Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2)

by Collette Cameron

  Little puffs of air floating from his much too alluring and well-formed mouth as he repeatedly inserted the broad, flat shovel into the snow and then heaved the load to the side gave testament to the frigid temperature outdoors.

  Inside the conservatory, heated pipes kept the space quite comfortable. Should Justina require it, a knitted emerald-colored afghan lay draped across the arm of a nearby sofa. Two more were stacked upon a nearby table.

  Naturally, neither were necessary during the warmer months when, she imagined, the space might feel as tropical as it looked with all of the shrubs, plants, and citrus trees.

  The occasional squawk of a bird rent the tranquility every now and again, but she’d become so accustomed to the birds’ sounds, she scarcely noticed any longer. In point of fact, she rather liked the chirps and chatter, and a desire to explore the places where these birds had originated swept her.

  Baxter tossed another shovel of heavy snow with the ease of one emptying a dustbin.

  Wasn’t he cold?

  He swiped a forearm across his forehead.

  Well, perhaps not, given the rigorousness of the activity. It somewhat surprised Justina that, as the owner of the hotel, he didn’t think himself above physical labor. She had been introduced to gentlemen and peers that she was convinced didn’t even prepare their own toothbrushes.

  As if sensing her perusal, Baxter glanced up, and a slow, devilish grin tilted his firm mouth upward. He winked—the wicked man actually winked!—before returning to his task.

  A tremor, much like the one that had skittered up Justina’s spine when he’d taken her in his arms to dance the other night, caused her to shudder again.

  She could still feel his iron-like arms embracing her, smell the masculine scent of his cologne—something woodsy-mossy with a hint of cloves and leather—and see the faintest dark stubble on his jaw. She closed her eyes, savoring the memory, the feel of his legs brushing hers as they waltzed, how they moved in such perfect timing, swaying and dipping—

  No! Cease this instant!

  Justina popped her eyelids open and clapped the book shut, setting it aside as she lowered her feet to the floor. After donning her slippers, she considered joining Aunt Emily in the spa, but then upon further consideration, decided against it.

  She’d satisfied her curiosity about taking the cure the day after their arrival. Truth be told, the experience had left much to be desired. Guests were offered an earthy tasting, cloudy water. They relaxed upon chaise lounges, sipping the less than appetizing beverage. If one wished, a bath in the mineral water could also be arranged.

  Justina wrinkled her nose.

  No, thank you very much.

  It was said the waters were a cure for a myriad of ailments, including leprosy and infertility. But as Justina boasted a strong constitution and had seldom been sick with so much as a head cold her entire life, she’d eschewed the experience.

  She had no interest in visiting the acclaimed Bath Pump Room at a later date either.

  Aunt Emily had indulged in taking the waters and a bath but had declared a rather annoying film had stuck to her skin afterward, and she feared she smelled like rotten eggs. That was the salt in the chloride, Baxter had explained. The minerals were the cause of the murky tint to the waters as well.

  How did a simple hotelier know such a specific detail?

  Well, he did own a spa, and it did seem reasonable he’d educate himself about the history of the hot spring, Justina supposed.

  A gorgeous blue macaw named Romero cocked his head and lifted a foot, his version of a wave. He then billed the latch to his cage, more of a good-sized rectangular pen.

  Ah, he wanted out.

  Baxter had shown her which of the birds were permitted to fly about the greenhouse as long as the doors were firmly shut. Astonishingly, some of the birds returned to their cages when they needed to relieve themselves, for which she was most grateful.

  Once Justina had checked the outer door to assure it was shut tight, she made her way to the other, which opened into a small covered courtyard that led to the main house. Before she reached the doorway, however, Godfrey Howlette swaggered into the conservatory.

  Had he been drinking this early in the day?

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d imbibed before the midday meal. The man tottered about half-pished most of the time. What was more, he ogled her in a most disconcerting fashion as well. This, however, was the first occasion they’d been alone together, and at once unease prickled her skin and took to wing in her belly.

  It was also the first time he’d actually ventured into the greenhouse while she’d been a guest at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa.

  Had he sought her out, knowing she’d be alone?

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Farthington.” His mouth pinching in distaste, he cast a fleeting glance at the birds. So his venturing here wasn’t out of any admiration for the flora or fauna. “I wondered where you’d hidden yourself away these past few days.”

  Retreating to the center of the room to put more space between herself and Mr. Howlette, who had the disgusting habit of staring at her bosoms while running his tongue over his lower lip, she squared her shoulders.

  “I assure you, I am not hiding away, Mr. Howlette.” Boorish buffoon. “I am simply particular about whose company I keep.”

  In an instant, his affable expression transformed into annoyance.

  “I do hope you aren’t referring to me,” he remarked casually as he closed the door behind him with a distinct and rather portentous snick. “I am the nephew of an earl,” he informed her with an air of great self-importance, his nose elevated in a haughty manner.

  La de da.

  A thread of unease traipsed across Justina’s shoulders, and she speared a glance at the window where she’d seen Baxter shoveling snow earlier.

  Drat and blast.

  He was gone.

  She’d hoped… Well, she didn’t know precisely what she’d expected.

  Yes, she did.

  She’d hoped he’d notice what was occurring in the greenhouse and save her from this wretched man.

  “Mr. Howlette, unfortunately”—fortunately for me—“you’ve caught me just as I was leaving.” Romero’s exercise would have to wait, poor bird. “My aunt is expecting me.”

  Howlette advanced toward her, his movements predatory and calculating, a smug smile quirking the edges of his too-full lips.

  “Justina,” he drawled with an alarming gleam in his gaze. “May I call you Justina? It’s such a lovely name.” A shudder of revulsion rippled through her. “We are rather like a family here at Bathhurst, are we not? Dining together, seeing one another all day, sleeping under the same roof.”

  The way he said sleeping raised her hackles, and she’d wager her virtue that his lewd gaze sank to her bosoms before she counted to three.

  One, two…

  His lascivious focus slid to her breasts again.

  “No, you may not. And no, we assuredly are not,” Justina snapped.

  She made to move past him, but the boor stepped in front of her. She stepped to the left and, once again, he blocked her way, that oily smile yet skewing his mouth.

  “What childish game do you play?” Thoroughly miffed with his machinations, she planted her hands on her hips. “As I already said, my aunt is expecting me. I am tardy in meeting her as it is.”

  God forgive her for that little taradiddle.

  Howlette’s smile grew slyer still. “I know for a fact that your aunt is having a lie-down. She has the headache and retired to her chamber nearly half an hour ago.”

  And this unscrupulous rat took the opportunity to seek me out.

  “Then all the more reason for me to go to her.”

  What was the rotter about?

  Was she going to have to be rude?

  Howlette stepped nearer, so near Justina could smell the spirits he’d been imbibing, as well as sweat and a whiff of garlic. Nonetheless, she resisted the urge to back away.r />
  This churl would not intimidate her.

  She couldn’t, however, prevent her nostrils from flaring or narrowing her eyes.

  “From the moment I laid eyes upon you, Justina Farthington, I knew there was something special between us.” He brazenly traced a finger along her jaw, his attention once more trained on her bodice. “I’m sure we can find a pleasurable way to relieve the godawful tedium of being housebound.”

  “You go beyond the mark, sir.” She jerked her face away and beat a tactical retreat as she furtively sought a weapon of some sort. The fireplace was too far away to avail herself of the poker.

  How much damage could an apple thrown at his head do?

  Not enough.

  He pursued her, advancing a menacing step for everyone one she took backward.

  “If you do not let me pass, I shall scream.”

  Grabbing her upper arms, he hauled her to him, wrenching a gasp from her. He ground his hips into hers before smiling lecherously. “I like it when my women scream.”

  What the devil?

  “I beg your pardon?”

  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 anni
hilate 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.”