A Scandalous Regency Christmas

by Christine Merrill/Marguerite Kaye/Annie Burrows/Barbara Monajem/Linda Skye

  Damn. Usually, that smile beguiled women quickly into bed. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped.

  ‘Are you all right, Cam?’ His mother peered at him in something between consternation and amusement. ‘You knew Mrs. Burdett was coming.’

  The last thing he needed was his mother realizing what he intended for Frances. He thrust a plausible lie into the awkward silence. ‘Seeing her brought it all back—the quarrel and Timothy’s death. Perhaps, for her sake, I should have stayed in London over Christmas.’ Hopefully that would stop his mother from drawing the wrong conclusion.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, why? She doesn’t blame you, does she? As I recall, she never did. She put the blame squarely on Timothy himself.’

  ‘But I felt responsible,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil her enjoyment of the holidays.’

  ‘Nonsense, she’ll be perfectly fine. We need you here. No one makes lamb’s wool like you do. No one else can crown the King of the Revels. And what about serving treats to the Luck?’ She paused. ‘Not thatThomas wouldn’t love to do it. That’s what drew him here in the first place, you know. Houses with their own hobgoblins are few and far between. But I don’t think Duff the Luck would take it well. He expects you to give him his due.’

  Glad of the change of subject, Cam agreed. The resident hobgoblin, also known as the Luck of the House, was one of the Warbury legends. As a child, Cam had seen the little fellow now and then out of the corner of his eye; now, he wasn’t sure what was memory and what was imagination. It didn’t matter. The traditions about the hobgoblin did no harm, and Cam intended to support and preserve them.

  By dusk, so much snow had fallen that the roads would be impassable for days. The expected cousins had arrived, as well as another young man and a couple, the Cutlows. A half hour before dinner and well after dark, Mr. Lumpkin rode up on horseback, to Lady Warbury’s great relief. He had spent a few days at the Rollright Stones, deeming Yule the perfect occasion for a visit to such an ancient monument.

  Cam didn’t care one way or another about the stone circle. He did care about the way the eldest of his cousins, Alan Folk, was eyeing Frances Burdett’s bosom. Alan reminded him uncomfortably of himself several years earlier—except that generally the ladies he’d ogled had welcomed the attention.

  ‘Alan,’ he said. His cousin turned, and Cam gave him a look that even an idiot couldn’t misinterpret. Alan scowled but immediately turned his attention to Mrs. Cutlow, who welcomed vulgar leers. The unhappy flush drained from Mrs. Burdett’s cheeks, and when Cam caught her eye, she nodded her thanks, and her lips twisted into something approaching a smile.

  Well, that was a start.

  Frances found herself seated next to Alan Folk, whose manners had undergone an abrupt improvement just before dinner. She knew whom she had to thank. She told herself the marquis was merely acting his proper role of watchful and considerate host, but that didn’t stop her heart from warming to him. He could have been cold and horrid to her instead, and she wouldn’t have blamed him. He’d done nothing wrong in quarreling about a prostitute. He wasn’t a newly married man, and he hadn’t deserved her anger a year ago.

  While she pondered him, she found other parts of her anatomy warming to him, as well.

  Horrified, she quelled that unexpected, uncalled for, completely unacceptable kindling of desire. Once, long ago… Was it only a little over a year? It felt like a century. Once, she’d believed herself a passionate woman. She’d felt the stirrings of arousal when in the company of an attractive man. She’d dreamed of kissing and lovemaking as every other young woman did.

  Until she found out that kissing was mostly sloppy and unpleasant, and that she felt absolutely nothing during lovemaking. After Timothy told her what a bore she was, she’d thought herself thoroughly cured of carnal desire… until now.

  It must be because of Lord Warbury’s reputation as a skilful lover. More than once, she’d heard a fast widow or unfaithful wife lamenting her inability to lure him to bed. That smile of his had set Frances’s imagination moving as if she were a young girl once more.

  But she wasn’t. She must put a stop to such thoughts straightaway. She gazed about the room seeking something to pretend interest in… There was the Warbury half motto again, over the fireplace. She’d noticed it in the Great Hall as well, and in her bedchamber.

  She made polite conversation, avoided looking at the marquis—except to note his mild flirtation with Almeria, who sat next to him, chattering happily—and concentrated on the excellent food, finishing up with two helpings of a truly magnificent trifle. When they adjourned to the drawing room, Frances had her embroidery frame brought downstairs, but her attention kept wandering and so did her stitches, away from the pattern she’d drawn.

  Mrs. Cutlow sat next to her on the sofa and made some bland comments about Frances’s pattern. Frances knit her brows. Judging by the woman’s low-cut gown and roving eyes, Mrs. Cutlow wasn’t likely to engage another female in conversation without some ulterior motive.

  She wasted no time coming to the point. She leaned close and murmured, ‘Has he asked for Miss Dane’s hand?’

  ‘Who?’ Frances asked, purposely obtuse. ‘Lord Warbury, you mean? No, he hasn’t.’

  ‘Not yet, then. But there’s no other reason why she would be invited.’ Mrs. Cutlow pouted. ‘She’s very young and beautiful. They say he’s become harder to seduce lately.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Frances said. Perhaps he’d merely learnt discretion, but she doubted Mrs. Cutlow wanted to hear that.

  ‘He can’t tup the girl until he’s wed to her, so I shan’t give up hope. He’s the reason we accepted the invitation.’ She gazed hungrily to where Lord Warbury played chess with Mr. Cutlow. ‘My husband and I both prefer variety in bed. The marquis is so very handsome, isn’t he?’

  ‘Very,’ Frances agreed, but she couldn’t help but be glad when Mrs. Cutlow sidled away, and even gladder when everyone went to bed early to get well rested for the revels of Christmas Eve.

  But tired though she was, Frances couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of the marquis intruded into her attempts at counting sheep. She dozed and woke, dozed and woke again—this time with her hand between her legs.

  She was as bad as Mrs. Cutlow!

  Aghast at where her reaction to Lord Warbury had led her, she climbed out of bed and put on her wrapper and slippers. Perhaps a glass of warm milk would put her properly to sleep.

  She preferred not to wake one of the servants, who deserved their rest as much as anyone. She lit her bedroom candle and tiptoed downstairs through the cold, quiet house, rendered even stiller and colder by the snowy night. It took a while, but eventually she found the huge, ancient kitchen.

  Someone else was already there.

  Cam couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked, but the vision in the doorway truly was Frances Burdett in a rose-coloured wrapper, chestnut hair down her back. His long-neglected cock stirred to life.

  He ordered it to cease and desist. ‘Do come in, Mrs. Burdett. It’s only me.’

  She let out a soft sigh and took a few steps into the room. Her voice quivered. ‘I couldn’t sleep but didn’t wish to disturb the servants. I should like to warm some milk.’

  ‘A happy coincidence,’ he said. ‘I was doing just that.’ He beckoned to her to come closer, and when she hesitated, put his finger to his lips and indicated a pallet in the shadows. ‘We should keep our voices down, as the kitchen boy is asleep in that corner.’

  That seemed to reassure her, for she approached, watching him add milk to the pot on the stove. ‘You couldn’t sleep, either?’ Her voice still trembled, which irked him.

  ‘No, my conscience awakened me.’ Before she could read something improper into that, he said, ‘I forgot to feed the Luck.’

  ‘The Luck?’

  ‘The Luck of the House,’ he said, and then, curiously reluctant to explain, he added, ‘Our resident hobgoblin. It’s one of our Christmas traditions to offer him t
reats in return for guarding the house the rest of the year.’

  Her smile dazzled his eyes. ‘What a delightful custom!’

  That was how he’d felt about it during his childhood. Inordinately glad that she hadn’t snickered or made an incredulous face, he said, ‘He’s been with us for centuries. According to legend, it was due to Duff the Luck that we managed to regain Warbury Hall during Puritan times.’

  She put out her hands to warm them over the stove. He found himself wanting to fill his gaze with her, to drink in her sweetness, but afraid of disconcerting her, he took a knife and began to slice a small loaf of bread the cook had left for him on one of the deal tables, along with a pipkin of cream. ‘Our cook prepares manchet especially for the hob at this season. I don’t suppose she believes in him, but she’s a great upholder of tradition.’

  ‘But you believe in him?’

  He spread cream on a slice of manchet. ‘I glimpsed him now and then as a child. That is, I thought I did. At this distance, it’s hard to say what was real and what wasn’t. Life tends to… oh, drain away one’s childish wonder.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ she said, a world of the unhappily unsaid lurking in her voice, sending him back in memory to the day of that fateful race. He’d come to call on Timothy so they could walk together to their club. He’d seen Frances in passing and remarked to Timothy on her pallor, wondering if she was ill.

  To which his friend had shrugged and said, ‘Not that I know of, but she might as well be dead for all the pleasure I’m getting out of her.’ By the time Timothy finished unburdening himself, Cam was furious.

  He still was, just thinking about it. On her wedding day, Frances had glowed with health and happiness, and a mere fortnight later, she’d resembled a wraith. She’d recovered her health and beauty now, but that wasn’t good enough.

  He didn’t expect or even want to regain his own wonder, but he would do his damndest to restore some of hers. He put the slice of bread on a saucer. ‘Here, try some.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t take the hobgoblin’s food.’

  ‘He won’t mind,’ Cam said. ‘Duff’s a hospitable hob. In fact, he might take offense if you don’t allow him to share.’

  She laughed. ‘All right, then.’ She bit into the manchet and closed her eyes, savouring it as she’d done the trifle at supper. For a long moment—and he prayed no one had noticed—he’d been unable to drag his eyes away. He didn’t try to drag them away now.

  She swallowed, whispered, ‘Thank you, Duff,’ and opened her eyes.

  A flush crawled up her throat. The expression on his face… oh, it terrified her. The joy drained away. She clutched her arms about herself.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve upset you, haven’t I?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘no, of course not.’

  Skeptically, he raised his brows. ‘You looked utterly blissful a moment ago, as if that bite of manchet gave you great pleasure.’

  Pleasure… .The word echoed through her mind.

  ‘And watching you gave me great pleasure,’ he said, his warm voice curling into her like tendrils.

  ‘Er… ’ She couldn’t think what to say.

  ‘You had that same blissful expression when eating the trifle at dinner,’ he said, ‘and why not? Food is one of the great sensual delights.’ His smile was rueful. ‘But now you look as though you’re about to be ill.’

  She shook her head, shivering, holding herself tighter, fumbling for something, anything to say. He was right, of course. She derived great sensual pleasure from excellent food. Just because she was unsuited to one sort of pleasure didn’t mean she couldn’t experience another.

  He huffed. ‘I’m an idiot. While I maunder on, you’re turning to ice.’ He stripped off his banyan and held it out. ‘Put this on.’

  ‘But—but you’ll be cold,’ she whispered, staring helplessly. His nightshirt was open at the neck, and a few dark hairs curled through. He had more hair on his chest than Timothy had.

  Why was she thinking such a thing?

  ‘No, I’m usually too hot.’ Briefly, he covered her stillcold hand with his large, warm one. ‘See?’ He thrust the banyan at her. ‘I’m only wearing this for decency’s sake, in case Mrs. Cutlow prowls the corridors hoping to seduce me.’

  She didn’t know why that frank remark made her feel more comfortable; he was a rake, and house parties were notorious for illicit liaisons. Perhaps it was the notion that despite his reputation, he didn’t hop into bed with just anyone. She put her arms into the banyan and tied it tightly around herself. It was warm, and it smelled of him.

  ‘Better?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

  With a faint smile, he turned away to slice the rest of the manchet. Suddenly overcome with fatigue, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Desire shot through her, coursing all the way down her spine.

  What was the matter with her? Such thoughts and feelings were insanity, and yet his scent in the banyan flooded her with sensations so fierce she couldn’t resist them. She inhaled again, deeply, wishing she could hold his scent in her nostrils, recall it when alone in her bedchamber once again, because it made her feel so impossibly good. She breathed him in, over and over.

  ‘Are you all right?’ She opened her eyes to find him watching her again. ‘Don’t fall asleep on your feet.’

  A telltale flush climbed up her cheeks. Hopefully in this dim light he wouldn’t see it. ‘I wasn’t falling asleep.’

  ‘No?’ He raised his brows, and his smile held more than a hint of mischief. He proffered a cup. ‘Your milk is ready.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you.’ She took the cup. ‘I’d better go.’ She set the cup down to untie the banyan.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Come with me to feed the hob, and then I’ll take you upstairs the back way. It’s much quicker.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘My pleasure.’ That word again. His warm voice caressed her beautifully, unbearably.

  He led her to a pantry and set the manchet and milk on the topmost shelf. ‘Will it be gone by morning?’ she asked.

  ‘No doubt,’ he said, ‘but skeptics attribute that to rats. It’s an insult to poor Duff, who’s a tidy eater. Not a crumb will remain behind, nor a drop of milk.’

  She didn’t know whether or not he was serious, but how sweet to believe for a moment in magic, even if it was childish magic rather than a young girl’s dreams of love.

  On the way out, she spied writing carved into the lintel over the door. ‘There’s your motto again.’

  ‘In every room of the house,’ he said, sounding irritated.

  ‘It annoys you?’

  ‘I don’t need quite so many reminders.’ He brought her upstairs by a secondary staircase. At the top, he pushed a door open and peeked through, then shut it again. ‘You’d better take off my banyan now.’ He took her candle and cup while she complied, then returned them to her. ‘Your bedchamber is along the passage to the right, while mine is to the left, third door down. If you should need anything at night again—anything at all—just knock. I’m a light sleeper.’

  Was he offering to bed her?

  No, surely not. He must know she wasn’t that sort of woman.

  For a moment, she almost wished she were. No, that was lunacy. She sighed.

  He pushed the door open again. ‘Good night, Mrs. Burdett. Sleep well.’

  She tiptoed quickly to her bedchamber, opened the door and turned. The door to the staircase still stood ajar, the light of his candle shining through. She went into her room and shut the door behind her.

  She slept, but not without thinking about him far too much.

  So far, so good.

  Cam felt inordinately cheerful heading toward the orchard the next morning. For the first time in a year, his libido was wide awake, and no wonder. It wasn’t merely that Frances Burdett was pretty—he’d had many pretty women—but he liked her. L
iked her a great deal, as a matter of fact, and not only that, she’d consented to come mistle-toe-gathering. What a relief that he hadn’t scared her quite away. Perhaps he’d done something right, or at least was well on the way to it, and life would soon return to normal.

  Edwin, his usual morose self, stomped along beside Cam. Almeria had giggled and shied away from the prospect of cold, possibly wet feet, so Lady Warbury pressed her and Mrs. Cutlow into making evergreen rings, to which they would tie the mistletoe. Edwin would have stayed to moon over Almeria, but Cam had ordered him not to be such a bore and come along. ‘Everybody moons over her,’ he said. ‘Be different. Stick out from the crowd.’

  Ahead of them, Frances—who had borrowed some old boots from his mother and now trod briskly through the snow—listened to the Druid prose about the significance of mistletoe in pagan rituals. The only significance that mattered to Cam was that he would have plenty of opportunities to kiss Frances.

  ‘Theoretically, we should collect our mistletoe from the oak,’ Mr. Lumpkin said, ‘but not only does Lord Warbury not wish to risk anyone’s life and limb with climbing so high, but there is something different, something special about Warbury Hall.’ He leaned close to whisper conspiratorially, ‘The house has a resident hobgoblin.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ Frances said. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

  Mr. Lumpkin nodded his approbation and raised his voice again. ‘This thriving orchard is an excellent example of the efficacy of the rites of wassail. Here they celebrate it on old Twelfth Night, which is the seventeenth of January. They frighten the bad spirits away and offer cider to the apple trees.’

  ‘It sounds like great fun,’ Frances said.

  ‘What a pity the house party will be over by then, for I’m sure you would enjoy it. The cider from Warbury’s orchards is famous hereabouts.’

  ‘So is the lamb’s wool, which we’ll have tonight,’ Edwin said. ‘Cam makes the best there is.’

  ‘With the assistance of every member of the household,’ Cam said. ‘We each take a turn at mashing the apples.’

  ‘Rather like stirring a fruitcake,’ Frances said.