Page 1 of Seducing an Earl under the Mistletoe
Prologue
Lady Evelina’s heart fluttered like a bottled butterfly, as she found herself amid the labyrinth of bookshelves, lined with ancient tomes enveloped in the soft glow of candlelight. The scent of old parchment and wood polish mingled with the flowery perfume of her presence. Her eyes locked with the man who was standing opposite her, their clandestine intentions hidden behind hushed whispers and exchanged glances.
Evelina’s heart raced as she stepped closer to Sebastian, as the silent acknowledgment of their passion echoed all around them, veiled by the sanctity of the library’s dimly lit corners. She knew they didn’t belong here.
Everything about this was forbidden, but then again, so was their love. All she could do was extend her hand to him, her delicate fingers brushing against his, a clandestine touch that sent shivers through her, igniting a flame of longing that she struggled to contain.
As they moved closer, the rustle of her silk gown and the sound of their muffled breaths filled the air, creating an intimate symphony that heightened their anticipation. Sebastian, possessing a strength and confidence that matched his aristocratic stature, drew Evelina into his arms, the warmth of his touch melting her resolve.
With each stolen glance and subtle caress, their desires deepened, kindling a fire that threatened to consume them both. Evelina’s heart pounded in her chest as Sebastian’s lips gently grazed her earlobe, his whispered endearments setting her senses ablaze. The scent of his cologne, mingled with the fragrance of aged books, was intoxicating.
In the secluded aisle of the library, amidst towering shelves and the weight of history surrounding them, their passion found release. Their lips met in a forbidden kiss, a mingling of fervor and restraint that left them both breathless. The stolen moment between them was a fusion of intellect and desire, a dance of longing that defied the constraints of societal norms.
Lady Catherine Winters nodded at the excerpt she had chosen, finally concluding that it would be the perfect addition to the letter she had already started to write, addressed to her publisher.
She was seated at her opulent writing table, as the gentle candlelight accentuated the honey-colored hue of her hair, making it seem almost luminescent in the soft glow. Each strand was meticulously in place, a testament to her refined sense of appearance.
Her gaze, framed by delicate, arched eyebrows, revealed the keen intelligence and steely determination residing in her grey-blue eyes. They were eyes that had witnessed the world through the lens of privilege and nobility, harboring a wisdom that came from generations of aristocratic lineage.
The eyes spoke of a woman accustomed to command and unyielding in her expectations, and yet here she was, in expectation of Christmas family drama she could barely have any effect on. It was simply one of those hectic moments one had to endure, and that was it.
She sighed heavily as she dipped the quill in ink, her thoughts measured and precise, as always.
The manuscript should be ready shortly after Christmas, and no sooner than that, I’m afraid. As a time-honored tradition within the Winters family, it is my duty…
Catherine stopped to wonder whether she should addand privilege.The truth was, she loved her family, but this was more of a duty. Her family had always been prone to emotional outbursts on both ends of the spectrum, and as someone who had a tendency to think reasonably, she sometimes found this difficult to process.
She nodded silently to herself, then continued writing.
…to partake in the familial festivities at our ancestral estate in Brighton. Hence, it is with a mix of anticipation and a tinge of regret that I inform you of my temporary absence from the heart of literary endeavors that is to be found only in London during this Yuletide season.
However, rest assured that my commitment to the esteemed publication of my latest serial ‘Reflections of Forbidden Virtues’ remains steadfast. I anticipate resuming our professional dialogue upon my return, especially the topic of the book design.
I anticipate an exquisitely designed cover, a tasteful selection of fine vellum adorned with gold filigree, and a crest embossed in the finest gilt, which shall truly encapsulate the essence of the ideals of love I expound within the pages. But I would be happy to discuss these after the holidays.
Until then, I extend my heartfelt wishes for a most joyous Christmas and a prosperous New Year.
Yours faithfully,
Carver Frost
Catherine wondered if she would ever get accustomed to this name. Even after all this time, it still felt foreign, although in a way, itdidbelong to her. It was her own creation, a part of her own mind and heart. Yet, she knew that they would never understand. She had to keep hiding behind this pseudonym and accept her fate as it was.
Chapter 1
In the gentle embrace of a winter’s evening, as the first snowflakes descended from the heavens, Lady Catherine and her dear aunt, Prudence Birdside, the Viscountess Birdside, stood outside their London residence, wrapped in the embrace of fur-lined coats to stave off the evening chill. The soft glow of the lamplight cast a warm, comforting aura around them, lending a magical quality to the falling snow.
Lady Birdside, a silent witness to the Winters’ family’s ups and downs for the past several years, was the first one to break the tranquil silence, which seemed to soothe Catherine.
“The soiree last night was quite the affair, dear Catherine,” she said as her eyes reflected the shimmer of the snow. “I must say, you have certainly managed to capture the attention of quite a few eligible suitors.”
Catherine offered a tender smile, appreciating her aunt’s care and concern. “Indeed, it was a pleasant gathering. However, my heart lies in pursuits beyond the realm of matrimony. My true love, Aunt, is the freedom to pursue knowledge and contributing to society.”
Her aunt nodded, understanding the determination that lay in her niece’s words. “Your path is one of distinction and purpose, my dear. I see so much of your mother in you. Just like you, she always followed her heart and her aspirations.”
Catherine always found it difficult to talk about her late mother. It had been only five years, but the passage of time was a relative thing. When she found herself lost in the magical process of writing, she noticed that an hour felt as short as a minute, sometimes even a second.
But every time she would visit her mother’s grave, her heart clenched in the same amount of anguish it did the first time, the fifth time, the fiftieth time. She could not believe that time healed all wounds. How could she, when the only wound she had was a gaping hole of agony that would not diminish, year after year.
