A Little Winter Scandal: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Mrs. Belden frowned. “That is all.” She pursed her lips, likely in an attempt to keep from saying more.

  With a toss of her head, Cara rose with the graceful care ingrained into her by the army of nursemaids and governesses who’d reared her and swept from the room.

  Cara sat rigid on the seat of the Earl of Derby’s carriage, alongside her sniffling maid. Her body carefully angled as it was, and had been for the better part of the journey, had developed an ache that traveled from her neck, down her shoulders, and to her hips. The same stilted silence that had fallen the moment Lady Nora’s groom had closed the carriage door at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School had stretched on for these two hours.

  The seventeen-year-old lady with her outspoken thoughts on anything and everything from a woman’s place in the world to Cara’s constant frown, as she called it, broke the silent impasse. “I did not want to bring you.”

  Alison burrowed against the wall of the carriage, as though she were trying to escape the charged exchange.

  Cara bit the inside of her cheek. It should not matter that this surly, deservedly angry lady abhorred her, and yet, strangely, an odd pang struck her chest. Refusing to give the other young woman any idea that her words had any effect, she flicked a cool gaze over her frame. “I do not care whether you wished to bring me or not.” Then, in a bid to ruffle the infuriatingly cool woman she peeled her lip back. “Furthermore, you’ve already indicated as much, two,” four, “times now. Your words grow tedious.”

  Lady Nora narrowed her gaze and Cara stiffened. That harsh glint in the lady’s eyes matched the fury right before she’d backhanded Cara across the mouth for having told one of the instructors about the scandalous material being taught by former instructor Mrs. Jane Munroe. “I do not like you, Clarisse Falcot.”

  That was rather disappointing. With the lady’s inventive curses and harsh words, she was capable of far more originality than “I do not like you”. In fact, if she truly wished a rise out of Cara, a more astounding revelation would have been if the girl stated her regard. “I have not liked you for your smug, condescending looks since I entered the school. And I have hated you since your actions resulted in Mrs. Munroe’s firing.”

  The pebble of guilt grew to a large stone in Cara’s belly. Mrs. Munroe. Cara’s father’s illegitimate daughter-turned-instructor at Mrs. Belden’s. There had been whispers amongst the instructors which had fueled whispers amongst the students and then the tittering comments and loud whispers had ensued about a duke who cared for his illegitimate child more than his rightfully born one. Which in retrospect was utter rubbish. Her father didn’t care about anyone. She curled her toes into the soles of her serviceable boots. Of all the detestable acts she was guilty of in her life, getting her half-sister sacked had been the greatest offense. What kind of black, ugly soul did she possess that she could so impulsively ruin another woman’s life, without considering the ramifications until it was too late?

  “You, of course, have nothing to say,” Lady Nora seethed. “You sit there in all your pompous glory as though you are yourself the Duke of Ravenscourt or a member of the Queen’s Court, but the truth is you are nothing, Clarisse Falcot. You are nothing more than an unwanted daughter, whose father cannot even bring himself to remember at Christmas and who will go on to be a leading Society matron and produce equally unkind and cold offspring. I pity the gentleman who will be tied to you.”

  Cara searched around inside for the deserved fury and the biting scorn for the young woman’s venomous tirade. And yet, for some reason, she could not force out the proper words past this blasted lump in her throat. Instead, she pasted on a practiced, hardened grin. With slow, precise movements, she presented her back once more. Aware of the young woman studying her for some sign of weakness or emotion and any other reaction Cara was determined to deny her, she pulled aside the red velvet curtain.

  She damned the faint tremble to her fingertips and blamed it on the winter cold. Snow and ice hit noisily off the lead windows and she stared out at those pure white specks as they swirled and danced in the air. Lord Derby’s horses trudged ahead at a slow, steady clip through the snow-covered countryside. The two young ladies continued the remaining trek in stilted silence.

  And as they neared the end of their journey to the Earl of Derby’s property, Cara came to the sad, staggering truth that she far preferred the idea of remaining with the unkind Lady Nora to returning to face the father who’d forgotten her.

  “At last,” the other woman muttered.

  Cara drew back the curtain once more as Lady Nora’s home pulled into focus. Though sprawling, the country estate would be considered modest compared to her father’s ducal holdings. And yet, she’d happily trade her own empty home for a father who did not forget her. Cara bit the inside of her cheek hard. No, that wasn’t altogether true. She’d trade it all for a father who cared. For someone who cared. Then, what person would care about someone who’d become such a hollow shell of a human being that she no longer knew how to show or feel any emotion outside of bitterness? Her throat worked spasmodically.

  The carriage drew to a halt and she gave her head a clearing shake, in a bid to dislodge her maudlin sentiments. The conveyance dipped as the groom scrambled from his perch. Moments later, the liveried servant opened the door. “Lady Nora,” the man greeted with a smile and reached inside.

  “Thomasly,” she returned with a cheerful grin Cara had not believed the other woman capable of. Then, perhaps it was merely her for whom she reserved her vitriol.

  From within the confines of the carriage, she studied the exchange between servant and lady. The two chatted more than Cara’s maid about her morning meals. Surely the earl did not allow such familiarities between his daughter and his staff, particularly the male members of his household?

  A memory slipped in of the days following her mother’s passing, of Cara’s visits to the stables. The scent of horseflesh and hay still as sharp in her mind now as it had been those eleven years ago. For the agony of losing her mother, she found solace in the stables alongside the grooms. Those coarse and gruff servants who showed her the proper way to brush a horse… Until her father had stormed in and, with his hand clamped about her arm, forcefully led her back to the house. It was the last time she’d ever visited that dark, comforting place.

  Cara blinked. She’d not remembered that moment—until now.

  She dimly registered the stares of Lady Nora and the groom fixed on her and gave a quick shake of her head.

  “Well, come along,” Lady Nora snapped.

  Schooling her features into the hardened, practiced mask she donned for anyone and everyone, Cara held her hand out and allowed the once smiling, now stoic, groom to help her down. The other young woman moved at an almost sprint up the steps, while Cara followed at a more sedate pace that came from years of ladylike decorum being drilled into her—as well as a desire to have as much distance between herself and this lady who so disliked her.

  As though the entire household had been in waiting for this very moment, the front doors were thrown open and a butler greeted Lady Nora with a beaming smile. All the while, Cara picked her way up the steps, trying to escape notice, a rather impossible feat considering she’d imposed upon the charity of the earl’s daughter, and still the favor was not complete.

  A cry went up and Cara jumped, slapping a hand to her erratically beating heart. And then, she froze at the threshold. A towering, broad, bear of a man swallowed Lady Nora in a hug while a delicate, thin slip of a woman stood with her fingertips to her lips. By the deep brown hue of the older woman’s eyes and the slight cleft in the man’s chin, the couple before her was none other than Lady Nora’s parents.

  A swell of envy so potent and powerful filled Cara’s chest. She gripped the edge of the doorway a moment to keep the world from swaying. For the misery she’d known as the forgotten daughter of the Duke of Ravenscourt, there had been solace in knowing that all those self-important noblemen treated their fe
male offspring thusly. This intimate moment between mother, father, and daughter, however, proved an altogether different tale. She cast a look over her shoulder into the increasing storm. For their tale made her long for the biting cold of the snow outside to this wholly special moment exchanged between father and daughter.

  “Papa, this is Lady Clarisse Falcot.”

  Cara stiffened as the butler hurried to close the door behind her and the earl and countess shifted their attention to their unexpected and unwanted guest.

  Broad, where her own father was lean and wiry, the earl sketched a deep bow. “My lady,” he said with the cool reserve bestowed a duke’s daughter.

  She preferred the unrestrained loving father he’d been mere moments ago. Cara inclined her head at a lofty angle and dropped a deep curtsy. “My lord. Thank you for the use of your carriage.” How did her words not shake with the hurt and embarrassment still running through her?

  “The duke forgot her,” Lady Nora said by way of explanation.

  Mother and Father turned matching glowers on their cherished daughter.

  She wrinkled her nose. “He did.” The spirited miss looked to Cara with a bold insolence that only deepened her mother’s frown. “And with good reason. She is horrid.”

  “Nora,” the countess scolded. A gracious and flawless hostess, the older woman came forward with her hands extended. “We are honored you will be spending the holiday season with us.”

  From beyond her mother’s shoulder, Nora choked. “The hol—”

  Cara snapped her damp, emerald green, muslin cloak, smattering the marble foyer with bits of melted snow. “I thank you for the gracious offer. However, I truly must leave now. My fath—” The lie died a quick death.

  “Now?” The earl furrowed his high, noble brow. “The storm is worsening.”

  “Which is why it is imperative I leave posthaste. If you’d be so gracious as to allow me the use of your carriage.” So that she could slink off, the shamed, laughed about, unloved duke’s daughter, while retaining some level of pride.

  “But—”

  “My family is expecting me,” she said in clipped tones when the earl made to protest once more. This time she fed him the lie they all knew to be a lie. Life had taught her that people did not challenge a duke’s kin. She wrinkled her nose. Well, Lady Nora did. And a handful of the other distinguished students at Mrs. Belden’s. But never before their parents.

  This moment proved that truth.

  “Of course,” the earl said. “I will see the team of horses switched.”

  Standing in the foyer of this bucolic family, Cara huddled deep into the fabric of her damp cloak. What an odd place to be; not wanting to stay with this happy, loving lot, but not wanting to board the earl’s carriage and return to her own life, either…

  And in this moment, being honest with at least herself, Cara indulged the wish she had in her heart this Christmas—to be loved for nothing but herself.

  Chapter 3

  Alison was not smiling. Or prattling. Her flushed cheeks and feverish eyes killed all evidence of her habitual mirth. The absolute silence of Cara’s maid was only further heightened by the wind howling outside the Earl of Derby’s carriage. This was very dire, indeed.

  Cara drew the curtain back and peered out into the thick swirl of snowflakes. Then the conveyance stopped. “Why has the carriage stopped?” Did those words belong to her or Alison? A niggling of unease pitted in her belly.

  “I am sure we are merely stopping for a moment because…” Her maid eyed her skeptically. “Because…” Well, blast what was there to stop for in this desolate landscape painted white? “Highwaymen?” Alison breathed, fear dripping from that one word. “A-choo!”

  The girl’s tendency for the dramatics eased some of Cara’s attention and she gave a roll of her eyes. “Highwaymen do not traverse this road.” It was too well-traveled. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. At least, she didn’t think they did. Schooling her features into an expressionless mask, she peeked through the crack in the velvet curtains and squinted out into the rapidly falling snow. The muscles of her stomach clenched. What if her overly imaginative maid proved correct and there was a blasted highwayman? Wouldn’t that just prove her rotted luck this day? She tensed her jaw. They could make off with every last one of her possessions, but there was one that would have to be pried from her fingers.

  “Do you see them?” Did the clattering of the girl’s teeth have to do with her fever or the cold?

  They both jumped as someone banged on the carriage door. Cara’s heart climbed into her throat and she studiously avoided Alison’s I-told-you-there-would-be-highwaymen looks. With trembling fingers, she peeled open the curtain and brushed her gloved hand over the iced pane. Some of the tension went out of her. The earl’s groom tugged his cap lower and made to knock once more.

  Cara pushed it open. A blast of snow slapped at her face and the cold of it momentarily sucked her breath away. “What—?” The winter wind stole all sound from her words.

  The groom cupped his hands about his mouth. “The carriage is stuck, my lady.”

  She tipped her head. “Stuck?”

  He nodded once. “We passed an inn a short while back, but we will have to walk the remainder of the way. The drifts are too high on the roads.”

  Her heart sank into her stomach. “Walk?” She knew she must sound something of a lackwit repeating back every other one of the servant’s words, and yet—“Are you mad?” she shouted into the wind. By God, they would perish in this Godforsaken storm.

  “It is not far,” he called back and then held out a hand.

  A spark of fear lit Alison’s glassy eyes, but she accepted the groom’s hand and allowed him to assist her down. The maid’s serviceable boots disappeared into the thick snow and her lips parted on a gasp as she tugged her cloak closer.

  Cara’s thoughts raced as she took in the couple shivering outside the carriage. “But surely—?”

  “The carriage cannot be moved,” he said impatiently.

  On its own volition, her gaze swung to the roof of the black barouche to where her trunk sat atop—and her mother’s necklace. Now she would pay the price for her own foolish pride. “But my belongings?” Panic raised the tone of her words to a high pitch. She could not leave her trunk. Not when the last piece belonging to her mother rested within its confines.

  “I will have to return for it.” She would have to be stone deaf to fail to hear the impatience in the older servant’s tone.

  Cara reached for her bonnet and set it atop her head, deftly tying the long, velvet ribbons underneath. Words of protest hovered on her lips.

  …you will not so shame yourself by showing that you care about anything or anyone, Clarisse Victoria Falcot…

  Her gut churned at the long-forgotten words drawled by her father from across his office desk. “Very well,” she said with a regality even her father would have a difficult time faulting and accepted the servant’s hand. Her boots sank deep into the snow, wringing a shocked gasp from her as her ankles disappeared into the drift. “Bloody hell.” And if she weren’t so blasted cold she’d have felt some heat of embarrassment at her scandalous utterance.

  The groom’s lips twitched as he turned his efforts to unhitching the horses. A short while later, he motioned Cara and Alison to follow. Her Falcot pride had gotten her into this bumble broth. She forcibly lifted her legs and snow-dampened hem, struggling to maintain her balance as they walked slowly back to an inn she’d not even seen in their travels.

  At her side, Alison gave a piteous moan. “We are going to die out here.” Now the girl would choose to abandon her sunny disposition?

  “I am not going to die out here,” she mumbled to herself. She was too bloody enraged about the whole blasted day. She focused on that rage to keep from thinking about how the wind slapped painfully at her cheeks, stinging her eyes with snow. With each step she took, she fed that fury. Forgotten by her father. One step. Forgotten also by her br
other, if one wanted to be truly precise in their upset. Another step. Forgotten at Christmas. Yet another step. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Where is this blasted inn?” she shouted.

  The servant jabbed his finger ahead, not breaking stride. And for one horrifying moment, she believed this had all been a deliberate ploy by her enemy Lady Nora, and the girl had somehow convinced the loyal, smiling-for-his-mistress groom to abandon Cara and her maid here in the middle of the wild, in the midst of a storm.

  Pride was a dangerous thing. Trudging through the snow, with her cloak little protection from the harsh elements beating down on her face and cutting through her clothes, Cara readily conceded there were reasons for all those lessons, proverbs and statements about the blasted vice. Her teeth chattered, the sound of it swallowed by the howling winter wind and then, through the thick curtain of snow rapidly falling, a small establishment pulled into focus. “Thank God,” she breathed, stirring puffs of air with her breath.

  They trudged the remainder of the way to the stables outside the inn. The earl’s groom rapped loudly on the wood doors which were thrown open by an old, graying man. He eyed them a moment. Whatever words were exchanged between the two were lost to the howling wind. Moments later, they marched up to the front of the old inn. The groom pushed the door open. Shivering inside her hopelessly damp cloak, she looked about the dark establishment. A thick haze of smoke filled the taproom from a recently lit pipe. The pungent scent burned her lungs. Cara wrinkled her nose. She’d always detested the nauseating smell. It was a scent that drew forth memories of her father closeted away in his billiards room while he entertained other pompous noblemen who were all vastly more important than his own daughter.