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

by Collette Cameron

  Helping himself to the creamy flip, he acknowledged Sarah was correct. It was delicious, and infused with brandy and rum. With a glass or three, one might become half seas over and begin to stagger.

  Since it was a working holiday, Miles drained his first glass and took another, then began to circulate. Unlike Sarah, he knew most of the guests. Although he did a little work for both Prinny and for Bow Street when he was called to it, still, he was a viscount who’d been welcomed into the wealthiest homes in Britain all his life. He was immune to the trappings of nobility, except for how he enjoyed them, to be sure. He didn’t want to be a ditch-digger, yet nor did he intend to sit around a stuffy club and get a case of the gout. Life was too short, and he found being a blasted bloodhound, as Sarah called it, was an amusing pastime, one for which he had an intuitive knack.

  Where was she? He spied her talking with Lord Devonstone, an ancient widower of about a year. So that was her game! His heart sank a little to think of her up to her old tricks.

  Nevertheless, his lordship could take care of himself, at least for the moment. Miles was there at the request of the Prince Regent, an admirer of Lady Macroun’s, who didn’t want a repeat of what had happened to her cousin, Lord Andover. A month earlier, Andover’s house party had been ripe with thievery. Someone on the guest list had taken to stealing whilst the others slept. The audacity! Common snoozers were usually found at inns, waiting for drunken guests to pass out. Thus, it had been a shock to discover a thief brazen enough to sneak around the bedrooms of a country manor, even worse to believe it was a fellow nob.

  He took a second look at Sarah and the widower. She’d been on the guest list of the previous party, as her deceased husband was distantly related to Lady Andover. He watched as Lord Devonstone, clearly flattered by her undivided attention, preened, rubbing a hand across the sides of his hair, smoothing the already impossibly smooth gray curls before returning his hands to his pockets. Nonchalant and about three decades too late—unless Sarah was husband hunting again.

  As if she sensed his gaze, she turned slowly, made eye contact, and frowned at him. He would not have been at all surprised if she’d stuck out her tongue.

  However, as if she didn’t care a fig about his scrutiny, she turned away, nodded to Lord Devonstone, and then moved on to another group of guests.

  Lady Macroun approached him, an impressive vision in silver.

  “Anything awry, Lord Denbigh?”

  “I’ve only recently arrived, my lady, as you know,” he responded, “but I will keep my eyes and ears open, and do my best to thwart any untoward behavior. The Prince Regent agreed we cannot have this type of careless disregard for the rights of property in the realm.”

  “I’m glad His Royal Highness remembered the favor my family did for his, and I am beyond grateful he actually sent you, my lord. Your reputation precedes you.”

  Miles nodded his gratitude, not realizing he was gaining such a public reputation for being helpful where needed—as he thought of it. Yet it was probably inevitable. On the other hand, the more people who knew he behaved as both diplomat and man-of-action, wherever Prinny needed him, the less effective he would be. Why, if Lady Macroun was right, then every guest at the manor might know why he was there, including the thief.

  “As I said, I will do my best. The flip is excellent, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” She moved away, shimmering as the last rays of the afternoon sun fingered the room.

  He noted Lady Worthington had moved along to another group, two couples. Brave of her to insinuate herself and create an odd number. Glancing about, he wondered if there were other singles besides himself, the bewitching lady, and Lord Devonstone.

  Taking a tour of the room, passing behind Sarah who bristled as he went by, Miles found other unmarried guests clustered together by the windows overlooking the gardens and the lawn that stretched out until it became wild fields. Wonderful hunting to be had at Great Oakley, and they were assured of at least two hunting days, if not more, over the course of the extended house party. Moreover, Lady Macroun kept excellent hounds for the sheer enjoyment of doing so, and as her husband was long gone, there would be many foxes ready to be pursued.

  Miles had brought his favorite double-barreled shotgun and looked forward to the first event in two days. They had to get through the holy day of Christmas first and then the festivities could begin.

  “Lord Denbigh, can that possibly be you?” came a familiar female voice.

  He stiffened, turning to see one of the single guests was Lady Frances Thornton, daughter of an earl. He cringed.

  More than one previous paramour at the same party! Not good form of Lady Macroun, if she only knew. However, while most of the ton were well-aware of his attachment to Lady Frances for the good part of last Season, none knew of his brief and fiery dalliance with Lady Worthington. He couldn’t blame their hostess for this discomfiting situation.

  On the other hand, at the very least, Lady Macroun should have told him even one former flame would be in attendance. Could their hostess be playing the shoulder sham for the earl’s daughter, hoping to help her rekindle their relationship?

  It wouldn’t work. There wasn’t a thing about Lady Frances that enticed him. He escorted her around Mayfair as a paid favor to her father—another friend of the Prince Regent—who thought a dandy prat was angling for his precious daughter. For the life of him, except for her fortune, Miles couldn’t imagine why any man, prat or otherwise, would want her. Yes, she was pretty, but her entitled nature would grate upon anyone who wasn’t her loving father.

  Thus, he’d done his duty and moved on as quickly as he could at the Season’s end when the earl whisked Frances away to the relative safety of the country. And good riddance!

  Lady Frances reached out a gloved hand to him, which he took, bowed over, and then released. It had been months since he’d laid eyes upon her, and he could honestly say he hadn’t missed her in the least.

  “I didn’t know you would be here,” she simpered, batting her lashes, thrusting out her bosom, doing all but rubbing up against him like an alley cat, and he realized she had, in fact, known.

  “Nor did I know of your attendance,” he remarked. “I wish I could say I would leave if my presence makes you uncomfortable. Alas, I cannot.” He was being paid handsomely for his services. Even if he wasn’t, there was Prinny’s oft-mercurial favor to consider. In a word, he was stuck.

  Frances narrowed her eyes. He’d never told her what he did when he wasn’t simply enjoying himself as a viscount. And, unlike Lady Macroun, the earl’s daughter hadn’t discovered his reputation for helping people with sometimes unpleasant tasks. Frances would be fit to be tied if she knew she’d been one of those tasks.

  “Your presence is nothing to me,” she said a little sharply since he was not behaving in a suitably eager manner. “We parted on good terms, neither of us with a broken heart, neither with any cause to give the other the cut direct, or even indirect. Still, since we haven’t made new attachments, one wonders why we stopped ours.”

  Miles didn’t wonder for a moment. She had become too comfortable around him by far, showing her true nature, and he hadn’t particularly cared for the truth—self-centered, petty, and light between the ears. And he’d cringed more than once at her sharp tongue for those whom she didn’t like. That included every woman whom she saw as a competitive threat. In a word, she was unpleasant to be around, and he’d been beyond relieved when his duty had been done.

  Glancing past Frances, he realized belatedly he was searching for Sarah, who had impressed him from the first with her wit and her vivacity. Moreover, she had an abundance of gumption, since she’d snagged an earl from the obscurity of her small-town parish.

  She was still talking with the unmarried guests, apparently having gained the particular attention of a young lord, the son of a baron—Sumner or Salmer, something like that. Miles wondered if she would settle for a man who wouldn’t die in the near future and leave
her his estate. He supposed she would, if she actually fell in love.

  Something Sarah had said made the baron’s son laugh, and Miles didn’t like the resulting twist to his gut.

  “You’re taken with the Widow Worthington,” Lady Frances observed.

  He’d forgotten she was standing there and wished she hadn’t been so keen-eyed. Or maybe he was simply being obvious, his tongue hanging out and his gaze fixed upon the blonde vision in cranberry and cream. Plus, Frances was jealous of everyone, as he recalled.

  “Nonsense,” he said, as casually as possible. “I thought I saw an old chum. In any case, I’m glad you’re not bothered by my being here. I bid you good afternoon.” And he strolled in the opposite direction to Sarah, to chat with the married couples. A viscount was always welcome.

  A few hours later, when he entered the large dining room, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed in Sarah, standing next to the aged Lord Devonstone. Evidently, she had made her choice.

  Chapter 2

  Sarah was instantly aware when Denbigh entered the dining room. A dinner gong had rung about ten minutes earlier, and ready and waiting in her room, she’d hurried to be among the first in order to arrange, if at all possible, to sit next to Lord Devonstone.

  Alas, she’d located her nameplate beside the place setting of one of the younger single men. That wouldn’t do at all. As surreptitiously as possible, on the pretense of leaning down to examine a centerpiece of holly and rosemary, she palmed her place card. Now, she had only to circle the table, which she did, so swiftly, she nearly knocked over a few other guests. She had to find Devonstone’s seat before his dinner partner took hers.

  “Rats!” she muttered, when she found Lord Devonstone’s name to the left of Lady Macroun’s at the head of the table. Had their hostess requested the older widower be placed there?

  Sarah could either take his card and move him back down to her own intended seat and switch it out for the young lord who was there, or she could switch hers for the woman on Lord Devonstone’s left and hope the viscountess didn’t notice Sarah’s elevation in stature at her dining table.

  In a second, she had exchanged her card for … Lady Frances Thornton. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Sarah couldn’t quite bring her face to mind.

  Normally, after this first informal Christmas eve entrance, they would arrive at the dining room table in twos from one of the drawing rooms. And thus, this had been the only night she could use the ploy of rearranging the seating to return the lord’s ring. Hurriedly, as others were entering, she took Lady Frances’s card back to her own original place and set it there. Then, returning to her new seat, she waited by her chair, hoping the aged widower was fit enough to draw it out for her.

  Glancing to her left to check the nameplate, Sarah nearly spit out her teeth. What the Devil! Lord Miles Denbigh would be able to torment her all evening by sitting on her other side. Cursing her poor luck, she would have sent his place card down two seats, as well, if she’d had another few moments.

  Too late, she saw Lord Devonstone enter, looking outdated but dapper in a last-century, pink frock coat with silver brocade and matching waistcoat. She blinked at the pockets, nicely placed by his sides. All she had to do was lift the heavily decorated flap.

  Rolling her eyes at her own audacity, she hoped she would be brave and slick enough to complete her first task while Denbigh was so close.

  With the bare skin of her neck prickling, she knew he’d entered the room and was looking at her. Giving him the cut modest, she kept her gaze fixed on Lord Devonstone’s seat beside hers. However, out of the corner of her eye, she watched Denbigh wander around the table with the other guests, all making a game of finding their seats.

  Both Lord Devonstone and Lord Denbigh reached her at about the same time.

  “Good evening, Lady Worthington,” Lord Devonstone said, bowing slightly, so the scent of his hair wafted toward her, and not a single one of his oiled curls dared to misplace itself.

  “Good evening, my lord. It appears we can continue our earlier conversation.”

  “Of course,” the gentleman agreed, “if you will only remind me of what we were speaking.”

  She thought she heard Denbigh cough behind her and whirled about to face him. However, he was the picture of innocence, in his own modern, dark-gray, woolen dress coat. Unlike Lord Devonstone, Denbigh wore nothing that could be considered the least garish. Even his buttons were cloth covered. She couldn’t help noticing how fine and trim he looked, and how his pockets were stylishly placed in the fabric gathered over his muscular rump. Not that she could discern his rear end under the long tail of his coat. Nevertheless, Sarah recalled the firm feel of it under her fingers as she clutched at him when they made the two-backed beast.

  Her mouth went dry and she turned away, staring at Lord Devonstone, even clearing her throat until the elder gentleman looked past her.

  “Denbigh, isn’t it? You can do the honors for this filly. I’m too old for the gallantry of drawing out chairs or pushing them back in once full of female flesh.”

  Denbigh definitely was biting back a snicker. It didn’t matter if he thought her thwarted in an attempt to gain herself another old husband. In that regard, he was incorrect, and she wouldn’t need to spend another moment bothering the gentleman after dinner, if all went well.

  As soon as their hostess was seated by a footman, Denbigh drew out Sarah’s chair. All around the table, women were being assisted into their seats. Glancing across to where she would have been seated, Sarah had a shock, making her sit rather heavily as if the viscount had hit her in the back of her knees before pushing her in.

  “Thank you,” she said, having realized with a start exactly who Lady Frances was—Denbigh’s old flame. She’d seen them at any number of events when she was beginning to make her rounds of the Season’s events after coming out of mourning. And with another jolt, she understood Lady Macroun had put the woman next to him on purpose, perhaps in order to reawaken their relationship. And in that case, their hostess was certain to notice Sarah was in the wrong chair. Moreover, she couldn’t help wondering if Denbigh had wanted to sit next to the Earl of Thornton’s pretty daughter, and perhaps had even requested it.

  A little snake of jealousy suddenly coiled upon her lap and stole her appetite. However, she, along with everyone at the table, turned their attention to their hostess, who was now tapping her wine glass with her fork. Sarah reminded herself, she was there to aid Julia, not to think about Miles Denbigh. But it was so hard with him at her left elbow, smelling heavenly from his Floris toilet water she remembered only too well—bergamot and cedar, amber and bay.

  Turning her head slightly, angling herself toward him, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She, herself, favored Stephanotis from the same Jermyn Street perfume seller. Strangely her scent of orange blossoms, spicy carnations, and jasmine blended beautifully with his, and she could recall even then the blissful aroma arising from their heated skin when they were in the throes of passion.

  Biting her lip, Sarah reminded herself she had to concentrate.

  Their hostess began to speak, “As you may have noticed between our early afternoon musical entertainment and now, the greenery has been brought in throughout the house.”

  The diners took another admiring look around the room, now decorated in every nook and cranny. Across the table, on the mantle, and hanging from the two chandeliers were bay, holly, laurel, and, of course, mistletoe.

  “I trust my guests will act with all due decorum when happening upon the mistletoe boughs in the front hall and in the drawing rooms. But I shall conduct a daily check of the berries in any case.”

  Their hostess laughed at her own words, and so the guests laughed, too, realizing the decorum due at this festive time was practically none at all. Thus, with each stolen kiss, a berry would be plucked.

  Glancing at the interested guests, Sarah wondered if there would be any berries left by the morning.

  �
�And the Yule candle shall hopefully have light enough for the entire night,” the viscountess continued. They all took in the massive candle at the midpoint of the table, as it was tradition to dine by it for Christmas eve and let it burn all night.

  Then her ladyship’s gaze began to move down one side of the table, taking in each face, passing over Sarah before quickly returning to her. The viscountess frowned slightly, and Sarah knew Lady Macroun thought an error had been made. Some hapless footman would pay for her being in the wrong place.

  At last, their hostess looked toward the far end of the table where her latest paramour was positioned. Lord Fenway, who’d lasted six months and, thus, was to be respected, lifted his wine glass to his lady.

  “You have made a splendid Christmas and Twelvetide for us all!” he declared.

  “Hear, hear!” “Cheers!” exclaimed the guests.

  “After dinner, some games are in order,” Lady Macroun informed them.

  Inwardly, Sarah groaned, although Blind Man’s Bluff or Steal the Loaf would give her more opportunities to slip the ring into the earl’s pocket if she hadn’t managed to do so before then.

  “I know many of you had long journeys,” their hostess added, “so we won’t stay up too late, although we shall arise early for Christmas breakfast. I urge you all to write down your heart’s desire and toss it onto the large log in the second-floor drawing room before you retire tonight. It shall be lit promptly at noon tomorrow, and I hope it will burn through the entire twelve days. If we are fortunate,” she added, again frowning at Sarah as if her being in the wrong seat indicated already a lack of good fortune.

  Or was her imagination simply running wild?

  Along with the viscountess, and her dining companions, Sarah lifted her spoon and started on the chestnut soup. By the roasted game course, Sarah thought her self-appointed task to be all but impossible. Wishing she could write her heart’s desire and set it on fire right then and make it come true, instead, she feared she would have to delay the ring’s return until Lord Devonstone was wearing pockets without those blasted flaps.