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

by Collette Cameron

  Xenobia didn’t seem to mind. Her hips lifted in an overt invitation, so he entered her slowly and then pulled her down. He slid a hand up to one of her breasts, circling the nipple with a finger as he guided her hip with his other hand to slowly rise off of him. Then just as slowly, he pulled her down. Xenobia understood what to do, and she continued the slow rhythm, grinning when her hips lowered to meet each of his languid thrusts.

  When a mewl sounded and she gripped the tops of his shoulders, he quickened his thrusts. She continued to meet his every upward push with a downward thrust of her hips until he felt undulations surrounding his turgid manhood. Undulations that seemed to pull him in deeper, that had him pushing harder until her mewling increased and she threw back her head and her back arched.

  He used an arm to pull her down to him so that her breasts would be pressed into his chest as the intense pleasure of their joining took him.

  Took her.

  He knew she was in ecstasy from the way her breaths caught, from how her lower body gripped him, how her fingernails dug into his back.

  His own head, thrown back so the cords of his neck strained against his skin, was nearly buried in a pillow before the last vestiges of his orgasm finally released him.

  Xenobia collapsed atop Randolph, her head ending up on one of his shoulders. When her arms wrapped around the sides of his chest and her hand smoothed over his knotted muscles, he relaxed completely and fell asleep.

  Xenobia allowed a sigh of contentment as she slowly unbent her legs until she was stretched out atop him. Despite her bare back, she was warm, and her entire body felt alive. Still inside her, his member no longer throbbed, but it managed to set off little darts of pleasure as it subsided in size.

  She turned her head and kissed the whorl of an ear. “Thank you,” she whispered, just before she closed her eyes.

  Randolph merely made a humming sound in the back of his throat and wondered if he would ever regret this night.

  As for work, he had a duty to perform. With any luck, this would be the last night he would have to engage the counterfeiters. Perhaps his next assignment would not require so many nights spent in gaming hells.

  Now there was some place else he preferred to be.

  Pulling on his clothes and coat as quietly as he could manage, Rand moved to place a kiss on Xenobia’s cheek when she said, “Give me a moment to dress, and I’ll go down the front stairs. Provide a distraction whilst you go out the back,” she suggested.

  Randolph chuckled. “Are you quite sure you’ve never done this before?” he asked in a tease. He watched as she stood from the bed, goose pimples forming on her naked skin. He reached out and pulled her close for a quick kiss before allowing her to make her way to the dressing room. His gaze stayed on her retreating backside as a growl formed in his throat.

  Damned counterfeiters.

  He leaned down and pulled on his boots. When he stood, he was stunned to find Xenobia mostly dressed and turning her back for him to do up the buttons.

  “You’ll return later tonight?” she asked. “I’ll be sure to leave the back door unlocked for you.”

  He hesitated before answering. “It all depends, Xenobia,” he hedged as he did up the buttons.

  “On what?”

  Randolph furrowed a brow. “I cannot say. That is—”

  “Is it because what you do at night is a secret?”

  “It matters not the time of the day. It’s simply the nature of my... my position,” he stammered.

  She turned around to face him. “Is your position why you were knighted by the king?”

  Randolph realized they had never spoken about why he had introduced himself as a ‘sir’. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

  She inhaled softly as her eyes widened. “You work for the Crown.”

  He dropped his forehead to hers. “One of its many offices, yes,” he said on a sigh.

  “The Foreign Office?” she guessed.

  He blinked.

  “Are you chasing counterfeiters?” she asked on a gasp.

  Giving a start, Randolph furrowed his brows. “How do...?”

  “Lady Chamberlain paid a call a few days ago. She spoke of the problem. Said her husband had agents assigned to the case because there were foreigners involved.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice even more. “Frenchmen, she implied.”

  Randolph struggled to keep an impassive expression on his face. He couldn’t decide if he should be angry or laugh at the strange circumstance in which he found himself.

  “Xenobia, I must ask you to keep this a secret.”

  “Who would I tell?”

  He was about to mention Lady Comber, but realized Alistair’s wife was probably in the parlor with Xenobia when Lady Chamberlain mentioned the counterfeiters. “Just—”

  “I won’t tell a soul,” she said with a shake of her head. “You can trust me.”

  Randolph blinked, suddenly convinced that she would indeed keep his confidence. He leaned down and kissed her quite thoroughly. “I believe you,” he murmured. “Now you really must take your leave. I’ll wait for a full minute before I make my way down the back stairs.”

  She nodded her understanding as she sneaked out the bedchamber door and calmly made her way to the main stairs.

  A minute later and Randolph was down the servants’ stairs and about to head toward the back door when he overheard one of the footmen say something about The Queen of Spades.

  “We’re not going anywhere if her ladyship doesn’t come down for dinner soon.”

  “Och, we have to,” another said. “I got us the last of the ten pound notes from the gaming table. ’Bout time we beat those frogs.”

  “I was just up in my mistress’ room, and she ain’t there,” a female voice said. “Chesterfield says she hasn’t returned from her ride in the park.” Randolph sorted this last comment was made by Xenobia’s lady’s maid.

  “She’s out of mourning, and it’s almost Christmas,” the first footman countered. “She’s pro’bly at Crocky’s.”

  A round of laughter ensued followed by a lone comment in the voice of the lady’s maid lambasting the notion that Lady Dunsworth would engage in gambling.

  Randolph bristled at how the footmen talked about Xenobia. A meek and mild baroness who probably never spoke poorly of her servants or anyone else. Despite her displeasure with her late husband, she never spoke of him in anger. Instead her voice had been filled with hurt.

  Once he was lord of the house, Randolph would see to it these servants were replaced.

  Randolph blinked, stunned by his thought. He couldn’t give it much consideration, though, when he heard the sound of Chesterfield clearing his throat. “Her ladyship is waiting in the dining room. For her dinner.”

  Relieved Xenobia had made her appearance, Randolph took advantage of the servants’ sudden attentions to their duties and quickly made it to the back door. He slipped out, determined to find the footmen at The Queen of Spades later that night.

  Buried Treasure Discovered

  Meanwhile, at the front of the house

  As quietly as possible, Xenobia skulked down the main stairs in the hopes she could make it to the ground floor without being noticed by a servant.

  At no point had she heard the chime for dinner—she was sure it was around eight o’clock—nor had she spotted Chesterfield on the hunt for her. She supposed since he hadn’t let her in the front door, he thought her still out with Sir Randolph.

  When she reached the first floor, she dared a glance over the stair railing until the roses on the gaming table came into view. Also in full view was the footman, Smith. He was bent over, pulling out a drawer from the table.

  Xenobia watched as he extracted what appeared to be several sheets of parchment before he quickly glanced around and then carefully closed the drawer. He stuffed the parchments into a pocket and made his way toward the back of the house.

  Curious, Xenobia made her way down the last set of stairs. The hall was empty
of servants—not unusual given the time of day nor the fact that she employed so few—so she moved to the table and opened the same drawer as the servant had.

  Finding it empty, she furrowed a brow and dared another glance down the hall. She knelt and studied the edge of the table, stunned to discover that the inlaid wood pattern on the sides outlined a series of drawers encircling the table.

  She moved to one that better hid her from the hall leading to the kitchens and pulled it open. Stunned at finding a stack of twenty pound notes, she nearly shut the drawer. Instead, she extracted one of them and absently closed the drawer as she stared at the bank note. “Bank of England” was printed at the top, and the year “1817” was shown as its date of issue.

  Hearing an outburst of laughter from down the hall, she quickly hid the note in her gown’s pocket and made her way to the dining room. She had just entered when Chesterfield appeared from the butler’s pantry.

  “My lady,” he said in surprise. “Apologies. I did not know you had returned.”

  “Obviously,” she replied, deciding she owed him no explanation. “I’d like my dinner now.” When she noted the table had not been set, she added, “In here, if the footmen can be bothered to serve.”

  Chesterfield’s eyes widened at hearing the rebuke in her voice. “Right away, my lady.”

  Xenobia watched as the butler hurried from the room, heading back toward the kitchens. She used the time to return to the gaming table, where she opened every drawer. At first tempted to leave the bounty where it was, she instead began stuffing the bank notes into her carriage gown pockets until she had emptied out all the drawers except the one containing a deck of playing cards.

  She was about to place the colorful pasteboards back into the drawer when she noticed the corner of a sheet of paper peeking out. A tug on it had it finally loosening, as if it had at one time been caught in the drawer and then bent upon the drawer’s closing.

  About to unfold the parchment, she paused when she heard the sounds of footfalls moving closer. She shut the drawer. Acting as if she had just descended the stairs, she made her way into the dining room. “I’ve changed my mind,” she announced to the two footmen who were seeing to the place setting. “I’ll take my dinner in the parlor.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Smith and Colburn replied in unison.

  Xenobia knew that once dinner had been brought, neither one of the footmen would return to the parlor, ensuring she would be left alone. She was about to take her leave of the dining room when she paused. “Pray tell, how long did you work for my father?”

  The two footmen exchanged quick glances before Smith said, “Just a year, my lady.”

  “Two for me, my lady,” Colburn replied.

  “Tell me, did he entertain often?”

  The two showed expressions of confusion. “If you mean hosting a dinner party or the like, very rarely,” Colburn offered.

  “No balls or soirées during my time. He didn’t have a hostess,” Smith chimed in.

  “No... gentlemen callers?”

  The two footmen blinked. “He wasn’t like that, my lady,” Smith said in a hoarse whisper as his head shook.

  Her face coloring when she realized what he had thought she meant, Xenobia quickly added, “Men he might have hosted in his study, perhaps? Tradesmen or bankers or...?”

  Colburn furrowed a brow. “Chesterfield would know more, but the captain did have an occasional caller. His solicitor, I think he was. Especially towards the end, when his wound was bothering him so much, he could hardly get down them stairs.”

  Xenobia winced, remembering when her mother announced that Captain Alton Bradley was on his deathbed and they best pay a call. At the age of eighteen, Xenobia had never experienced a death in the family, so the captain’s hit her especially hard. Learning he had been generous with her in his will had been an unexpected surprise.

  Now finding hundreds of pounds of bank notes in his gaming table had her astounded.

  “Well, I appreciate your insights. I’ll be in the parlor.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the two replied as they watched her go.

  Xenobia made her way up to the first floor, determined to keep her steps unhurried. She entered the parlor and found the book on Thoroughbreds on the side table where she had left it the night before. Placing it on the card table in the back of the parlor, she opened it and pretended to read. Instead of reading the book, though, she read the note she had found in the table.

  To my dearest daughter Xenobia,

  If you are reading this note, you’ve no doubt come into possession of it by way of your husband—if you have one—or perhaps my solicitor. I cannot imagine you will find it where I intend to leave it.

  Despite having told you that any buried treasure you might discover in the house belongs to you, I don’t recall your curiosity piqued enough that you actively searched for it. Five-hundred pounds can go a long way towards a trip to Italy or a new wardrobe, jewelry or a new coach-and-four.

  Perhaps this note will ignite your curiosity, for its resting place is just the beginning of where to find the first treasure.

  Hopefully before the servants do.

  Treasure hunts are always the most entertaining during the holidays. Share your finds with others for the happiest of Christmases.

  Your father,

  Alton Bradley

  P.S. As much as I loved her, your mother could never keep a secret, so I have not told her about this. She was always good about sharing, though—her friendship, her possessions and—perhaps too much—her body.

  By now, you have already learned this about her.

  Do not find fault with her over her affaires of the heart, though. One day you may discover a deep and abiding love with someone who, like you, least expects it. Return it and live a full and happy life. You deserve no less.

  Xenobia reread the missive three times as tears welled in her eyes and finally streamed down her face.

  Five-hundred pounds?

  Had anyone else found this note before she did? Had they discovered the bank notes in the other drawers from having read the note? Or did the footman only find the bank notes by accident? Perhaps from having moved the furniture?

  She moved to pull a hanky from her pocket, her hand rifling past a wad of bank notes on its way to the bottom of her pocket.

  At that very moment, Colburn appeared on the parlor threshold carrying the tray with her dinner.

  Afraid the notes would spill out of her pocket, Xenobia left her hand where it was and called out, “I’ll take it back here, Colburn.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the footman said as he stepped up with the tray and set it on the table. Xenobia pushed aside the book to give him more room. “Will there be anything else, my lady?” he asked as he finished pouring a glass of wine.

  Xenobia shook her head but then asked, “Do you gamble?”

  Colburn furrowed a brow, but then noticed the illustration of a horse in the open book. “Not on horses, my lady. Too rich for my blood.”

  “But do you play hazard or...?”

  “Vingt-et-un,” he admitted. “Not often, of course. Mayhap a few times a year.”

  “Where do you play?”

  His eyes darting to one side, Colburn seemed hesitant to answer. “Depends on how much blunt I have.”

  “Say you had... fifteen pounds.” She noted how his eyes widened.

  “Uh... I wouldn’t gamble that much, my lady. Might use half or more for a new suit of clothes or a good pair of boots. Save some, too.”

  “And the rest?” she asked, admiring how he responded.

  “I suppose I would go to The Queen of Hearts or... or The Jack of Spades. They’re both close. In St. James Street. Not as disreputable as the hells over in Cheapside.” His eyes darted sideways. “Excuse the language, my lady.”

  “Of course. Tell me, were you planning to go gambling this evening?”

  Colburn shook his head. “I wasn’t. But Smith asked me to go with him. Says he rece
ntly came into some blunt. Must be burning a hole in his pocket, ’cause he’s anxious to leave when our duties are done this evening.”

  Xenobia thought of the denominations of bank notes she had retrieved from the table.

  Ones, fives, and twenties.

  No tens.

  Smith had removed three notes from the only drawer that she had found empty. She dared a glance at the letter from her father. Had Smith found it? If so, had he read it?

  Could he even read?

  The words her father had written with respect to sharing caught her eye, and she allowed her initial anger at Smith to subside. “Then both of you should change your clothes and be on your way,” she said. “Do tell Smith he needs to share the thirty pounds with you he took from the gaming table in the hall. Fifteen pounds each. An early Christmas present. Do you understand?”

  Colburn looked as if he might faint. “Uh, yes, my lady.” He bowed and was about to take his leave when he asked, “Are you firing us, my lady?”

  Xenobia shook her head. “I am not. You can thank my father for that. Besides, who will cut and bring in the evergreens for the mantle and the staircase on Christmas Eve if not you two?”

  Furrowing a brow, Colburn finally nodded. “Thank you, my lady. Happy Christmas.”

  “To you, as well. And good luck tonight.”

  Colburn bowed and took his leave.

  Xenobia waited a few minutes before she hurried to the parlor door, closed it, and threw the bolt to lock it. She quickly returned to the card table, clearing away the book before she emptied her pockets of all the bank notes.

  Lining them up by denomination, Xenobia counted the number of each and sat down. Hard.

  Four-hundred and sixty-three pounds were neatly stacked before her, which meant that only seven pounds—besides the thirty Smith had taken earlier that evening—had gone missing. She might have laughed if she wasn’t so overcome by her father’s generosity.