Wedding Her Christmas Duke: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  He likes—

  Thrusting a hand into her hair, Howlette jerked hard, and tears sprang to Justina’s eyes even as she heard her hairpins pinging onto the stone floor.

  Jerking her head from side to side, to avoid his slobbering mouth upon her face, she feared she might be sick or perhaps faint.

  No, you shall not!

  This wasn’t the time for feminine hysterics or weaknesses.

  Her mind whirled, even as she struggled to escape his punishing grasp. If she could manage a few inches between them, she’d knee him in his man parts. “Let go of—”

  Howlette mashed his wet lips onto hers, and she nearly gagged. Her struggles became more violent as panic swirled in her middle.

  Would anyone come looking for her?

  Aunt Emily was probably sound asleep by now.

  If she managed to scream, could anyone hear her?

  Like a man possessed by a demonic force, he tore frantically at the neckline of her gown.

  Oh, God.

  Was she about to be ravished?

  Several birds cried out in alarm.

  Justina tried to clamp her mouth shut, but when Howlette groped her breast, painfully squeezing the nipple and laughing maniacally against her lips, she gasped. In an instant, he shoved his tongue into her mouth.

  She did gag then and renewed her exertions.

  Howlette wouldn’t have his way with her without a colossal battle, by God. She’d tear his hair out, bite, scratch, kick…

  The conservatory’s outer door crashed open, and a primitive, enraged animalistic cry echoed through the space.

  The birds erupted into a deafening chorus of frightened calls and squawks.

  Before Justina could comprehend what was happening, Howlette had been yanked from her and spun around.

  Unsteady and her arms flailing, she stumbled backward, almost falling. Then in a blink, comprehension dawned.

  Baxter.

  Oh, thank God, Thank God.

  Scalding tears leaked from her eyes as she hugged her arms around her waist, rocking slightly. Her lungs burned, and her tight throat throbbed from the effort to hold back her sobs.

  He’d come.

  He’d really, truly come.

  She’d wished him here, and here he was.

  His mouth curled into a feral snarl, Baxter swept a furious gaze over Justina, taking in her bruised lips and her hair tumbling haphazardly about her shoulders before his enraged gaze sank to her chest.

  In horror, she realized Howlette had ripped the fabric of her gown, and it hung loose, exposing her breasts. Mortified, she snatched the torn remnants together, a hatred like she’d never known billowing through her in undulating waves.

  If she were a man, she’d call the damned scapegrace out.

  If you were a man, you’d not be in this situation.

  “Come now, Bathhurst,” Howlette wheedled, prying at Baxter’s fists clenching his coat lapels. “You’re a hot-blooded man. You know how some women are.” He gave a knowing wink. “The slut wanted it. She’s been teasing me since she arrived. Wiggling her ass and thrusting her breasts—”

  “Ye goddamned bloody scunner,” Baxter roared, plowing his fist into Howlette’s face, breaking his nose. Bone crunched, and blood spurted.

  Scots. That’s what the accent is.

  Justina fought an absurd urge to burst into laughter at the ill-timed epiphany.

  Howling, Howlette staggard and swayed.

  “That was for touchin’ her,” Baxter growled savagely. “This one is for speakin’ such filth about her.”

  The second blow drove Howlette to his knees. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he pitched, face-first, onto the floor.

  Shoulders heaving and his breath coming in short heavy rasps, Baxter raised his kind brown eyes, now brimming with concern and compassion to Justina’s shocked gaze.

  “Justina?”

  And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the whole world, he held out his arms.

  Without being aware she’d even moved, she flew into his embrace.

  Chapter Four

  As Justina clung to Baxter, great tremors shaking her trim figure, he nuzzled her hair and spoke Gaelic in low, comforting tones. He ran his palms up and down her delicate spine and across her shoulders.

  Baxter well knew he overstepped the bounds, taking it upon himself to soothe her, but he could no more prevent himself from doing so than he could from thrashing Howlette for taking liberties. From the moment he’d seen Justina in the drawing room, there’d been something about her that connected with him in an almost tangible way.

  It made no sense, but who was he to question the mystery of it?

  He drew her minutely closer, savoring the sensation. Her form fit his so perfectly, curve to curve and angle to angle, that it rather stunned him. He could hold her this way forever.

  “I thought he—” she managed in a choked, stricken voice, her body quaking. “If you hadn’t come—”

  She shook her head against his chest, and the faint odor of orange blossoms and lemon verbena wafted upward. She smelled like spring and sunshine and meadows.

  “Hush now,” he soothed. “You’re safe, lass. He’ll be gone within the hour, I promise you, sweet.”

  Baxter reined his brogue under control once more, but the vestiges of his earlier wrath still thrummed hotly through his veins and pounded in his temples. He’d wanted to kill that sniveling bastard for laying a finger on Justina. Even now, as Howlette lay semi-conscious, Baxter barely suppressed the impulse to kick him in the ribs.

  He wasn’t confident Justina was able to return to the main hotel under her own strength, and he wasn’t leaving Howlette without giving the cockscum a tongue lashing. He flexed his fingers, still wanting to pummel the blackguard to ten Sundays from now.

  He glanced around for something to cover her torn gown and restore her modesty and spied one of the throws he’d commissioned Widow Honeybun to make for the hotel.

  “Can you stand on your own?” he asked, mindful to keep his fulminating fury from seeping into his voice.

  Justina nodded, and head tucked to her chin and clutching her ruined bodice, she stepped from his embrace.

  At once, he felt the oddest sense of bereftness.

  How much worse would it be when she left Bathhurst Hotel and Spa? Before she left, he intended to ask if he could call upon her. The draw to her was that strong, that compelling, that…irresistible.

  She swayed slightly, and he clasped her shoulders, steadying her.

  “I’m going to collect the throw just there, so you can cover yourself, Justina.”

  Eyes downcast, her lashes a dark fan against her waxen cheeks, she nodded again but remained silent.

  If anyone should come upon them, she’d be utterly ruined. No one must know of this, and as the Duke of San Sebastian, he meant to put the fear of God in Howlette. He’d annihilate the bugger if he breathed a single syllable about what had transpired between him and Justina in the conservatory. Blackguards like him liked to brag of their prowess and conquests.

  In a trice, Baxter had retrieved the soft, knitted afghan and fashioned it into a makeshift shawl. He draped it across Justina’s creamy shoulders, and she accepted the ends and gathered them together in front, effectively hiding her gown’s dishevelment. Except for her hair, to anyone happening upon her, it appeared she’d become chilled and wrapped herself in the fine wool to stay warm.

  “Justina, please sit for a moment while I deal with him.” Baxter guided her to the chair the farthest from Howlette.

  A gardenia, two large, ornate birdcages, as well as potted orange and lemon trees brought inside for the winter partially obstructed the view. That worked to his benefit quite nicely.

  After seeing her comfortably seated, Baxter squatted before her.

  “Justina, please stay here. I’ll return shortly and scout a path to your chamber so that no one sees you. There are back corridors we can use to assure your privacy.”


  “Thank you, Baxter.”

  Her light green eyes, fringed by damp sooty lashes, held a hint of her usual spirit.

  Unable to help himself, he touched her cheek with his fingertips, encountering skin as soft and smooth as a rose petal. “You’re very welcome.”

  What did one say when a woman thanked one for saving her from being violated?

  Certainly not, “My pleasure,” or “Anytime, or “I hope to do so again.”

  Her cheeks turned a becoming pink, and she fixed her gaze on her lap.

  “I’ll be but a few minutes,” he assured her.

  In a half dozen lengthy strides, he returned to Howlette, now sitting up, his shoulders slumped while he held a bloodied handkerchief to his nose.

  He glared at Baxter, pure hatred spewing from his bloodshot eyes, one already starting to blacken nicely. Wincing, the spoiled assling muttered, “So help me, you’ll pay for this Bathhurst. I’m practically aristocracy. You’ll soon regret laying hands on your betters. My uncle is an earl. An earl, I tell you. I vow you’ll regret the day you attacked me, Scotsman.”

  That he spat as if his mouth was full of offal.

  “An earl?” Baxter arched a brow as he towered over Howlette. “Ye dinna say.”

  “Indeed,” Howlette snuffled into the soiled cloth while trying to attempt an air of arrogance and failing miserably. “The Earl of Torrens.” He narrowed his eyes to insolent slits. “He’ll see you destroyed. No one will visit your rustic hotel when he’s finished with you. I’ll have you charged with assault causing bodily harm. You’ll soon find yourself rotting away in prison.”

  Pompous windbag.

  Baxter chuckled as he examined a torn fingernail.

  Had that happened while shoveling snow or when he’d punched this poltroon?

  Lowering himself to his haunches, he was gratified to see Howlette’s eyes widen in renewed fright as he nervously scampered backward like a wounded crab.

  Romero laughed and pointed a claw at him, screeching in a sing-song voice, “Idi-ot. Idi-ot.”

  He’d belonged to a traveling entertainer for twenty years. When the man died, no one knew what to do with the bird who spoke only when he damn well felt like it.

  “Well then, do tell Torrens that the Duke of San Sebastian sends his greetings,” Baxter said, making certain to keep his voice low enough that Justina wouldn’t overhear. He didn’t want word of his title to become common knowledge here, just yet.

  It was rather disconcerting and not just a little inconvenient how behavior toward him changed when people knew he was titled, and more so that he was a reluctant duke. He’d much prefer to be treated like any other ordinary man and judged on his character and actions rather than the lofty title bestowed upon him.

  Howlette’s jaw unhinged, sagging to his chin in a most undignified manner.

  “And do make sure you mention you were intent on defiling an innocent young woman,” Baxter drawled, driving home his point.

  “D…D…Duke of San Sebastian?” Howlette croaked, his voice a sliver of a sound. “You? You’re a…duke?”

  The wry smile Baxter curved his mouth into didn’t begin to express his satisfaction at the stupefaction of the maggot before him.

  “Indeed, I am.” He leaned forward. “And a duke always outranks an earl. Therefore, I’ll say this very clearly so that there are absolutely no misunderstandings between us. You will depart Bathhurst Hotel and Spa within the quarter-hour. You will not speak of what occurred here to anyone. Ever. And you will, from this point forward, do your utmost to never encounter Miss Farthington or me again.”

  Baxter rose to his full height, and though not overly tall at eleven inches over five feet, he was well-muscled, unlike the quaking fop before him. He speared Howlette with a murderous glare.

  “If you ever so much as think of Miss Farthington, much less speak her name…I. Will. Destroy. You. You’ll have to leave England, for I’ll use every resource available to me as a duke to see you ostracized. Even your dear uncle won’t acknowledge you by the time I’m done with you.”

  Baxter glanced toward Justina, still huddled on the chair, her face averted. Renewed rage sluiced through him as he turned his attention back to Howlette. “Understood?”

  The little remaining color in Howlette’s pasty face drained away, and he gave a single stiff nod.

  Baxter watched him struggle to his feet and leave the greenhouse, idly wondering what cock and bull excuse he’d give for his appearance should anyone happen upon him.

  Cupping his nape, he turned toward Justina. She’d risen and, though still slightly wan, looked to have composed herself as well as had managed to restore her hair to some semblance of order.

  “You’re Scots?”

  Of all the things she could’ve said, that wasn’t what he’d expected.

  “Aye.”

  “How did you come to own a hotel in Bath?”

  He scratched his brow, giving her a sideways glance. “It’s a long story. Much too long to tell right now.”

  “I see.” She gave a little nod and turned toward the door Howlette had disappeared through.

  Baxter touched her elbow. “I’ll tell you someday if you’d truly like to know, but for now, I think it imperative you go to your chamber and change your gown. I assure you, Howlette will keep his mouth shut.”

  She gave another nod before suddenly turning back to him. “Baxter…?”

  Justina licked her lower lip, and he stifled a groan.

  What a colossal arse he was, finding such a simple action alluring when she’d undergone the shock of her life.

  “Yes, Justina?”

  She hurried back to him, stood up on her toes, and brushed butterfly wing soft lips across his cheek.

  Baxter remained stone still, afraid to so much as blink, lest his control snap.

  He wanted her.

  God, how he wanted her.

  Wanted to know everything about this intriguing woman who managed to upend his world in such a short time. What was more, he wanted to protect her, and while he’d always treated women with respect, never had there been this gripping desire to safeguard one.

  “Thank you. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me,” Justina murmured, a delightful flush skating dual paths up her cheeks. Her attention slid to his mouth, and she bit her lower lip.

  “Justina? I…”

  Och, hell.

  Then she was in his arms, where she ought to remain for the rest of their lives, and Baxter was brushing the unbearable sweetness of her lips with his.

  She sighed and relaxed against him, her fragrance wafting around them, intoxicating and dizzying.

  Eyes closed, he savored every second, trying to memorize the moment, the smells, the taste, the feelings.

  Her lips moved beneath his, and heaviness settled in Baxter’s loins.

  Justina clung to him, her kisses unpracticed but fervent.

  Bliss. Pure bliss.

  “Kiss me. Kiss me.” A parrot’s harsh voice interrupted the magical moment. “Ki-iss.”

  The parrot started making loud smooching noises.

  Bloody, damned bird.

  Pulling away, Justina settled back onto the balls of her feet. Her soft green eyes wide in wonderment, she touched her fingertips to her crimson lips. Then, without a word, she turned on her heels and fled.

  Chapter Five

  Bathhurst Hotel and Spa

  That evening

  My God. Justina had almost been violated. Ruined. Compromised.

  She pressed trembling hands to her fluttering tummy, renewed fear washing over her. She could scarcely conceive what had occurred. It was like something from a Gothic novel. Young women of good repute were not set upon by a gentleman in a hotel conservatory.

  What was this world coming to when such things occurred?

  When gentlemen preyed upon women?

  When she’d witnessed Baxter charging into the greenhouse, his expression fierce and intent, a vengeful Highland w
arrior, her heart had leaped in relief and also in a jot of apprehension. Never had she observed such primal or violent behavior.

  Nonetheless, Howlette had deserved the pummeling he’d received, and she couldn’t summon a speck of sympathy or compassion for the blackguard. God rot his soul. May he burn in the ninth circle of hell for eternity.

  She troubled her lower lip as the thought that had plagued her since she’d returned to her chamber hours ago reared its ugly, pointed head again.

  Would Howlette keep his word?

  Would he truly never speak of the incident?

  How would he explain his injuries, then?

  Well, a tale contrived about drunkards attacking him at a tavern would suffice, she supposed. A man of Howlette’s ilk would have no trouble manufacturing believable twaddle.

  Baxter had assured her Howlette wouldn’t breathe a word, but how could he be positive?

  Inhaling a cleansing breath, Justina lifted a shoulder in an attempt to shake off her doleful ruminations. She released the air slowly through her nostrils, the deliberate act steadying her jangled nerves.

  Quite simply, it was a matter of Godfrey Howlette’s word against hers.

  He could prove nothing. Nothing.

  Yes, but since when did gossipmongers care about the truth?

  Just the mere suggestion of impropriety was enough to send the chinwags’ tongues into a wagging frenzy. And there were always ears too ready to listen to claptrap and hogwash.

  As Justina glanced in the cheval mirror and tucked a stray strand of hair into place with a pin, she canted her head. She didn’t look different in her mint green and rose petal pink gown, a green ribbon threaded through her dark curls.

  Nevertheless, she was irreversibly changed.

  Within a span of a few minutes, she’d experienced a taste of the worst and best life had to offer. Baxter’s kiss.

  Marvelous.

  Sensational.

  Wondrous.

  A bevy of words yet none entirely accurate.

  Baxter had kindled a conflagration in her and every pore, every nerve, every part of her being wanted more. More. God, yes, more.

  Closing her eyes against the reflection gazing back at her, equal parts cynical and expectant, Justina groaned.