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

by Collette Cameron

  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 business 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 au
nt.

  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.

  Baxter Bathhurst was not only Scottish, but the rapscallion was also the Duke of San Sebastian. He’d conveniently forgotten to mention that critical detail. Not once had he hinted that he held a title, the rotter. No wonder he’d failed to keep his promise. He’d been hiding a rather large secret.

  He was a duke.

  Just what this assemblage needed—another bloody duke!

  Chagrin and anger and hurt all vied for dominance, swirling inside her, a maelstrom of emotions. Taking a deep breath, Justina strove for equanimity as she set her teacup upon the table with a steadiness that surprised but pleased her.

  Tucking her fingers beneath her skirts, she curled them into claws.

  Justina wanted to hit him.

  Slap his handsome, arrogant face for making a fool of her—for so cruelly toying with her affections.

  My God!

  She’d kissed him. Allowed him unspeakable liberties.

  Wonderful liberties.

  Her blood burned hot at the intrusive memory, and shame wasn’t entirely to blame.

  “Justina, dearest?” Distantly, as if through a cloying haze, she heard Aunt Emily say her name.

  How fast could Justina pack?

  Could their carriage be readied in ten minutes? Five?

  Forget packing.

  The clothes on her back would suffice quite nicely. She’d send for her things later.

  Once she’d escaped and her every breath wasn’t labored and her every heartbeat a lancing pain.

  “Mrs. Grenville. What an unexpectant but pleasant surprise,” Baxter said, that mesmerizing touch of brogue washing over Justina like sweet, warm chocolate.

  Could one drown in chocolate?

  Throat tight and lightheaded, she very much felt like she was drowning. Placing a palm on her ribcage, she felt the irregular cadence of her breathing.

  In and out. In and out. That’s it.

  “And Miss Justina Farthington.”

  Was it her imagination or had a possessive, caressing inflection entered the timbre of his voice?

  Caressing?

  Oh, my God, Justina. Collect your scattered wits and be gone.

  “You are acquainted with his grace, Justina?” Ophelia asked the obvious question, two neat lines puzzling her forehead. The inquisitive glance she leveled Justina fairly shouted, “You’ve been keeping secrets, Justina Farthington.”

  Justina sent Nicolette and Rayne a desperate look.

  Utter befuddlement was stamped upon their features. Of course, they’d help her in a blink if only they knew how.

  Baxter, damn his gorgeous eyes, stood beside her now, and she couldn’t help but notice the drawing room’s excruciatingly lengthy and painful silence or that all eyes keenly watched their exchange.

  “Only very slightly,” Justina said, lifting her chin. “So slightly, in fact, to not count or be remarked upon at all.”

  So there. Make of that what you will, Your Grace.

  “That is not my recollection,” he replied silkily. “I remember it quite clearly, and it was most memorable.”

  Her friends’ gazes bored into her as heat flamed across her cheeks.

  Oooh, now Justina really did want to hit him.

  To clobber him soundly—box his ears.

  To wipe that self-assured expression from his handsome face and the humorous glint from his knowing eyes.

  Summoning every ounce of gumption she possessed, Justina slowly rose and met his probing gaze and those warm, tempting caramel-brown eyes.

  One can definitely drown in caramel and not mind it in the least.

  The inane thought only further fueled her wrath.

  She shouldn’t be noticing his eyes or his voice or the angles of his face. Nor the way his superfine black coat fit his ridiculously broad shoulders and chest to perfection.

  And all the while, his gaze remained open and inviting.

  She had no doubt, fury and betrayal sparked in her eyes. Dipping into a curtsy that would’ve had the patronesses at Almacks applauding, she murmured, unable to keep the note of contempt from her tone, “Your Grace.”

  Scapegrace was more like it.

  Codpated cabbage head.

  Liar.

  A monologue of much worse expletives marched along inside her head. She’d save those invectives for the privacy of her bedchamber where she might pummel a pillow to perdition as well.

  Betrayed. Wholly and utterly betrayed. Eviscerated. The pain and humiliation nearly doubled her over.

  And yet, Justina must hold her head up, keep her spine straight and pretend as if everything in the universe was right. That her whole world hadn’t just tipped off of its bloody damn axis. That the man standing so close to her that his essence drifted to her nostrils hadn’t shredded her stupid, gullible heart.

  God, the sweets Justina had so enjoyed earlier roiled in her belly, and nausea crept up the back of her throat. Swallowing hard, she willed the contents of her stomach to remain where they were.

  Theadosia might be the epitome of graciousness, but even she would be hard put to remain so should Justina cast up her accounts on the expensive Aubusson carpet.

  “Please, excuse me.” Mustering all of her composure, and with the aplomb of a queen, Justina swept past Baxter without another glance and made for the door.

  “Justina?” Aunt Emily and her friends chorused behind her, their voices a mixture of concern, distress, astonishment, and perhaps a tinge of curiosity too.

  “Whatever is going on?” one of the men queried.

  Perhaps one of those two fellows she’d never met before, the Earl of Keyworth or Kingston Barclay, the presumptive heir to another bloody dukedom.

  Just as Justina grasped her ivory and ocean-blue skirts to pelt to her chamber like a wounded fox chased by zealous hounds, Baxter said, “I must speak with her.”

  Perfect. Reveal to all and sundry that there was something—had been—something between her and Baxter.

  “I think not!” Aunt Emily clipped out, each syllable razor-edged, and her tone frostier than the Austrian Alps in January.

  Indeed, he would not, Justina vowed, her teeth clamped to keep from spinning on her satin-slippered heels and telling him to go the devil.

  “In fact, I absolutely forbid it,” her aunt declared, which—blast it to Hades—would only serve to pique the interest of every person present all the more.

  Justina’s friends wouldn’t rest until they had extracted every minuscule detail from her. And she simply could not share something so intimate.

  Perchance she’d skip calling for a coach altogether.

  Yes, she’d fetch a horse from the stables.

  Wasn’t there an inn three or four miles away? Anything to avoid Baxter an
d the guaranteed inquisition she’d face from her friends if she didn’t escape at once.

  Something very near a growl of frustration reverberated in her throat.

  No, she couldn’t leave Aunt Emily to face everyone alone, more was the pity.

  Her gown held indecently high, Justina took the stairs two at a time. She simply could not spend another second in the same room with him and maintain her composure.

  Once in her chamber, she locked the door before flopping onto her back onto the bed.

  Oh, the cad.

  The charlatan.

  It had all been a lie.

  The kiss. The caresses. The whispers. The vows.

  Lies. Lies. All lies.

  Turning onto her side, Justina pulled a pillow to her chest and tucked her knees up. Burying her face in the fine cloth, smelling slightly of honeysuckle, she let the tears come.

  When, exactly, had she given her heart to a duke?

  Chapter Ten

  Baxter swallowed the oath tapping at the back of his teeth.

  He could hardly dash after Justina without giving rise to unwanted speculation. He didn’t know most of the guests beyond a mere acquaintance, and by damn, he wasn’t going to have anyone slinging mud upon her reputation. Although, these people appeared more concerned for her welfare than bent on conjectures about what had just occurred.

  The dinner gong pealed, and the Duchess of Sutcliffe motioned for her guests to precede her. After giving her adoring spouse a speaking glance and receiving a nod in response, she sailed directly toward Baxter.

  Mouth pulled tight, Mrs. Grenville stabbed him with an icy glare. “I should check on my niece,” she informed her hostess.

  “I think, perhaps, Emily, Justina wants time alone. I shall have a tray and a bath sent up. A hot toddy as well.” The duchess curved her mouth into a sympathetic smile.

  Mrs. Grenville shot him another speculative glance then tilted her head in agreement. “Perhaps you are right. I’ll speak with her before I retire.”

  Kingston Barclay approached, standing a respectable distance away so as to not intrude upon the conversation. “I would be honored to escort you into dinner, Mrs. Grenville.”

  With another starchy glance at Baxter, she accepted Barclay’s arm. Since neither held a title, they were amongst the last to go through to dinner.