Wedding Her Christmas Duke: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  His relief evident, he procured a neatly folded rectangle and waved it back and forth. “I hired a new maid to take Edie’s place. She must’ve taken it upon herself to dust or organize my desk.” A capital crime, indeed. “I shall speak to her again.”

  Something near giddiness whipped through Baxter. “I’ll be departing for Bristol after I break my fast and speak with Swern. When he arrives, have Coyle show him to my office, but do not leave the blackguard alone in there. Given a chance, he’ll rob us blind.”

  His thoughts already on Justina, Baxter turned in the direction of the dining room, hungrier than he’d realized until just now. If he weren’t mistaken, he smelled tattie scones and sausage. Mrs. Felton was a priceless treasure. She always seemed to sense when he craved a taste of Scotland.

  Heavy, uneven footfall sounded on the porch before the hotel’s front door burst open. Emmet Swern plowed in, face flushed and fairly growling, “Your finally back, you bloody, ruttin’ bastard.”

  Baxter barely had time to turn around before Swern was upon him, fury spewing from his eyes, the reek of strong drink radiating from every oversized pore.

  Distracted with musings of Justina, Baxter blinked in surprise then ducked too late to avoid the meaty fist that landed squarely upon his jaw.

  Jesus and Joseph.

  He flew backward, landing hard on his arse.

  Outrage replaced his warmer emotions as he winced against the ache in his jaw. No doubt about it. The blow would leave a large bruise.

  “I say,” Bixby exclaimed, coming around the counter, prepared to defend Baxter, though he was a full two feet shorter than Swern.

  Coyle and Perkins pounded in from the corridor, expressions fierce as each bolted to Baxter’s side and took up defensive stances.

  Growling, low in their throats, Duke and Princess pelted into the entry. Teeth bared, they hovered near the doorway, their black eyes fixed upon Swern.

  “Sit,” Baxter said.

  The dogs obediently sank to their haunches, but their wary gazes flickered between him and Swern.

  Touching his jaw, moving it gingerly from side to side to test if it was cracked, Baxter found his feet. Not broken but assuredly bruised. Swern was built like a bull and possessed the same obstinate, unpredictable temperament.

  “If you leave now, Swern, I shan’t have you brought up on charges,” Baxter said slowly and deliberately, taking the man’s measure.

  “Charges?” Swern sneered, wiping his nose on the back of his soiled sleeve. “You got me Edie wif child.” He sniffed loudly, clenching his ham fists again. “I demand recom…recom…” he stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “Recom-pen-see. She was to marry another.”

  Likely a decrepit or debaucher that Swern owed a favor too. Or money. Mayhap both.

  Nostrils twitching, for the blacksmith also stank of stale sweat and unwashed body, Baxter eyed the other man. He’d never liked him. Loud, arrogant, and opinionated, the sot bullied his wife, children, and neighbors. Half of his customers too, which was why he found himself with so few of them.

  God’s teeth, no wonder the couple had eloped.

  “I never touched your daughter, Swern.” Baxter never dallied with his female employees. To do so was an abuse of power and utterly contemptible. “If she was in the family way, then I’ll wager Becker fathered the child. It was plain to see they were in love.”

  “Bullshit,” Swern swore savagely, spittle clinging to the right corner of his mouth.

  “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Swern,” Baxter warned.

  “I’ve lived in these parts the better part of four decades, Bathhurst. You’ve only been here for three years. Who do you think the locals will believe?”

  Sanctimonious bastard.

  Swern puffed out his chest and jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, confident he had Baxter backed into a corner. “I’ll keep me mouth shut fer five hundred pounds.”

  “That’s robbery,” Bixby gasped, looking from Baxter to Swern and then to Baxter once more. “And extortion.” He peered up at Baxter. “Should I send for the magistrate?”

  “No need.” Baxter straightened his mussed waistcoat, then turned his steeliest stare upon Swern. “If I ever fathered a child, I would take full responsibility for it and ensure it never wanted for anything. But as I already said, I never laid a finger on Edie, and I’ll wager she never suggested I did, either.”

  A guilty flush stole up Swern’s already ruddy cheeks. He puffed them out, his mud-brown eyes narrowing menacingly.

  The bugger likely wanted the coin for more whisky. And Swern would blackmail Baxter for the rest of his life if he paid a single crown now to bridle his loose tongue.

  “Well, she’s not here to say one way or t’other, is she?” Swern snarled. “So I suggest you pay up. Rumors are ugly things, Bathhurst.” A smug smile contorted his mouth and fleshy, unshaven cheeks. He pulled on his ear as if imparting some great revelation. “They’ve been known to ruin a person’s life. How many guests do you think would stay at your hotel when word gets out that you violate your female servants? Would any lady feel safe staying here?”

  “Given your penchant for drink and your tarnished reputation, you really aren’t very bright, threatening me.” Baxter jerked his chin toward the door. “Leave now, and I’ll forget this unpleasantness ever happened.”

  Swern swallowed, a glint of uncertainty flickering his scheming gaze. “It’s yer word against mine,” he said, all belligerent bravado.

  Bollocks to that.

  Baxter had had enough.

  Every minute he wasted talking to this drunkard was one which kept him from Justina and explaining his tardiness to her. He stalked closer to Swern, every step predatory as he struggled to keep his wrath in check until he stood directly in front of Edie’s hostile father. Baxter had the height advantage, but the squat blacksmith with cudgels for arms outweighed him by at least four stone.

  Leaning down, Baxter enunciated each clipped word in perfect aristocratic English. “No, you opportunistic cretin. It is the word of a pished blacksmith against the Duke of San Sebastian.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ridgewood Court

  Colchester, Essex, England

  December 22, 1810

  Ensconced in Ridgewood Court’s expensively but tastefully decorated drawing room, Justina couldn’t stop smiling between sips of simply divine India tea. Her dearest friends Ophelia Breckensole, Gabriella, Duchess of Pennington, Jessica, Duchess of Bainbridge, Nicolette, Duchess of Pembroke, and Rayne Wellbrook surrounded her.

  She’d sampled several exquisite dainties and biscuits, too, but resisted further indulgence. The excess of delicious foods and treats throughout the house party would have her gaining half a stone if she weren’t diligent.

  “I vow,” Jessica said, patting her tummy as she sent her sister a fond look, “Thea’s goal is to fatten all of us up.”

  As always, Theadosia had outdone herself. She positively adored entertaining.

  Bows of greenery and holly, festooned with red, silver, and gold ribbons, adorned every room. Several kissing boughs and mistletoe twigs, those also beribboned, dangled from doorways inviting clandestine kisses. Clove oranges sat in crystal bowls, adding more delicious aromas to the already fragrant house.

  The remaining guests would arrive this afternoon, and everyone but the late arrivals had gathered for tea this afternoon. Everyone would gather for dinner, however.

  Across the room, several gentlemen, most of whom she knew quite well but a few she hadn’t previously met, spoke animatedly about the horse race tomorrow. Quite magnanimously, they’d offered to allow any ladies who were up for the challenge to join them. The American heiress, Sophronie Slater, had boldly dared to wager she’d win the race.

  Justina considered the vivacious strawberry blonde whom she quite admired. Sophronie just might do it. Surreptitiously so that Aunt Emily wouldn’t catch wind of her brazenness, Justina had bet a whole pound yest
erday that Sophronie would win. Such extravagance was unlike her, but everyone was betting against Sophronie.

  Tobias Forsythe, Duke of Heatherston, had good-naturedly agreed to record the bets while Aunt Emily slid him disapproving sideways glances. She didn’t hold with women racing about the countryside, riding astride in breeches as Sophronie was wont to do. Aunt Emily also frowned upon the current fashion of women gambling—any gambling for that matter.

  Wasteful, frivolous behavior, she’d decreed.

  As they’d never had the coin to spare for such frivolity, Justina felt very recalcitrant indeed. And not just a little guilty for keeping a secret from her beloved aunt.

  Rayne caught Justina’s eye and subtly rolled her eyes in Ophelia’s direction. Their friend, teacup to her lips, avidly peeked at Stanford Bancroft, Duke of Ashford, from beneath her lashes. A slight crease drew her brows together, and it was impossible to determine whether his grace intrigued or peeved her.

  Across the room, the Scottish Duke of Waycross scowled darkly at Sophronie while Aunt Emily studiously disregarded Heatherston, another Scotsman, sitting to her right. Most men, when given Aunt Emily’s cold shoulder, hied on their way, and yet Heatherston glibly remained.

  Either the man was obtuse, or he didn’t mind.

  Or perhaps, he was just stubborn and refused to let Aunt Emily have her way.

  Had Aunt Emily met her match, at last?

  Justina arched a speculative eyebrow.

  Hmm, the next fortnight might prove very interesting, indeed.

  Last year, Everleigh, Rayne’s step-aunt and Griffin, Duke of Sheffield, had fallen madly in love during the Sutcliffes’ holiday house party.

  Who knew?

  Perhaps another young lady would find herself wedding her Christmas duke this year. There certainly were enough of their ducal selves in attendance that any young woman might find herself quite dizzy.

  Fortunately, Justina’s unwed friends were sensible girls, and they’d all spent enough time around peers that they didn’t fawn all over themselves or make calf-eyes at eligible gentlemen. For the benefit of their guests, and to cause less confusion with so many his graces and her graces in attendance, Theadosia had decreed that the duchesses would answer to their first names and the dukes to their titles.

  Society might frown upon such intimacies, but most of these people were good friends, and other than number each duchess and duke, there was little help for it.

  Another reason to avoid marrying a man with a title, Justina concluded with no small amount of satisfaction. She would happily settle for an honest, kind man of common birth.

  A sandy-haired, honey-eyed Scottish hotelier?

  Do be quiet, she chastised her troublesome inner voice.

  That ship had sailed.

  No, that ship had been scuttled and had sunk to the ocean’s deepest depths with no survivors.

  Yes, Justina affirmed to herself, she intended to marry a man who wouldn’t care about her humble birth or her illegitimacy. A man who preferred living outside of London but didn’t mind a visit or two to Towne each year. After all, she’d want to visit her dearest friends on occasion.

  In truth, Justina hadn’t quite decided whether to reveal the murky details of her past to her future husband.

  Heavens.

  Look at her. Contemplating marriage—something Justina hadn’t seriously done before. But as there were no besotted beaus or enamored swains waiting in line to claim her hand, the decision could wait.

  Mayhap would always wait.

  A sliver of doubt wedged itself near her heart.

  There it was again. That annoying but undeniable truth.

  There was no guarantee that she’d wed. In fact, the scales were weighted against the probability. After all, she hadn’t a dowry. Aunt Emily had done well by Justina, but a dowry just wasn’t manageable. Truth be told, spinsterhood wasn’t that farfetched, nor was the notion abhorrent before this unexpected stop in Bath.

  A hard, swift pang stabbed Justina’s heart, leaving her breathless for a long, painful moment. She’d thought Baxter might be the man for her. Their attraction had been so swift and potent.

  Plainly, not as potent for him.

  Fine, she’d not have what she desired this Christmas, but sheer mulishness kept a cheerful smile upon her face.

  Baxter Bathhurst would not taint her enjoyment, the insensitive, dishonest cad.

  But he already has.

  “Will you ride tomorrow, Justina?” Sophronie asked, her blue eyes alight with excitement. The girl adored horses and was quite the most accomplished horsewoman of Justina’s acquaintance.

  Justina shook her head. “No, I’ve not spent enough time in the saddle of late to consider myself worthy.” In point of fact, Aunt Emily didn’t keep a saddle horse, and the only times Justina went riding is when they visited a friend. She sat a saddle well but was by no means accomplished.

  “Rayne, will you?” Sophronie urged, hope making her eyes bright.

  Rayne also shook her head, contrition in her unusual amber-brown gaze. “Regretfully, no. I’ve promised to help plan the parlor games.”

  Disappointment settled onto Sophronie’s features, but she rallied a moment later and smiled her understanding. Poor dear. She might be the only woman daring enough to race with the men.

  “Parlor games?” murmured the Duke of Heatherston, his Scottish brogue deep and melodic and perhaps tinged with a thread of hilarity. Or horror.

  Justina wasn’t sure which.

  “Och, however shall I contain my glee?” he drawled, quirking a reddish eyebrow, a distinctly amused glint in his deep blue eyes. “What shall it be? Blind Man’s Bluff? Hot cockles? The Aviary?”

  Justina bit back a laugh.

  Aunt Emily gave him an acrid glance meant to take him down a peg, which only produced an indolent grin. “Shan’t you be racing neck for nothing, belly to the ground, with the others, Your Grace?” she said far too sweetly.

  Justina barely kept her jaw from sagging at the fascinating exchange.

  “Rest assured, everyone,” Theadosia announced, having overheard the conversation and rushing in to diffuse any awkwardness. “There are plenty of activities for everyone’s enjoyment.”

  True to form, the duchess would ensure her guests’ pleasure—whether they liked it or not.

  “More tea, Justina?” Nicolette asked, her gaze sweeping the room. Newlywed, there was no need to ask whom she searched for. As if sensing her perusal, Mathias, Duke of Westfall, shifted his regard from the Duke of Kincade and winked at his wife.

  A pretty blush tinting her cheeks, Nicolette gave him a beatific smile.

  “Ahem. Yes, more tea would be wonderful,” Justina said, hiding her smile.

  Seeing Nicolette and their other married friends blissfully happy was a bittersweet sensation. As thrilled as Justina was for them—she truly wasn’t so shallow as to be jealous—it served to remind her of what she stupidly believed she might have had with Baxter.

  Even now, thoroughly disenchanted, her thoughts turned to him. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d arrived on her doorstep in Bristol after she’d departed for Colchester.

  Had he been disappointed when she’d not been at home?

  Had he inquired when she would return?

  Was there a plausible excuse for his delay?

  Wishful thinking, Justina.

  Indeed. That was all any of it had ever been.

  Aunt Emily was forever saying if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  Wishes, dreams, fanciful expectations… All led to disappointment and discontent.

  “Ah, there you are, San Sebastian. I’d begun to wonder if you were going to make it after all,” the Duke of Sheffield said. “I understand you’ve had troubles in Lancashire.”

  Lancashire?

  Her back to the entry, Justina scrunched her eyebrows together, resisting the urge to gawk over her shoulder. She supposed it wasn’t so odd that Sheffield’s friend had busines
s in Lancashire. The city was, after all, a hub for industry. If she recalled correctly, Sophronie’s father was also Sheffield’s business partner.

  “Word certainly travels fast.” A droll chuckle accompanied the remark. “You are correct. There were issues with my textile factory that required my attention. However, everything has been set to rights now.”

  Justina froze, her nape hairs rising, and her skin puckering like a plucked goose.

  No. It cannot be.

  She knew that voice.

  She knew that delicious chuckle, as well.

  Oh, God, please don’t let it be him.

  Christmas will be ruined. Ruined!

  She almost shook her head to dislodge the ringing in her ears, and heartily wished she’d not indulged in so many biscuits as her stomach felt rather wretched.

  Aunt Emily gasped and coughed.

  Or had she choked on a sip of tea?

  Justina’s gaze shot to her aunt.

  Features strained, her aunt stared open-mouthed toward the other side of the room. Her delicate China teacup slipped from her fingertips, shattering on the floor and drawing everyone’s attention.

  That was all the confirmation Justina needed.

  Bloody, bloody, maggoty hell.

  Justina permitted her eyelids to drift closed for a heartbeat.

  How could he have known where she was?

  They hadn’t left word with the Tamblings.

  The truth struck her as painfully as a punch to her ribs.

  Baxter hadn’t followed her here.

  He was an invited guest too.

  Sutcliffe’s comment should’ve alerted her, but in truth, she’d been so rattled upon hearing Baxter’s voice, she could scarcely cobble a coherent thought together.

  He doesn’t know I’m here.

  “Oh, dear. Do forgive me, Theadosia,” Aunt Emily managed after marshaling her composure in a rather admirable fashion.

  “I dropped a cup myself last week,” Theadosia graciously assured her as she moved to the bellpull to summon a servant to see to the mess.

  A hole.

  Justina prayed the floor would open up—just a small opening—so she might slip inside before Baxter noticed her.