Her Christmas Rogue

by Christi Caldwell

  “This was a mistake.”

  Winnie froze. “It was not a mistake.” A future between them was right and more… “You love me.” She despised the desperate quality to those three words. “That is all that matters to me.”

  Trent pressed a kerchief to his bleeding nose, and his face contorted. Regret, agony, and love poured from his eyes. He shoved himself to his feet. “I love you,” he said, his voice hoarse. He made to help Winnie up but James’ sharp growl froze him mid-movement, and he dropped his arm to his side. “And nothing anyone says,” he slid his gaze momentarily over to James, “will change that.”

  Winnie stood and hope blossomed in her breast as Trent squared his shoulders. He would fight for her. The resolute set to his jaw restored that giddy fluttering in her belly.

  “Go now,” James said coolly. “And if you enter this house again, I swear I’ll see you dead on a field at dawn.”

  All warmth died inside her. A thick, furious tension filled the room with the force of that pledge. Winnie took a staggering step away from Trent and walked numbly over to James. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered. “He is your best friend.” How could everything they shared be forgotten because of this?

  “A man who lifts up my sister’s skirts like she’s a street-side doxy is no friend of mine,” he spat.

  She winced as with his words her brother sullied any intimate moment she’d shared with Trent.

  James looked over her head at the man who’d been another part of their family through the years. Hatred shadowed his eyes. “No, he was my best friend. Not any longer.” Trent sucked in a breath, and she would have traded her soul in that moment to spare him that pain. “Now, go.”

  This time, Trent did exactly that.

  She stared blankly after his retreating form, silently pleading for him to return.

  “Winnie…” Her brother touched her shoulder, and she shrugged off his touch, wrenching away from him.

  “Do not,” she rasped. Her raggedly drawn breaths filled her ears.

  James let his hand fall to his side, and not meeting her eyes, stalked from the room.

  Tears blurred her vision as she slid into the nearest seat.

  In the end, he’d chosen not to fight for her. A broken sob burst from her lips and she buried it in her fingers.

  And with the crushing agony of Trent’s retreat, she allowed the tears to fall.

  Chapter Eight

  Trent stood at the window and stared out as servants filed from his brother’s townhouse, carrying trunk after trunk to the waiting carriages. His bruised and swollen visage stared mockingly back at him; the impressive purple and green lacerations compliments of Munthorpe’s rage. And it spoke to the kind of bastard that he was, the miserable friend, because of the years of friendship they’d known, it was not the broken relationship he considered.

  It was her.

  Never let me go…

  He glanced down at the small purse in his hand and his heart spasmed. Ah, God. For years, the world had seen a shiftless, carefree rogue who’d lived for his own pleasures. Only that had never been the truth. He’d lived for her…and he was nothing without her. And yet, he’d run… Trent looked up. In the crystal windowpane, he caught a glimpse of his mother as she sailed into the room, ever the regal, proper marchioness. Hurriedly he stuffed the purse into the front of his jacket. His family had long mocked and frowned at any sentimentality.

  “We leave within the hour, Trent. Are you—” Her words ended on a gasp, as he turned. “My goodness.” Horrified shock filled her eyes and she gave a shudder. “Whatever have you done to yourself?”

  “Mother,” he said reassuringly. “I am all r—”

  “It is fortunate we are retiring to the country.” She pursed her lips. “Whatever would people say if they were to see you like,” she gestured to him, “this?” His lips twisted with bitterness. Of course. How foolish to believe she’d had any maternal concern for his welfare. The marchioness patted her curls. “As it is, the servants have no doubt seen you and you know they do whisper.”

  His brother stepped into the room. “What are my servants whispering about?”

  He tamped down a curse as Hollingbrooke entered the room. His brother took one look at him and snorted. “I suspect I should just be glad you didn’t meet the irate husband on the dueling fields at dawn.”

  Trent curled his hands tight at his sides. He’d spent the earliest years of his youth trying to prove his worth to his unimpressed parents and pompous brother. Somewhere along the way, their ill opinion of him had ceased to matter. Or he’d thought it had, anyway. Standing there, silent to their recriminations, he was humbled by the truth—since he was a boy he’d ached to love and be loved. He’d wanted to know the close familial bond evinced by his best friend’s family. And with her, with Winnie, she loved him in all the ways he’d denied needing to be loved.

  “Regardless,” the marquess pulled out his watch fob and consulted his timepiece. “We are to leave in a quarter of an hour.”

  “There was no irate husband,” he said between gritted teeth. Nay, it had been an irate brother who wanted him dead. A man who’d been more brother than this stranger before him now. What did that say of Trent’s self-worth? Guilt stabbed at him not for the first time since he’d left Winnie yesterday morn.

  “We leave for Leeds,” Owen said with his familiarly dismissive haughtiness. “Be sure you’re ready. I hardly want us kept around waiting on you.”

  He went silent as his mother and brother took their leave. Yes, their indifference had once mattered, but they were a mere chance connection of two people who shared blood. They’d never been his family. He’d found the woman who represented home to him… He scrubbed his hands over his face. An agonized hiss slipped past his lips.

  “Oh, Trent, you look horrible.”

  He let his arms fall to his side. His sister hovered in the doorway. Concern lined the planes of her plump cheeks. “Henri,” he greeted with forced cheer.

  Proper and silent around all but him, she sighed. “What did someone do to you?”

  Something pulled at his heart. What did someone do to you? She did not look to him as blameworthy. He grimaced. Though, in this, she should. He rolled his shoulders and winced as that slight movement assaulted him with pain. “An irate brother,” he conceded. He should feel some compunction in sharing that honest piece with another.

  Henri widened her eyes. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. And then opened it again. No words came out. Hastily, she pulled the door closed with a quiet click, and trailing her fingertips over the pieces of furniture scattered about the room, she made her way over to him. “It was Lord Munthorpe, wasn’t it?”

  He stilled. By God, how did she know that?

  “He no doubt discovered your love for Winifred.”

  He choked. “H-how in blazes…?”

  Henri rolled her eyes. “Come, one would have to be blind to fail and note your regard for the lady.” Her spectacles slipped forward and she shoved them back. She gave him a wry smile. “And I’m only a bit blind.”

  His heart pulled and he ruffled her curls the way he’d done when she was a mere girl. An accident had left her blind in her left eye when she’d been just six years old. After that, the carefree, wild child she’d been had become subdued and silent with all—except him.

  “You need to go to her,” Henri said firmly.

  With a sound of impatience, he raked a hand through his hair. “It is complicated.”

  “You are a rogue. You fell in love with your best friend’s sister, and he is displeased by your interest in his sister.” She folded her arms. “How is that complicated?”

  He cocked his head.

  “I take it by your silence, I am correct?”

  Trent managed his first smile since the bottom had fallen out from underneath his world yesterday. “All but the displeased part.” He paused. “He was livid.” Enraged enough to want his blood on the dueling field. Then would Trent have taken w
armly to a rogue who’d had Henri’s skirts about her waist? Rage dotted his vision. No. Munthorpe’s reaction was merited. That and more.

  Henri furrowed her pale brow. She leaned up on tiptoe and took in the bruises marring his face. “And he did this to you?” she muttered. “I know he has been a good friend to you through the years, but I say I shall never forgive Munthorpe for this.”

  “It is complicated, poppet,” he said tiredly. The other man didn’t deserve his sister’s ire.

  “Is it?” she returned.

  Restless, he returned to his spot at the window. The servants finished loading the last of the trunks atop the carriage.

  “Do not come, Trent. You do not want to be there.” Any more than she no doubt wanted to be there. “Go to her. Munthorpe’s friendship matters, but does that matter more than your heart and Winifred’s?”

  His sister’s words froze him and he stared. “When did you become so wise?” he asked more to himself.

  She smiled and the visage reflected in the windowpane hinted at a wealth of sadness more fitting a woman older than her tender seventeen years. “I have had a lot of time to sit and contemplate.” Yes, as the partially blind daughter to the regal, proud Marchioness of Hollingbrooke, Henri roused the same sense of apathy that Trent had through the years.

  A knock sounded at the door and the butler appeared. “His Lordship has requested you and Lady Henrietta join him in the foyer.”

  Only when the old servant left did Trent and Henri groan. “Shall we?” He held out his arm.

  She hesitated. “I do not need your help.” Challenge lit her eyes.

  His heart swelled. His proud sister had more strength and courage than all the gentlemen of the ton combined; he was certainly included in that pathetic collection. His family, however, had been too foolish to see the gift Henri was. Trent shook his arm. “We all need help in some way, Henri.” And just then, she’d provided more help than he could have ever given her.

  Henri hesitated and then placed her fingertips on his sleeve. “Well,” she said when they’d left the room.

  “Well?”

  She pinched his arm. “What do you intend to do?”

  They turned right at the end of the corridor and entered the foyer. Footmen stood in wait with his other, ever-obedient sister, Georgie, in her cloak.

  “At last,” his brother muttered, stuffing his timepiece inside his cloak.

  Trent leaned down and bussed his sister on the cheek. “You’ll be all right without me?” he whispered.

  She smiled slowly. “You are going to her?”

  He nodded once and grinned. No doubt he had the look of a lovesick swain. Trent gave his head a wry shake. At one time, he’d have shuddered at even the possibility of it. “I’m going to her.” Now all that mattered was her—Winnie.

  “Where are you going?” his mother sputtered. “We are to leave now, Trent. We’ll not wait for you.”

  “I’m touched that you desire my company this holiday season,” he said dryly. His sisters buried their amusement in their hands. He winked at Henri and Georgie. Then, with a slight bow, Trent turned and prepared to face his future.

  Chapter Nine

  Two days later

  After an interminable carriage ride with her oft-tittering mother and absent-minded father, as well as her brother’s sharp, angry glares, Winnie had never been more grateful to see a single residence in all her twenty—nearly twenty-one—years. She stared out into the countryside dusted with snow, to the sprawling estate of the Earl and Countess of Weston.

  The carriage rocked to a jarring halt. She grunted as she slammed against the side of the conveyance. But she embraced that sting of pain for it reminded her she felt something other than this crushing emptiness at Trent’s rejection. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she gripped the edge of the bench hard. Then, what choice had he been given? A duel with her brother, at Christmastime, no less? A growl worked its way from her chest, up her throat. Her brother at least had the good sense to shift his gaze away.

  “Tsk, tsk. Mustn’t do anything as unladylike as grunt, my dear.” Growl. It had been a bloody growl. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  She winced at her mother’s high-pitched giggle. That evidence of happiness when her own world should be so shattered scraped at her nerves.

  “Quite, my love. Quite.” Her rotund father, with a bulbous nose and cherry-red cheeks, had been ‘quite, my loving’ as long as Winnie remembered speaking.

  Her patience snapped. “I’m sore and tired. I imagine a small grunt, groan, or moan would be acceptable in at least the presence of one’s family.”

  James met her gaze, the hard glint in his eyes, at odds with the affable charmer he’d always been. “I think you forget about what is acceptable and what is not.”

  “And I think you always have your nose in business that does not involve you.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but then snapped his gaze to their parents who eyed them, perplexed. Fortunately, the servant chose that opportune moment to open the door.

  A blast of cold winter air whipped through the expansive carriage. Winnie fastened her cloak at the neck and burrowed into its thick red velvet folds. A servant reached inside and handed Mother down. Father exited behind her. Winnie made to step out of the carriage, but James threw his arm across the entrance, staying her attempt. Gritting her teeth, she focused her gaze on the collar of his cloak. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to be happy,” James said quietly.

  She scoffed. “If that were true you’d have not threatened to duel,” the man I love, “Trent.” And shoving past him, she hurried after her parents.

  She glanced out the opened door to where her mother prattled on beside Lady Weston, still very much awake and impeccable. They chatted excitedly much the way they’d surely done as young girls many years ago. Plotting to marry her off. To one of the titled lords invited here, no doubt. Tears smarted behind her eyes. She’d not have the king and all his kingdom. She wanted but one other. Blinking back the blasted useless drops, she started forward.

  Lady Weston leaned down and whispered something into the much shorter and rounder woman’s ears. They gave a pleased nod. In unison. When Mother, not altogether the brightest candle in the kingdom and more clumsy than most, never, ever did anything in unison with…really anyone. Except for Father, of course. She narrowed her eyes on the pair. Society had deemed a woman incapable of making any decision of importance. Mothers and fathers, and even brothers treated the daughters of the respectable families as though they were key players upon the chessboard of life. She firmed her jaw. She’d not accept interference, from any of them.

  Mother looked up and smiled widely. “Do come along, Winnie. James.” She clapped her hands and then started forward, up the spiraling stone steps to the portico. “What good fun this week will be! There will be dinners and shopping outings and…”

  Winnie ceased paying attention to her mother’s prattling.

  As her father trailed after the women like an obedient terrier, Winnie winced. A bloody shopping outing? She’d be expected to go off with her friends, the other young ladies present, and admire the shop windows as though her heart had not been completely shattered?

  Her brother took a step toward her. When he spoke, regret tinged his tone. “Winnie—”

  Snapping her skirts, she sailed past him. He could take his useless words and stuff those inside a Christmas window. They entered the countess’ home, and Winnie unfastened the clasp at her throat.

  The countess’ servants rushed forward to collect their cloaks and gloves. Periodically, the Lady Weston and Winnie’s mother stole a glance at her. They whispered, nodded, and then continued whispering. Winnie’s skin heated as she recalled the discussion between James and Trent days earlier in the billiards room. She fisted her hands so hard, her nails dug crescents into her palms. Surely the two women had given up on the hope of Winnie wedding Lady Weston’s son? How could they have failed to real
ize somewhere along the way she had given her heart to Lord Trent Ballantine?

  She peered around the expansive foyer, knowing it was entirely too early to retire for the night, and yet, a desperate longing to retire to her temporary rooms and shut out all the blasted inanity of the holiday season flooded her.

  “I do say, are you looking for anyone in particular?”

  A startled shriek escaped Winnie’s lips, and she spun around to find the owner of that familiar, and very much amused whisper. She twitched with the urge to fling her arms around the grinning Lady Prudence, Lady Carlisle’s daughter. They’d been friends since the nursery. A more unlikely pairing there never was; Winnie with her tendency to seek out trouble, and Prudence with her fear of sinning, they could not be more different. Yet, their friendship struck a type of harmonious balance that bonded them, as though they were sisters.

  Prudence looked at her with a happy gleam in her friendly eyes. Then her smile froze. She worked a quick gaze over Winnie’s face. “I’ve been awaiting your carriage. I was afraid you’d be delayed in your travels and miss the visit to the village the countess has planned this week.” She looped her arm through hers. “I’ll take Winnie to her chambers,” she called to her mother. The two matrons waved them on. Prudence steered them above stairs. “I’ve made certain your chambers are near mine and Jane’s for the holiday.”

  She dug deep for false cheer. “Splendid.” And it was. For then, she’d not have to be bothered with her traitorous brother or her matchmaking parents as company.

  “Come, when we were younger, the countess’ planned outing into the village was always your favorite part of the season.”

  Winnie bit hard on the inside of her cheek. That had been when Trent chose to miss the annual hunt taken part in by the other gentlemen present, and instead make Christmas boughs with her and her friends.