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 thrust 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.
This was more than lust or desire.
It was a connection of spirits—one soul recognizing its mate against all odds.
“I canna, lass.” Baxter couldn’t say all of the other things, wildly stupid and impetuous things on the tip of his tongue.
Disappointment pooled in her gorgeous green eyes, still slightly glazed with passion. She bit her lower lip—red and plump and moist—and after a moment, averted her gaze while giving a stiff nod. “I…I understand.”
No, she didn’t. Not in the least.
He almost laughed aloud but feared he’d further humiliate her.
He’d be bound, Justina erroneously believed he didn’t want her.
God help him; nothing was farther from the truth. But if Baxter didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t be able to, and he did have to leave before dawn tomorrow. He’d not love Justina, make her his, and leave her for weeks, wondering if he was sincere in his protestations. Fretting she’d given her virtue to a charlatan. Worried she might be with child.
Even in this short time, she meant too much to him to do that to her.
“I shall call upon you, Justina, when I return from Lancashire. My intentions toward you are honorable. I vow it.”
He knew next to nothing about the woman gazing at him so intently and slightly vulnerable as well. Aye, she was gently-bred and as refined as any lady he’d encountered in a haut ton ballroom. Her comportment was without flaw, and she was witty and kind and intelligent.
But he didn’t know anything about her family, her past, or even what activities she enjoyed other than reading and feeding his birds.
I can discover all of that later.
What mattered was that he not lose this opportunity to make his interest clearly known, for whatever this was between them was rare and precious and should never, ever be disregarded. The caution and reason he was renowned for seemed to have flown to the farthest corners of the earth. And to his consternation and astonishment, he didn’t give ten damns.
The Baxter Bathhurst, Duke of San Sebastian, of a week ago would’ve had apoplexy at such a ludicrous notion.
With his forefinger, he lifted her chin inch by inch until her eyes, those mesmerizing pools of green, met his. Dark blue-green rimmed her irises, and the palest yellow-green circled her pupils.
A trace of indecision crinkled the corners of her eyes the merest bit.
“Believe me, please.”
My God, he was practically begging her. Him, the Duke of San Sebastian, who’d never begged for anything.
Her eyes wide and her mouth slightly parted, Justina searched his face. Her expression cleared, her eyebrows relaxing, and serenity settled upon her delicate features.
“I do believe you, Baxter.”
And she did.
He could see the trust in her guileless countenance, and that faith in him humbled Baxter.
“Let’s see you to bed, then,” he said. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be away, but I cannot imagine it will be more than a week. Plus, travel time, of course.”
A persistent grin tipped his mouth.
She nodded, and he couldn’t help notice her elegant neck again. How could the sloping column of her neck be so arousing? Because it beckoned a man to look lower, to the round perfection of her shoulders and the seductive swell of breasts beneath the wholly inadequate fabric of her nightgown.
“That will give me time to tell Aunt Emily and for her to become accustomed to the idea.” A winsome smile teased the corners of her mouth.
He cocked his head. “Do you think she’ll be opposed to me courting you?”
Honestly, Baxter hadn’t considered that.
They dinna ken ye’re a duke.
And he wanted to keep it that way for a while longer. Naturally, Justina would have to know eventually, but not yet. Baxter had to be convinced she wished to be with him because of who he was and for no other reason.
To Justina and Emily Grenville, he was merely a hotel proprietor. Not a disrespectable vocation by any means, but to those who aspired for loftier positions, anyone who worked for a living was inferior—smelled of the shop.
Truth be told, Mrs. Grenville wasn’t even aware of his Scottish heritage. That, in and of itself, caused many of the ton to lift their haughty noses when he encountered them. As if he trod past with fresh horse manure clinging to his boots.
And yet, Justina had been fascinated by the knowledge that he was Scottish.
After guiding her to her bed and seeing her tucked beneath the plush coverlet, he sat beside her. He took her delicate hand in his. “I know this is happening fast, but I shan’t rush you. I’ll call upon you in Bristol, and we’ll see where this attraction between us goes. If you are agreeable, that is.”
She must be.
Justina’s mouth went slack before joy ignited in her eyes, radiating outward and lighting her face. She squeezed his hand. “It is fast. But I, for one, believe in love at first sight or short acquaintance. I know it’s not common, but I am convinced it is real, nonetheless.”
Love?
Who said anything about love?
She must’ve sensed Baxter’s hesitancy for in all honesty, he couldn’t say he loved her. Not yet, in any event. She withdrew her hand, acute embarrassment evident in her strained features, the color tinging her cheeks, and her refusal to meet his gaze.
“I’ve spoken out of turn. Forgive me.” She scooted farther beneath the bedcoverings, pulling them to beneath her chin. A fabric shield to ward off her discomfit. “I’m very tired, Baxter, and need my rest. We’re leaving tomorrow as well.”
Dammit.
She’d retreated into herself, donning a mask of neutrality and politesse.
“Justina, I meant no offense.”
“None was taken,” she said softly.
Little liar.
Unable to help himself, Baxter brushed his hand across her smooth forehead then fingered a lock of silky hair. The color was unusual, shifting and changing, depending on the light. In the muted glow of the candle, her hair shone like warm honey.
“Dinna forget to leave yer address with Bixby. I’d no’ relish havin’ to knock upon every door in Bristol to find ye.”
She giggled, and the tension of a moment before dissipated. “You wouldn’t. Not really.”
“Ye dinna ken me, Justina. I would. When I put my mind to somethin’, I’m no’ easily dissuaded.”
The tiniest furrow crinkled her brow as if she wasn’t positive what to make of his declaration.
For a gem such as she, Baxter would bang upon every door in England and Scotland.
Baxter kissed her again, a tender sweep of his lips across hers.
It was as much a vow, a promise he’d seek her out after he’d attended to his duties, as much as a token of affection. Too many people depended on him for their well-being for him to ignore the problem. His overseer wouldn’t have contacted Baxter if the situation hadn’t been urgent.
Yet this reluctan
ce to leave Justina Farthington, a woman he’d known but a week made him wish, for once, he could cast his responsibilities aside. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he would not. It wasn’t his nature, and so he quirked his mouth into a tender smile.
“Good night, leannan.”
“Leannan?” She tried the unfamiliar word. “That’s Scots? What does it mean?”
“I’ll tell you the next time I see you.”
After another lingering taste of her delectable lips, he blew out the candle and left her chamber. His cock protested by throbbing painfully, but Baxter couldn’t check his broad smile as he sought his own room.
He hadn’t seriously considered marrying so soon.
In truth, he’d spent a great deal of time avoiding the Marriage Mart. How fortunate could a man be that the perfect woman literally showed up on his doorstep? And most conveniently was stranded there during a snowstorm?
If Baxter believed in Divine Providence—which, of course, he didn’t—he just might be persuaded he’d somehow earned God’s favor.
A wry chuckle escaped him at his fanciful musings.
What was it his mother used to say?
Och, aye. The Lord helps those who help themselves.
An hour later, as Baxter lay naked in his oversized bed, his hands clasped beneath his head, he stared up at the dark green canopy. The fire’s capering flames cast irregular, elongated shadows onto the half-open bed curtains.
When should he tell Justina he held a title?
Very little chance existed that she’d learn that truth on her own. Therefore, he’d take his time and woo her. Not too much time, however.
Ah, Christ.
He exhaled a frustrated breath.
Why had he given his word he’d attend the Sutcliffes’ Christmastide house party?
Because Pennington, Bainbridge, and Pembroke were pains in the arse who wouldn’t take no for an answer. They believed Baxter worked too much and that he needed to take a holiday.
What sane man, in God’s name, would choose to holiday in Essex in December?
Blast and damn.
Between the machinery issues at the textile factory and the holiday festivities, he’d have little time to court Justina.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 6
