Under a Christmas Spell

Under a Christmas Spell
Barbara Monajem

Dissolute aristocrat Lord Valiant Oakenhurst hides a sexy, supernatural secret – as a powerful incubus, he is able to influence others through erotic dreams. At an exclusive Christmas house party, his latest mission is compromised by the beautiful but deadly succubus Lucille Beaulieu.Though still drawn to his former lover, Val cannot forget her betrayal…Hoping to atone for her past, Lucie uses her seductive powers to help couples find happiness. But she is distracted from her task by her own delicious dreams of the dark and dangerous Val.As the riotous festivities begin, their passion is re-invoked, but can a little Christmas magic restore their lost trust?

English Country Estate, 1815

Dissolute aristocrat Lord Valiant Oakenhurst hides a sexy, supernatural secret—as a powerful incubus, he is able to influence others through erotic dreams. At an exclusive Christmas house party, his latest mission is compromised by the beautiful but deadly succubus Lucille Beaulieu. Though still drawn to his former lover, Val cannot forget her betrayal....

Hoping to atone for her past, Lucie uses her seductive powers to help couples find happiness. But she is distracted from her task by her own delicious dreams of the dark and dangerous Val.

As the riotous festivities begin, their passion is reinvoked, but can a little Christmas magic restore their lost trust?

Under a Christmas Spell

Barbara Monajem

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Author’s Note

I’ve wanted to play with the incubus/succubus mythology for a long time. Now that it’s done, though...what if I got it all wrong? Just because I’m not crazy about rigid good/evil dichotomies, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist. So, to any incubi and succubi who happen to read this, my apologies. If you prefer to be evil sex demons, far be it from me to object. (But I still won’t write it that way.)

Contents

Under a Christmas Spell (#u5969aabe-42a8-55d6-b34a-c7ad3c136f5c)

The office of a warehouse near the Thames, London, December 1815

“The war is over,” Lord Valiant Oakenhurst said. “I’m not involved in the game anymore.”

“You’re not doing much else,” said the Master of the British Incubi, at ease behind his massive desk. “Unless you’re planning to return to the family fold.”

Valiant gave a tiny internal shudder. Not only did he find the estate of his pompous father, the Marquis of Staves, completely unbearable, but he wasn’t wanted there. Inevitably he caused trouble. Far better to cause it in places where his unusual abilities were appreciated. In some ways, wartime had suited him very well, but now he wanted...

He wasn’t going to get what—or rather, whom—he wanted, and it was irrelevant to this discussion. He glared, wondering why the annoying fellow still wore a mask. Secret identities shouldn’t matter anymore. “You know I can’t return to the bloody fold.”

“Precisely, so you may as well make yourself useful. Sit down, Lord Valiant. Your restlessness irritates me. This won’t take long.”

Valiant shrugged and took the proffered chair.

“We wish you to awaken the sensuality of a Miss Southern, but there cannot be a genuine liaison except in the lady’s imagination,” the master said. “Her virginity must remain intact. In fact, you must not even attempt to kiss her.”

Valiant narrowed his eyes. “Or else what?” He’d had enough of being judged as if he was still the fifteen-year-old who’d been removed from Eton for deflowering a respectable virgin.

The master didn’t answer his question, merely saying mildly, “It’s only for a fortnight. “You will send her erotic dreams and cast admiring, even smouldering glances at her, to get her, er, juices flowing, so to speak.”

Valiant huffed. “For what purpose, if she is to remain a virgin? I don’t relish playing the tease.”

The master gave an amused snort. “You’ve lied, cheated and murdered for your country, and yet you object to a little sensual teasing?”

“The war is over,” Valiant repeated. “I’m tired of playing those games.” He was stuck with his magical abilities—or at least they seemed magical when he tried to explain how they worked. Plenty of men and women were competent seducers, but few could plant images in the sleeping minds of their targets, rendering them helpless with desire. No wonder incubi and succubi had been seen as demons for centuries, but that was unfair. Val had no wish to harm anyone. He’d been forced to use his abilities in unpleasant ways during the war, but in peacetime, he shouldn’t—and wouldn’t.

“War is never truly over,” the master said heavily. “England will always need gifted individuals to protect her.” He straightened and steepled his fingers together. “However, that is neither here nor there. Miss Southern is an intelligent woman of excellent breeding, with a moderate fortune, but she refuses to marry where she does not feel affection. We hope that the awakening of her sensual side will make her more amenable to, er, falling madly in love.”

This made no sense at all, but the master never orchestrated anything without good reason. “Why do you care whether she marries?”

“I don’t, but someone I value does. You’re not the only person with obligations.”

How typical of the master to combine a reminder that one was beholden with a cheap show of sentiment. “How very affecting.” Valiant sneered. “What if the stubborn Miss Southern falls in love with me? You may end up owing your valued someone far more than you do now. I warn you, my obligations don’t extend to marriage.”

“Then you’ll have to tread carefully, won’t you? Although come to think of it, marriage may be just what you need—but not to Miss Southern.” He passed a folded sheet of paper across the desk. “Here are your instructions. You are to attend a Christmas house party where Miss Southern will also be a guest.”

Valiant opened the paper. “At the estate of Viscount Westerly.” He gave another internal shudder. He could well imagine it—idiotic traditions that must be adhered to no matter how antiquated. It would be just like being back in the family fold.

He shook his head. “Lord Westerly detests me. He won’t want me at his party.”

“I trust you’ll find your way around such a trifle as that,” the master said.

The private parlour of an inn on Grub Street, London, also in December

“My dearest Lucille,” said the Mistress of the British Succubi. “How kind of you to visit me.”

“Oui, I am extremely kind.” Lucille Beaulieu rolled her eyes. “To come here, I had to postpone some very boring plans. Life is moving at the pace of a stubborn donkey. I hope you mean to give me something interesting to do.”

The mistress’s eyes twinkled through the slits of her mask. She was almost pleasant to deal with now that the war was over. The mistress had been extraordinarily kind to her, helping her establish herself in English society, and Lucille made a point of paying her debts.

Except one, which she could never repay. Thoughts of it—fears, as well—still kept her awake at night. She had finally begun to feel safe, but one persistent enemy was all it took.

A maid entered with a tea tray. When the girl had gone, the mistress poured Lucille a dish of steaming hot bohea. “You are to arouse a certain nobleman’s interest in sensuality,” she said.

Lucille made a tiny moue. “I do that merely by being myself.” At twenty-eight years old, she found herself almost yearning for the approach of age and the loss of sensual appeal. Not that she would be entirely useless after that, for she would never lose the seemingly magical ability to send erotic dreams. But such dreams were a gift, bestowing harmless pleasure on the recipient, whilst seduction often led to irreparable harm.

“Yes, my dear, but this man is a difficult case. He is a peer lately returned from the war.”

“A soldier?” Lucille barely managed to keep the dismay from her voice. Soldiers had taken her parents away to prison and the guillotine when she was only four years old. As a rational adult who had spent years in the proximity of armies, she should be accustomed to soldiers, but...no.

“Not any longer, for he has sold out,” the mistress said. “He is thirty-one years old—an appropriate age to marry, but he refuses to do so.”

The tea did not taste quite so delicious anymore. “Surely you don’t expect me to wed him.” Lucille had already been married five times. Some of the marriages had been legal and some not, but all of the husbands had been disposed of—although not by Lucille—when they had ceased to be useful to the powers that be. She hadn’t loved any of them, but nor had she wished them dead.

“No, for we should be obliged to kill him, should we not?” The mistress laughed.

Lucille didn’t. She had joined the British Succubi as an angry young woman. At first she had been quite bloodthirsty, using her skills of seduction to do whatever was needed...but seeing one’s husbands done away with—not to mention many others one encountered during the war—had changed that. She wished there were ways to use her talents to help others rather than to harm them.

The mistress patted Lucille’s hand. “Merely a jest. Those days are past. You are free to marry whomever you choose.”

Since the only man Lucille would consider marrying despised her, this was unlikely.

“Marriage might be just the thing to relieve your boredom, but probably not with Lord Westerly.” The mistress stirred sugar into her tea. “To return to the matter at hand, he is an upright and intelligent man. He was one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp and a brilliant code-breaker, but the unpleasantness of war affected him so badly that he has well nigh become a hermit.”