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

by Collette Cameron

  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 warrior, 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 ne
rves.

  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.

  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.