A Snow moon christmas

Playing a hard game

*Chester*

The residence grows quiet, the only sound the wind howling beyond the windows. Sitting alone in a chair by the fire in the billiards room, I savor my Scotch and reminisce about the first time that I set eyes on Merry.

For more than a year, I had been in seclusion, grieving the loss of my brother. Finally, the Season before last, I took the first step out of mourning by attending a ball. I felt as though I were a stranger in a strange land. All the linery, the food, the laughter, the gaiety… Did any of them deserve any of it when so many have died?

Suffocating in that overly flowered ballroom, attempting to talk about weather and theater and books, made me feel as though my clothing were strangling me. I was merely going through the motions of being present, wishing I hadn't been so quick to return to Society.

And then my gaze landed on Miss Merida. I was struck with the romantic notion that she was the sort over whom men fought wars. I desperately wanted to release her raven hair from its pins. The pink roses that adorned it matched the ones embroidered in her pale pink gown. It draped off her alabaster shoulders, enticing a man to touch them.

She was talking with three other she-wolves, and then she tilted back her head slightly and laughed. The glorious tinkling wafted over to me, and for the first time in a good long while, I didn't feel dead, didn't feel as though I had been buried alongside Walter. I was ever so glad that I was alive to hear such sweet music.

As though noticing my regard, she looked at me with eyes of clover green, and I had to take a step back to maintain my balance. The force of her was like nothing I had ever experienced. Initially, I attributed it to being out of the ballrooms for so long, but I slowly came to realize that it was simply the power of her.

Throughout the mating Season, I danced with her at every opportunity, strolled with her through gardens and parks, sent her flowers and sweets. She returned to her father's estate for the winter. I returned to mine, but I couldn't forget her. She was more than a passing fancy.

Then in early spring, a soldier delivered a letter from Walter, long after he was gone. The man hadn't posted it for fear it would become lost on the journey from the dark lands.

Walter's words shook me to the core. As he lay ill, he must have known that the Grim Reaper was hovering nearby because he asked me to promise to ensure that his betrothed was happy. I, numbskull that I was, thought the only way to ensure Miss Anne's well-being was to marry her myself, so I held my growing feelings for Miss Merida in check. When the next mating Season was upon us, I turned my attention to securing Miss Anne's happiness while Miss Merida slipped beyond reach.

I have no right to ask her for forgiveness, no right to ask for a second chance. She has moved on with her life, she has found another. It is time for me to do the same, to stop living in the past, to stop focusing on what might have been.

If I had not been so insistent on restoring my estates to their former glory.

If I had not been hoarding my coins for that purpose rather than giving my brother an allowance so he could live the life of a gentleman.

If I hadn't purchased Walter a commission so he was forced to live the life of a soldier.

If I hadn't read Walter's final letter and allowed it to skew my perspective and overwhelm me with remorse.

It matters little to me now that Walter once commented that he enjoyed being in the army, felt he had gained purpose. He died as a young man, while I will no doubt die as an old one. And without Merry at my side.

I down the contents of my glass, reach for the bottle I have set beside the chair, and refill the tumbler. As the room is beginning to spin and my head is feeling dull, I know I should be abed, where in sleep I will dream of Merry, of her raven hair and green eyes, and the way she once smiled at me as though I could do no wrong. Yet I have managed to do wrong aplenty.

I barely move when I hear the door open. Slowly shifting my gaze over, I wonder briefly if I have already fallen asleep because there she is in a much simpler dress than she was wearing earlier. No petticoats. Possibly no corset. It is designed for comfort, not company.

It could also be discarded in a flash if a man were to set his mind to removing it. I have imbibed a bit too much because I am already envisioning the joy I would experience in giving all those buttons their freedom.

Her braided hair falls past her hips, her slippers are plain. Nothing about her is intentionally enticing, and yet I am thoroughly beguiled.

She glances around warily. I hold still, waiting for the moment when she will see me. Only she doesn't, and I realize the deep shadows and the angle of the chair hide my presence from her. She sweeps her gaze around the room once more before returning to the door and closing it with a hushed snick.

I wonder if she is waiting for Lightfoot. I think that if the Alpha comes through the door, I might very well lose any semblance I have of being a gentleman. I wouldn't stand for it, watching them behave as lovers.

It could be the only reason for this late-night tryst, and dammit all to hell, she appears to be anticipating it. Her eyes take on a glow, her smile is one of someone doing what she ought not to be caught doing. Dear Goddess, help me, but I want to kiss those lips, I want to be doing things with them that I ought not to be doing.

She wanders over to the billiards table and scrapes her fingers over the baize top as she slowly walks its length. Against the taut cloth, her nails make a faint raspy sound, and it's all I can do not to groan as I imagine her trailing those fingertips over my chest, circling around my n*****s, pinching, leaning in...

She stills, and my thoughts careen to a stop as though she has heard them. She glances over her shoulder, and I fear that I've made a sound. I'm not quite ready for her to know that I'm here. Again, I wonder if she's meeting Lightfoot, if she's going to stretch out on the table for her lover. Will he unravel her hair and spread it across the green? Will he worship her as she deserves to be worshipped?

I imagine removing her slippers, kissing her toes, then taking my mouth on a slow, leisurely journey up her calves, over her knees, along her thighs...

Christ! If I carry on with these imaginings, I'm going to be unable to stand when Lightfoot shows. If the rumors being bandied about are true, he compromised her once in a garden. He wouldn't hesitate to do so here, long after the stroke of midnight, when most are in bed and no one is about to interrupt. I flex my fingers not holding the glass. I rather fancy the idea of introducing my fist to Lightfoot's nose.

She fairly skips over to the rack on the wall and selects a cue stick. Mesmerized, I watch as she tests its weight, twirls it between her fingers, and carries it over to the table. She gathers the balls, racks them; then, cue in hand, she leans over, presenting me with a rather enticing view of her backside. A tiny voice urges me to stay where I am, to enjoy the unexpected gift of her arrival, but it's such a small voice, easily ignored, and I can enjoy her so much more if no distance separates us.

Unable to hold back my anticipation, I unfold my body and creep over to where she has carefully positioning her cue. When I'm near enough to smell her rose fragrance, I lean in and whisper in a low, sensual drawl, "You're doing it all wrong." With a startled yelp, she flings herself backward, her head smacking soundly into my jaw.

And the world goes black.