His Mistletoe Bride by Vanessa Kelly

sometimes enjoyed prodding it to the surface. He liked the passion in her, and liked even more the prospect of unleashing that passion when her body lay naked under his.
    Meredith leapt to defend her charge, much like a tabby might defend her only kitten. “Phoebe looks very pretty and just as she should, and you well know it.”
    He laughed. “I do. In fact, pretty doesn’t do her justice. Stunning is the more appropriate term. Phoebe, I always knew you were hiding your light under a basket. I’m happy to see you letting it shine for all to see.”
    She gave an adorable little grimace, looking torn between pleasure and embarrassment. “I am pleased to pass your inspection, Lord Merritt, ” she replied, giving his name a sarcastic emphasis. “But I cannot help feeling rather odd. As kind as Aunt Georgie’s guests have all been, I rather think they anticipate something unexpected from me. Like falling into a religious fit, or speaking in tongues.”
    She was trying to make a joke of it, but he could sense her discomfort. Phoebe hated standing out. Her upbringing should have armored her against the censure of the broader world—since her people normally didn’t give a damn about the opinions of non-Quakers—but he’d learned that she had felt no more at home in that rigid little world than she did among London’s elite. She was neither fish nor fowl, and her usual tactic was to fade into the wallpaper and hope no one noticed her.
    Lucas hooked an arm around a chair and pulled it next to her. “Once they get to know you, your religious beliefs won’t make a whit of difference.”
    She looked so sweet and vulnerable, trying to act as if none of it really mattered, that he could barely resist the temptation to pull her into his arms and comfort her. Now that would give the gossips something to chatter about.
    â€œLord,” said Robert, waving a negligent hand. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. You don’t even speak like a Quaker, Phoebe. Why, you’re nothing like those sour-looking crows in black, always preaching at some poor fellow. Cursed rum touches, I say.”
    Annabel’s mouth dropped open and Meredith shook her head. Lucas, however, choked back a laugh. No Stanton gathering would be complete without Robert making at least one baffle-headed remark.
    Phoebe’s decisive chin jerked up a notch. Lucas quite liked that chin, with its small, defiant cleft. While not usually an attractive characteristic on a woman, it lent her an air of exoticism that steadfastly contradicted her attempts to play down her beauty.
    â€œAnd how does thee imagine a Quaker speaks?” she asked politely.
    Robert’s eyes rounded with dismay. “Rather like that, actually.”
    Annabel glared at her husband but Meredith now looked ready to laugh, probably at the haughty lift to Phoebe’s slender eyebrows. Taking in Phoebe’s expression, Lucas could understand how such a meek little thing could survive a crossing of the storm-tossed Atlantic, then venture into a strange land to start a new life.
    Robert stared at Phoebe with alarm. “Good Lord, Cuz, never meant to offend you. It’s just that . . .” He broke off when a smile played around the corners of Phoebe’s mouth.
    â€œWhew,” he exhaled. “Thought you were having me on. It’s just that you don’t really talk like any Quaker I’ve ever met. Not that I’ve met all that many, and I’m sure they’d be just as nice as you. Except for those outfits, of course. They’re beastly and no getting around it.”
    â€œTheir clothing makes it easier to get dressed in the morning,” Phoebe said, “but I do take your point. I do not normally speak like that. My brother and his family certainly do, but my father did not, nor did my mother. She was determined that I speak what she called proper King’s English