Gift-Wrapped Governess by Sophia James

shortbread had been strung with twine, the delicacies embellishing an already over-embellished greenery.
    Seraphina Moreton had no pattern of demanding the fir dressed in a particular way as Catherine had been wont to on the few times she had bothered. Everything went, according to the governess’s philosophy, so that even the broken offerings the boys had put their hearts into creating took their place alongside the expensive and irreplaceable heirlooms collected by the Blackhaven ancestors for generations.
    There was hardly a pine needle still on show and the angel on the top that he had had the task of securing looked down on a hotchpotch of colour.
    His children loved it.
    â€˜Have you ever seen such a tree, Papa?’ David asked him and his father shook his head in honesty.
    â€˜Never.’
    Seraphina Moreton laughed as he looked over to find her watching him, Melusine jumping at the foil on a lower branch, then nestling in a pile of paper.
    â€˜I like the red apples best.’ Terry pointed out his efforts, three matching misshapen balls with sprigs of gold drunkenly hanging from the top.
    As leaves, he supposed. He made much of nodding.
    â€˜The stars are mine, Papa.’ Gareth brought a folded silver shape away from the riot of others behind it. ‘Miss Moorland helped me draw them. I could make some for your library tomorrow.’
    â€˜Indeed.’
    â€˜We have mistletoe as well.’ David took a sprig from a box at his feet and placed it carefully on his hand. ‘Where should we hang it?’
    â€˜Above Miss Moorland,’ Gareth screeched. ‘Then we can all give her a kiss.’
    â€˜Above Papa,’ Terence amended. ‘Then she could give him one.’ His oldest son was already counting as he walked over with the mistletoe.
    â€˜Twelve berries. Twelve kisses. You can have the first one, Papa.’
    A vibrant red blush crept up Lady Seraphina’s cheeks, but with three boys baying for a kiss Trey felt it easier to do so. He had meant to place a light peck on her cheek, just a small token to fulfil an expected duty, but he found the soft fullness of her mouth instead and his world exploded.
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    She felt his finger against her cheek, light as air, question in the last second before his lips slanted against hers, the full force of an unexpected magic making her press in. Trey Stanford was hers for this moment under a tree laden withChristmas and in a world of colour, the taste of him strong and real, his fingers at her nape, the shape of his body full down the front of hers, as a deep pain of need entwined itself into all the corners of her heart. He was neither careful nor gentle nor calm. He was masculine fervour tempered with steel, a man who knew his way around a woman and taking the chance of appetite even with his three children watching on.
    Seraphina was breathless when he broke away. Kissing was nothing like she had heard it to be: tepid, shallow and lukewarm. It was hot and ardent and fierce, the meeting of souls through a joining of spirit, a giving and a taking. As amazement bloomed she heard the shouts of the boys and David plucked one berry and threw it in the fire. It sizzled against the embers, a slight puff of smoke and then gone.
    When she chanced a quick look at the duke, he seemed unaffected by all that had just happened as he took the mistletoe and placed it above the door-well a good few feet away. He did not look in her direction once.
    â€˜Aunt Margaret and Uncle Gordon should arrive tomorrow. We will surprise them beneath it.’ His voice was even and mellow.
    Gareth screwed up his face. ‘No, they are too old to kiss, Papa.’
    â€˜No one is ever too old, my lad. You’ll find that out one day.’
    All the boys laughed as Melusine barked, chasing her damaged tail around and around until she caught it, teeth clamped in dark red hair. She had been a quiet dog until she had come to Blackhaven, slinking around beneath