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

by Collette Cameron

  Robert smothered a chuckle, more amused than he had been in an age. “I hope you don’t have plans to take the stage, Kitten.”

  “Don’t call me Kitten!” she hissed under her breath.

  “And yourself, Captain Vaughan, are we likely to see you during our promenade?”

  The question came from the younger Miss Thorpe. What was her name again? Mary? Anne? She batted her large blue eyes at him, waiting for him to pat her on the head for her staggering contribution to the conversation, a masterpiece of auditory genius. No doubt she was used to suitors climbing over each other, vying for her attention. He ran a critical eye over her, and though she was a more traditional beauty with her fair visage, it was Kitty’s quiet intensity that drew him. It was like comparing a first-class frigate to a sloop.

  “If I am in that direction, I may accompany my cousin. I am renewing my acquaintance with people after being away many years at sea,” Robert replied.

  “Oh, I can just imagine how exciting that must have been,” leapt in Anne-Marie. “An adventure for sure, all the while fighting the French. You’ll have to tell us some of your stories. Have you taken a ship? Have you seen a battle?” Anne-Marie, bombarded him with question after question without pausing to draw breath.

  The image of the room wavered, and the scent of gunpowder and the sea filled his nostrils. Yes, he’d seen battle, as evidenced by the scar on his face, but he was one of the lucky ones. He’d seen his men lose limbs or their lives in the vicious fighting.

  Aid came from the most unlikely source, the woman beside him.

  “Anne-Marie, that is enough.” The firm tone flicked out like the lash of the cat and brought him back to the present. She turned to him with an apologetic expression, concern brimming in her eyes. “You’ll have to forgive my sister, Captain Vaughn. Sometimes it is easy to forget the dangers others face on our behalf while we reside in safety, and that war of any sort is a bloody business.”

  “Katherine!” Lady Thorpe gasped, her hand flattened to her chest. “What a thing to say, and in front of his lordship, too.”

  Katherine jerked her head back as if slapped. “I apologise,” she began stiffly, “if my blunt manner has caused offence. I am simply aware that not all officers care to relive their experiences. However, if there are some anecdotes that Captain Vaughan wishes to share, please ignore my outburst.”

  Robert shot Kitty an appreciative glance, a tender emotion flickering to life within him, and he had the urge to take her small pale hand in his and run his thumb over her delicate knuckles. He ruthlessly squashed it.

  “Miss Thorpe is quite right that some tales are not fitting for London drawing rooms. However, there are a few memories that I feel comfortable sharing.” Robert then launched into accounting the time he went ashore while docking in Gibraltar and their host had kept a pet ape that had taken a liking to the admiral’s hat.

  As the light conversation ebbed and flowed with Lady Thorpe and Miss Anne-Marie holding court, it became increasingly obvious to Robert the lady of the house didn’t remember the young lieutenant who had offered for their daughter’s hand, who she had chased off with scorn. In fact, Lady Thorpe was more than willing to fawn over him and his cousin. He struggled to keep his face neutral in the distasteful persistence of their hypocrisy. They now thought him a suitable potential match with his distinguished nautical career and fortune.

  The butler entered the room, his expression one of having something deeply unpleasant thrust under his nose, and announced, “The Marquis of Lansdowne, my lady.”

  The man swaggered in with an assurance of being accepted and made a direct beeline for the seat closest to Katherine, stating his silent preference for the elder Miss Thorpe. Katherine did the introductions with polished poise.

  “Captain Vaughn and Lord Preston, may I introduce you to the Marquis of Lansdown; Lord Lansdowne, the Viscount Preston and Captain Vaughn.”

  Robert’s eyes narrowed; it was all very prettily done.

  Katherine angled her body to keep Lansdowne in her line of sight, instantly giving the man her attention. A spark of anger burned slowly in Robert’s gut at this show of shallowness from her. And all it took was a title.

  “Have you had time to enjoy any more rides, Miss Thorpe?”

  “I have not, my lord. I’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to turn my mind to it.”

  The strange, stilted phrasing struck Robert as unusual, as did her stiff, formal address, at complete odds with her usual easy, playful manner, unless she was attempting to put on airs to impress the marquis. Robert frowned. For the love of God, the man was salivating over her. Then, as if belatedly remembering his manners, Lansdowne shifted his attention.

  “Do you enjoy riding, Mr Vaughn?”

  Robert offered him a lopsided smile, the scar stretching on his cheek, and met the man’s gaze unflinchingly. After facing down enemy broadsides, the marquis’ attempts to intimidate him were laughable. “It’s Captain Vaughn, and no, I don’t particularly care to ride.”

  “Nonsense,” Katherine teased, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “I recall you manage well enough, you are just not a lover of the pastime.”

  Robert gave an inelegant snort, a flash of humour briefly lifting his dark mood. “I’m more comfortable with a tiller in my hands than I am reins or ribbons, I’m afraid.”

  Kitty released mellow, throaty laughter that knotted his insides. “You will make quite a sight on Bond Street, Captain.” She shot him a saucy smile, her eyes lightening and inviting him to join in the joke.

  Something powerful and potent arced between them and went straight to his loins. Robert inhaled softly.

  Lansdowne cleared his throat, and the moment was broken, Robert settling his attention back on the man’s annoying prattle.

  “Unlike Miss Thorpe,” Lansdowne added in a sly tone, “she has a magnificent seat, a natural rider if ever there was one.”

  A fevered blush stained Katherine’s cheeks and crept down her neck, her eyes remaining fixed steadfastly on her teacup. Impertinent toad. Robert’s lips curled in distaste. Couldn’t the man see his remarks were making Katherine feel uncomfortable?

  “I’m afraid you give me too high praise, my lord,” Kitty said at last, retaining a death grip on the cup’s handle. “I’m sure I am no more accomplished than any other lady, and I dare say less accomplished than most.”

  “Come now, Miss Thorpe, no false modesty. Many ladies in my acquaintance would not have braved the morning chorus.”

  “From that remark, I can assume that you don’t have many young ladies in your acquaintance.” She turned back glibly, taking a sip of her tea.

  Against his will, Robert’s lips twitched. Lansdowne frowned, as if trying to retrace his steps in the conversation and see where it had derailed. If he wasn’t so dashed annoying, Robert could have almost felt sorry for the man, having been on the receiving end of Katherine’s wit many times.

  They continued to trade pleasantries for a while longer, and Robert became aware of an undercurrent between Katherine and Lansdowne. The words at first appearance were innocent enough, but there was…something. It was a peculiar puzzle, to be sure. Though Katherine attempted to include Robert, Lansdowne would inevitably turn the conversation back on to himself. To find himself shut out was a blow against his pride and forged his determination anew.

  Though Robert would have liked to have lingered, Preston, after being compelled to engage in insipid conversation for the past three quarters of the hour, was making his farewell.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Thorpe, Miss Katherine Thorpe, and Miss Thorpe. We have an appointment and are forced to take our leave.”

  Robert had no choice but to follow suit and, stepping out onto the pavement, he breathed in a great lungful of air.

  “Are you sure you know what you are doing, Robert?” Preston snarled under his breath.

  For a moment in there, Robert wasn’t so sure. Kitty’s sensitivity and defence of him in the face
of a delicate topic had taken him flat aback. And he’d had to fight the urge not to seek out her hand and squeeze it. Then thoughts of the Marquis of Lansdowne intruded and how her attention had been trained on him. Hot anger flared, baking and hardening his resolve. “Yes, Preston, I’m sure.”

  Chapter 5

  Nerves held Kitty by the throat in a stranglehold, or more accurately, the ruff scratching her nape did as she stood in the assembly line next to her aunt, waiting to be admitted to the masquerade that was to be one of the events of the season. It was even whispered there would be a Persian ambassador in attendance. Kitty released a deep breath and took comfort from the mask shielding the upper half of her face. The cloak was removed, and she flung her head high, proud and tall, even if the angle did threaten to break her neck. Tonight she was not Katherine Thorpe. No, tonight she was Elizabeth, the virgin queen. Her lips curled at her own self-derision—well, perhaps not so virginal.

  “Just so,” Aunt Emmie murmured with approval, her lips teasing upwards.

  The old-style corset emphasised Kitty’s small waist while thrusting her breasts up. It was the most daring article of clothing she’d ever worn. There seemed to be an awful amount of exposed skin from the bottom of her mask to the edge of her décolletage, and the lace ruff that flared behind her head like a scattering firework framed the whole ensemble and drew the eye to the curves of her form.

  Anne-Marie’s mouth briefly dropped open, her gaze raking over Kitty, and it was not a kindly look. Her sister had gone as Aphrodite in a champagne-coloured gown, casting her blonde curls and blue eyes in an appealing light, rather risqué for a debutante by all accounts, with a thick, luscious lock trailing over her shoulder to the edge of her décolleté. It was in complete contrast with the bold, brash colour of Katherine’s gown, and the pastels paled in comparison to the crimson shot with gold. Pearls threaded through her dark hair piled upon the top of her head. Madame had worked a marvel, the skirt cut wider, nodding to the historical template but not to prevent her from dancing. Jewels edged the hem of her skirts, paste of course, but no one would know it with the Mowbray Diamonds gracing her neck. She was dressed to face off a second Spanish Armada.

  Anne-Marie shot her a scowl before turning her nose up and gliding into the ballroom, and it saddened Kitty. She didn’t wish to be in direct competition with her sister, and that was how she would see it. Stealing the time and chance that was meant to be hers to shine.

  “Euphemia, what are you wearing?” Lady Thorpe demanded in a strangled tone.

  Kitty was pleased the attention was being diverted away from her.

  Her mahogany hair captured in a silk turban, Aunt Emmie was in a sleek flowing gown, except… Kitty’s eyes widened. The skirt stopped short just below her knees, and a pair of wide-legged trousers continued to her jewelled pointed slippers.

  “Oh, yes, isn’t it fabulous?” Aunt Emmie continued on blithely. One would think she was oblivious of the growing pallor on her sister-in-law’s face, but Kitty knew better. “But despite my urging, I could not get Madame to take the skirt a couple of inches higher.”

  A hacking cough assailed the baroness, and Aunt Emmie signalled a passing footman for some lemonade and handed her cup.

  “Please, have a care, Henrietta.”

  “That is scandalous,” Mama wheezed under her breath, “positively scandalous.”

  “Scandalous, you say?” Aunt Emmie gave a decadent, throaty chuckle. “Well, if I am to be labelled scandalous, where are some likely rogues I can round up for my harem?”

  Mama’s mouth was left agog, the rest of her body frozen.

  “Are you coming, too, Henrietta?” Aunt Emmie called over her shoulder, making her way farther into the ballroom.

  Unable to do anything else, Lady Thorpe took a fortifying gulp of lemonade and followed her outrageous sister-in-law.

  Aunt Emmie shot Kitty a conspiratorial wink, and she was assailed by a sudden attack of the giggles.

  The room was already stifling, the chandeliers burning brightly overhead and the room filled with overly perfumed bodies, or as the smug hostess would deem it, a ‘fashionable crush’.

  Her mother and Aunt Emmie found their seats on the edge of the ballroom, where they could best survey their charges.

  The young men gravitated to where her sister was playing court, humming like bees to a flower that had just opened, eager to sample and drain it before moving on to the next one. Appearing pink-lipped and with the dewy freshness of a rose in first bloom, Anne-Marie soon attracted her usual crowd. Just waiting to be plucked, Kitty though bitterly, pleased that the mask hid her unmistakable cynicism. She wondered how long this event would be before she could leave.

  “And how goes it with the Spanish Armada?”

  Kitty turned at the unexpected greeting and found herself facing what appeared to be a young blade, though it was difficult to be certain behind the Pantalone mask.

  It took a moment for her brain to scramble for a remark. “Thanks to our good subjects, our borders are once again safe, though if you see Francis Drake, please send him to me so I may bestow the thanks of a grateful queen.”

  There was quiet, and Kitty had wondered if she had perhaps overdone the play-acting.

  A gentle chuckle rolled out of him, and Kitty relaxed.

  “I appear to have chosen the wrong costume, my lady, for I would dearly love to be beheld in such a favourable light as Drake. However, in the absence of the gentleman, perhaps you would agree to dance with your humble servant?”

  Kitty blinked, a blush coming to her cheeks. He was flirting with her?

  Offering a wide smile, she extended a regal hand. “How kind of you, sir, I would find that most enjoyable.”

  After that, Kitty had a regular stream of dance partners, and somehow, though how she had managed it was quite lost on her, was building a small circle of admirers that was soon on the verge of rivalling her sister’s. The anonymity of the mask granted her security, her guard relaxing, and Kitty found herself enjoying the party, her usual stiff manner loosening, becoming open and welcoming, the lively conversation flowing easily between the group centred around her.

  “My dance, I believe, Your Highness.”

  Mask or no mask, she would know that voice anywhere. Thankfully, she was prepared this time. “I fear there is a mistake, sir, that dance is already taken.” Kitty smiled sweetly up at the highwayman, his black eyes glittering through his mask.

  “Indeed,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you are mistaken, my lady, and it might be worth checking your card.”

  Drat, the blasted man was up to something. The only person who could be so arrogant was when they were already certain of the outcome. A lump of tension curdling in her belly, Kitty checked her card. And there was his name, bold as brass, Richard Turpin. How he’d got his name on her dance card when he had not approached her all evening she didn’t know. Closing her card, she offered an apologetic smile to the group. “It appears that Mister Turpin is quite correct, my apologies.”

  There were cries of foul and a witty remark came, “Be careful he doesn’t steal your heart, m’lady.” A shard of bitterness went through her—too late for that. With a calmness she wasn’t feeling, she slipped her hand onto his arm.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Captain. I would have thought such an event not to your tastes,” she dared to verbally prod him.

  “It just shows how little you truly know me.”

  The slow anger bubbled in the pit of her stomach.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “time has made that revelation quite clear to me.” She leaned back and surveyed him coolly, her words like caustic acid. “I suppose you feel quite at home here actually, in a room of play-acting and deceit.”

  His mouth twisted angrily. “Do not talk to me of deceit, Miss Thorpe,” he snapped, “when you were its willing pupil.”

  Robert’s harshness cut into her with unexpected efficiency of a French sabre. Despite her wall and her sharp retorts, he still had
the power to hurt her. Kitty fell silent and kept gaze her fixed on Robert’s cravat, blinking rapidly to disperse the sudden welling of tears. She had committed no deceit on her part.

  “I-I must wonder, Captain…” Her voice caught, and she fought against the aching ball lodged in her throat. “If my presence is so repugnant to you, why do you persist in seeking me out?”

  “I would dearly love to be able to answer that, too, Miss Thorpe,” he muttered.

  They finished the dance in strained silence and Kitty attempting to take up as before, with a light-hearted flirtation with the young blades in her court. But the previous enjoyment of the evening was incinerated by his bitter words and the remnant wisps of smoke blown away on the wind. She was rattled, her nerves stretched. Even across the ballroom she could feel Robert’s eyes burning into her. Kitty shifted uncomfortably, as if being judged and found wanting in some way. She lifted her head, and their eyes met. She shivered; she could only read anger swirling in his dark gaze. He raised his drink to her in salute and tossed it back in a smooth movement.

  “Ah, Miss Thorpe, what a happy occurrence that I have finally managed to come across you.”

  Kitty instantly stiffened. Oh no, not him, not now.

  “I’m afraid that is my fault, Lord Lansdowne,” Aunt Emmie interjected with a haughty sniff. “I’ve been monopolising my niece and I do declare this season is proving to be busier than all the rest combined. Why, with all our engagements, it’s amazing we even find time to sleep.”

  Kitty bit back a moan. Laying it on a might thick, Aunt Emmie. Even if Kitty knew it was only an attempt to mitigate the sting when Aunt Emmie delivered a set down and sent him packing. It was still humiliating.

  “However, I’m afraid—”

  “Lord Lansdowne, a pleasure to see you,” Lady Thorpe cut across with militant determination. “I’m so sorry that my daughter has not been in when you called.” Her mother oozed her usual artless sophistication. “She will, of course, be delighted to make it up to you now.”