, since I should be acting the outraged virgin. Yet I'm not the least bit so."

"God, Mary." He laughed on a groan. "You are bloody hard to resist."

She smiled, her thumb brushing his where it rested on her cheek. "I would not force you to the alter, no matter what happens."

He pulled his hand free, and she said knowingly, "But you would feel honor bound, just the same." At his nod, and as he sat back, his hand falling to his thigh she murmured, "I would be a dreadful tease, wouldn't I, to tell you that I hope last night wasn't our last kiss."

He raised his hand to rub his eyes a moment, then dropped it and studied her with something smoldering in his eyes, and his face tense. "If I said, come to my bed, Mary. To the bed of a stranger, what would you answer?"

She held his gaze for long seconds. "Yes. I'd answer, yes."

He swallowed and his face tensed more.

Mary looked away and stood, taking their cups as she started to leave. "Snuff the candles out when you exit, will you?"

"Yes."

At the door she heard him say her name. Mary turned, seeing him the same position and with that moon light casting on his face.

He shook his head and looked away, as if he changed his mind about saying more.

She left him and went below, then slipped back into the card room and spent two hours pretending she wasn't thinking of him up there, sitting in that room in the moonlight.

Later, when she went up the stairs, she walked to the top of the third floor, seeing the candles had gutted out, yet able to discern his figure where she had left him. He was but a dark shadow in front of that window, and she recognized a brandy glass in his hand. Mary turned and went below to her rooms.

Laying in the dark again, promising herself that she would make the most of whatever there was from him. It was likely they would never see each other again, and the last thing she wanted was to turn a rather delightful, enlightening encounter, into something heavy and dark.

The attraction was intense, and there was no denying it. It was electric and scorching, ravenous in some odd way. Still, she cherished those mistletoe kisses, and she honestly enjoyed making him laugh. She would fight the temptation to let her suppressed passions flower every second she was with him. He had the right of it. They really were not suited for each other in the grand scheme of things.