Her Christmas Rogue

by Christi Caldwell

  At that, Pamela paused mid-bite. She reached for a napkin and dabbed at her lips. “Whyever would we discourage them from…” Then her eyes lit. “I see.”

  At last. As had been Pamela’s way through the years, inevitably she caught on.

  Their dear, if obstinate, daughters would never do something as agreeable as making the match their mothers knew to be for the best. If, however, they gave them necessary guidance through some very deliberate misguidance, well then, Agatha rather suspected every single one of their incorrigible, four eldest, unwed daughters would find themselves wed—by the Christmas holiday if Agatha, Pamela, Lenore, and Clare had their way.

  And invariably, the four resolute mamas always had their way.

  Always.

  Chapter One

  Two Years Earlier

  No one had noticed her.

  At least, not yet.

  It was the first relief Lady Winifred Grisham had felt since she’d been stuffed into a snowy-white dress, and ushered off to the carriage, and after that, into the infernal hell that was Almack’s Assembly Hall.

  And here she’d believed it couldn’t have been any worse than the intimate dinner party her family had recently thrown upon her return from finishing school. How wrong she’d been.

  Across the dance floor, where young debutantes and their willing partners executed the steps of a proper and endlessly boring country reel, Winnie’s gaze caught on her mother, the Countess of Portland.

  They’d reached the point in the evening where her flighty, oft-nervous mother had abandoned all attempt at discreetness. With a pale-blue satin gloved palm cupped over her eyes, the countess scoured the room like Captain Nelson scoping out a potential sea invasion.

  Her mother abruptly turned.

  Winnie dropped to a knee behind one of the elaborately set tables of watered-down lemonade.

  She’d spotted Winnie. Any minute Mother would be there, and she’d take Winnie firmly by the arm, and whisk her about the stuffy room.

  Except…

  Winnie peeked about.

  She may as well have been invisible for all the notice anyone paid her. Of course, she’d inadvertently—and fortuitously—chosen the one area in all the assembly hall to be spared any notice—the refreshment table.

  Who would imagine that a table of watered-down lemonade would be good for anything?

  Winnie peered over the white lace tablecloth. Nay, she needn’t have worried about being discovered. The other ladies her age were wholly engrossed in the night’s pleasures; simpering behind their fans, attempting to catch the stares of the gentlemen.

  Her gaze landed once more upon her mother. At some point, the countess had managed to track down Winnie’s eldest brother, James, the Viscount Munthorpe. Mama gesticulated wildly, waving her arms as she spoke, with such a franticness to those movements it was a wonder she didn’t take flight like one of those kites Winnie had loved flying as a child.

  And even from across the length of the crowded room, she caught one word repeated no fewer than five times: or rather one name:

  Winnie.

  As one, Mother, and harangued son, looked out…just as the orchestra concluded their latest set. Guests in pale dresses proceeded to stream from the dance floor.

  Winnie’s eyes collided with James’, and her heart sank.

  Of course, it should be her eldest brother to catch her.

  And then, the same sibling who’d proven consistent in his annoyance over her presence over the years, did the unlikeliest of things…

  He winked.

  Mouthing a silent ‘thank you’, she took off flying.

  Using the flood of activity around the assembly hall to her advantage, Winnie sprung into motion.

  She almost felt guilty.

  Almost.

  Alas, she’d never been a dutiful daughter, and this was self-preservation and all.

  Why, even her brother knew it.

  Clutching nervously at the wood fan that dangled at her wrist, she crept stealthily along the edge of the hall.

  What special hell was this?

  And there was no doubting this was hell.

  The assembly room containing at least seventy-five people more than should be in the ballroom had sent the heat soaring. Between the crush of bodies, and the heavily lit chandeliers, the hint of sweat permeated a room full of people, who’d deny until their dying day that lords and ladies ever did something as uncouth as perspire.

  Winnie wasn’t too proud or direct to say precisely what she was or how she felt—

  She was bloody hot.

  She wiped away a bead of moisture from her brow.

  Woman must have been the first to sin, indeed, for how else to explain the misery they were put through at the hell that was the London Season.

  And hell it was. In fact, she could think of any number of miseries she’d willingly—and gladly—put herself through than this night.

  Walking uphill and barefoot across the snow-covered Kent countryside.

  Sunday sermons with the long-winded Vicar Thomas.

  As Winnie continued to wind her way around the perimeter of the room, she silently assembled that list of sufferings far preferable to this.

  Knocking free a nest of hornets.

  Though, as Winnie cynically eyed the guests present, she conceded that those sharp-eyed ladies, peeking out for a hint of scandal and the first lady to stumble at her debut that night, they weren’t altogether different from those perilous hives.

  And then she caught sight; the pale-yellow curtains, with the gold tassels affixed gaudily upon those articles—an alcove.

  And more importantly…freedom!

  She was so close she could almost reach out and touch that fabric.

  Her heart pulsed a beat of excitement, and dread. Dread because it couldn’t be this simple to escape from her mother. Her father. Her chaperone. And every other of the some two-hundred and sixty-five guests present.

  Desperation propelled her faster. Onward.

  And then she was there.

  Winnie slipped between the heavy velvet curtains; practice enough in sneaking over the year that she didn’t so much as set the heavy articles aflutter. The minute the blessed darkness of the room swallowed her, she exhaled a blissful sigh of relief. Yanking down her bodice, she set to fanning her heated self.

  Yes, there were all number of miseries she’d rather endure than Almack’s.

  “My own execution,” she whispered into the void of silence.

  Because there was no doubt, this misery couldn’t be much off from that.

  Only one thing could make this night everything a young debutante dared to dream of in her Come Out. Not a ‘thing’…rather…a person. She briefly closed her eyes. “Trent,” his name slipped out as a whisper.

  “Yes?” There was a soft flutter as the curtains slipped open, briefly fluttering before falling into place.

  Gasping, Winnie shot a fist out, catching the most unexpected of intruder, square in the nose.

  A sharp hiss exploded from his lips.

  “Trennnnt?” Shock and horror managed to transform one syllable into five. As in Lord Trent Ballantine.

  “The same,” his voice emerged muffled around the white kerchief he pressed to the bleeding appendage that instantly turned the clean scrap red.

  She rounded her eyes and came to a number of realizations all at once:

  One, her intruder was, in fact, none other than Lord Trent Ballantine. Best friend to her brother.

  Two, she’d bloodied his nose good.

  And lastly, she stood with her bodice hanging down, and her chemise bared to the night…it was a detail most men likely would have noticed. Except this one. Cursing, she hurriedly righted her neckline.

  And now, Winnie wished to bop Trent Ballantine in the nose for altogether different reasons. Crime being—failure to recognize the existence of his best friend’s younger sister. Nay, he couldn’t be bothered by her gaping bodice. Instead, he had his hea
d tilted back and was busy pinching the bridge of his nose.

  She scowled at him. “Trent, what are you doing here?”

  “Well, at the moment, I’m trying to stanch the blood flow.” Pressed to his face as it was, the kerchief muffled his voice.

  She narrowed her eyes on him. Was he making…jests? And even in the darkened alcove, she caught the glimmer in his eyes. He was. The bounder. Alas, just because one was hopelessly in love with a gentleman didn’t mean a lady didn’t have an absolute lack of patience for when said gentlemen were being absolute ninnies. “Trent?” she said impatiently.

  “I think it should be fairly obvious why I’m here.”

  “Actually, it isn’t, at all,” she said tersely. After she’d returned from finishing school, her parents had thrown an intimate dinner party with only her family’s closest friends. The moment she’d entered the room and seen Trent after their time apart, she’d have wagered her heart’s every happiness, by the look in his eyes, that he’d been stunned…and yes, mayhap even briefly captivated. Sticking a foot out, she proceeded to drum her satin slipper upon the floor. It’d had been a fortnight since that soiree, and she’d not seen a hint of him. Why, he didn’t even come ’round as he once did to visit James. She opened her mouth to say as much, when he looked up from his ministrations.

  “I’ve come to keep you company, Winnie.”

  And all her annoyance just lifted.

  She tried-and failed-to contain a soft little sigh from slipping out. “You came to keep me company…in an alcove?” Winnie may be an innocent, but she had an older, and roguish brother, and knew very well just what manner of wickedness unfolded within cloaked rooms. Well, not specifically, per se.

  He smiled wryly. “I was referring to Almack’s.”

  And that admission should have had disappointment chasing away her romantic musings, and likely would have had it not been for this latest concession:

  He’d endured Almack’s…for her.

  And she managed nothing more than another little sigh. Because what else was there to say when the man she’d loved since she’d been in long skirts had braved this place—for her. And then horror reared its head.

  “And here, I’ve gone and bloodied your nose,” she whispered, frantically grabbing for the kerchief to inspect the damage. She’d gathered little on the matter of making a man fall in love with her over the years, but she knew well-enough that breaking appendages was hardly the stuff of a gentleman’s dreams.

  “Yes, well, I will say it’s certainly not that I expected gratitude for attending your debut at Almack’s,” he said dryly, “but neither did I think it’d be met with a reconfiguring of my nose.” He drew the cloth back and felt around his nostrils.

  “You’ve managed to stop the blood flow.” Reaching past him, she probed the slight bump in the middle of that aquiline perfection.

  “I don’t think it is broken,” she said, ignoring his bid at teasing. Squinting in the dark, she peered up at the chiseled slash of flesh. “You’ve always had this slight bump here,” she touched the area in question, “but perhaps I’ve caused another break?”

  Frowning, Trent brushed her hand away. “It was never broken. I was born with that slight bump as you’ve now called it.” Lines creased the middle of his forehead, as he felt along his nose.

  Going on tiptoe, she took his cheeks in hand so she could better study his face. Winnie widened her eyes “My God, Trent Ballantine, are you blushing?”

  His color deepened. “I can hardly see my own cheeks,” he mumbled.

  “Well, I can.” She grinned. “And you are.”

  Two magnificently golden brows came together. “Then it hardly seems like a question that merited asking.”

  “Ah, but it is inordinately more fun to point out. Furthermore, don’t go having hurt male sensibilities, your bump is perfectly splendid,” she chided, inspecting his nose once more. “It makes you imperfect.” At least in one way. It was the most minor of flaws for one of society’s most sought-after rogues.

  Something shifted in his eyes; a somber glint so at odds with the always teasing and cheerful rogue she’d known half of her life. “And is…imperfect something people are striving for?”

  “Only those intent on being remotely interesting individuals.”

  The hint of a smile ghosted his lips. “You’re an interesting one, Winifred Grisham.”

  And if she’d been one of those experienced ladies he kept company with, she would have managed something more than the silly grin she flashed in return.

  The moment ended, and he was immediately all business.

  “Now, what’s the meaning of this?”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

  “Never tell me you’re unimpressed by Paine’s Band?”

  Winnie flattened her lips into a smooth line.

  Trent shot her a questioning look. “As in James Paine?”

  “Oh, I’m well-familiar with his work. It’s simply you indicated I shouldn’t tell you I was unimpressed, as such I offered my silence instead.”

  A sharp bark of laughter burst from him.

  She slapped a hand over his mouth, and glanced around his shoulder. When the curtains weren’t tossed wide by curious onlookers, she looked back to Trent. “You’re deuced bad at this clandestine business, Trent Ballantine,” she quietly scolded. Mayhap the reports of him being a rogue and scoundrel had been nothing more than gossip, after all.

  “My apologies,” he mouthed silently; his lips forming those words upon her bare palm, and delicious tingles slipped up her palm and arm, and made their way to her heart. His was like a lover’s kiss.

  He eyed her strangely, but Winnie made no move to take her fingers from his mouth. “Are you going to behave?”

  “Are you going to suffocate me?” he mumbled into her hand.

  “That depends on whether or not you intend to behave.”

  And this time, she felt the bold slash of his lips as they curved up.

  And she’d never before known a person could feel a smile. Not in this way. Not in any way. And only because her hand began to shake, and she sought to conceal that quiver from his rogue’s eyes, she let her arm fall to her side.

  “Where were we?” he murmured.

  I was ruminating on the feel of your lips, and wanting to know far more. “I was lamenting the music selection played by Paine. Quadrilles. Mazurkas. The Gallopades.”

  “Tsk. Tsk. Surely you’re jesting about…the Gallopades.”

  “Does this,” Winnie pointed her fan and waved the little article at her deadpan face, “strike you as one who is jesting?”

  “That…is a shame.” He walked to the edge of the curtain, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from calling him back. Not wanting the singular most wonderful moment of this night—and so many nights before it—to end.

  Trent however, peeked out the sliver-thin crack in the curtain. Not taking his gaze from the revelries on the other side of that fabric, he reached a hand behind him; his fingers danced around the air, before, catching hers.

  “What are you—?”

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Stay close behind me and don’t make a sound.”

  “We’re going out there?” she squeaked. “We’re going to be caught.”

  “We are as long as you keep talking.” Glancing back over his shoulder, he pressed a finger to his lips. “Quiet,” he mouthed. “Stay close.”

  As Trent slipped the curtain open, and led them outside the alcove, she fought to suppress a giggle from the wickedness of stealing about Almack’s. The trumpets, flutes, and violins of Paine’s orchestra leant a farce-like quality to Winnie and Trent’s furtive sneaking.

  Surely, they’d be seen…and yet…

  They moved; their steps in perfect sync. For the harmony of their movements, she may as well have been his smaller shadow; concealed by his powerful frame.

  When Winnie and Trent reached the back of the hall, he stopped, and she went still.

>   “Reach back behind you,” he said, from what sounded to be the corner of his mouth. “Just open it a fraction.”

  Clasping the door handle, she backed through it.

  The moment Trent followed her out, he swiftly pressed it closed, and they burst out laughing.

  “Shh,” he said, between great, gasping guffaws.

  “You ‘shhhh’,” she shot back between her own laughter.

  Then, taking her by the hand once more, he tugged her along the narrow hall. The thin floral carpet barely masked their steps. The orchestra’s lively beat came distant but still distinct.

  “Here.” Trent brought them to an abrupt stop.

  “What are you—?” Her hilarity briefly ebbed, and her pulse thundered quick as he wrapped a hand about her waist.

  “Hand on my shoulder,” he instructed, even as he was already guiding her left hand atop his left shoulder. How was it possible for a touch to wreak such havoc on her senses?

  He proceeded to dance with her in great, looping circles down the empty corridor, until her laughter again blended with his, and they were breathless from the increased tempo he’d set for them.

  “I dare you to tell me the Gallopades is anything but wonderful,” Trent said as he twirled them back the way they’d come.

  Winnie inclined her head. “I stand corrected, Trent—bwhah—” She exploded into another round of hilarity as he shifted course, taking them in the opposite direction.

  And with amusement spilling from them both, Winnie came to two more realizations that night:

  She’d been wrong, before: Almack’s Assembly Hall was rather a splendid place, after all.

  And two…she was going to marry Lord Trent Ballantine.

  Chapter Two

  December 1813

  London, England

  With everything that changed—the days, the seasons, the fashion—Lady Winifred Grisham had come to appreciate that one thing remained constant. Nay, not a thing. Concealed within the nook of her father’s billiards room, shielded by the thick red velvet curtains, Winifred angled her body and peered through the slight crack in the fabric at that one constant.