A Little Winter Scandal: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Her smoky, dark lashes fluttered open. “Why…? What…?” The tendons of her throat worked up and down. “Did you not enjoy…?” Color flared in her cheeks, like the holly berries on mistletoe.

  He pressed a kiss against her temple. “Do not be mistaken, Patrina. I want you.” Her blush deepened. “I want to lay you down and make you mine, but I’ll not disrespect you.” She deserved more than that. He’d not fall into the ranks of the Albert Marshvilles of the world even as he wanted to trade his soul to know the pleasure to be found in her arms. Weston fished around the front of his pocket. He withdrew a small box, wrapped with a neat red ribbon.

  She stared down at it and then looked to him questioningly. “What…?”

  “Here,” he said softly, pressing the box into her fingers. “It is for you.” As his intended, he could present her with a small gift. As his future wife, he would shower her with anything and everything she could or would ever desire.

  Patrina took it. She eyed the small package in her hands a moment and then worked the ribbon free with the tip of her finger. She removed the lid and gasped. Her fingers hovered hesitantly over the small snowflake pendant dusted with diamonds.

  “Here,” he murmured. “Allow me.” He took the box from her hand and drew out the gold necklace. He turned her around and placed the chain about her neck, fastening the intricate clasp. “I thought it would serve as a reminder of our first meeting.”

  Patrina touched the pendant. “It is beautiful,” she said softly. She turned back toward him. The ghost of a smile played about her lips. “I’ll always remember that day.”

  He’d been an utter bastard to her in the park. He took her hands in his and raised them to his lips one at a time. “I was an arse that day.” He pledged to spend their days together atoning for his callous disregard.

  “You were a father defending his children,” she said automatically. “It is hard to fault a man for being protective of a small boy and young girl.”

  “Even children who were unpardonably rude and throwing snowballs at polite young ladies?”

  She snorted. “Polite young ladies wouldn’t have hurled snowballs back at those children.”

  Weston dropped his brow to hers, imagining how very different this moment would be even now if she hadn’t hurled a snowball at Charlotte and Daniel. “I’m so glad you did.” Because if she hadn’t, then he’d still be the harsh, angry man teeming with resentment, a man who’d never imagined he could smile again.

  The door flew open so hard it knocked against the plaster wall. Their gazes swung to the entrance and they jumped apart at the unexpected appearance of a young girl.

  “Penelope—” Patrina began.

  The girl gulped, heavily out of breath. “Mother,” she rasped.

  Patrina angled her head. “I don’t know where Mother—”

  “Is on her way,” Penelope said on another gasping breath. “I raced from abovestairs, down the servant’s entrance, back up to the main floor to tell you.” She looked pointedly at Weston. “She has heard from one of the servants you are currently with the marquess. Alone. With the marquess.”

  “Er, you said that part once before, Penny,” Patrina said, a smile tugging at her lips.

  Penelope rushed into the room. “It felt important enough to point it out. Twice.”

  Weston looped his arms behind his back and studied the younger girl with tight black ringlets, now eyeing him as though he’d come to make off with her family’s silver. He sketched a bow. Her narrow gaze deepened and he was struck by the loyalty of Patrina’s sisters.

  “Even if you are to be married, it still isn’t done.” Penelope troubled her lip. “Or at least, that is what Mother has said, anyway. Therefore, you sit,” she ordered Weston.

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  Penelope jabbed her finger toward the ivory sofa. “Sit. As in you bend your legs and—”

  “I gather the marquess knows the meaning of the word,” Patrina said drolly.

  Penelope’s glare deepened and Weston knew enough to claim the suggested seat. He flashed forward another seven years and saw his own daughter in this feisty, spirited young miss. He groaned at the thought. The two young women looked to him. He waved off their concern.

  Penelope gave a short nod and looked to her sister. “Now, play.” She guided her sister by the shoulders onto the pianoforte bench.

  A protest sprung to Patrina’s lips. “The marquess doesn’t want to hear me play.”

  He and Penelope spoke in unison.

  “He most certainly does.”

  “I do.”

  A flash of approval lit the girl’s determined brown eyes.

  And Patrina began to play and… sing… God Rest Ye Marry Gentlemen? Well, he imagined it was God Rest Ye Marry Gentlemen. He couldn’t quite make out the particular words of the sharp verses. Her head tipped back and forth to the quick, lively, if disjointed tune. She caught his gaze and winked.

  His smile widened and for the first time since Cordelia’s betrayals, and the shame of her scandalous affairs, the last vestige of bitterness slipped away, replaced by the light, carefree enthusiasm he’d once had for life—restored by the spirited young lady banging away a discordant tune on the pianoforte.

  “My lord, it is of course a pleasure to see you.”

  He moved his gaze, reluctantly away from the woman he’d make his wife to the beaming matron in the doorway. He rose and sketched a bow.

  The older woman’s smile deepened as she hurried forward. “Isn’t my Patrina just splendid?” She glared over his shoulder at the loud snort emitted by Penelope.

  Weston held Patrina’s stare. “Yes. She is just splendid,” he said quietly.

  Her throat bobbed up and down.

  “I insist you and your children join my family for Christmas.”

  “Oh, Mother. No, the marquess doesn’t want to do that,” Patrina implored.

  His mother and father had died when he’d been just a boy away at Eton; but for a handful of childhood memories of he and his parents during the Christmastide season, there were very few times he could recall of a festive, happy holiday. As a husband and then father, too many years he’d spent with a smile pasted upon his face for the benefit of his children, stirring the Yule log and partaking in mince pie while Charlotte and Daniel’s mother remained in London with her lover. He folded his arms across his chest. “Of course I do.”

  “I imagine his family has already…” Patrina paused, angling her head. The lone strand of hair fell over her eye. “You do?” She blew it back.

  The countess clapped her hands. “It is settled, then!”

  It was settled.

  There was no place he’d rather be than with Patrina.

  Chapter 14

  The noisy chatter of the Tidemore sisters filled the cavernous space of the parlor. They sat snipping bright clips of paper and pieces of evergreen.

  “I have heard the Viscountess Redbrooke has a yew tree in her house,” Penelope said loudly, speaking of the young American woman recently wed to the Viscount Redbrooke, a friend of their brother. “Can you imagine a tree in one’s house?”

  “I should dearly love a tree in my house,” Poppy said wistfully.

  Penelope carried on with a wave of her hand. “She is an American, you know,” she said to no one in particular. “All very exotic. A custom brought to America by the Germans.” She wrinkled her nose. “That is what I’ve gathered from the papers.”

  Patrina held up the paper flowers she’d snipped and studied her work a moment, ignoring her sisters’ prattling. A knock sounded at the door. She glanced over disinterestedly…and her heart kicked up a funny rhythm.

  “The Marquess of Beaufort.”

  The chatter died as her two sisters looked toward the doorway. The girls jumped up and hurried to stack their items. Their maid rushed forward to help tidy the mess.

  Weston wandered over. He waved off their efforts. “Please, carry on as you were. I wouldn’t dar
e interrupt your pleasure.”

  “We’re decorating for Christmas,” Poppy explained. Penelope stuck her elbow out. It connected with Poppy’s side. She winced. “Ow. Well, we were.” With a very mature flounce of her dark curls she looked to Weston. “Would you care to help, my lord?”

  On a wave of embarrassment, Patrina spoke. “Oh Poppy, the marquess doesn’t…” her words trailed off as Weston slid into an empty seat and reached for a pair of scissors and a long red ribbon with gold trim. “What are you doing?” Patrina blurted.

  He paused mid-snip and arched a golden brow. “I believed I was cutting ribbon for the…” He gestured to the array of items littering the table. “For the kissing bough, I presume?”

  His mellifluous baritone washed over her as she recalled the taste of his lips, a blend of brandy and mint and she imagined she and Weston using that bough exactly as it was intended…

  “Are you all right?” Poppy scratched at her brow.

  “Fine.” Heat flared in her cheeks. She fanned her burning face. “We had it sent from Jonathan, my brother’s,” she clarified, “country seat in Surrey. Merely for the Christmas season.”

  Poppy scratched her head. “Are you warm?”

  “Of course not,” Patrina said. Her gaze skittered toward the window that overlooked the snowy scene outside.

  “Then why are you fanning yourself?” Penelope shot back.

  Patrina widened her eyes and stopped at the ghost of a grin upon Weston’s firm, knowing lips. She let her hand fall back to her side and smoothed her skirts. “I was merely…that is to say…it matters not.” She returned her focus to Weston. “I feel inclined to point out we’re not making a kissing bough, per se, but rather a mistletoe.”

  Weston grinned; his even, pearl white teeth gleamed bright.

  “A mistletoe that is not for kissing…” Hush, Patrina. Hush this instant.

  Poppy snorted. “Well, isn’t that the point of the whole kissing bough, business?”

  His smile deepened, revealing the hint of a dimple in his right cheek. Odd, she’d never noticed the faint indentation. It somehow made the hard, austere, handsome Lord Beaufort more…human. Human was good. She vastly preferred wedding someone who was human and not someone who was…well, far more beautiful than she ever could be.

  Patrina cleared her throat, and striving for nonchalance, wandered over to claim the seat beside Weston. She picked up her forgotten scissors and the paper peonies.

  “I have it!” Poppy exclaimed.

  “What—?”

  The youngest girl took Penelope by the arm and tugged her up. She proceeded to propel her toward the entrance of the room. “We shall search for my forgotten dolls.” She folded her hands at her waist and inclined her head much the way their mother had done when imparting her very countess-like lessons through the years. “I’m ever too old for dolls.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he concurred with such somberness that Patrina suspected he’d learned the proper tone rearing two recalcitrant children.

  “We shall include them in the arrangement. Come along, Mary,” she called to the maid. “You must help us.” The maid hesitated then hurried after the girls. Poppy stole a glance over her shoulder and winked. “We shall need the baby Jesus, his mother, Mary, and the shepherd…” The trio took their leave with determined steps.

  “What of Joseph?” Penelope’s voice carried from the corridor. “I imagine he played a pivotal role in the Nat…”

  Blessed silence reigned. The raging fire hissed and cracked. She’d known Weston but a handful of days and suspected any proper lady would feel a modicum of nervousness in being alone with him. Perhaps she was wicked and all things improper, for she craved the intimacy of this solitary, stolen moment.

  “That was rather well-done of your sister.” He claimed her hand and raised it to his mouth. He placed his lips along the inner portion of her wrist.

  She closed her eyes as shivers of awareness fanned out, her body responding to his gentle ministrations. “My m-mother would disagree,” she said. Her lashes fluttered.

  “They are lively,” Weston murmured.

  Those three words, an accurate testament to her sisters’ personalities pulled her back to the moment, reminding her that at one time she too had been like Poppy, Penelope, and Prudence. “They certainly are.” A wistful smile tugged at her lips. “I can hardly fathom I was ever so unrestrained.”

  The hint of melancholy in Patrina’s tone gave Weston pause. His fingers tightened reflexively about his scissors as he carefully studied her. He tried to imagine her when she’d been Poppy and Penelope’s ages, with an unadulterated laugh and an unguarded smile. And he, who’d imagined his heart deadened, and had pledged to never turn himself over to the feckless emotion called love—was filled with a sudden desire to be more, for this woman—a woman who deserved more. He wanted to make her laugh once again, the carefree, unfettered sound pure and joyous.

  Weston gritted his teeth and damned Albert Marshville to the devil yet again for having altered her life. “My first marriage was a love match.”

  Patrina stiffened but remained silent.

  “Oh, I’d imagined it was love.” His lips twisted with wry amusement. “In considering Cordelia now, I realize I was in love with the idea of her. She was beautiful as a carved ice sculpture you might see on display, yet, to truly know her, I found out too late what was concealed underneath.” Cordelia had never loved him. He’d allowed himself to believe she had, because his younger self had imagined to have something more than the cold, polite partnership evinced by his parents. But just as Cordelia hadn’t loved him…he realized he’d never truly loved her. He’d loved the dream of her.

  Patrina, however, was no dream. She was real amidst a world of glittering insincerity.

  He continued. “I presented the best option. A marquess, when there is a dearth of dukes available to title-grasping ladies.” He stared absently at the table littered with brightly colored scraps. He still recalled the precise moment when he’d come to the staggering, numbing realization that Cordelia not only hadn’t loved him, but that she detested him. “The moment I learned she was pregnant with Daniel was the happiest day of my life.” He shook his head ruefully. “Not very long after Daniel’s birth, we learned she was carrying our next child. Do you know what my wife said to me, Patrina?”

  “What did she say?” Her quiet whisper barely reached his ears.

  “She said now that I had gotten two brats upon her, after her confinement, she would carry on as she pleased.” And she had. After Charlotte’s birth, Cordelia had gone off to London and began living her scandalous life. He expected the familiar pain-like pressure to tighten about his heart, and yet, it didn’t come.

  “Oh, Weston.” She covered his hand with her own.

  All the tension drained out of him at the satiny softness of her touch. Somehow, in the span of days since he’d met Patrina, he was oddly free. He continued his telling, removed from the pain of that night. “The night she died, she’d left me and the children. She was going off with her lover.” He expected a gasp of shock. Horror. Pity. Instead, a kindred connection passed between them. Two people who’d given their love to wholly undeserving people. “Do you know why I’m telling you this, Patrina?”

  She shook her head.

  “After she left, I was filled with so much hostility. So much resentment and anger, it threatened to destroy me.” And if his children hadn’t hurled snowballs at Lady Patrina Tidemore in Hyde Park, then he imagined it inevitably would have. “Only in the last few days, since I’ve met you,” he clarified. “I remembered how very important it is to smile and laugh.” He touched a finger to her lips. “And do so as though you mean it.”

  Her lips parted and he continued to rub his thumb over her fuller lower lip. “You made a mistake, Patrina. You needn’t spend the remainder of your days trying to atone for that one decision.”

  She said nothing for a long while. Then, she touched his cheek. “Thank you,” sh
e said softly.

  Weston nodded and picked up the partially assembled kissing bough. He lifted the piece of evergreen with interwoven ribbons and paper flowers tied to its center. He held it above her head.

  “What are you—?”

  He kissed the question from her lips. Unlike the passionate explosion of their kisses before, this one was a gentle meeting of two people once broken who’d begun to put back the fragments of their life. And in this kiss, for the first time since Cordelia, he felt—free.

  Chapter 15

  As Patrina banged away upon the pianoforte at the chords of Good Christian Men Rejoice, she thought back to Weston’s visit yesterday afternoon. But for her brother and Albert Marshville, she had limited understanding and experience with gentlemen. Yet, as she reflected upon the kissing bough he’d helped her assemble, she could say with a good deal of confidence she couldn’t think of a single gentleman in the whole of the kingdom who’d have helped three young ladies with the fanciful Christmas décor.

  The gold chain around her neck served as a warm reminder of Weston’s kiss, of his gift—of him. He’d given her a necklace. Her voice raised in a discordant harmony with Poppy’s. And it didn’t matter that it contained diamonds and was made of the finest gold. It mattered that the fragile gift, a small snowflake, harkened back to their first meeting.

  Prudence cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted into the cacophony. “You do know, I’m not certain who is more dreadful? Patrina with her high-pitched squeal or Poppy with her husky, gasping attempt for breath.”

  She ignored her sister’s deliberate baiting. Her marriage to Weston was to be one of convenience. Such an arrangement didn’t require the exchange of intimate gifts or passionate embraces. When he’d slipped the delicate piece about her neck, what was once convenient somehow signified more and her heart ached under the truth that she longed for more, craved it…but not to avoid the state of solitude she’d lived in. Weston represented her more…and all she wanted.