S. Cinders is an award-winning author who loves writing and cheesecake. She lives in the Midwest with her husband of twenty-four years and her two nearly grown sons.
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One Scandalous Christmas
by J. Burrelli
Chapter 1
October 24, 1815
London, England
“Good afternoon, Milton,” Kitty greeted the butler with a sunny smile. She slid off her gloves before unbuttoning her pelisse. “Are you well today?”
“I’m of excellent health, thank you for enquiring, Miss Katherine. Did you have a good walk?”
Kitty opened her mouth to respond, but her mother sailed past and brushed her aside, holding out her own pelisse which would have dropped to the floor if not for Milton’s quick hand.
“Have there been any callers today, Milton?” Her crystal-sharp tone was reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard.
“Several, my lady.”
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, her hand fluttering impatiently. “Anyone of note?”
“The Marquis of Lansdowne left his card, Your Ladyship.”
Kitty did a double-take at their long and trusty retainer’s clipped tone. Milton was an excellent judge of character. Often, he was more fastidious than his employers about the suitability of callers. The fact that the most recent visitor to the Thorpe household didn’t meet with his exacting standards was most interesting.
With a dexterity that shocked Kitty, her mama pounced on the salver and rifled through the pile of cards and invitations and, scooping them up, wafted them in a fan. “Oh, I knew it wouldn’t be long before Anne-Marie made her first conquest,” she trilled.
Kitty rolled her eyes. Turning her back, she shrugged out of her coat. Her mother would now become all of a twitter, singing her sister’s attributes from the rafters. “A marquis, did you hear that, Anne-Marie? We had the Marquis Lansdowne call at our home.”
It would keep her mother preoccupied for the time being, and that suited Kitty very well. Her sister was welcome to the man. Kitty feared her younger sister was too easily impressed by a title.
“Anne-Marie, Anne-Marie, come, dear, we must get ready for the Seaton’s soiree. You need to look your best if we run across the marquis.” The door snapped shut behind the energetic whirlwind that was Lady Thorpe, and thankfully her strident tone.
Kitty puffed out a breath of relief and shared a conspiratorial look with the old butler. She could swear she saw the edges of his lips twitch. “We had a lovely walk, Milton. The weather is unseasonably warm. Packages will be arriving shortly; they are for Miss Anne-Marie. Please could you see them sent up to her room?”
A whole day of shopping with her mother and sister was enough to tempt her to take up holy orders, if only to gain some peace. Kitty removed her bonnet and ran her critical eye over the drooping hat and faded artificial flowers. Though one of her favourite bonnets, it was sadly out of date. How long had she had it—four, maybe five seasons? She was hardly going to cut a dash about town anytime soon, she mused, and was certainly living up to her reputation as the ‘Thorpe Drab’.
“May I have tea sent to the library, please, Milton?” This was the one room in the house that neither her mother, nor her sister ever visited. A safe sanctuary from their silliness.
“Certainly, Miss Katherine.”
Kitty slipped along to the room in question and breathed a sigh of relief, allowing the familiar scent of paper and tooled leather to comfort her—an instant balm to her irritation which had been building over the past several hours.
“As bad as that, was it?” The question emanated from a corner of the room.
Kitty jumped. Arranging her face into a polite smile, she addressed the wingback chair. A pair of legs poked out from behind a news-sheet. “Of course not, Papa, I just prefer visiting the circulating library over the modiste.”
The paper rustled, and twinkling blue eyes peeked over the top. Her father gave a conspiratorial nod. “Yes, I can imagine.”
Her grin genuine, Kitty acknowledged she’d inherited more from her father than his dark colouring; she had his bookish ways. If he had not been born to title, he could have easily taken up the role of a scholar, content among his books, so long as he had a warm hearth and decent food.
Kitty travelled the length of the shelves and ran her fingers along the spines of some familiar friends and other friends yet to be discovered. She found the book she had recently been enjoying and settled into the twin armchair by the aforementioned hearth.
She smiled up at the maid who knocked and entered bearing a tea tray. “Would you like me to pour, Papa?”
Lord Thorpe nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He appeared distracted, but that wasn’t anything new for her absent-minded papa. Kitty added half a spoon of sugar and a drop of milk to his tea, the way she knew he liked it.
“It is good you came, Kitty. I need to talk to you.”
Kitty paused midway through stirring the tea. She raised her head, startled by the gravitas of her father’s tone. She could not imagine what she might have done to displease him.
“What is it, Papa?” she asked, worrying her lower lip as she handed over his tea.
He looked distinctly uncomfortable and gave a tug at his cravat, shifting in his seat.
“I will come straight to the point, Kitty. You need to make a genuine effort this season to attract a suitor.”
Kitty’s hand slipped as she poured her tea. Liquid splashed onto the saucer. That had been the last thing she’d expected him to say. Her face became shuttered. “I have no interest in marriage, Papa,” she replied sharply, setting the strainer aside with a little more force than strictly required.
At four and twenty years of age, Miss Kathrine Georgianna Thorpe was considered to be ‘on the shelf’, and she liked it that way. The proverbial shelf suited her, it was comfortable and safe. One knew where one stood when one was on the shelf. Should a fashionable gentleman attempt to make her acquaintance, she would direct them to Anne-Marie. Kitty simply could not stand the idea of yet another season. In fact, the very idea made her feel ill.
“Dash it all, girl, I’m not getting any younger. What will you do when your mother and I are gone?”
“That will be a long time coming, Papa.” She sniffed.
He raked a hand through the wisp of white hair perched atop of his shining dome. It was true that Baron Thorpe had married later in life. He’d always said it was because his nose had been firmly stuck in a book until it was pointed out that he required an heir to continue the Thorpe line. He had set out to search for a bride, eventually marrying a much younger woman in the hope of obtaining an heir. Unfortunately, no son had arrived.
“We don’t know how long we have left, Kitty, and with the estate entailed away to a distant relation, you will be left to face the tender mercies of this world alone.” He paused as if considering his words. “The world can be an extremely harsh place, daughter.”
Kitty became restless, a ball of agitation. She tapped her foot on the floor.
“What about your investments?” she asked matter-of-factly. Picking up her forgotten cup, she inhaled the calming scent of the tea.
“They are not entailed, and I have the brain to handle finance. You could put them into a trust.”
Papa’s mouth bunched.
Kitty lowered her eyes so he didn’t see her flash of triumph.
“Kathrine...”
She struggled to hide the wince at his use of her full name. Her father rarely called her Katherine.
“The investments will not be e
nough. They have taken a hit during the war with France.” His face paled. “I invested heavily in commerce that was dependent on North Sea exports.” His next words were heaped with self-loathing and bitterness. “Just before the market collapsed.”
The world fell out from under Kitty’s feet, and she was glad she was already seated.
“I had no idea, Papa,” she murmured. Of course, she had heard about the 1811 crises but only in the broadest of terms. That after previously booming, Britain’s exports reduce by a third without warning. Kitty wracked her brains trying to recall where she had been at that time, if Papa had shown any hint of distress. To her shame, Kitty could not remember. She had been too consumed by her own dismal affaires to see past the end of her nose.
Her cup rattled against her saucer. She made to rise, but her father raised his palm to forestall her.
Pain sliced across his face as he was forced to share the unpalatable truth. “Not to the degree that we are destitute, you understand, but with declining markets, we can no longer rely on them.”
Kitty sucked in her breath. Before she had come into the library, life had been normal. How could everything change so drastically in such a small space of time?
“You deserve to be the mistress of your own home, daughter, and experience the joy of having your own family.”
Kitty’s lips took on a cynical twist, bearing a close semblance to a grimace rather than a smile. “I assume you refer to the joy of facing death to bear some imaginary husband’s children, while he, no doubt, takes up with his latest lady bird.”
“Katherine!” Papa spluttered, shooting her a look of reprimand.
She forced herself to take a mouthful of the near-scalding tea, just to keep anything else outrageous from spilling from her mouth. What had she been thinking letting her tongue run away with her?
“What do you know of such matters?” Baron Thorpe demanded, his papery cheeks turning a ruddy red.
She knew that tone, but the flare of her temper made her stand her ground.
“Come, Papa, I am not an ignorant miss straight out of the schoolroom,” she pointed out while fiddling with her spoon.
“That does not give you leave to talk about such matters openly. It reveals a vulgarity that is beneath you.”
Kitty pinched her lips together, and with a meekness her rebellious spirit was far from feeling, she made a tactical retreat. “I apologise, Papa.”
The hypocrisy of the situation galled her strong sense of justice. They would see her wed and turn a blind eye to the generally accepted base practices of the supposed gentlemen of the ton.
After a moment of her father glaring at her, the starch left his spine, and for a moment he appeared to age before her eyes.
“You have much to offer, Katherine, but you seem determined to hide yourself away. You barely say two words while you are out at entertainments.”
Kitty returned a pert volley. “That is because if there was an original thought between those posing peacocks, I would be forced to eat my best bonnet and run mad from shock.” Not that she’d trust a word out of their insincere mouths. She’d learnt that lesson long ago. Neither did she have the features that would allow her to be crowned a diamond of the first water, unlike her sister. Anne-Marie was the image of her mother in her heyday. Her form was slight, and with blonde locks that could hold a curl, paired with the bright-blue Thorpe eyes, Anne-Marie was undeniably striking. Where her father’s blue eyes kindled intelligence and a surprising wry sense of humour, Anne-Marie’s held the shallowness of an eggshell.
Other than those eyes, Kitty was as different from her sister as night from day, taking after her father with dark colouring. There had been those who had gone so far as to call her a little brown wren, and when they thought she was out of earshot, a drab. Some whispered she was destined to become an old maid. Kitty would rather walk over hot coals than go through that again.
She and her father glared at one another, the small space between them becoming a battleground.
“If there is no one of our social standing that you find acceptable, perhaps a curate or a local squire might suit? Mr Poppleton might be persuaded to court you. Your dowry could be used as an incentive.”
Katherine choked and engaged in an unladylike coughing fit. Mr Poppleton, heaven forbid! The man was twice her age, loud and of a ruddy complexion. He was blatantly seeking a mother for his brood of children produced by the first Mrs Poppleton after she had died in childbirth. Not only that, but his discussion consisted only of horses, dogs, and shooting.
Scowling over her teacup, Katherine sniffed and returned curtly, “I will be consigned to Bedlam within a month, neither am I one for sermons.”
Her father tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Or Great Aunt Agatha is ailing and in need of a companion.”
Kitty shuddered at his other suggested, yet equally cruel fate. Aunt Agatha was a harridan, tyrannical and spiteful. Nothing ever pleased her. The woman lacked all warmth and feeling.
So, she was to become the unpaid nursemaid or have Squire Poppleton sweating over her in bed while she tried to deal with his unruly brood. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. Neither option was viable as far as she was concerned.
Her glare still in full force, Kitty drummed her fingers upon the arm of the chair.
Her father did not cow under her disdain.
“That was underhanded, sir,” she all but growled, her enjoyment from their sparring evaporating.
Lord Thorpe appeared unconcerned about Kitty’s ire and met her burning gaze candidly. “Nonetheless, those will soon be your only options if you continue along this path.”
She was loath to acknowledge that he had neatly outmanoeuvred her by presenting her with an honest view of her potential future and she hated it. The truth behind her father’s words were proving a bitter and difficult pill to swallow. It left only one potential option open to her where she might have some say. As unpalatable as another season would be, the alternatives were far worse.
“Very well, Father, if I agree...”
Baron Thorpe snorted. “There is no if about it, Katherine, unless you wish to reap a mess of your own making in years to come.”
Continuing like he hadn’t spoken, she strengthened her spine and her voice. “However, may I point out a flaw in your plan?” she said, pleased she had managed an even tone.
“Go on.” Papa arched a brow.
“Mother,” Kitty said simply.
In her first season, Kitty had been pushed, pulled, and prodded and shoved from pillar to post in the most outrageous frills and furbelows that did nothing to flatter her plumpish figure.
“Hmm.” Lord Thorpe was back to rubbing his nose again. He knew only too well how badly her mother and she dealt with one another over a sustained period of time. The image of tying two cats’ tails entwined, each fighting and tugging in opposing directions, neither gaining ground, popped into her head.
“I have thought of an alternate solution.”
He leaned back, a sense of satisfaction emanating from him. The sinking feeling in the pit of Kitty’s stomach grew. God’s teeth, just what was she going to have to agree to now?
“Your Aunt Euphemia is in London for the season, and I know she would enjoy aiding your endeavours. Would that suit you?”
Lady Euphemia was Kitty’s favourite relation. A sensible widow with a wry sense of humour and a backbone of steel, her temperament and outlook mirrored Kitty’s in so many ways.
“She might not agree...” Kitty’s thought tailed away. She slouched back against the chair, staring at the ceiling, and worked through her frustration. “You’ve already asked her, haven’t you?”
“And naturally, Euphemia was thrilled by the prospect and accepted with alacrity,” the baron confirmed, failing miserably to keep the smugness from his voice.
Definitely outmanoeuvred, Kitty acknowledged wryly. Her mouth curved into a grudging smile.
She nodded and decided to play her l
ast desperate card, her nose wrinkling in a grimace. “My wardrobe needs updating.” That was an understatement. After her disastrous first season where she had not the spirit or inclination to resist, her mother had overseen her wardrobe with disastrous effect. What suited her mother’s petite frame did Kitty no favours, and over time she had been browbeaten until she no longer argued with her mama. With Kitty dressed unsuitably in ruffles and styles that emphasised the breadth of her shoulders and width of her hips, her season had been a disaster.
“Is that all? With the little you have spent of your allowance over the past five years, I am certain you will have more than adequate funds to outfit yourself appropriately.”
Kitty sat back, defeated. She took a sip of her long-forgotten tea. It now tasted stale on her tongue. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
He offered her a tired smile, again looking older than usual.
“I’m trying to ensure your future, Kitty. Understand, child, I only want what is best for you.”
His sincere words softened her defences and curtailed any further arguments. She knew her father had her best interests at heart, no matter how misguided they might be.
“I know, Papa, I know.” Kitty accepted her fate with grace, even though her heart sank at the thought of enduring another tortuous season.
Chapter 2
Considering it was early in the season, Lady Seaton’s was a surprising crush. The rooms were hot and stuffy, and Miss Katherine Thorpe shifted uncomfortably, feeling her maid’s efforts go to waste as her artfully curled hair became limp. That hair summed up her life precisely, sad and limp. Sighing loud enough for her mother to glance up from her animated conversation and shoot her a glare, Katherine schooled her face into a neutral expression and took her usual position with the rest of the wallflowers, every inch the spinster firmly on the shelf. Though her father’s words were still echoing in her ears, it was harder to implement his plan, especially when she was attired in the trappings of the Thorpe Drab.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 95
