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

by Collette Cameron

  Randolph considered teasing her—perhaps she intended to get him drunk and then have her way with him—but he knew it was too much to hope for. “You will not mind?” he asked as he stood and moved to the sideboard.

  Xenobia watched as he made his way, his long legs topped with wide thighs covering the distance in only a few strides. Although the tails of his coat hid what was atop those muscular thighs, she imagined he sported a firm bottom. Not the flabby ass Dunsworth had possessed.

  Knowing she had to clear her mind of his person, Xenobia thought to clarify a few things before the buzzing in her brain rendered her mute. “May I ask how it is you know Lady Comber?” He had mentioned it, she was sure. But for some reason, she couldn’t remember the details.

  Randolph turned from the sideboard, the brandy glass held in one hand while the other rested on his hip. He allowed a grin, the very slightest of dimples appearing in his right cheek.

  Xenobia swallowed, struck by how the expression made him seem younger. Not nearly as severe as she had first thought him. His resemblance to Lord Reading was now unmistakeable.

  “As well as anyone can know their best friend’s wife, I suppose,” he hedged. “I have known Alistair Comber for some time because he runs his father-in-law’s stables—the Earl of Mayfield’s stables. I took on the management of one of my father’s London stables when I finished my studies at Oxford.”

  Nodding her understanding, Xenobia angled her body in his direction and asked, “It sounds as if your father’s stables are large. Is there a reason he owns so many horses?” She imagined a man who owned a fleet of hackneys or who provided the horses for the mail coaches.

  Randolph allowed a shrug. “He and my stepmother raise racehorses, actually. My brother sees to the stables in Reading—that’s where most of the Thoroughbreds are—while I see to the horses we use for all the various equipage and the horses we use for riding in the park.”

  Thoughts of his father’s reputation had Xenobia curious. “You’re not following in his footsteps, are you?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  “If you mean by being a rake or... or a rogue, then no, my lady. He, um, he was quite adamant that none of his sons behave as he did,” he stammered. If she’d been a man, he would have mentioned the pasteboard box filled with French letters he’d been given upon the occasion of his sixteenth birthday along with the stern warning they be used.

  A profound relief fell over Xenobia, enough so that she knew she had been far too bold with her queries on this night. “Forgive me for having asked if you would be available to keep a widow company,” she whispered, knowing a blush colored her face.

  Disappointed by her words—Randolph thought she might be about to dismiss him—he said, “There is nothing to forgive, my lady.”

  Once again, Xenobia wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

  However was she going to end this gracefully?

  Randolph returned to his chair. “I do admit to feeling concerned that you would allow me entry into your home when you thought me something else.”

  Xenobia dipped her head. “It was foolish of me, but Julia recommended you so highly. She insisted in her note to me that we meet.”

  Randolph dipped his head. “She was as insistent with me,” he replied, remembering Alistair’s comment that he thought his wife was up to something.

  Matchmaking, he had said, as if to warn him off. Well, there was no doubt of that now.

  Xenobia sighed and remembered why she and James had grown apart those last few years. Never expecting to see her caller again, she asked the question that had bothered her for so long. “Tell me, Mr. Roderick. Since you no longer have a wife, do you then employ a mistress?” She gave her head a shake. “I do not ask to judge you, of course. I merely ask out of... curiosity. And because I think I’m experiencing a bit of brandy brain.”

  Randolph was torn between frowning and chuckling. Lady Dunsworth was proving even the meekest of young matrons could be shocking when she’d consumed a bit of alcohol. “I do not. I... I admit I had thought about it. Once. But I hear tales of how much they cost, and how demanding they can be, and I think I would rather just have a wife.” His gaze had gone to her left hand, where her gold wedding band still graced the base of her fourth finger. “Do you ask because your husband employed one?”

  Xenobia dipped her head again. “The last two years of our marriage. I was terribly jealous of her.”

  Randolph frowned. “Because...?”

  She allowed the latent anger to help keep the tears at bay. “The time he spent with her instead of with me. Doing things with her that he claimed he could not do with me. To me.”

  “Because you were his best friend.”

  All the air seemed to go out of her at once, and her back suddenly settled against the stiff upholstery. His words weren’t an excuse, exactly, but merely a statement of fact. “Yes,” she whispered. “But why? He assured me he did not hurt her.”

  Randolph swallowed, wishing he didn’t have to be the one to explain a man’s desire for dark carnal pleasures. “I have reason to believe it is a consideration among married men who might have more... more carnal appetites than what they think their wives should have to abide,” he tried to explain.

  “That they cannot treat their wives with as much consideration as they do their mistresses?” she countered, her anger once again apparent. “As if they are doing us a favor?”

  “That they cannot do to their wives the unspeakable acts that they can do to their mistresses. Because they pay coin for the privilege,” he shot back, thinking she sounded terribly naive.

  For the first time that evening, Xenobia felt a red-hot flush color her throat and cheeks. The role of a mistress had never been explained in such bald terms before.

  Had James thought her too fragile? Too timid for what he wanted when it came to sexual relations? If so, he had never put voice to his concerns. Never asked her if she would object to more adventurous antics in her bedchamber.

  Or in his.

  The thought had her remembering once again that Julia had been referring to her as the “timid filly” when she had spoken with Mr. Roderick earlier that afternoon.

  Apparently, he had already come to the same conclusion.

  “Is it wrong for me to want... companionship?” she whispered. “Please do not tell me to hire a young woman capable of conversation.”

  Randolph shook his head. “It is not wrong, nor would I suggest a paid companion for you,” he replied. “You are far too young for such an employee.” He paused. “But, besides what you mentioned earlier, what exactly do you want?” He reached for her hand, intending to provide comfort, but he hissed as he took it into his. “Your hand is still cold,” he murmured. He set down his brandy glass and reached over to hold her hand between both of his.

  She nodded. “I cannot seem to get warm this winter,” she replied. “Especially at night. Which is partly why Julia asked you to come, I think.”

  Randolph regarded her for a long moment, his suspicions confirmed. Lady Comber had been acting as a matchmaker, which meant he could do one of two things.

  Take his leave of Lady Dunsworth and never see her again, or make an attempt to get to know the lonely widow. Perhaps take her up on her invitation to spend his Wednesday nights in her company. For drinks and conversation. The quality of the brandy alone would be enough of an incentive for him to return.

  “Would you be amenable to a ride in the park?” he asked.

  Xenobia’s eyes widened. “I... I haven’t been on a horse in an age,” she replied.

  Wincing, Randolph amended the query. “A ride on a phaeton in the park, perhaps? I have a shire in need of exercise as well as the experience of pulling a phaeton by himself.” He had several horses he needed to train, but he couldn’t imagine she’d be interested in riding every day of the week.

  Her face breaking out into a radiant grin, Xenobia dipped her head. “I have only ever ridden on a phaeton once,” she claimed
, deciding it better she not describe Julia’s driving skills—or lack thereof. “It was most exhilarating.”

  “It can be,” he affirmed, a grin once again youthening his appearance. “I will come for you at half-past-three o’clock tomorrow.”

  Xenobia blinked. “And if it is snowing?”

  Randolph shrugged. “Then I suggest you bring an umbrella.”

  With that, he stood while he still held onto her now-warm hand, and brushed his lips over the back of it. “I will see myself out, my lady,” he said. He gave a bow and took his leave of the parlor.

  Xenobia watched as he strode over the threshold. Heard his descent as he made his way down the carpeted stairs. Heard him pause and then climb back up the stairs, as if he might have forgotten something.

  When he reappeared on the parlor threshold, he paused and then said, “Whatever you do, don’t scream.” He crossed to her in three strides, placed his hands on either side of her waist, lifted her to her feet, kissed her quite thoroughly, and then he settled her back in her chair.

  He must have known her legs wouldn’t support her.

  “Why ever would I scream?” she asked in confusion.

  His eyes darting to the side, Randolph finally shrugged and said, “Why, indeed?” He bowed and once again took his leave of the parlor.

  This time, Xenobia wasn’t aware of anything except the sound of the front door closing.

  For the first time in a very long time, she made her way to her bedchamber with a smile on her face.

  A Father’s Secret Revealed

  A few minutes later

  His thoughts scattered in a thousand directions—the two brandies had thoroughly addled his ability to reason—Randolph made his way west in Curzon Street. One topic he could handle was the question of where he would spend the night.

  For a moment back at Bradley House, he knew he would have been welcome to spend the night in Lady Dunsworth’s bedchamber. Her response to his kiss was that enthusiastic. That passionate.

  But he was sure she would be mortified in the morning.

  Even if he left her in the wee hours before dawn, she would spend the entire day wishing a floor would open up and swallow her whole.

  Probably the floor on which she stood when he arrived to take her for the ride in the park at half-past three o’clock.

  Randolph had decided he would spend the night at his father’s townhouse. He had an apartment there, although he rarely used it. He thought it enough that his father’s wife allowed his son to live in the nursery with her son. He didn’t wish to prevail upon his stepmother’s hospitality overmuch.

  And there it was again.

  Stepmother.

  He once again wondered at the brand of brandy that could have him changing six years of thinking in a matter of sixty minutes.

  The butler, Giles, answered the door after only one knock, which had him wondering if the servant had been told to expect him. “Much obliged,” he said as he handed Giles his hat. “Pray tell, do you know if the nursery is quiet on this night?”

  The butler allowed a rare grin. “I’ve not heard a peep from the third story since you took your leave, sir.”

  Embarrassed, Randolph dipped his head. “Has my father retired for the night?”

  Giles said, “He did and then... well, he’s in his study now, sir,” he hedged in hushed tones.

  Randolph frowned, quite sure his father expected to spend the night with Connie in her bedchamber. Had she asked him to leave? “You should retire for the night,” he suggested to the butler. “I can see my way.”

  “You’re not in need of a valet, sir?” Giles countered.

  “Not tonight.” He rarely had the services of such a servant, preferring to shave himself as well as dress himself in the mornings. He did arrange for one to shine his shoes and boots and see to his laundry, however. “I will avail myself of breakfast in the morning, however.”

  “Ah, the master and mistress are usually down by nine o’clock,” Giles replied.

  “Can I expect those in the nursery to be awake before then?”

  The butler allowed a grin. “Undoubtedly.”

  Randolph gave the servant a nod. Although he was used to being up long before nine in the morning, he had a groom and a stableboy who could see to the stables if he wasn’t there.

  He made his way to his father’s study.

  “Ah, I’m so glad you returned here,” Randall said as Randolph peeked around the edge of the open door. “I feared you might take a hackney to your townhouse.”

  “I came in the town coach tonight, but I’m too tired to make the trip to Westminster,” Randolph admitted. “I told Downley to park it in the mews and spend the night with your grooms,” he added, referring to his driver.

  “Glad to hear it,” his father replied as he indicated an overstuffed chair.

  “Which has me wondering why it is you’re not in my stepmother’s bed?”

  Randall sighed. “I plan to return there shortly. But I hoped I might have your company for a few more minutes before you retire. You were gone longer than I expected.”

  “Lady Dunsworth and I had much to discuss,” Randolph replied as he moved to take the chair in front of his father’s massive mahogany desk. “What is it?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “Connie confirmed this evening that she is indeed breeding,” his father stated.

  Randolph allowed a shrug, not the least bit surprised by the comment. He always expected there would be more siblings. “Congratulations.” When Randall didn’t acknowledge the sentiment, his brow furrowed. “Or... or not?”

  “Oh, I am... over the moon, of course,” Randall said, allowing a grin. “But I will be two-and-forty by the time this one is born. Two-and-forty,” he repeated, as if the number were somehow a curse.

  His frown deepening, Randolph moved forward so he was perched on the edge of the chair. “Four years younger than Torrington was when his twins were born,” he countered, hoping he could assuage what he realized was his father second-guessing his mortality. “Grandfather lived to be sixty... sixty-two, did he not?”

  “That’s not the point,” Randall argued, although he couldn’t help the sense of relief that swept over him at learning his oldest son had known Randall’s father.

  His mother would have been the one to have seen to it.

  The fifth Marquess of Reading had been an amiable aristocrat, friendly to all and not the least bit proud while ruling over a huge estate on the edge of Reading. His tenants had been loyal, and his lands had produced crops that could be counted on to keep the coffers full.

  His interest in horse racing, although expensive, had paved the way for the string of winners that the sixth marquess had overseen with the help of his marchioness.

  “He was sixty-two,” Randall acknowledged. “I don’t know why this has me so worried, but... should something happen to me, I want you to act as regent until my oldest is of age.”

  Randolph’s eyes widened. “Me?” He gave his head a quick shake. “But... I cannot take your place in Parliament,” he argued. “I’ve only been granted a knighthood.” Even if his father petitioned the Crown to elevate his status so he might inherit a title, it was unlikely he would ever become a peer of the realm.

  “I know. I just... I want you to be sure Raymond and Robert are raised right.”

  “You don’t think your marchioness will see to that?” Randolph argued. “She’s a damned good head on her shoulders, Father,” he added. When he saw that his words didn’t seem to change the marquess’ mind, he allowed a sigh. “I will see to it, of course,” he finally agreed. “I just... I do not think it will be an issue.”

  Randall dipped his head. “As my heir, Raymond will inherit all the entailed properties, of course, but I intend to settle you and Connie with most of the unentailed properties.”

  Randolph stilled himself. “What of my half-brothers?”

  His father displayed a look of offense. “I have already seen to suitable a
llowances for all three of them,” he replied. “Along with some small properties on which they can live or lease, depending on their preference.”

  Randolph considered his father’s motivation. “Why are you doing this?”

  Randall allowed a shrug. “Truth be told, I hadn’t given it much thought, but after our discussion at dinner tonight, I thought you might end up settled with an aristocrat’s daughter after all. Or... an aristocrat’s widow, perhaps? There’s no reason for you to expect you can only court commoners. You are a knight, after all.” Randall reached across the desk and plucked a small box from atop a pile of papers. He set it down in front of Randolph.

  “What’s this?” Randolph asked as he gingerly took the hinged box in hand. He popped open the lid and stared at the gold ring. Clusters of round diamonds hung from either side of a large garnet.

  “Just in case you don’t have one on hand. I saw to ordering a few when I was last in Ludgate Hill. Thought to make sure you and your brothers were prepared.”

  Blinking, Randolph regarded his father in surprise. “I am not courting anyone, Father,” he stated, at the very same moment a flash of Lady Dunsworth and their kiss came to mind.

  “But you will. At some point, you will want a mother for your son. You will want another son. Maybe a daughter or two,” he replied. “I want to be sure you can afford them. That you will not be limited by your lot in life as a bastard son.”

  Clearing his throat, Randolph said, “I have never felt as if I were limited by my ‘lot in life’,” he argued. “Besides, I have a position.”

  “That pays shite,” Randall countered.

  Memories of what Barbara had said to Randolph in the last months of her pregnancy had at one time brought forth doubting thoughts. Reminders that she thought he had no business living in the world of aristocrats despite having been acknowledged by his father. “Nevertheless, you keep reminding me that I am not limited,” he added.