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

by Anna Campbell

  “Garrick,” Sir Hawkins called out.

  Garrick pushed himself off the wall and entered the study. Sir Hawkins was seated behind the desk writing a missive. His movements were economical, but Garrick noted an unusual fitfulness in the way he signed his name. Remaining silent, Garrick stood and waited, his hands behind his back.

  “I want you to accompany Victoria and Lady Hawkins on their errands this morning.” Sir Hawkins didn’t look up as he blotted his note before folding and sealing it with wax.

  “Why?” Garrick narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t asking to be difficult but because something had obviously happened to prompt the unusual request. “You don’t trust Henry and Callum?”

  The footman and groom who usually accompanied the Hawkins ladies on their outings had been trained by Garrick himself. They were capable of defending themselves and the ladies.

  “The longer the war drags on, the greater the unrest grows.” It was a typically cryptic thing for Sir Hawkins to say, but Garrick didn’t discount the network of men and women and even children who passed whispers to Sir Hawkins. Some solidified into truths, and some dissipated like smoke.

  “Have threats been made against Miss Hawkins or Lady Hawkins?” Garrick’s shoulders tensed and pulled the fabric of his jacket taut.

  “Not precisely.” Hawkins was often infuriatingly vague. “But I would feel more at ease if you were to accompany them in the carriage and remain at their side as they shop. Can I count on you?”

  “I would protect Miss Hawkins with my life,” Garrick said with more emotion than he intended.

  Sir Hawkins looked up and stared at Garrick without blinking. It was quite unnerving. The urge to shift on his feet became a compulsion he barely halted.

  Becoming aware not so much of what he’d said but what he hadn’t said, Garrick added hastily, “And Lady Hawkins, of course.”

  “Of course.” A gleam flashed in Sir Hawkins’s eyes, but as the rest of his face was bland, Garrick didn’t know how to interpret it.

  “I’ll watch for anything out of the ordinary and report back, sir.” Garrick turned on his heel, exited the study, and tamped down any anticipation at spending the morning in Victoria’s company.

  This was not a carefree outing with a lady he might be more than slightly in love with. The mere thought must be eradicated. It was impossible.

  After having a word with Callum and Henry, Garrick waited at the curb beside the carriage for the ladies, hands behind his back, his body still. Lady Hawkins descended the front stairs and treated him like a lamppost, ignoring his presence entirely.

  Victoria was halfway down before she looked up and noticed him. The shadows casting worries across her face were banished by her radiant smile. For him. He smiled back. The muscles in his cheeks protested the rare usage.

  Lady Hawkins entered the carriage with Callum’s help. Victoria took the last steps slowly, her gaze never leaving his. She had donned a brown fur-lined pelisse with matching collar and cuffs. Her gloves were brown kid, and a reticule in the same yellow as her dress swung from her wrist. Springs of her black hair had escaped her bonnet to frame her face. The untamed wildness suited her.

  He stepped forward before Callum could offer his hand. With no hesitation, she slipped her hand into his. Time splintered. The world spun on around them, but all he could see and feel was her. Such a simple thing, yet lightning arced between them.

  After avoiding her for two years, they had touched three times in one morning. It was too much. Or was it not enough? Her thumb skimmed over the back of his hand with an unmistakable pressure. He tried not to read anything into the touch, but his fingers answered the call and clasped hers tighter. Even as he cataloged the delicacy of her hand, he noted her strength.

  Then she was inside the carriage, and he drew his empty hand into a fist as if he could hang on to the feel of her. He swallowed and shook himself free from the spell she’d cast over him. He wasn’t here to play patty-fingers with Victoria. He had a duty to perform.

  He looked up and down the street, taking careful note of the other carriages and a man strolling in a black hat and swinging his cane. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. After giving Callum a nod, he joined the ladies in the carriage on the opposite squab. Callum would ride with the coachman, and Henry on the back. Each of them carried a pistol.

  The interior of the carriage was dim after the unusually bright sunshine of the day. It wouldn’t last long. Stacked clouds portending snow loomed on the horizon. The carriage jolted forward. Lady Hawkins continued to ignore him and stared at the passing scenery.

  London wasn’t crowded this time of year. Most of the ton had retreated to their country houses long ago, but a few families remained in London through the yuletide season if they couldn’t garner an invitation elsewhere or had business in town like Sir Hawkins.

  “Why are you accompanying us?” Victoria tilted her head, her gaze fixed on him. “Have you developed a keen eye for ladies’ fashions, then?”

  “I have many talents.” He kept his face bland. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched with puckish charm.

  The memory of how soft and supple her lips had been and probably still were—not that he would get the chance to verify—was distracting him. He forced his gaze from her mouth to the window. Distractions were deadly. Even ones as tempting as the coveted memory of their one and only kiss.

  “There’s naught to worry over,” he said.

  “Who said I was worried?” While the sentiment was lighthearted, her voice was heavy.

  He shot her a look, but it was her turn to stare out the window. Her profile gave none of her true thoughts away. He had no right to her confidences, but he was a patient man. It was one of his strengths. He would wait and watch and do whatever he could to help relieve her burdens.

  The carriage pulled to a stop. Garrick didn’t wait for Callum to open the door. He did it himself, positioning his bulk in the opening to protect Lady Hawkins and Victoria from possible threats. He made a quick study of his surroundings.

  Two gentlemen stood in conversation farther down the street in front of a shop, but neither glanced at the carriage. Another man exited the shop next door and turned the collar of his greatcoat up against the chill, heading in the opposite direction. A hack clattered past, pulled by a run-down nag, the jarvey buttoned up tight and wrapped in a scarf against the brisk wind.

  Garrick hopped to the curb and lowered the steps. Callum backed up to stand to the side of the modiste’s door, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his expression alert to trouble. Lady Hawkins descended first, her hand lightly touching Garrick’s forearm for balance. Black hair streaked with gray peeked out of her bonnet. She had the same curls as her daughter, but she kept them under strict control, while Victoria’s rebelled, as if drawing from her personality.

  Victoria slipped her hand into his again, her grip firm. Her gaze remained on her feet, and he caught the flash of her stocking-covered calf above her half boots as she descended. He swallowed and released her with difficulty. The barrier he had arduously erected between them after their kiss had been demolished by the mere touch of her hand and flick of her hems.

  Callum opened the door to the modiste, and Garrick trailed the ladies in. He felt like an invader. The land was as foreign as when he’d entered Portugal under the cover of darkness for the first time, unsure of the topography and ignorant of the language.

  Ribbons and laces and fabrics in a rainbow of colors and patterns covered the walls and tables. His gaze darted, as if threats lurked behind every scrap of satin. It finally landed on Victoria, who was looking up at him with barely suppressed laughter. At his expense, of course.

  “Would you rather wait outside with Callum?” The sparkle in her eyes lit embers in his chest, warming him better than any hearth.

  “Yes, I would, but I promised your father not to let you out of my sight.” It wasn’t exactly what he had promised, but it was a good excu
se to torture himself and wallow in her presence for as long as possible.

  He sidestepped to a rare open spot along the wall and did his best to disappear between a blue twill and a white satin.

  “That will be difficult. Unless you plan on watching my fitting? I will be obliged to strip down to my shift.” Victoria cocked her head and looked up at him through her dark lashes. “It would be quite scandalous.”

  His imagination took flight. What he wouldn’t give to see Victoria stripped from her gown. Her limbs would be pale but lithe. Her breasts full and supple, her nipples— He clipped the wings of his thoughts before something embarrassing took place in his breeches.

  Was she toying with him on purpose? Did she understand the magnitude of her power over him? He narrowed his eyes. Her color was high, and she fidgeted with the ties of her reticule. She didn’t appear gleeful in her teasing. In fact, if he had to put a word to her mood, he would pick nervous.

  Lady Hawkins sent a pointed look in their direction. Victoria left his side to discuss whatever ladies discussed with their modistes. They disappeared behind a curtain. Garrick checked in with Callum, who had noted nothing unusual, and then returned to the shop to wait. The young girl behind the counter kept tossing him glances. He was probably making the poor chit nervous. He ignored her.

  What was taking so bloody long? He sidled closer to the curtain, taking care not to touch the delicate fabrics or laces along the way. Murmuring voices and Victoria’s husky laugh reassured him. No one had spirited her away.

  Someone on the other side of the partition ruffled the velvet curtain on their way past. The movement shifted the fabric enough to reveal a narrow slit. Instinct took over, and Garrick focused on the scene beyond as if he were observing a clandestine meeting between his enemies.

  His breath caught the same time his blood rushed faster, leaving him light-headed.

  Victoria stood on a raised dais facing a tall looking glass. She wore a gown of evergreen. The sleeves were long and tightly fitted, but the bodice scooped enticingly low, revealing the top curves of her breasts. Vines and red berries were embroidered along the hem, cuffs, and the edge of the bodice. She had cast her bonnet aside, and her curly hair wisped around her face and down her nape in an artlessly sensual fashion.

  “Are you sure the gown is not too revealing, Madame Beauvoir?” Lady Hawkins asked. “We don’t want the gentlemen at the house party to assume Victoria is desperate for an offer.”

  “Even if she is, eh, my lady?” Madame Beauvoir’s French accent was fake, although well done.

  If Garrick had to guess, the dressmaker was from the north of England. But who was he to begrudge a woman a new identity in order to make a living? Based on the concoction she’d fashioned for Victoria, the modiste was talented.

  “The gown is tasteful and will draw the sort of attention you seek,” Madame Beauvoir said.

  “I love it, Mother.” Victoria twirled and looked over her shoulder at herself in the looking glass.

  “The color is quite becoming on you, dear. Wrap it up and have it delivered once the hem is adjusted, if you would, Madame Beauvoir.”

  “It will be finished by this afternoon. Miss Hawkins can wear it to your evening’s entertainments, if she so desires. Would you like to order matching gloves and stockings?” The modiste and Lady Hawkins shifted to the side to discuss particulars while a young girl began undressing Victoria.

  Garrick swallowed. He should look away. Their banter earlier had been in jest. Victoria’s life was not in any danger. His sanity, on the other hand, was being held at gunpoint. Victoria remained facing him as the girl worked the length of buttons in the back. The bodice began to gape and reveal more delectable skin and the gathered edge of a white shift.

  Victoria ran her hands along the skirts, then looked up with a smile when the girl gently tugged one of the sleeves down. Her gaze swept over the slit in the curtain, and he pressed himself back against the wall out of sight.

  If he’d been in the field, the possibility of exposure would have signaled his immediate retreat. A wise agent knew when to give up a position, no matter how tempting the information gleaned could be.

  All wisdom deserted him. He peeked through the slit once more, expecting her to have turned and shielded herself from the inappropriateness of his spying, but she hadn’t. His position hadn’t been compromised.

  The girl had tugged both sleeves off and was helping Victoria step out of the heavy skirts. Her posture offered a tantalizing view of the shadowy valley between her breasts. She straightened on the dais, her shoulders back, her gaze finding its way unerringly to his, unflinching and brazen.

  He had been outflanked. Not only was she aware of his attentions, but she welcomed them. Her breathing paced his, shallow and rapid, the movement drawing his attention downward along the tempting curves of her body. Her stays pressed her full breasts high. The rise and fall of her chest against the thin fabric of her shift was decadent. Her nipples were barely covered, and he ruminated on their shape and color.

  Her waist dipped above the curve of her hips, and the looking glass reflected her pert bottom. The shadow of her mons was visible through her shift. He allowed his gaze to wander all the way to her stocking-covered feet and then back up. In his mind’s eye, he lifted her shift higher and higher, exposing her calves, her knees, her thighs until…

  “Anywhere else you would like to visit, my dear? We won’t be back until after the new year.” Lady Hawkins turned to Victoria while the modiste took the dress and disappeared into what Garrick assumed was her workroom.

  Victoria blinked once, then shifted to face her mother while the shop girl helped her back into her yellow dress. “I should like to visit the milliner next door.”

  Lady Hawkins hummed thoughtfully before saying, “This will be our fourth visit to the milliner in as many weeks. You have shown an unusually keen interest in bonnets lately, yet you never seem to have one on in the garden. Why is that?”

  Garrick didn’t hear Victoria’s reply. He backpedaled toward the door, flummoxed by his lack of control and positively dumbfounded at Victoria’s boldness. He tried to summon shame or regret or some emotion that would blunt the arousal humming through him but failed.

  Victoria was an innocent. The kiss they’d shared had been her first. How could he forget the tentative movement of her lips on his, and her gasp when his tongue coaxed hers out to play? She hadn’t known where to put her hands or what to do with the passion roiling through her like a storm.

  Of course, that had been two years ago. Much could have happened since. Victoria wasn’t one to deny her curiosity. The thought was demoralizing and painful. Feeling suffocated by gewgaws and fripperies, he pushed his way outside and took a deep, bracing breath. The cold air made his lungs prickle and tamped down the unwarranted shot of jealousy. Lady Hawkins exited the modiste, followed by Victoria. Her head was down, her bonnet shielding her expression.

  “Everything in order, Garrick?” Lady Hawkins asked.

  In order? His entire universe was in utter and complete chaos.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He inclined his head and didn’t meet her eyes in case she possessed a sliver of her husband’s uncanny ability to see through him to the image burned in his mind of her daughter wearing nothing but her unmentionables.

  “We are paying a visit to the milliner next door.” Lady Hawkins looped her arm through Victoria’s, and this time he remained outside while the ladies did their shopping.

  His only option was to scrub the picture of Victoria from his head. He could never touch her again. He banged his head back against the stucco wall, but she remained forefront in his mind. Even more worrisome, she was still firmly rooted in his heart.

  Chapter 3

  Victoria wanted to crawl under her covers with her boon companions—embarrassment and shame—for the rest of the day, but she couldn’t. Eleanor was counting on her. Lord Berkwith had left a note with Mrs. Leighton, the milliner, and Victoria needed to pass i
t to Eleanor. It was Lord Berkwith who had suggested the friendly milliner as a go-between for Victoria, the other go-between.

  The chain of communication was overly complicated because Lady Stanfield, Eleanor’s mother, was a blue-blooded hunting dog on the scent of rakes and fortune hunters. She took her role of mother and chaperone with a zealousness reserved for nuns.

  Eleanor was not even allowed to waltz—the position deemed too scandalous—much less take a carriage ride in the park or a turn in the garden with a gentleman. It was no wonder Eleanor, a spritely, curious young lady, was chaffing under the rigid control.

  The romantic ruse had worn thin for Victoria, and she wanted nothing more than to cede the role of intermediary to someone else. Or, even better, she wished Lord Berkwith would court Eleanor as a gentleman should and win over her parents. If his intentions were honorable, which Victoria was beginning to doubt.

  Thomas kept his distance on their brief walk to the milliner’s shop. He had seen her nearly naked. Would she ever be able to look him in the eye again?

  She could have shielded herself or turned away or even screamed when she noticed him at the narrow curtain opening. Instead, she had invited his gaze, and if she were being truthful, she had gloried in it.

  Her skin had gone hot and cold and tingly, as if she could feel his fingertips grazing across her body. Even now, her breasts were overly sensitive against her stays, and her belly ached with a longing she didn’t fully understand. But she understood it was scandalous.

  The books she’d purchased as the dour widow McClain had offered knowledge in black and white, but hadn’t prepared her for the kaleidoscope of feelings Thomas’s attention had unleashed.

  He hadn’t looked away and had seemed as boggled in the aftermath as she had felt. Her heart skipped faster in anticipation. But of what? They would never be given the opportunity to act upon their attraction.