It’s Beginning to Look a lot Like Scandal: 3 Steamy Christmas Historical Romances

by Reid, Stacy

  In that first week, he had begun to understand the depth of the horror his brother had endured serving on the front line when Max ranted with fever. It had not been enough that Max lay broken from the war; the flu had swept in, devastating thousands, and his brother had not been spared. He had nursed Max tirelessly, listening to his brother’s deliriums, Max’s cries for Emmeline, knowing he could not endure telling her that Max needed her and then watch her lose him again if Max did not make it.

  It had been a brutal three months as they fought with the aid of doctors. Marcellus knew Emmeline would have wanted to be there, nursing Max. But Marcellus couldn’t have risked her so. And even if he’d tried, Max would have found a way in his ill, ravaged body to gut him for placing her in harm’s way. No, Marcellus had borne it and watched daily as his brother grew in strength.

  Marcellus had felt the ghosts of war and suffering reach their tentacles to Max last night. The horror and pain had been too real without the delirium of fever hiding the full effect. Marcellus had known the pleasure he felt from being in Emmeline would soothe Max unlike anything else. But his brother was right: Marcellus had wanted to be in her just as much for himself.

  “I still need more time, Marcellus. I cannot return to her broken, ill,” Max said.

  Marcellus tensed, rousing from the bleakness of his thoughts. “Dr. Hasting reports that you have conquered influenza. It is time to let her know you are alive. Her sobs and pleas as she cries for you are devastating.”

  Her anger and her pain humbled him, even as it broke his heart. He ignored the fear that tightened his gut, but he could not disguise it from Max.

  “She is ours, Marcellus,” he growled. “She will accept us.”

  Marcellus stared at his brother. “I do not believe Emmeline has the capacity to accept both of us as her lovers. She will turn from me the minute you make an appearance. She will make a choice, and I do not delude myself into thinking she will choose me.”

  Maxwell limped over to him, and Marcellus observed the strong, determined lines of his brother’s expression. “Yet you are encouraging me to come back now? Why not give it more time for her to fall for you?”

  Marcellus closed his eyes, thinking of her warmth, her passion, how she had responded to him. He shook his head. “It is tempting to have you wait until we marry to come home. With enough encouragement, she would marry me without waiting for the mourning period to end. But Mother is devastated. Emmeline is shattered. They need you, Brother. Mother will understand why we did not reveal the truth, but I know Emmeline will despise me. She will hate me for making love to her with the knowledge that you are alive. It was different when I doubted you would survive. I would not destroy her twice. I doubt she will ever be able to forgive me for knowing that you lived and hiding it from her.”

  “She will understand her presence at my side could have been a death sentence for her.”

  Maxwell leaned on the cane, walking with determined strides to the mantel to pour two glasses of whiskey. His hand shook, and liquid sloshed on the carpet. “Emily desires you. I saw the covert glances she threw your way when I courted her. And I know she saw you the night we were intimate. She is receptive. She is simply unaware of what she is open to.” There was a trace of satisfaction in Max’s voice.

  Marcellus knew they both burned for her with the same intensity. The bond they had as twins somehow made them desire this one female. It had confounded them the first time it happened, when they saw her for the first time at the Prescotts’ ball over two years ago. They had always been able to feel when the other was intimate with someone else, when the other hurt or was angry. They’d always known each other’s hungers, fears, dreams, and desires, but it was a mere phantom caress of emotions. But their desire for Emmeline had been instant, and it had slammed into them both with vicious intensity. Even now, he could feel Max’s hunger, his need to touch and be with her himself after so long.

  Marcellus’s forceful personality had frightened her when he’d approached her, but she had bloomed for Max. After courting for six weeks, they became engaged. It had been agonizing for Marcellus. Each time he tried to grow close, she scampered away as if frightened. He’d tried to tone down his intensity, but she had been wary. They had despaired of how to reveal to her that they both loved her, and both needed her. Then war had come.

  Max enlisted despite her pleadings. Marcellus, in turn, used his affinity for languages to become a war correspondent, really a spy for His Majesty. He and Emmeline had grown somewhat closer for the months Max had been away, but she’d always treated Marcellus to a cool reserve that had been hard to crack. It had been upon receiving the news of Max’s death that Marcellus had unleashed his full personality. If he had handled her with soft gloves, she would have faded away. He’d not cajoled her back into life. He’d ordered her, firmly directed her will, ensuring her needs at every turn.

  “Give me a month.”

  He drew himself from his thoughts at Max’s comment. Marcellus met his brother’s intense gaze steadily.

  “I am still weak, and I am unkempt, Marcellus. Give me a month to restore myself somewhat.”

  “No.” Marcellus made his voice flat and firm. Another month was too much for Emmeline to suffer.

  Max sighed. “Marcellus, take the damn month. I am sure guilt is consuming her now that she gave in to her desires for you. If I were to appear tomorrow, she would be shattered. My appearance the day after her supposed betrayal. Give her a month. Give me a month. I can barely walk, and I have never felt so weak and unsure. I need this.”

  He knew how hard it was for his brother to even admit that he felt weak. Marcellus surged to his feet and clasped Max’s shoulders. Marcellus squeezed him, not voicing any words of affirmation or comfort. He almost hated himself for agreeing. But he would use his time wisely. He wanted her to love him, for he knew he could never let her go.

  And he would do his damnedest in the month they had to make her crave him as how he did her.

  Chapter 3

  March 7, 1917

  Dearest Emily,

  I yearn for the warmth of your touch. It has been six weeks since my division last marched on the enemy. Yet we die daily as we fight another war—a war with winter. The cold steals our sanity and our lives. We battle daily with the rain, snow, mud fields, and waterlogged trenches. My men draw strength from me, and I am weak to admit that I draw strength from you. In these dark times only memories of home, memories of family, and you are enough to make me fight, to plan and to strategize more. Your letters are creased, cracked, and caked with dirt. I thank you for them, my love. I read them to my men who have no one to reach out to them. Your words are joy, comfort, sunshine in our bleakest moments.

  Your love, Maxwell Wynwood

  Emily held the letter, fighting the tears that filled her eyes. She gently folded it and placed it on the stack, carefully retying the ribbon. Marcellus had been true to his promise. He had taken her long and hard for the entire night, devastating her senses with pleasure, and marking her soul. Even now her body ached with tormenting desire, but instead of filling her with joy, she felt as if she’d betrayed Maxwell. Oh God, Marcellus had been so thorough. He had taken her until she pleaded for rest. He had spoken to her in the most scandalous fashion. Telling her how sweet her pussy tasted while cupping her vagina, so she knew without a doubt what he referred to. His drawls had been explicit and soul destroying as her body had reacted to each promise of how he would fuck her with increased wildness. She had hurt as he promised, but it had been such a sweet, delightful hurt.

  “Are these packaged right, milady?” Mrs. Bough, the head housekeeper, queried.

  Emily strolled over to the table that was laden with parcels in the drawing room.

  “Yes, they are, Mrs. Bough. Thank you.” Emily had been very specific in her instruction on the type of paper the gifts should be wrapped in. She wanted bright, vibrant colors. “Did Homer get everything on the other list?”

  “He tried his
best, milady, but most of the local shops are still struggling. He had to send to Charlbury for several of the items.”

  Emily nodded, filled with bleak despair. She was not the only one that had lost in this war. She empathized with the many women in the village who had lost sons, husbands, and fathers. She had been grateful when Marcellus whisked her away from Grosvenor Square to his family estate in West Oxfordshire. Grief had almost drowned her in London, but here she had found purpose. Her father and mother, the Earl and Countess of Langford, had been scandalized she would remain unmarried under the duke’s house for so long. Emily had been amazed that in such wartimes they were concerned with propriety.

  “Carry on, then; we will deliver these to the hospitals. I have several presents for our tenant families. And then we will take the rest to the women and children in Brompton and Langford.”

  Sighing softly, she collected her fur-lined winter coat, muff, and cloche hat, then headed for the door. Mary, the head housemaid, and three footmen bustled with several packages, following her. Emily’s stomach tightened with bundles of nerves. Marcellus always took her on her Wednesday outings to the infirmary. She served as an aid nurse three times per week, but it was only once per week that she visited the tenant farmers affected the most by the war. Tension coiled in her belly, and she wondered if he would be waiting. She had ordered the chauffeur to be available in the event that he was not present. Oh God, she was not sure how to face him.

  After their waves of loving he had held her as she slept. Their night had been more than what she’d expected, and very confusing. He was Maxwell’s twin brother. Pain slammed into her, and she stumbled. He was not Maxwell. She doubted Marcellus could ever be like Maxwell; they were too different.

  She did not understand the emotions she felt for Marcellus, but she knew it was not love. She fought the tightening in her chest and the tingle between her legs. He made her lust, cry, beg to be possessed by him, and he made her behave completely unrestrained. Emily had pleaded for him to fuck her, to lick her cunt; she’d repeated all the naughty phrases he had commanded her to use. He had stripped her barriers and revealed the wanton in her. But he had also been her rock since Maxwell went off to war. Then Marcellus had become her sanity in the past three months when she’d learned she lost her beloved. Her feelings for Marcellus were like nothing she had ever known, yet the emotions he roused in her were not the soul-shattering love she felt for Maxwell. Confusion bubbled in her, and her throat burned, and moisture filled her eyes.

  “Milady, is all well?” Mary asked tentatively.

  Emily cleared her throat and forced a smile to her lips for Mary. “I am well, Mary,” she reassured with a smile.

  “Lady Emily?”

  She turned at the sound of Alfred, the butler, calling.

  “Her grace requires your presence in the green parlor.”

  “Thank you, Alfred,” she murmured, walking through the foyer. She continued down the winding hall, past the library. She refused to look at the library door, wondering how she would ever read in its cozy atmosphere without blushing from all that Marcellus had done to her on the desk, the sofa, and the floor. She flung open the door to the parlor and ground to a halt.

  She blinked wearily, wondering if she saw what she thought she had seen. It could not be. It must have been her imagination that the duchess had been in an intimate embrace with Lord Grayson Wynwood, her husband’s brother.

  “Please come in, my dear.” The duchess’s smile was lopsided, and as Emily went farther into the room, she realized her eyes were red rimmed. The Duchess had been crying.

  “Lord Grayson,” Emily greeted, looking into steely blue eyes.

  He was handsome, tall with broad shoulders and black hair that was peppered with only the smallest amount of gray. He and the duke were dashing, and it was evident where Marcellus and Maxwell got their sinful looks. The only features they seemed to possess from their mother were her eyes. The duchess was incredibly lovely, with her light blonde hair, smoky gray eyes, fine bones and porcelain skin.

  Lord Grayson came over to briefly kiss Emily’s cheek in greeting and then exited. Emily did not miss the warm glance he sent Her grace. Emily’s heart clamored. What if they were having an affair? She banished the thought from her mind instantly. Lord Grayson and the duke were twins. They were close, and when she reflected on the grief-filled months, they had always been there comforting the duchess. Emily was sure she misunderstood.

  “Please sit down, my dear. Some tea?”

  “No, thank you, Your Grace. I had a hearty breakfast,” she murmured, sitting on the chaise opposite the duchess.

  The duchess gave her an inquiring glance, and she blushed. Emily could hardly tell her that after the night of excess with Marcellus, she had been ravenous. His presence had not been needed to coax her to eat.

  “I will get right into it then. I know the timing is a bit rushed, but I have been so numbed I only now thought of it. I would love your help to arrange a festive ball for our tenant farmers. We are only three weeks away from Christmas. But together with the household, we can pull it off.”

  “A festive ball?”

  The duchess’s head bobbed, and a rare smile tilted her lips. “Yes, right here at Willow Lake.”

  The name of the estate came from the massive lake that surrounded the property along with the hundreds of tall willow trees.

  “I know it is unseemly with Maxwell—” She visibly fought to compose herself and then continued, “But the entire village suffers. There are many without any joy, or food on the table. I know of your weekly works, but your efforts are not enough to support an entire village and infirmary. My efforts are not enough. The ghastly effect of the war is horrendous, and I thought three days of festiveness where we all came together—the gentry, the tenants, the vicar of the village and his family—would be a welcome respite.”

  “It would be lovely, Georgette.” Emily smiled, loving the idea. “I will organize games and events. The entire lake is frozen, and it would be wonderful to open skating to everyone.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” The duchess clasped her hands, and Emily was grateful for the glint of happiness she saw. Too much grief had shrouded them.

  “I will commence planning as soon as I return from Brompton with Marcellus,” she promised.

  She left the duchess to plan the meals and compile invitations for the festive ball. Emily was grateful for more work to fill her days. Her dearest friend, Miss Leah Knightly, could help her plan. She also volunteered as an aide at the infirmary, so Emily would speak with her then and enlist her assistance to ensure everyone had a jolly good time. It seemed unlikely, but she suddenly felt as if there could be some happiness, if only fleetingly, to banish the horror of everything.

  She walked with eagerness through the foyer and strode out the door. Giving Alfred a radiant smile as he held open the door, Emily hurried down the steps, fighting the blush that tried to rise in her cheeks as she spied Marcellus waiting for her, leaning against his black-lacquered Renault. He looked so self-assured and handsome. She forced herself to walk calmly down the steps.

  “Lord Blackthorn,” she murmured in greeting. He raised slashing brows at her formality, and the blush she tried to suppress flamed her cheeks.

  He held open the door, and she slid in. She waited in agonized silence as the footmen filled the backseat with the packages. Marcellus entered and started the car. The smooth purr of the engine came alive, and they drove away.

  The memory of their night lay between them, so strong that it was almost tangible. Emily desperately searched for a way to break the tension. There had never existed this silence between them before. She glanced at him and noted the rigid ticking in his jaw.

  In desperation, she spoke. “As we had discussed, I had Jeffers search through your armoire for last season’s wear. I have parceled as much as I could for gifts to the villagers. I also took a slab of meat from Cook for the infirmary. Even though it has been proclaimed the war has
ended, meats are still being rationed.”

  She winced when he only grunted in reply, but continued valiantly, “Now that Prime Minister George has announced the war has ended, I pray the villagers will be able to restore their lives and banish fear.”

  “I suspect they will.”

  She relaxed slightly at his response, grateful he was following her lead and not talking about their night. “Do you think that all will be well, Marcellus? Is it possible to recover from such horrors?”

  She waited for his answer as he slowed around a curve. The road was slick with wetness and flakes of snow. He changed gears, and the silence lulled her into relaxing fully.

  “I fear we must. Our way of life has changed in ways that many have not yet comprehended. And we will have to continue with change and embrace progression to survive as a nation after such atrocities. Our women are strong; our men honorable. Our children will be taught, legacies will live on, and we will flourish. It is inconceivable to imagine that we will not rise.”

  She smiled, strangely happy for the first time in months. “I fear, to the distress of Mama and Papa, that I never want to return to the naive debutante I was. They are appalled that I would want to continue with my efforts at the hospitals now that the war has ended. But I feel that more will need to be done for those that return from the battlefield. I want to be a part of that, Marcellus. I want to help. I have even toyed with the idea of writing, possibly even working.”

  He glanced at her. “I do not think it will come to you working, Emmeline.”