In an effort to blame the coloring on her clothes, she had elected to wear a red carriage gown coupled with a darker red redingote for their ride. “How do I look?”
“You look as if you’re ready for Christmas,” Julia remarked.
“As long as I don’t look like a gift-wrapped present,” Xenobia replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sighing, Xenobia turned from her dressing table and said, “I’m not sure about Sir Randolph’s intentions. I cannot help but think he’s only doing this because he feels sorry for me, but he doesn’t—”
“He’s not doing this to score an invitation to your bed, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Julia insisted. “Alistair says he’s too honorable for that. Says he’s not one to follow in his father’s footsteps when it comes to dalliances.”
“You mean Sir Randolph is not a rake?” The query came out more like a statement.
“Exactly!” Julia replied, beaming in delight.
Xenobia had already surmised that Randolph wasn’t angling for a tumble. Why, if he’d wanted one the night before, she probably would have been the one to lead them to her bedchamber. Let him have his way with her. If for no other reason than she was curious.
Too curious.
What would lovemaking be like with someone who wasn’t your best friend?
But she hadn’t yet determined his motive for the invitation to ride in the park with him. Given the weather—it was cold, but it wasn’t snowing—surely they would have to be bundled up in quilts or a blanket on the bench of the phaeton.
“When was the last time you rode on a phaeton?” Julia asked.
Xenobia blinked. “The only time was when you took me to New Bond Street last year.” She recalled the harrowing drive with fright. “You nearly dumped me at the corner of Oxford and New Bond,” she accused.
“We did take that corner a bit fast, didn’t we?” Julia replied in delight.
“We?” Xenobia chided.
“You’ll have to hang onto Mr. Roderick’s arm. Thread your arm through his elbow,” Julia explained, a huge grin on her face. “And be sure to sit close. You’ll have to, as there’s very little room on a phaeton bench.”
Xenobia’s eyes darted sideways. “Surely I can hang onto the bench.”
“Not if your hands are in a muff,” Julia countered.
Inhaling deeply in an effort to calm her nerves, Xenobia was about to claim she wasn’t going to take a muff when Chesterfield appeared at the door and cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“There’s a Sir Randolph to see you, my lady,” Chesterfield said as he held out a calling card. “Should I let him know you are in residence?”
“You needn’t tell him anything. I’ll be right down.” She glanced over at her visitor. “Please, Julia, don’t go downstairs until after we’ve taken our leave.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Julia replied with a shake of her head. She didn’t add that she intended to watch from a vantage overlooking the hall. “Good luck.”
Xenobia frowned at her cousin as she pinned her red felt hat into place. Then she donned her redingote and took her leave of her bedchamber while she fastened the frog closures down the front.
A Ride in the Park
Meanwhile, downstairs
Randolph knew from the moment the butler answered the door that the servant did not like him. He supposed after what had happened the night before, Chesterfield had every right to be annoyed with him. “Sir Randolph for Lady Dunsworth,” he said, emphasizing the ‘sir.’ This time, he held out his calling card.
Chesterfield took the white pasteboard, not once giving it a glance. “Wait here, sir. I’ll see if she’s in residence.”
Prepared to wait for at least ten minutes—Barbara had never been ready to leave at an agreed-upon time—Randolph made his way to the hall’s only piece of furniture. The scent of roses surrounded him as he glanced first at the huge arrangement of white roses in the middle, fairly sure their stems were in a punchbowl, and then at the red felt surface of the table. He knelt and studied the carved edges of the gaming table, his gaze taking in the perfectly matched seams of the inlaid wood.
The imperfectly closed drawers.
“That’s odd,” he whispered as he nudged one open. Given its small size, he expected to find it containing a deck of playing cards, or perhaps some playing chips. Instead, he boggled at the sight of money.
Twenty pound bank notes, and lots of them. The drawer was so full, it could barely be shut.
He straightened and moved to where another player might sit at the table. It took only a moment to locate a second drawer, this one filled with five-pound notes. He quickly shut it and moved to the next, finding ten-pound notes, but only a few. The next drawer held the deck of cards, and under that, a folded note. He glanced about to be sure no one was watching him as he opened the missive and began to read.
Blinking twice when he finished, he quickly refolded the letter and stuffed it back into the drawer. He was closing it and about to move to another when his attention was captured by the woman descending the stairs.
He moved to the base of the staircase and gave a deep bow. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said as he reached for her gloved hand. He brushed a kiss over her knuckles, his nearness to the bottom step preventing Xenobia from taking the last step down.
“Sir Randolph,” she replied. “I see my servants haven’t yet put a cloth on the table,” she added with a frown as her gaze darted to what had held his attention as she descended the stairs.
“It’s a magnificent gaming table. I shouldn’t think you would want such beautiful carving hidden,” he remarked, glad to see that she wasn’t displaying embarrassment over their kiss from the night before. He offered his arm, and she took it once she was off the last step.
“I wanted to locate the hall table that should have been there, but this was the closest the servants could find. It was in the study,” she explained. “You see, my delivery of flowers arrived for Christmas yesterday, and I’m afraid I may have ordered more than I could accommodate.”
They made their way to the front door, Chesterfield pulling it open for them. He handed Xenobia a fur muff, and she took it despite remembering Julia’s comment about how she would have to thread an arm around Sir Randolph’s elbow in order to hang on for the tight turns.
“I don’t think a house can have too many flowers, my lady,” Randolph remarked as he led them to the phaeton. “The roses in your parlor are quite lovely.”
“It’s kind of you to say,” she replied, just before her attention went to his high-perch phaeton and the horse that stood snorting in front of it. “Oh, what kind of horse is this?” Xenobia asked as she hurried to stand in front of the huge bay. “It’s far too large to be a Thoroughbred,” she added.
Randolph grinned at her comment, remembering the book she had been holding the night before. “This is Hermes. He’s a Cleveland Bay, and he’s usually paired with another the same size as he is. Unfortunately, Aries has come up lame.”
“Will he be all right?” she asked, her expression displaying her concern.
“Hopefully. I have his foreleg wrapped, and I’m holding off on exercising him for a few days,” he replied. “You can... touch him, if you’d like,” he added, continuing to grin at her enthusiasm.
He wondered how long it had been since she was last out of the house. She fairly nearly bounced with excitement, as if she’d been locked away and held hostage for a long time.
A year, he realized, remembering how long wives were expected to mourn their dead husbands.
“How do I do it?”
Randolph moved to stand behind her, and he took one of her gloved hands in his. He guided it until her hand was above the horse’s nose. “Just smooth it straight up,” he whispered, letting go of her hand. “In the direction of how the hair grows.”
She followed his instructions, grinning when Hermes lowered his head so she could better reach
the space between his ears. He nickered softly. “He looks so clean. Like he’s just had a bath.”
“He had a good brushing earlier this afternoon,” Randolph said, secretly glad she had noticed the results of Alistair’s time spent with the beast. “Let me help you up.”
Xenobia regarded the step on the side of the phaeton with widened eyes. “It’s terribly high,” she said, her gaze going up to where there was a handle she could use to help hoist herself onto the bench once she was up the step.
“Do you trust me?” Randolph asked.
She turned her gaze onto him. “I... I do.”
“Place your hands on my shoulders,” he ordered. He moved his hands to her waist and, and when she had her gloved hands in place, he lifted her up until she was mostly on the bench seat.
“This is terribly high,” she said, but her expression of delight belied the complaint.
Randolph hurried around to the other side, barely pausing to take the step up and onto the bench. He adjusted his great coat and then pulled a thick quilt from a rack behind the seat. He spread it out over their laps. “Are you warm enough?”
“I am,” she replied with a smile. “It’s rather considerate of you to bring the blanket.”
Randolph unwrapped the reins from around the short pole in front of the bench. “I wish I could claim I thought of it just for today, but I admit to keeping it here on the phaeton throughout the winter months,” he replied as he took the ribbons in one hand. “Before I let Hermes loose, I suppose I should warn you that we’ll be moving at a fast clip. You’d best hang onto me. I shouldn’t wish to lose you on one of the turns.”
Xenobia didn’t argue, but did as Julia had described, shoving her hands into the muff once her arm was securely wrapped about Randolph’s elbow. “Like this?”
“Perfect,” he replied, noting how she didn’t hesitate to secure her arm to his, or attempt to shift too far away from him on the bench. He flicked the reins, and Hermes pulled them into Curzon Street. “If you get cold, please let me know.”
Even if she’d been chilled to the bone, Xenobia wouldn’t have complained. She had never ridden so high in her entire life, and she made certain Sir Randolph knew it.
“However do you get about town?” he asked.
“Town coaches and a barouche,” she replied. “Mother never drove. I don’t think she knows how, so of course I was never allowed to learn.”
“Your mother? Does she live here in town?” He feigned not knowing anything about her family in the hopes she would share her side of what he had learned from Alistair. He felt her hold stiffen around his arm, and he dared a quick glance in her direction.
She quickly looked away from his gaze. “Only on occasion,” Xenobia replied. “I think she’s on the Continent at the moment. Somewhere in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. The Dowager Duchess of Pendleton likes to spend Christmas in Rome,” she added, referring to her mother by her title. She didn’t add that her mother was probably sharing a count’s bed at night and flirting with a duke during the day.
“Having a duchess for a mother must be rather interesting,” he remarked. “And what of your father?”
Xenobia relaxed her hold on him just after they made the turn onto Park Lane. “Captain Bradley died when I was eighteen.” At his sharp glance, she added, “I don’t think he ever completely recovered from his battle wounds. He fought in the war against Napoleon, you see. He was in the army.”
“You are proud of him, I hope?”
“I am,” she affirmed. “I found him to be a very generous and amiable man. He gave me his house even before he took his last breath, along with an allowance. Made sure the title to the house was in my name, and that it could not be taken away from me should I wed.”
“The house you live in now?” Randolph asked.
“Yes.”
He frowned. “Did he think you would wed an opportunist?”
Xenobia seemed to think on the query for a time before she said, “I do not believe he thought I would marry at all, given the circumstances.”
Slowing the horse for the turn into Hyde Park—a move that would prevent Xenobia from being pressed overmuch into his side—Randolph furrowed a brow. “Circumstances?”
Tightening her hold on her escort, Xenobia considered how to respond. She had always just assumed everyone in London knew she was an illegitimate daughter of a duchess. That her mother, known for her exploits following the death of her husband, had come to be known as the Dowager Duchess of Debauchery.
At least her time with the captain had been long enough to ensure Xenobia’s parentage. Had the duchess discovered she was with child a year or two later, Xenobia—and her mother—might not know the identity of her father.
“Like you, I am illegitimate,” she finally replied, deciding he would eventually learn more about her if she didn’t offer the information first.
“Then I am in the very best company,” Randolph replied. “And it sounds as if our fathers were both honorable in that regard.”
“Indeed,” Xenobia agreed, deciding it was safe to bring up Rachel. “Is your sister still on the Continent? I remember Rachel left London with her mother about the time I married.”
Randolph jerked his head to regard her with a raised brow. Now he wondered if his father had only told him about Rachel because he had been sure Xenobia would mention her. “You... you knew Rachel?”
Nodding, Xenobia said, “We were at finishing school together. For two years. Kindred spirits, you might say, despite the difference in our ages.”
Randolph seemed at a loss for words. “I only discovered I had a sister last night,” he admitted. “When I returned to my father’s house.”
Xenobia considered his admission. “Your father never told you?”
He shook his head. “Even though she’s Richard twin, she was raised by her mother, Violet Higgins, whilst Richard lived with someone else. Apparently, Father lost track of Violet for a time, but has since found her. He’s made arrangements for a dowry and a come-out for Rachel.”
Xenobia leaned toward him. “I am relieved for Rachel. Her mother called herself the Queen of Hearts, and Rachel said it was because she was always breaking them.”
Randolph furrowed a brow. “Violet owns the gaming hell of that name,” he murmured. “In Stafford Street. I think my father feared Rachel would follow in her mother’s footsteps.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t,” Xenobia insisted. “Rachel always knew who her father was. Knew how important it was she remain chaste. We both knew that.”
Dipping his head, Randolph said, “Thank you for telling me about her. I look forward to meeting her knowing you are a friend.”
Xenobia allowed a heavy sigh, as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her gaze went up as they passed beneath the Triumphal Arch and onto the King’s Private Road. “I hope you are not angry with your father for having kept her a secret.”
Randolph took a deep breath. “I wasn’t, exactly. Disappointed, perhaps, until he explained the circumstances. I cannot say I would have done it differently.” He glanced over to find her regarding him with admiration. “I rather imagine your father was better at the job,” and then he grinned at seeing how a blush deepened the color on her already rosy cheeks.
“I truly loved Captain Bradley,” Xenobia admitted. “He doted on me when my mother would take me to his house for a week or two every year,” she explained, remembering how her parents seemed to rekindle their fondness for one another during those visits. “He allowed me to go into any room, especially the library, and he said that if I were to discover a treasure buried in a box, it would be mine to keep.”
His attention captured by this last comment, Randolph asked, “And did you find one?”
Her face lit up as she giggled. “I thought so, the day I discovered a beautifully decorated pasteboard box filled with cheroots in the study. I remember him laughing because I didn’t know what they were. I didn’t know that they were the reason his
wool coat always smelled the way it did.” She leaned towards him again, inhaling the scent from his coat. “Like yours.” Her lips trembled at the memory. “I always remember those weeks as if they were an adventure, because he said he didn’t want there to be any secrets between us, and I was always determined to discover what he meant.”
Randolph furrowed a brow at hearing the reference to secrets. He wondered what kind of secrets an Army captain could have, especially a wounded one. “Pray tell, when did you move into the house?”
Her eyes darted to his for the briefest of moments. “Not until I married. James... Lord Dunsworth... he didn’t have a house here in town, so my ownership of Bradley House saved him from having to let one for us.”
Bristling at the thought that Dunsworth might have married Xenobia just so he would have a place to live in London, Randolph had to bite his tongue or risk speaking the sentiment out loud.
He was about to ask if she had siblings when she suddenly said, “But I suppose that’s why he had the blunt to let a townhouse and hire a mistress.”
Randolph directed the horse to the side of the road and slowed him to a stop. He regarded Xenobia with a look of shock. Her eyes were bright with tears.
Before he gave a thought to what he was doing, Randolph pulled his arm from her hold and then gathered her into his arms, pulling her hard against the side of his body. “Xenobia, no,” he whispered.
“I’m terribly sorry. What a horrid thing to say about the dead,” she murmured into his wool coat, once again inhaling the scent of cheroot smoke.
“It’s not horrid, my lady,” he countered as he readjusted his hold on her. “Even if it is the truth.” He held her for another moment, his gaze sweeping the area around them to determine if anyone was watching. He knew if they were seen like this, tongues would wag. “Come. Let’s go for a walk,” he said as he gave up his hold on her. He quickly stepped down from the phaeton and hurried around to lift her from the high perch.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 20
