Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  “Very well. Delilah. I’ll confess that back in the theater, I wondered if those sensual dance lessons aroused you. Or in that last room, if you watched the bedsport and touched yourself.”

  A wicked smile curved her lips. “I may watch sometimes, but don’t touch myself. Instead I wait until the need becomes unbearable, then retreat to my bedchamber and bring myself to a quick, forceful climax before returning downstairs. Now I wonder…would that be helpful, Your Grace? If I stroked my pussy while you took your cock in hand?”

  Tunbury exhaled unsteadily, the sound audible even with the snap and crackle of the fire. “I…ah…perhaps?”

  “Then I’ll lift my gown, you unbutton your trousers, there’s a good duke.”

  He waited, watching avidly, his fingers toying with a button. Was he anxious at undressing in front of her? Or teasing, making her wait to see the cock she’d been thinking about for the past hour? Aware it might be anxiety, Delilah reached down and pulled up the hems of her gown, petticoat, and chemise, wriggling a little so they bunched at her waist. Then she draped one leg over each padded arm of the chair so her thighs were spread and her pussy fully revealed. Even with the fire the night air felt cool on her warm, wet center, and she shivered at the erotic contrast, more than ready to come. Unable to resist the lure, Delilah slid a hand down through the tangle of crisp black curls that covered her mound, then lightly stroked her throbbing clitoris.

  Across in the other chair there came a rustle of fabric as the duke unfastened two buttons and allowed the fall of his trousers to drop down, before tentatively revealing his impressive cock. Not too long but splendidly thick, a cock that would stuff her full and provoke the sweetest kind of ache.

  “You are staring, Delilah.”

  “I’m waiting for you to begin.”

  “I’d rather watch. Will you let me watch? You look…so free.”

  Almost unbidden, her hand began to move with greater purpose. So she didn’t orgasm too soon, Delilah mercilessly teased herself, alternating firm circles of her swollen clitoris with butterfly-light touches. Then she swirled two fingers in her own slick wetness, before slowly penetrating her pussy. “Ooooh.”

  Tunbury made a low, growling sound as his cock bobbed against his lower belly. “Come. Now.”

  Like gunpowder had met flame, sensation exploded between her legs. A wild cry tore from her throat as her fingers pumped in and out of her sheath and the heel of her hand ground against her clitoris. It always felt marvelous when she touched herself, but with the duke watching and commanding her to orgasm, it seemed even better than usual. More powerful.

  When at last the pleasure waves receded to a gentle ebb and she recovered her senses, Delilah glanced at her guest. The duke still watched her, holding his erect cock loosely in one hand while his other hand gripped the armchair so tightly his knuckles were white. Perspiration glistened on his forehead, and his gaze was pure agonized need. But he made no move to ease himself. It seemed the demons from his past were once again winning the battle in his mind, and that simply would not do.

  In one graceful movement, Delilah closed her legs and stood up. After smoothing her skirts, she walked across to her carved mahogany desk and retrieved a small bottle of oil before returning to kneel at his feet.

  “Perhaps I might assist, Your Grace?”

  “You may,” he rasped.

  First she poured a quantity of oil into his palm. When the flesh was nice and slick, she closed his fingers around his cock, covered his hand with both of hers, and began to move.

  Up. Down.

  Tunbury gasped.

  Delilah interlaced her fingers, forcing him to tighten his grip. Never had she felt like this, so greedy to be the woman giving a man what he needed. Not pleasure for profit, but because she yearned to see his handsome face lit up with ecstasy.

  Up. Down. Up. Down. Faster and faster.

  Now he groaned, his hips circling in a rhythm as old as time as his body desperately sought surcease.

  “That’s the way,” she praised. “What a splendid cock. How does it feel?”

  “Feels good. So good…I’m going to…Christ…Christ…”

  Seconds later, his head fell back and his hips bucked as seed spurted forth from his cock with such violence, once, twice, three times, that it landed on the bodice of her gown, her cheek, and also trickled over both their hands. Delighted at Tunbury’s release, but also burning to try other sexual acts with him, Delilah smiled as she reached for one of the supper napkins to wipe her face and hands.

  “My goodness,” she said cheerfully. “Quite a spend.”

  “Forgive me.”

  At the duke’s odd tone, she frowned and turned back to him. Oh no. He didn’t look happy and sated. He looked horrified.

  “Your Grace,” Delilah began, greatly alarmed.

  “I made a terrible mess,” Tunbury ground out as he clumsily shoved his cock back into his trousers and attempted to fasten the buttons. “Your gown. Your face. I can only offer my sincerest apologies, Mrs. Forbes. It won’t happen again. Good evening.”

  “Wait one minute…Tunbury…”

  But the younger man had already departed her parlor with great haste; and the rapid thump of his shoe heels on the wooden stairs informed her he wasn’t slowing down.

  Acute dismay and disappointment curled in her belly. How had it all gone so wrong after a truly wonderful evening? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a man’s company so much, or felt such intense lust, but he’d quite literally run from her.

  Delilah muttered a colorful curse, and not even the luxuriousness of her surroundings could improve her mood. Worse, she now had to change gowns, paste a smile on her face, and pretend all was well.

  Like every other night for the past five years, Temple patrons were waiting.

  Chapter 3

  He truly loathed December.

  Bennett glared out his library window into Grosvenor Square. Even the highly fashionable address looked weary and bleak; usually the wide cobblestoned area between the large red brick and pale stone houses and the resident-only expanse of grass had many fine carriages, and people out strolling or riding. But today was that in-between weather that annoyed everyone, no pristine blanket of pretty snow, just an icy wind that cut through even the thickest of overcoats, misty rain, and mud that soaked into shoes and boots, never again to be removed.

  As though awful weather wasn’t enough, his father had passed in December, so it would always be a time of deep mourning and regret. But then came Christmastide with its false cheer and gaiety; people drinking far too much mulled wine and pretending to love those they spent the rest of the year grumbling about. He’d not needed another item on the list, yet now he had one: utterly humiliating himself in front of a woman.

  Bennett winced. He’d revealed more secrets to Mrs. Forbes than a young buck with a brandy-fogged head, and performed with an equal lack of grace soon after. What kind of man lost control so badly that he gushed like a geyser onto a woman’s gown bodice? Onto her face? That he’d thought, even for a moment, that he could be a rake was laughable. More like a virgin bachelor forever, so no wife had to suffer his ineptness. His cousin in Cornwall could inherit the dukedom with all compliments and best wishes.

  “Greetings, Tun,” said a silky voice from the doorway, and he turned to see Fletcher saunter in with one of his older Carlton House friends, Sir Giles Lowe. Bloody hell. Bad enough the viscount alone, but an irritating associate also? How typically December.

  “Fletcher,” Bennett replied stiffly. “Sir Giles. Come and warm yourself by the fire, looks terribly cold out there.”

  The two visitors exchanged a glance.

  “Good old Tun,” said Sir Giles as he sank into a chair and adjusted the fall of lace at his wrists. “Can always count on you for an insightful comment on the weather. No doubt the talent will serve you well in the bride hunt.”

  Bennett clenched his jaw. So, Lord Hurst had told his son, and the viscou
nt had in turn told everyone. How foolish to think his trustee—former trustee—might have remained silent now Bennett had control of his own affairs. Too often it happened like this; him caught off guard, slyly insulted, then torn between the conduct of a dignified duke or an angry street brawler. After a decade of rules and lectures he always chose duke, but damnation the thought of shoving Fletcher and Sir Giles headfirst into a steaming pile of horse manure held great appeal.

  “One can only hope,” he replied, before politeness forced him to ask, “You’re both well?”

  “More than passing fair,” said Fletcher, reclining on the chaise. “M’wife’s still in the country until she’s churched—silly woman birthed a daughter—but it does mean I have free rein in town. So many opera singers and actresses searching for a protector, so little time. Met a fiery redhead last night, with a mouth that—”

  “Don’t prolong this, Fletch,” drawled Sir Giles. “Let’s just get what we came for and go.”

  “Ah yes. Delilah’s Temple. Enlighten us, Tun, if you actually dared enter, of course.”

  Do not hit him. Do NOT hit him. Think of the scandal.

  Bennett flexed his fingers. At least Fletcher wouldn’t be receiving the information he desired; after what had occurred last night, he owed Mrs. Forbes discretion at the very least. “I have good and bad news. The good, Delilah’s Temple is like walking into your own townhouse. Excellent staff, excellent furnishings, warm and well lit. The bad news, that invitation I had was insufficient for a full tour. Only the gaming hell, which you would both admire. Endless supply of complimentary refreshments prepared by a French chef, and tables for high-stakes whist, vingt-un, and so on.”

  The viscount tapped his cheek. “It is common knowledge that I’m a most accomplished card player. If I lose, it’s because someone else is cheating. I do find it hard to believe they declined your invitation, though.”

  “So old,” said Bennett, shrugging. “It was sent five years ago, when they were trying to entice patrons. Now they have no need. Those with money are practically dueling each other for membership.”

  Sir Giles laughed. “True. It must have been so very galling when they banished you, though. Perhaps the delectable Delilah just didn’t want young Humdrum wandering about and frightening the other patrons. Ha!”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Don’t be glum, chum,” said Fletcher. “When my membership is approved, I’ll let you accompany me once as a guest, for old times’ sake. Unstarch that cravat a bit.”

  “How very kind.”

  The viscount smirked and rose to his feet. “We’d best be off. Both in desperate need of a bath, nap, and hearty breakfast. Nights of sin and brandy will do that to men. Good day.”

  Good riddance.

  Thankfully alone once more, Bennett returned to his desk. There were always documents and bills to view, and that list of possible brides. While it remained extraordinarily tempting to let his cousin inherit, his staff and tenants deserved better. Besides, a decision would be needed soon; thanks to Lord Hurst’s loose lips the young ladies knew they were being considered…

  Last night with Delilah you couldn’t even remember the names on the list. But you can recall in great detail how she looked as she stroked herself to climax, can’t you? And how it felt with her hands over yours as she helped you come…

  No. He would not think about that. Nor how kind she was, how clever a businesswoman, or easy a conversationalist. Brides. He needed to think about brides. Ancient families, appropriate age, delicate sensibilities.

  Or you could marry someone you actually liked, as Delilah said. Someone to talk to and share concerns with, a lusty lover equally eager for bed.

  Damnation.

  Bennett thumped his desk. One visit to a pleasure club, and he’d lost his wits entirely. He needed to calm down. Regain composure. Concentrate on tasks, not emotions.

  An unexpected knock sounded at the library door, and exceedingly grateful for the interruption, he called ‘enter’. Until he saw both his housekeeper and his butler.

  Bloody hell. What now?

  “Might we have a word, Your Grace?” said his housekeeper as she curtsied.

  “Of course,” he replied, suppressing a frisson of unease.

  “I just wondered if there would be Christmastide baskets this year.”

  Bennett blinked at the odd statement. As far as he knew, baskets were prepared each year to thank staff over and above their wages and included items like sweets, oranges, rich fruit cake, extra coins, and cloth or yarn. “Why would they not be?”

  His butler coughed. “For the sake of economizing, Your Grace, requests for funds were often declined or a much smaller amount provided. Especially in regard to staff expenses like wage increases, new clothing or livery, and Christmastide baskets. It has caused…friction, and some staff to leave your service. But now there are no trustees…”

  Economizing?

  Bennett stared in disbelief. Surely not. He’d always forwarded requests to the trustees to disburse funds because the coffers could easily afford the expense and the gifts were so gladly received. Now his butler was implying staff hadn’t received wage increases or proper clothing allowances either? Bloody damned trustees. No doubt they considered themselves so very virtuous for saving him money, just as they’d prided themselves on those rules and lectures. He’d been such a trusting, obedient fool.

  “I would appreciate it,” Bennett said carefully, to conceal his fury, “if you provided details of current wages, the last increase, and cloth or livery distribution. Let me assure you that I will rectify the matter swiftly.”

  The older woman nodded, her gaze softening. “At once, Your Grace. The baskets too?”

  “Yes.”

  As the gifts were atonement for the nonsense that had occurred without his knowledge, he needed to attend to the matter personally. Shopping for Christmastide baskets couldn’t be so very difficult.

  Could it?

  The Temple weekly staff meetings were loud, often humorous, occasionally sobering or ire-raising, but critical to the success of a pleasure club. They were held in the gaming hell to accommodate everyone, and each person had the opportunity to speak; to talk about a particular success or issue, offer suggestions for an upcoming lecture topic, or observations from the area of the club they worked in.

  But concentration today was almost impossible. All Delilah could think about was her runaway virgin duke, and the clumsy comment that had probably caused him to leave. Initially she’d been confused and more than a little piqued, but in the early hours of that morning, when during one of her rounds of the club she’d overheard one maid lecture another for making a mess, she’d realized saying ‘quite a spend’ to Tunbury might have been construed as a scolding. The exact thing those awful trustees had done when he’d been a lad.

  Gracious, that blunder still made her cringe, even though it had been a few days. It would be entirely her own fault if she never set eyes on the handsome man with the endearing blush and splendid cock ever again.

  “Ma’am? What do you think?”

  Delilah smiled ruefully at the older woman who oversaw their popular painting studio. “Forgive me, my thoughts wandered to the long list of things I need to do when I go out and about today. You were saying?”

  “Last night one of my regular gents requested that I include candles in my supplies, not for light but so he and his wife could trickle liquid wax on each other, then cool with champagne. But we only have the usual pale yellow beeswax candles. I wondered if you might be able to source some in different colors, or perhaps scented. Holly would be nice, seeing as it’s Christmastide soon.”

  “What an excellent idea. I shall certainly look around to see what else is available. We must always strive to offer something a little different to our patrons, never rest on our laurels. Besides, as you all well know, I can never wait until Christmas Eve to decorate the Temple. I’ve already ordered quantities of holly and mistletoe to be delivered next
Wednesday.”

  “Oh no,” groaned a footman. “Weeks of you humming Joy to the World.”

  “Better humming than singing,” Delilah laughed before continuing, “On another matter…I’m sure you are all aware that Mr. Kelly stopped by the other day with the final bill of sale. It is now signed and sealed, and the new owner will take up the reins on January first. But that doesn’t mean we will slow down or grow complacent until then. Quite the contrary. The Temple is booked solidly, and I am contemplating what else can be done to further accommodate patron demand. Does anyone have a suggestion?”

  Another footman raised his hand. “I overheard the group at the whist table grumbling again that we don’t offer a punishment room option. Those high and mighty politicians really do want to finish their evening with a good birching.”

  Sighing, Delilah leaned forward on her high-backed chair. “I can think of several politicians I would personally like to birch for being so pompous and corrupt, but that particular service won’t be offered while the Temple is under my ownership. We direct them to the White House for punishment or pain play, just as Mrs. Berkley directs patrons here for larking about in costume or erotic painting. I prefer to be on friendly terms with other owners, not wasting time or money on rivalry nonsense.”

  “Rivalry can be cruel,” said a kitchen maid, nodding. “And it always spills over. Last week I saw two maids over Vauxhall way having a hair-pulling fight in a tavern because of their mistresses.”

  “Here now, might have been about a lad,” said a young footman with a wink.

  Several in the group snorted and rolled their eyes, and Delilah stifled a smile. While she discouraged relations between staff members to keep the peace, all her employees were free to take a lover outside the club. They’d probably heard a thousand tales of romantic theatrics, triumphs, and disappointments, in this gaming hell. “Not all lads leave a trail of broken hearts across London like you.”