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

by Collette Cameron

  Lifting his head, he looked around him, but the infernal room held only chairs, candelabras, the piano, and a small chest with sheets of music.

  “Do not even think it,” she warned and moved out of the circle of his arms as if coming to her senses. Good thing one of them had.

  Shrugging, he grinned. “Not even a divan, comfortable or otherwise.”

  She lifted her chin slightly. “I would prefer something more comfortable and less public, in any case.”

  “Agreed.” Glad indeed she wasn’t turning him down entirely.

  “It is Christmas, after all,” she added, and he wasn’t sure of the significance but assumed it was not the right day for a tryst.

  “The second day of Twelvetide, perhaps?” he mused.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “For now, you’d best pluck a berry.” She pointed to the mistletoe over the door before gliding gracefully out of the room, as if they’d engaged in a civilized quadrille instead of kissing, groping, and planning an assignation.

  “I shall see you at dinner,” he called after her, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate and besotted as he felt.

  Chapter 6

  Sarah could hardly wait for dinner, and all because she wanted to be in Denbigh’s company again. As Dorie dressed her in red silk that only a married woman or widow could pull off without disaster, she realized her focus for the Twelvetide was definitely unraveling. When she’d walked out of Denbigh’s townhouse in London after the best night of her life, she’d done so out of self-preservation. While he slumbered, she’d done up as many of the wretched buttons as she could, tossed her mantle over the utter déshabillé, and rushed home hidden in the confines of her carriage.

  As much as her body wanted him, her heart had already begun to grow fond of him in an absurdly short amount of time. That morning, after what they’d shared, if he had looked at her with the smallest glimmer of disrespect, it would have shattered her.

  Thus, she’d escaped, head high, although mantle firmly over it, and waited for his next missive. It hadn’t come. And he’d had the nerve to call her an ice queen!

  Why, he hadn’t even sent her a bouquet of flowers. Not even a little posy!

  Nevertheless, his desire for her was as conspicuous as the first time she’d recognized it in his devilish eyes at Lady Dauschande’s dinner. It had knocked her back a step, especially when she felt the answering sensations in her own body. Outrageously, she’d met him for a tryst—her first—and found it to be terrifying and exceedingly wonderful at the same time.

  And now, she had all but decided to do it again, even though he thought her capable of stealing the crown off sweet King George’s mad head.

  But first, Christmas dinner. Lady Macroun had outdone herself. The guests all met in the drawing room, dressed in their most festive, like Sarah. She was paired with Mr. Asher, which bothered her not at all until she saw Denbigh coupled with Lady Frances, who wore a pale green gown with cream trim, fittingly demure for an earl’s daughter.

  For a moment, Sarah felt garish in her cheery red gown, until Denbigh’s eyes swept over her, seeming to burn with inner flames. Then he winked, and she didn’t care with whom either of them sat at the table as long as he looked at her in such a way.

  After they all partook of Widow Clicquot’s best bubbly wine, Mr. Asher escorted her into dinner. The saving grace of watching Denbigh ahead of her with Lady Frances was noticing how stiffly he held himself, practically leaning away from the young lady.

  A general gasp of delight occurred over and over as each of the guests got close enough to the dining table to see the parade of sugar carvings running down its center. So artfully done, not only were there the expected sugar swans and cherubs, deer and horses, there was a three-foot high pastillage sculpture with its own small star-shaped and ball ornaments dangling from hooks. When each person sat down, the sculpture trembled, causing its sugary adornments to sparkle and glisten in the candlelight.

  Even their individual place cards were set in small pastillage baskets. How clever!

  When they were all seated, the many courses began at once. Sarah had been correct in guessing goose—or in this case, geese, as there were so many mouths at the table—although there was also venison. Sham brawn was served, which Sarah had never cared for, and also boiled cod with oyster sauce, every imaginable jellied dish, which made her think of Julia, who liked to poke them and make them wiggle.

  There was also an array of cheeses, and a garden full of vegetable dishes, including honeyed carrots, one of Sarah’s particular favorites. Indeed, each type of seasonal food she could remember having at a Christmas meal appeared before her, as well as some unseasonal ones, designed simply to show off Lady Macroun’s wealth, including pineapples and grapes.

  Mince pies would be made from some of the heartier remains of the meal, and she knew they would be dining on them through the next eleven days to bring good fortune all year.

  Naturally, an array of pastry-encased fowls had to be eaten, too, and some succulent lamb before they indulged in the rich puddings. These had been “curing,” as her father called it, since stir-up Sunday in late November when they’d been made in her ladyship’s kitchen, baked, dried, then soaked in alcohol. She especially loved a warm piece of pudding with custard poured over the top.

  While she savored the dessert, Mr. Asher told her comical tales of his own misfortune that would take a multitude of mince pies to counteract. His self-deprecating manner was designed to entertain, and she listened and smiled. What’s more, as she’d done through the entire meal, Sarah tried to keep from glancing down the other end of the table to see how Denbigh was enjoying his Christmas dinner.

  Afterward, the guests returned to the main drawing room for cups of spiced wassail and charades amongst the decoration of apples wreaths, clove-studded oranges, and ribbons festooning the room’s mantle. Although some guests considered it odd not to have a dance that night, Lady Macroun had decided to wait until Twelfth Night, when not only the guests of the manor would attend the ball, but also local gentry, nobility from close by manors, and perhaps even a few more from London. It would be a splendid affair. Meanwhile, they were promised two other nights with opportunities for dancing.

  Warm and fed, drinking strong wassail, Sarah ought to consider it a rather grand Christmas, except for being among strangers. She missed her father and sister terribly. Perhaps that was the reason she was cleaving to Denbigh, as the only person there with whom she had the mildest of friendships, if one could declare a fiery passion to be such.

  And then, boldly, in front of all the gathered company, he chose her to be his partner for the charades when other women sat closer, particularly Lady Frances, whose mouth dropped open at the cut.

  Sarah wished he hadn’t drawn such attention to her, especially since her face, under the scrutiny of the other guests, was probably flaming to match her gown. She would hardly look the part of a sophisticated countess with cherry-red cheeks. Besides, if Denbigh had asked her first, she would have confessed to not being adept at figuring out the riddles. On the other hand, she was pleased as Punchinello that he’d not shown an ounce of timidity in showing his favor. He was a brave and intriguing man!

  “My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings” began the wordplay, and despite the wassail and Denbigh’s distracting nearness, for he’d taken the seat beside her, Sarah tried to concentrate and solve the riddle.

  Alas, as expected, they did not win at charades. The ladies cried off Hoodman’s Blind as it would leave their coiffure disheveled, but they did enjoy Hunt the Slipper. To Denbigh’s annoyance, when he was “it,” he did not detect them passing the slipper, although Mr. Asher did upon his turn.

  “Bravo, Mr. Asher,” Lady Macroun said. “You are certainly an observant fellow.”

  “Indeed,” he said, with his usual humility. “I suppose it is one of my few skills. Not very useful, wot wot.”

  Sarah thought it particularly useful and wished there was a little l
ess observant folk at Forde Hall.

  “Tell me why you are really here,” Sarah said to Miles, catching him off guard when they were all seated by two and threes, spread out around the drawing room and in the parlor next door. As midnight had come and gone, and without lively music to keep them going, many were starting to droop.

  Some guests still played at Fox and Geese or Spillikins. Others played card games because Lady Macroun didn’t hold with the latest concerns that card-playing was a vice unsuitable for ladies, and therefore, she had decks readily available. Some declared themselves unfit to engage in anything mentally challenging, even cards, and merely drank wine and watched the others. Lady Frances had finally received his message of disinterest, at least for the time being, although she’d continued to glare daggers at him, particularly when he approached Sarah and invited her for a quiet tête-a-tête.

  Taking her arm, Miles and Sarah had wandered into the parlor, sitting just out of reach of any of the circles of candlelight and simply conversed. He found it a singular occurrence to have time to speak with a woman privately.

  “I don’t think I’ve done anything like this before. Ever,” he said, feeling somewhat astounded.

  “You’ve never lost at charades and Hunt the Slipper in one night?” she asked. Her eyes caught the little candle glow that reached them and reflected it back like glittering jewels.

  “You are amusing yourself at my expense,” he said, “but I meant I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to a member of the fairer sex while not in a theatre or at a ball or a dinner party. This is how it would be if we were a couple at home.”

  “Do you mean like a married couple?” she asked, her mouth quirking slightly.

  And he startled at the notion of marriage, but yes, he supposed that was what he’d intended. It would be rather nice to be able to have quiet, thoughtful discussions whenever one wished, whether in one’s nightshirt or over breakfast in one’s banyan.

  “I suppose it is old hat to you, being as you are a widow.”

  She lifted a delicate shoulder in a pretty shrug. “My husband was stricken with heart congestion nearly as soon as we returned from my father’s home, directly following the wedding. The earl only met me in the dining room a few times before taking to his bed to succumb to cardiac insufficiency, the doctor called it. Dear man. No heirs, either. Someone in Parliament is still trying to figure out if the earldom will die out or if there is some distant relative who can inherit it.”

  “What will that mean for you?” Most women would be scheming to hold onto the fortune of an earl.

  But again, Sarah shrugged in a way he was coming to realize was entirely artless.

  “I am not worried. The earl has provided for me to live comfortably. My father made sure of that before ever he agreed to the marriage.”

  Miles nodded, trying to remember which way their conversation’s thread had been weaving. “Thus, you didn’t get to enjoy this type of easy conversing with your husband?”

  “No, not once. I don’t think I have done anything like this either, except for the short time you and I spent talking at your townhouse before…,” she trailed off, keeping her brilliant gaze upon him.

  He swallowed. “Yes, I recall clearly, but we didn’t actually do much talking that evening.”

  “To be certain, we did not,” she agreed, her mouth bowing in a smile he longed to kiss.

  “It’s after midnight, the second day of Twelvetide,” he reminded her. “No longer Christmas day with all of its most holy reverberations.”

  “True,” she said lightly, which was when she asked him her unexpected question. “Tell me why you are really here.”

  She deserved an answer, and he could think of no reason not to tell her the truth, especially if it would discourage her should she be up to something, as he suspected.

  “There have been a number of thefts in London. Some have made the newspapers, while others have been kept quiet. Believe it or not, it’s easier for Bow Street to handle such a thing if every Tom Fool doesn’t know about it, muddying up the waters.”

  She nodded, looking unconcerned. “Have someone’s baubles and trinkets gone missing?”

  “Some very expensive baubles and some irreplaceable trinkets to be sure. I don’t intend to let it happen here.” He fixed her with his gaze, hoping she understood if she were behind it, he intended to stop her.

  “How can you prevent it?” she wondered. “Are you going to give us all a curfew and play nanny? Perhaps you’ll check our rooms at night and make sure we’re all tucked in our beds.” Tilting her head, Sarah seemed to be challenging him.

  “There’s probably only one room I need to check and one person whose bed will be empty unless I’m there to tie her down.”

  She grinned, and his loins stirred. She was shameless but not a tease. That made her even more desirable, knowing she would follow through with what her eyes and her smile indicated. Whenever she had tempted him in the past, they’d enjoyed a mutual seduction right to the glorious end.

  “It stands to reason Lady Macroun doesn’t want such happenings going on here at Forde Hall,” Sarah agreed. “Hence, your presence. But if you intend to deter villainous behavior, shouldn’t you tell everyone what you do when you’re not being a dashingly handsome viscount?”

  He would if he hadn’t hoped to catch the sneaking budge in the act. Deterrence was not his aim so much as utterly stopping the blighter in his—or her—tracks. Now, having dined, played games, and even worshiped with these people for two days, it would be practically a betrayal to tell them he thought one of them a jewel thief.

  She leaned forward, opening her mouth to speak again, and a necklace, previously nestled between her shapely breasts, swung free. A single ruby pendant, as red as her gown, caught the candlelight, gleaming like a flame.

  Unthinkingly, Miles reached out, making her gasp as he snaked a finger around it, pulling the chain taught.

  “Whose is this?” he asked.

  “Unhand it, you rascal,” Sarah demanded, trying to lean away from him. “It’s mine, of course. A remembrance of my poor, deceased mother.”

  “Evidently not so poor” he said wryly, “if she had a ruby. When I return to London, I’ll find out which lady of the ton is missing it, so you may as well confess.”

  “I tell you it belonged to my mother,” she fumed.

  He nearly laughed at her expression, like that of a stubborn child, but there was nothing truly amusing happening. If someone caught her in the act, she could hang or, at the very least, be transported to the land of convicts down under, Botany Bay. And plainly, he would miss her like the Devil.

  Releasing the pendant, he let it fall back against her chest and she jerked away from him.

  “I have a great disrelish for criminal activity,” he told her.

  “As do I,” she agreed, infuriating him.

  “Then why were you creeping around the manor, getting stuck in a clock?”

  Shaking her head, she looked a little sad. “Still gnawing on that old, dry bone, are you, Denbigh?”

  “On the contrary,” he said, “I find the bone to be quite juicy.”

  “I assure you, it is not,” she insisted, rising to her feet. “I believe I will retire.”

  He stood, realizing with lancing regret he’d ruined his chances of an assignation that night, and maybe any other, too.

  “You’ll be attending the hunt later today, will you not?” she asked.

  He hated how her question made him doubt her instantly. With all the men out of the manor, and most of the women following along in carriages, she could pick the guests’ rooms clean like a hungry falcon, especially as it was the day most servants had off.

  “I may or I may not,” he said, wanting to keep her on the hop. He had fully intended to be present when the brass chevy was blown, as he enjoyed the sport tremendously, but duty came first. “It will be a late start, and I prefer an early morning hunt with mist still on the land.”

  “Such
is your choice,” Sarah said with a sniff. “I fully intend to go and enjoy myself. I bid you happy Christmas, my lord. Good night.”

  She turned and walked away, appearing a little stiff and not at all like the relaxed lady with whom he had spent the evening. With a sense of loss at the change, Miles hoped he would quickly discover someone else was the jewel thief and be able to fall at Sarah’s feet and apologize.

  While he was down there, he would caress her ankles and stroke the sensitive spot behind her knees, before working his way up to the heaven between her thighs. With that thought, he retired to his own chamber, feeling as frustrated and conflicted as every other moment since being in her company at Forde Hall.

  He never should have said yes to Prinny for this favor!

  Chapter 7

  At two in the morning, Sarah decided to venture out, even if only to get her bearings and learn which servants might roam the halls at night and how much lighting there might be. Naturally, she wore her dressing gown with handy pockets and had a stolen necklace wrapped in a handkerchief in one of them, in the event opportunity arose to return it.

  Treading softly along the upper hallway, she passed a seemingly endless line of doors to her right and left. When she’d counted five of them on either side and nearly reached the main landing, she heard footsteps approaching from the other wing. There was nowhere to hide, and it was too far to return to her room.

  Pressing herself against the wall, she held her breath, grateful a marble bust on a pedestal stuck out farther than she did. She even closed her eyes, cleaving to an old childish notion—if she couldn’t see the man, for by the bootfalls, it was most certainly a man, then he couldn’t see her. She could only hope he turned left and went down the stairs.

  Suddenly, the steps strode past her, and she opened her eyes. Denbigh! All at once, he ground to a halt and turned, a grin on his oh-too-handsome face as she looked right at her.