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

by Collette Cameron

  If she’d only waited, that morning would have been the perfect opportunity to return it. Once she knew everyone was already downstairs, it would have been a simple matter of stopping in Lord and Lady Burtram’s suite of rooms. If she’d come across a maid, she would have claimed she’d become confused and entered through the wrong door. As it was, the other guests’ personal servants were all below stairs enjoying their own Christmas cheer with the staff of Forde Hall.

  Starting at one end of the sideboard, Sarah helped herself to a roll, glancing to the table to make sure butter, preserves, and marmalade were present. Then she added some coddled eggs, and a slice of ham. Whether she could eat it all was in question, but she wouldn’t insult Lady Macroun by not giving it a try.

  By the time she reached the end of the buffet and glanced around for a footman to pour her chocolate, Denbigh had already taken a seat and was being poured coffee. When his gaze fell upon her, she offered him a smile. After all, he’d been gallant before he’d grown annoying again. Nevertheless, she chose a seat on the opposite side of the table. There was no need to start rumors since they’d sat next to each other the night before and spent the evening at each other’s elbows playing parlor games.

  As soon as she sat, a footman offered her a choice of beverage, and she finally had her cup of chocolate in hand. Taking a sip, she sighed. It was so delicious and fortifying. She hardly drank tea or coffee when chocolate was available. Sometimes, truly, it was gritty or greasy, but Lady Macroun, as expected, had superior cocoa.

  A gentleman stood at her elbow, and she glanced up. One of the unmarried men if she recalled rightly, with a particularly bow-shaped mouth and smart-looking moustache.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “Please do,” she said.

  “I am Mr. Asher,” he said without pretention. “I’m sorry we weren’t properly introduced yesterday. My father is Baron Asher, and I’m his eldest, somewhat wayward son.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, smiling slightly at his introduction and sheepish expression. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Asher. I am Lady Worthington, widow of the late Lord Worthington.”

  “I didn’t know him, but my condolences on your being widowed so young.”

  “Thank you.” It was actually a relief he hadn’t known her husband and, thus, wasn’t in a position to cast any judgment upon her.

  “Quite a spread for breakfast,” he said, nodding to the footman who offered coffee. “I vow, our hostess’s servants are gems, to be sure. How did the man know I wanted coffee rather than chocolate, as you’re having? He must have recalled from yesterday. Isn’t that amazing, with so many of us?”

  “Indeed,” she agreed, glad to have an amiable fellow beside her for breakfast, even if it wasn’t Denbigh, who was now looking at her with curiosity. Did he think she would filch the man’s cravat pin right from under his nose?

  “Good servants are hard to find and train,” she said, although she truthfully knew little about it. Her husband had a full staff when she’d moved in, and she’d retained most of them after his death except his personal valet and a few footmen, as it seemed she had more than enough servants under foot. She nearly laughed at her own little pun.

  “If you’re looking for any servants,” Mr. Asher continued, “sadly, I’ve had to let a few of mine go. Good folks down to the man and to the woman, but my accounts have dwindled, and it was either them or me.”

  At first, shocked by this intimate disclosure, she spread far too much butter on her roll while attributing the vulgar words to youth and to his being comfortable in the fact they were strangers to one another. They might never meet again, and thus, he didn’t hide his innermost thoughts, unlike Denbigh.

  “What a shame,” she offered.

  He shrugged. “Mostly my own fault, trusting the wrong sort, but I’ll remedy the situation somehow.”

  “Perhaps your father,” she began.

  Mr. Asher laughed. “Oh, Lady Worthington. If you only knew how infinitesimally small the chance of my father lifting a finger to help me.” He sipped his coffee. “On the other hand, here I am at this wonderful house party, and who knows what opportunity lies just around the corner? No one, that’s who.”

  “Very true,” Sarah murmured, turning her gaze toward Lord Miles Denbigh, rewarded when he, in turn, looked toward her at nearly the same time, making her catch her breath.

  Chapter 5

  “One never knows what opportunity may arise,” Sarah agreed, trying to tear her gaze away from the man whom she found irresistible.

  After all, while she had been sitting in the kitchen of the Chislehurst parsonage one day a little over two years earlier, how could she have known her father was busy arranging her marriage to an earl right outside the door? In the same manner, she’d been at a party in Town a few months earlier when she and Denbigh had locked gazes for the first time over glasses of scandalously strong sloe gin.

  Half an hour later, she’d had her skirts up and her back against an uncomfortable sofa in their hostess’s sitting room while Denbigh pleasured her, giving her not only her first taste of passion but her first climax. The sheer excitement of their liaison had kept her floating for a week. Denbigh was all she’d ever wanted in a man. When she’d run into him the next time, she’d hadn’t hesitated before going back to his townhouse with the hood of her mantle drawn up over her head for discretion. Her cheeks warmed at the recollection of everything they’d done that night.

  When would they be in the same place again, with bedrooms in abundance and opportunity aplenty? Probably never. Sarah’s heart sped up. She had accomplished only one task and bungled the second one. But it was Christmastide, and she was cleaning up after her sister, who was probably not giving any of this messiness a second thought.

  In that instant, staring across the table at Denbigh, she made a decision—if the situation arose with the man who’d taught her about desire and pleasure, she would enjoy his lessons again while she could. And a happy Christmas to her!

  Miles tamed his wicked thoughts while in church, a mere half a mile from Lady Macroun’s manor, but something about the way Sarah had eyed him during breakfast had caused his pulse to race. In the quaint stone building, although they weren’t sitting near one another, she was all he could think of while the Anglican vicar mumbled his way through the Christmas service. Even the short but excellent spectacle of carols from the local boys seated in the west gallery did not deter him from gazing at her and wondering if she, too, were thinking constantly about their exquisitely passionate encounters.

  On the chilly walk home, Lady Frances was suddenly beside him, her maid walking close behind as chaperone. She prattled on about mummers plays and the woes of having been sent to Great Oakley while her father and mother were in Kent, but he lost the thread of it because he was focused on the swaying hips of the blonde-haired woman in green velvet who walked ahead of them on that crisp afternoon.

  Back at Forde Hall, he didn’t realize when he’d had the good luck to lose Lady Frances—he might have simply wandered away whilst she was still talking—but he found himself seeking and finding Sarah in the conservatory.

  “Did you enjoy the service?”

  She frowned slightly. “Compared to one of my father’s, it was a little wan and uninspiring, if you’ll forgive my speaking unkindly of a man of the church.”

  “Forgiven,” he said. “I would like to hear one of your father’s sermons.” Those words came out of his mouth before he thought about them, but he spoke the truth. The interesting daughters begat from the loins of Parson Sudbury would be reason enough to meet him.

  “Perhaps it can be arranged some time,” she said. “I would be there this Christmas if other matters hadn’t come up.”

  “Other matters?” he asked, hoping she would explain herself.

  She smiled, taking a glass of egg flip offered by a footman, who waited while Miles did the same before moving on.

  “Lady Macroun’s invitation for one thing,” she sa
id. “I would have been foolish to turn it down. It’s not every day someone like me from humble origins is invited to a Twelvetide party with such illustrious guests. I’ve met a decorated captain who fought against Napoleon, and Lord Saumner, who is in Parliament and assures me he’s quite important, and the Evingdons, who’ve all but invited me to their home in Brighton next time the Prince Regent is there.”

  He didn’t believe her for an instant. After her mourning period, she’d taken London by storm, or at least by a spitting rain. She’d never let something like her lowly beginnings stop her from entering salons, drawing rooms, and ballrooms once those doors were open to her. Moreover, she’d dragged her sister along with her.

  “Besides,” she added, “I shall find my sister in London after the Epiphany, and then we’ll visit with my father. He’ll be less busy in the new year, in any case.”

  Now that, he believed. They sipped the delicious, foamy concoction before finding seats side-by-side for the piano recital. He counted them extremely fortunate Lady Macroun had an accomplished musical guest for the duration of the stay and hadn’t inflicted some talentless niece or spinster daughter upon them. Out of politeness, they would have had to listen while she was trotted out each afternoon, and he’d endured such a dreadful experience at more than one party.

  Leaning toward Sarah, he whispered, “Do you play the piano?”

  “No,” she confessed. “A little violin in fact, but not well enough so I would want to exhibit myself in in public.”

  He realized he would very much like to hear her, no matter how skilled she was.

  Seated in the back of the room, he thought it acceptable to continue a quiet conversation and leaned closer to whisper, “I recall you—”

  However, at the same time, she turned and leaned close to say something to him. Briefly, their noses brushed and their lips nearly met. Wide eyed, they stared at one another their mouths inches apart, and her pulse visibly fluttering at the base of her throat. He longed to put his lips upon it and had to turn away so she wouldn’t see how her presence had undone him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her slowly face forward, and then sip her drink. For the rest of the recital, they remained silent. At its completion, she said, “I believe we are to spend time in our rooms gathering our thoughts and resting, before changing for Christmas dinner and games.”

  “Indeed,” he said, standing and offering her his hand. Something had changed between them. He took her reaction as an unspoken agreement they would renew their previous relations sometime over the Yuletide. He hoped he had understood correctly, even though he didn’t think anything would happen on Christmas day. They weren’t heathens, after all.

  However, tomorrow, on the second day of Christmastide, the servants would be given the day off, or most of them at any rate, with gifts of money and donations. Of course, all those maids, valets, and footmen brought to the manor would not be able to go home for the day and treat their own families, but they would spend most of the day being left to their own devices.

  As would Lady Macroun’s guests! It would be a grand day for calling upon Lady Worthington in her private bedchamber without fear of her maid spying on them.

  First, there was the interminable rest of the evening to be endured. Sarah had been right. They’d been given some hours on Christmas for quiet time and reflection on this holy day. Some guests strolled the grounds until their fingers and noses turned blue, returning to drink hot mulled wine or tea. Some read books in the library. And some, as Sarah predicted, returned to their rooms.

  Yet when he passed the conservatory, which they’d vacated an hour earlier, he found Sarah in it. Alone. He went in quietly. Her back was to him, as she rifled through a stack of papers.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you lurking in the conservatory? What valuable object can you tuck up your skirt?”

  He wished he hadn’t said it, for when she turned around, slowly, not with haste or guilt, she looked annoyed.

  “How dare you!” she said without much heat to her words. “I was only examining what carols our hostess had on hand. As it turns out, Lady Macroun has only a few, and I suppose the small church choir was all we are going to hear this year.”

  “You came to look for written music for carols?” he asked. “For the violin, no doubt,” he said in jest, for to his knowledge, there wasn’t any such thing.

  She pursed her lips, and still managed to look downright peppery and so attractive, he wanted to draw her to him and ravish her.

  “Apart from Lady Macroun’s foamy egg flip, carols are my favorite part of the Yuletide festivities,” she insisted.

  “I would have vowed your favorite thing was the gifts generous people tend to give this time of year,” Miles said, “some of which they carelessly leave lying around for you to scoop up with your nimble fingers.”

  At this, she rolled her eyes. “You are discourteous. I love carols. My father made us learn every one.”

  “Prove it,” Miles said, feeling a bit like the Devil. “Sing me something.”

  “Do you play the pianoforte?” she asked, glancing at the recently used instrument.

  “Sadly, no, and I don’t see a violin, so you shall have to sing unaccompanied, like those boys in church today.” He wondered if she would rise to the challenge.

  To his amazement, Sarah circled the room and went to the piano after all. She pressed one ivory key and then another.

  “Very well. Even without lyric sheets, I can recall nearly all of them.” Clasping her hands in front of her and closing her eyes, she began to sing Tate’s “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks,” which had been paired gloriously with music by Handel if only someone were there to play it.

  Her voice was pure and pleasant, and it wound its way into his soul as he stood there, watching her, feeling almost as if he were intruding. Unmoving, staying silent, Miles listened to her sing the entire carol, unable to stop himself from clapping when she completed the last line, “Begin and never cease.”

  “You have a lovely voice,” he said, and her cheeks went pink. He hadn’t known a woman to blush in many a day, and that in itself charmed him. Sarah was a gem! “Will you sing another?”

  “Any requests?” she offered, appearing pleased by his praise.

  “Christians Awake,” he said.

  She made a face. “It’s rather long. We’ll be here until they serve the Christmas goose or whatever we’re having.”

  He couldn’t help laughing. “In that case, I choose ‘Joy to the World.’”

  Nodding, she closed her eyes and began the lively and happy hymn, reminding him of childhood and his parents love.

  When she finished, he wanted to kiss her, which was now his constant state of being. But all he said was, “Thank you.”

  She beamed. “You’re welcome. Now do you believe me?”

  “You came in here looking for carols even though you know them all by heart. Of course, simply because it’s a tale as full of as many holes as a fisherman’s net, why would I not believe you?”

  “There is no pleasing you,” she muttered, shaking her head and making her way past him.

  Unthinkingly, he reached out and stayed her passage, with his hand upon her forearm.

  “On the contrary, you know very well how to please me.”

  Sarah turned slowly to look at him. Even more slowly, he gave in to the impulse to draw her closer, until his boots disappeared under the front of her gown and their bodies were pressed together.

  “I have wanted to do this since I laid eyes upon you.”

  She sighed. “As have I.”

  Her admission brought his body to the peak of awareness. Knowing she desired him flooded his veins with heat.

  Lowering his head, he claimed her lips, feeling her heart beating against his chest, undoubtedly as swift and hard as his own. Slanting his head, he fitted his mouth to hers and felt her open beneath him. Granted such access, Miles didn’t hesitate to sweep his tongu
e into her mouth, a torturous mimicry of how he wanted to explore the rest of her.

  He felt her hands come to rest upon his shoulders, as her hips tilted toward him. This was exactly like their first time, when by unspoken agreement, they met in Lady Dauschande’s sitting room while the rest of the dinner guests were still at the table, both having left the dining room on different pretenses.

  Her flashing blue eyes had called him hither, and when he’d kissed her, she’d moaned, exactly as she did now, making his loins throb. At the time, thinking her an experienced widow, he’d let his hands roam over her filmy evening dress, cupping her buttocks and pulling her core against the fall-front of his buckskin breeches, so she could feel his longing. He’d even been so bold as to push her neckline down and suckle her pert nipples, thinking she would stop him at any moment. Instead, her legs had collapsed, taking them both to Lady Dauschande’s sofa, and then she’d let him draw up her gown. He’d never intended more than a kiss, but her fingers had laced behind his neck, holding him close, while she panted, eyes glazed over, and he’d wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any other woman.

  Moreover, he’d replayed their encounter in his brain a hundred times, how it felt to palm his member, fit it to her opening, already damp with desire, and thrust inside her.

  She’d arched and cried out, and he’d covered her mouth with his own, until she’d muttered an apology, which made them both laugh given the circumstances. And then he had set a quick but thorough rhythm. As soon as she’d shuddered beneath him, he’d withdrawn and spent into his handkerchief. That had made them laugh again, albeit a little nervously.

  Could he shut the door and make love to her again in Lady Macroun’s conservatory? It was past the pale, against all reason, madness! And yet…