Wedding Her Christmas Duke: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  She’d kissed Baxter. Brazen as any dockside strumpet, she’d risen on her toes and pressed her lips against his firm, faintly rough cheek. A man she’d known but a week.

  What could she have been thinking?

  She’d wanted to show him her appreciation, but more than that, she’d wished to convey he meant something to her, and she mightn’t ever have the opportunity to be alone with him again. Certainly, it was foolish and impulsive and unequivocally irrational.

  But then he’d kissed her… Oh, that glorious, marvelous kiss.

  A flush heated her from her waist to her hairline, and tingles sparked all over her body.

  Good Lord.

  She hadn’t known what to expect for her first kiss, though naturally she’d dreamed about it. Her daydreams didn’t come close to the glorious reality.

  Nor could she have imagined the bone-melting warmth or the unhinging of her knees or the small inferno he’d ignited in her middle and which still smoldered—secretly and naughtily—deep within her. And which flamed to life whenever she thought about Baxter.

  Which, in all honesty, was nearly every second of every minute since she’d fled the greenhouse.

  Being held in his iron-like arms, cradled against the granite wall of his chest, inhaling his unique scent and all the while, his mouth had explored hers. No one had ever mentioned anything about tongues tangling erotically during kissing.

  What else had she been kept oblivious of?

  Thank all the divine powers she hadn’t come upon anyone as she’d rushed to her room using the servants’ passageways. Justina would’ve been hard put to explain not only her disheveled state but her swollen lips and high color.

  Aunt Emily mustn’t ever know of either the kiss or that Justina had been set upon by Howlette. The poor dear might very well retire them both to the country. Although Justina wasn’t entirely comfortable in crowds, neither did she wish to be relegated to the far corner of England to rusticate until her face wrinkled and her hair grayed.

  In truth, the kiss she’d shared with Baxter had rattled her comportment every bit as much as Howlette’s assault. The latter she never wished to experience again, but the former…

  She opened her eyes once more, seeking the bedside clock.

  In fifteen minutes, she’d join the guests in the drawing room for their usual pre-dinner libation.

  How could she face Baxter?

  With grace and aplomb, she commanded herself. In the manner Aunt Emily had taught her. A lady always presents herself with decorum and composure no matter what she may be thinking or feeling.

  As Justina placed her hand on the door latch, another unwelcome thought intruded, and she instinctively put a hand to her hair.

  Her hairpins.

  Several had dislodged during Howlette’s rough treatment. If someone came upon them scattered on the conservatory floor, they were sure to raise speculation. True, but no one would know the pins belonged to her, and there weren’t so very many pins—perhaps six or so.

  Ten minutes later, she stood with a glass of untouched sherry in her hand, half-listening to Mildred Popkin prattle on about whether taking the waters had improved her arthritis and the godlike Prussian prince she’d met during her first season.

  Sixty years ago.

  Baxter and Aunt Emily had yet to make an appearance, and Justina briefly considered going in search of her aunt. She swiftly dismissed the notion. If Aunt Emily were indisposed with one of her megrims, she’d have let Justina know.

  But where was Baxter?

  Was he avoiding her after their kiss?

  He’d never been tardy to the pre-dinner gathering before. A beau monde peer would be hard-pressed to outshine Baxter as a host. His attention to detail and to his guests’ comfort was exceptional.

  “Everyone deserves to be treated like royalty, if only for a short time,” he’d declared that first night.

  “Most peculiar, don’t you think so, Miss Farthington?” Mildred said, her tone conspiratorial.

  Hearing her name snapped Justina back to the present.

  The Popkin sisters peered at her, both with expectant expressions on their wrinkled faces as they blinked their faded brown eyes at her in unison behind their spectacles.

  “I beg your pardon?” Justina offered a bright smile as an apology for allowing her mind to wander.

  “Mr. Howlette,” Marian Popkin chimed in.

  Howlette?

  Panicked filled Justina.

  Oh, God.

  What did they know?

  She only managed a bland look as her mind scrambled, imagining one horrific scenario after another.

  “His rather abrupt departure,” Mildred provided helpfully.

  “Um, yes,” Justina said. “Perchance, Mr. Howlette feared another snowstorm would make the roads impassable once more.”

  For she’d learned from the chatty maid, Ginny, who’d prepared her bath that the main roads were now fit for travel. This meant, in all likelihood, Justina and Aunt Emily would depart on the morrow.

  Her stomach sank to her toes, and the oddest hollow sensation plagued her middle.

  It was too soon.

  Justina wasn’t ready to leave. There was this thing between her and Baxter to explore. If she left, she’d never know what it was or what it might become.

  But how on earth could she persuade Aunt Emily to stay on for a few days?

  Ginny entered the drawing room and made straight for Justina. She bobbed a shallow curtsy, one hazel eye peering at Justina and the other pointing inward, toward the girl’s nose. “Miss Farthington, your aunt bid me tell you she’s indisposed this evening, after all.”

  Concerned, Justina put her glass aside. “I shall go to her at once.”

  Heavens above.

  What kind of a horrid person was she?

  She’d not even inquired after Aunt Emily’s headache.

  “No, Miss.” Shaking her head, the maid gave a lopsided smile. “She said you’d say that. You’re to enjoy your evening, as she plans to depart tomorrow, the weather and her health permitting.”

  It was settled then.

  Justina and her aunt were to leave. And Justina wanted to wail like an infant at the unfairness of it.

  “Very well. Thank you, Ginny.”

  With another bob, the maid departed.

  “So, you’re leaving tomorrow, too?” His grizzly brows contorting, Major Spaulding glanced around the room. “I do believe we all intend to depart within the next day or two.”

  “Indeed,” Paul Harmon provided with an adoring glance at his blushing bride. “We’re anxious to set up house and start a family.”

  His wife’s cheeks grew hopelessly redder.

  The tiniest pinch of envy poked Justina at the palpable love the Harmons shared. Beyond a dance or a partner for piquet, no man had shown any marked interest in her. She’d often wondered, quite uncharitably given all that her adopted aunt had done for her, if Emily had warned them away somehow.

  Or perhaps it was that she was Austrian. She was dowerless, and that eliminated a great many beaus and suitors. In particular, those in need of a fortune for one reason or another.

  “Ah, there’s our host now,” boomed the major, puffing out his chest as was his wont.

  Justina couldn’t prevent her attention from seeking Baxter out. Tonight, he wore a stylish superfine woolen coat in the deepest blue. His black trousers enhanced his long legs, and not even Beau Brummel himself could find fault with the intricate folds of his cravat.

  His warm honey gaze met hers from across the room, and a powerful current traveled between them until Marian Popkin tapped his arm, demanding his attention. “This has been a delightful respite, Mr. Bathhurst. You may rest assured. My sister and I shall encourage our friends to visit and take the cure. And we will be back in July.”

  “Thank you, Miss Popkin,” he demurred, glancing over her silvery head to search out Justina.

  She couldn’t prevent the pleased smile teasing the
edges of her mouth.

  Dinner passed in a haze as Justina attempted polite conversation with the major on her left and Mildred on her right. She scarcely tasted the meal since all of her concentration was focused on not staring at Baxter.

  She thought perhaps there’d been white soup and fowl of some sort.

  Duck? Partridge? Chicken?

  There had been mashed peas. That Justina clearly remembered, for she detested peas.

  And dessert had been…?

  Something soft and sweet. Pudding perhaps.

  Over and over and over, her attention shied toward Baxter. And, by heavens, several times, she’d found his hooded gaze trained upon her. It thrilled her in a most enticing way.

  Never had a man affected her so. Mayhap the shock of being attacked had impacted her more than she’d realized, causing her current befuddlement.

  At long last, dinner ended.

  Deciding wisdom the best course of action, before she made a complete cake of herself, she excused herself from the usual after-dinner activities. A small frown pulled Baxter’s brows together, and his mouth curved downward the merest bit at her announcement.

  Was he disappointed?

  Justina fought the giddiness such a notion caused.

  They’d shared a kiss. One kiss. A kiss she’d instigated. She was a fool to make more of it than that.

  She paused outside Aunt Emily’s chamber and knocked softly upon the door. “Aunt Emily?” No answer was forthcoming. Justina tried the handle. Finding it locked securely, she whispered, “Good night, Aunt Emily. Sleep well.”

  Tomorrow they’d leave this place, perhaps never to return, and Justina couldn’t help but feel like her life had been irreversibly changed these past few days. Like a river burbling downhill and splitting in two directions. She’d been on one course, and now she was on another, only she had no idea what the outcome would be or where she’d end up.

  Deep in thought, she continued on to her chamber.

  After removing her gown and brushing her hair, Justina wrapped another of the exquisitely knitted throws about her shoulders and settled into a chair. Staring at the fire, she replayed her kiss with Baxter over and over in her head until sleep claimed her.

  Awakening sometime later, Justina stretched and yawned.

  A glance at the bedside clock revealed the time to be half-past eleven. After slipping her chemise off and donning her night rail, she blew out all but one candle.

  Was Baxter abed?

  Was he thinking about their kiss too?

  Unable to sleep after her nap, Justina wandered to the window and pushed aside the draperies. Today’s sun had melted much of the snow, but a goodly amount still covered the ground, especially in the shaded areas.

  This was the rear of the hotel. It faced what she guessed might be a charming garden in the summer. Her focus fell upon a lone figure standing with his hands clasped behind his back and his head turned upward, staring at the star-strewn sky.

  Baxter.

  What was it about that man that called to her?

  As if sensing her perusal, he slowly turned and stared up at her window. She didn’t move away or pretend maidenly shyness. He’d caught her staring at him again, yet somehow, she thought that rather pleased him.

  A small cloud drifted over the moon, dousing the silvery light, and she squinted into the darkness.

  He was gone.

  She sighed and let the draperies slide shut once more.

  Tomorrow they would leave.

  Would it be too forward or fast to ask him if they might correspond?

  She’d just pulled the bedcoverings back when a soft scratching sounded at her door, so faint that she thought she’d misheard.

  It came again.

  Had Aunt Emily’s condition worsened?

  On bare feet, she ventured near but instead of throwing the door open, acquiesced to caution. Being attacked did that to a person. “Who is it?”

  “Baxter. I know it’s late, but what I have to say cannot wait until tomorrow. Can I come in for a minute, please?”

  Firmly shoving prudence and good sense aside, Justina turned the lock then pressed the handle and opened the door just enough for him to slip inside.

  “Make haste,” she whispered, trying not to notice he wore only his boots, trousers, and a fine lawn shirt open at the neck, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  Baxter stepped near and drew a tendril of her hair over her shoulder. “I have to leave before dawn. There’s an issue at one of my businesses.” He has other businesses? “I only received word directly before we dined tonight.”

  Hence his tardiness.

  “I would like permission to call on ye when I return. I ken it’s sudden, and we dinna ken each other.”

  There was that melodious burr again.

  Justina couldn’t contain her smile. “Isn’t that what calling on me is for? So that we can come to know each other better?”

  “Aye, lass. It is.” He wrapped those indecently muscled arms around her, edging her nearer and nearer until a scant couple of inches separated them. “Then I have yer permission?”

  Justina smiled up at him. “You do, although Aunt Emily might not agree.”

  “Give me yer direction. Yer aunt can hardly boot me onto the street when I sound the knocker.”

  He didn’t know Aunt Emily.

  “I’ll leave it with Mr. Bixby,” Justina said, astonished at the throaty quality of her voice.

  “I canna just let ye go.” Having slipped into his brogue, Baxter pressed his mouth to the crown of her head. “I dinna ken what this is between us, but I’ve never felt anythin’ like it, Justina.”

  “Me either,” she whispered, trying and failing to ignore the springy hair visible where his shirt gaped open. Tilting her head upward, she met his blazing gaze and recognized her own need in his eyes.

  “Kiss me, Baxter.”

  Chapter Six

  Baxter was only too happy to oblige. He’d been semi-erect since this afternoon. Now that he had Justina in his arms, his loins once more ached with the desire to take her. In her diaphanous nightgown, the filmy fabric barely concealing her womanly charms, she was Aphrodite and Freya and Venus all wrapped into one tantalizing, fascinating, remarkable woman.

  And by damn, he wanted her.

  God above, how he wanted her.

  But he craved more than her lush body beneath his, on top of his, and in another half a dozen ways or more. There was a scintillating connection between him and Justina that went beyond physical attraction, and he was convinced she felt it too. Even if she didn’t understand precisely what it was.

  Justina Farthington was not a woman of loose virtue or lax moral character. He’d seen her struggling against Howlette for all she was worth to preserve her virtue. And yet here she was, in Baxter’s embrace, eagerly returning his kisses, her enthusiasm making up for her inexperience.

  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she hadn’t a lot of practice kissing, and that knowledge inflamed him further. With a low, possessive sound deep in his throat, he tightened his arms, urging Justina nearer still.

  Her little sighs and moans told him she was as overcome with passion as he.

  This woman was his.

  His!

  Baxter felt it in the very marrow of his bones.

  His tongue swept hers as he trailed a hand over the plump perfection of one buttock before spanning his palm over the other delectable mound.

  She arched into him, her soft belly pressing against the rigid, aching length in his trousers. He groaned, angling Justina so he could trail hot kisses over her ivory neck and to the hollow at the juncture of her throat that had driven him crazy for days.

  Inhaling, he tried to memorize her scent, to draw it inside him until it seared his very spirit. Oh, he’d bedded equally beautiful, voluptuous women before, but none had touched his soul, marking him as hers, as surely as if she’d branded him with her initials.

  Justina’s pebbled nipples th
rust against the delicate fabric of her gown as she instinctively rubbed against him. His bollocks filled with blood, the swelling almost unbearable.

  Excruciating bliss.

  Agonizing ecstasy.

  Christ on the blessed cross.

  Baxter was nigh on to exploding in his trousers, and they hadn’t progressed beyond kissing. What would it be like to take Justina fully? Have her naked and hungry and wet for him? Her breasts exposed and her legs parted, awaiting his entry? His possession?

  With a half-moan, half groan, he gradually eased away from her, all the while playing his fingers lightly over her curves. He couldn’t stop touching her, and it both thrilled and scared the hell out of him. No woman had ever affected him thus.

  His carnal encounters had always been with willing, experienced females who craved a physical release. And even the most practiced of those women, some with skills that a demimonde would envy, hadn’t ever driven him to the point of spilling his seed before he’d even freed his cock from its tight confines.

  But this woman with her alabaster skin, pale green eyes, silky almond brown hair ribboned with golden and ashen streaks, and the two plump, kissable pillows of her mouth…

  Breathing raggedly, he grudgingly lifted his lips from hers and gave her one, two, three tender, quick kisses. Did she have to taste so damned, irresistibly sweet? He was like a drunkard who couldn’t drink enough ale or rum, always needing—craving—more. More. More.

  “Baxter?” she said shakily, her voice sultry and thick with desire. “My bed…?”

  By God, she was offering herself to him.

  A prized, unexpected gift he must refuse.

  Och, I must.

  It might very well kill him.

  He gritted his teeth and prayed to God, all the saints, and even a few other deities to give him the strength to do what he had to. Deny her tempting offer. When he took Justina Farthington to bed, it would be as his wife, and when he could take as much time as he wanted to introduce her to the pleasures of the flesh.

  That brought a satisfied grin to his mouth.

  He didn’t give a bloody damn that they’d only known each other mere days.