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

by Collette Cameron

  “Don’t try to distract me, my love,” he growled against Kitty’s lips, nibbling and licking.

  She shivered with pleasure.

  “I’ve noticed how fatigued you’ve been recently and I intend to be the most demanding and protective of husbands until you will wish me to the Devil.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Kitty twisted to her knees, and with Robert’s steadying hands on her hips, seated herself astride his lap. She wasn’t in any doubt that he was enjoying their game. “And how do you intend to manage that, pray tell?” She nuzzled him just under his jaw, smiling when she was rewarded with a primitive masculine sound deep in his throat, and she wanted to hear it again.

  Robert’s mouth kicked up at one side, his gaze hungry. “I have my methods.”

  She slanted him a distinctly saucy look through her lashes and teased the edge of his neckcloth.

  “Perhaps we should retire early and see how effective your methods are?”

  “In a moment, I just want to hold you a while longer.”

  She snuggled closer, revelling in the feel of his fingers gliding through her hair and over her back. She wiggled, and his arousal stirred.

  Robert sucked in breath. “Minx,” he accused her with fondness.

  Kitty’s lips curled in a secret smile against his coat. She couldn’t wait to give Robert his Christmas present this year, and this would be the one secret she was sure he would forgive her. The news that next Christmas, there would be an addition to their family.

  About Jane Burrelli

  When J Burrelli realised that the world was not hiring for a ‘sarcastic but benign Supreme Ruler of the Universe’, she decided to put her vivid imagination to good use and create her own world.

  Affectionately dubbed the 'sex author' by her good friends, Jane can often be found crafting her saucy tales in her local coffee shop, fuelled by copious amounts of vanilla tea.

  She also writes her very, very naughty titles under the name, Jane Burrelli.

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  The Rogue’s Secret

  by Stacy Reid and Giselle Marks

  Chapter 1

  “Farrant, where else can we look? I think we must have turned the house completely upside down,” Lord Rupert Rogers muttered, exasperated. “You’ve been with the family since you were a boy. Surely you must have some idea where Great-Uncle Frederick might have hidden it? Or at least a clue to where it might be?”

  The butler shuffled over from the fireplace, a frown creasing his already wrinkled forehead. “I am sorry, my lord, but I thought there might be some indication in his papers, but I read every scrap of paper in his bureau, desk, and even in the locked deed box. We pulled all the books down in the library, and there was nothing in them or behind them. We’ve been through all of your late great-uncle’s possessions but I am at a loss, Sir.”

  The room had been thoroughly searched and yielded no result. A quick scan showed the library had been mostly returned to rights, except for the motes of dust that had been disturbed in their frenetic search. At least the books were now back on the shelves if not in their correct order. Rupert’s great-uncle had become a recluse over his later years and had not wanted to be disturbed by the household staff, so he had let most of them go. The housekeeping had been somewhat neglected as a result.

  Rupert straightened from crouching before the bottom drawer of the large oak desk in his library and rubbed the back of his neck. “It is not your fault, Farrant, but from the scrawled note he gave his lawyer with the will, I thought we would turn something up. Could not make head nor tail of it, some sort of riddle in verse form. If the poem did not scan so well, I would have assumed he had been senile…”

  His butler, perhaps sensing a drink might calm his master, went over to the mantle and poured brandy in a glass and handed it to Rupert who took it and swallowed down its content. The warmth spreading through his body did relax him some, and he padded over to a large armchair by the windows and sprawled negligently in the window seat.

  A contemplative look entered Farrant’s rheumy blue eyes. “His lordship was totally in his right mind, right up to his last moments. Always was very canny was your uncle. There must be a hint to where it is in his letter. We have not searched the attic, and I don’t think anyone has been up there for years.”

  Peering out the windows in the gardens, Rupert murmured, “That is an idea, we will search it tomorrow together. We must find it because I’d rather shoot myself than marry the Chisholm heiress that my aunt keeps insisting I must do to save the family lands and fortune.”

  Rupert’s close friends often teased him, for he had said more than once that he wanted to hold any lady he married in high esteem. He was not afraid to speak of the more tender emotions and boldly did so whenever he thought of a future wife. While he was willing to do many things to save the estate entrusted to him, it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a heavy weight against his heart at the thought of marrying someone solely for their money. To his mind, a healthy physical attraction, genuine affection, and respect were the foundation needed for a marriage.

  Rupert sighed. “I am sure I must be missing something in Uncle Frederick’s turgid verse, but truthfully I can’t figure it out…Why a sonnet? And Dash it, Uncle Frederick was never a pious canting hypocrite, I’ll read it again. He didn’t go Methody towards the end, did he?”

  His butler grimaced. “No, my lord, gave old Parson Prestley a flea in his ear when he suggested hearing his confession so he could make his peace with the Lord above.”

  “I ain’t no versifier, but this makes no sense to me…” Rupert declared fishing the crumpled piece of paper out, then in his mellifluous tones recited,

  “So Daring Deeds of heroes gladly tell

  Brave battling Neptune’s briny sway expound

  My Rogue, I will always wish you well

  Fabulous Beast ascending Mordant hound

  Will ever lead you onwards to your goal

  Ages old colours fade yet seek within

  Beneath martial courage lies treasure whole

  A prayer to atone from forlorn sin

  A quest of import in heavenly land

  Uncover riches select bonny bride

  Then perhaps fortune will be close to hand

  Giving you all I own, I depart with pride

  To mouldering bones now I must travel

  Leaving you a riddle to unravel.”

  His butler seemed well pleased with Rupert’s recitation of the poem. Rupert sighed, reading it for the third time still stirred no clues to where he might find the fortune of buccaneer booty his uncle Frederick had been reputed to have hoarded away.

  The late baron had not been a believer in banks, and so little funds had been located by the family solicitor when he had dealt with the will and handed over the deeds to the estate and lands. The tenanted farms did bring in an income, but it would barely maintain the house and pay his bills. It would not provide sufficiently for a wife and offspring, nor would it do the improvements on his tenants’ homes that Rupert could see were much needed.

  “Does it give you any ideas, Farrant?”

  His butler’s forehead creased in an apologetic frown. “No, sorry my Lord, I am not much good at riddles, though you read it beautifully if I may say so, Sir.”

  Rupert shrugged his shoulders in disappointment and stared through the mullioned window once more. The older man coughed and poured his lord another glass of brandy, which Rupert absent-mindedly took, taking a quick mouthful.

  What were you thinking Uncle Frederick, why not just tell me outright where this treasure is?

  Farrant who had been fond of the old man and fonder still of the young Ru
pert had often told him the tale that he had been nicknamed ‘Rogue’ by Uncle Frederick from when Rupert was first breeched and proved to be an imp of mischief, that his father had sworn had been sent straight from the fires of hell. Uncle Frederick had laughed and encouraged his misbehaviour and so had the servants at Ellesmere Manor. Rupert had adored his great-uncle and loved spending every summer away from school there.

  If he could not find the treasure, he might be forced to marry Lady Euphenia Chisholm. The very idea sent darts of dread shooting through his entire body. Euphenia Chisholm, she was both a termagant and had a tongue like a wailing banshee, which did not go help with a face that might look well on a carthorse, but certainly not one with a good pedigree.

  He must have muttered something aloud for Farrant said, “No, my lord, I do not think Lady Euphenia would suit at all. A fine figure of a man like yourself would be wasted on the likes of her. If I might say, I think Lady Grenville has more bats in her head than the house has in the attic.”

  Rupert smiled without humour at the apt description of his aunt. “Told her that myself, Farrant. Even the most hardened fortune hunter would blanch at the thought of marrying Euphenia Chisholm. She is an utter harpie… I say, who is that?” He leaned forward. “I saw a flash of red in the garden and thought it must be a bullfinch, but there is a female climbing the wall. Fine ankles, too! Farrant, who is that piece of perfection?”

  The female now brushing down her clothes was indeed a beauty; she wore a red hooded redingcote which revealed strawberry blonde curls and a heart-shaped face with a very kissable cupid-bowed mouth. He could not see at the distance whether her eyes were blue or green, but he would guess they were a clear cerulean blue.

  “Lady Verity Hansard, I did tell you that you shouldn’t have the walled garden locked, the locals do not like it, my Lord. The locals like to come and go as they please.”

  Rupert waved a hand in dismissal. “It is because they are used to coming and going as they please, that I locked the gate. It seems like every bucolic and his lass uses the garden for their trysts. I wouldn’t mind so much if they would make less noise about it, but they were going at it hammer and tongs, and it was hard to sleep. How did Uncle Frederick put up with it all these years?”

  “He was a little deaf, but he liked young people to be, er happy in their pleasures.”

  Curiosity stirred in Rupert, and he stood, moving even closer to the windows for a better view. “So what is a young lady, doing climbing the wall to my closed garden?”

  “I would assume she is going to cut mistletoe, my Lord... she does so every year with the late Baron’s permission,” Farrant said stiffly.

  Rupert followed the small figure in red with his eyes while he spoke, “I think I should introduce myself to this Lady Verity, don’t you? Why does she have to come to the garden for mistletoe? Is there none growing locally that is easier to access?”

  “No, it is relatively rare around these parts. Benson prunes it vigorously from the apple trees in the orchard, but Uncle Fred would not hear of the old apple tree in the garden being touched, so mistletoe flourishes there.”

  Rupert was already striding out the library door. Farrant followed on his heels as he opened the door just down the corridor to the walled garden. It was a chill December afternoon, but the sun was trying to shine through a cloudy sky. Rupert marched towards the old fruit trees by the ancient orangery that had come with the original manor house before the new façade and building had been created a century ago.

  There, an old apple tree had long been planted. It was really too near to the orangery as its roots would have gone deep to grow that high. Rupert had many memories of climbing in that tree, which had, at one point, sported a small platform to which a pair of energetic boys could scramble up to consume a packed luncheon. Both that platform and a knotted swinging rope he and his childhood friend Percival Humber had used, had long been taken down.

  Once he had children of his own, Rupert would ensure to build them something similar. A bench had been pulled beneath its branches, and there Rupert espied a fetching form in a red redingcote clambering on one arm of the bench precariously reaching up into the branches. As he neared, a small dog barked as if in warning. The dog sounded an aggressive threat rather than just yapping annoyingly.

  Rupert approved of its loyalty and desire to protect his mistress. His gaze, however, was more preoccupied with the vision he had before him. The lady's rear view was very satisfying, a rounded rump and neat figure as she reached up on tiptoes to cut a sprig of white berried mistletoe.

  Then as the dog barked again, her half-booted feet, slipped and she tried to regain her footing. Rupert rushed forward in time for a very comely bundle to fall into his open arms. The weight of her in his embrace was delightfully pleasant. He smiled down at her shocked face, as one hand tried to cling onto the mistletoe sprig and the other was attached to a pair of large scissors.

  Her pretty loveliness stuck his heart forcibly and quite unexpectedly. Rupert found himself enjoying his beautiful burden a little too much, and she was holding the mistletoe above them… An imp of mischief took over and he leaned down and claimed her cherry ripe lips with a ravaging and definitely indiscreet kiss.

  The soft feel of her mouth set his heart quickly pounding. The visceral reaction startled him, but he did not lift his head. She tasted sweet and luscious, and he deepened the kiss allowing his tongue to roam along the crease of her mouth. Clearly shocked, her lips parted on a gasp allowing him access, and he plunged within and was enjoying himself enormously. Rupert couldn’t recall ever feeling such pleasure from a kiss. He was sharply brought to his senses as the lady wriggled within his arms, dropping both scissors and twig. He set her down and before he could speak, a sharp crack of a slap connected with his cheek. Rupert could feel a large red mark blooming as he gently lowered his squirming load to her feet.

  “How dare you abuse me so?” The lady retorted angrily, but her cheeks were flushed, and there was a look of amusement in her eyes and just a touch of arousal.

  His heart was still racing too fast for such a relatively chaste kiss and he struggled for equanimity. “You were holding the mistletoe above our heads, oh so exquisite trespasser. I thought it was a local tradition to always kiss a beautiful woman beneath mistletoe. Perhaps not the best way to affect an introduction, my lady.”

  He moved back a few steps. “Rupert Rogers, newly baron of this estate, at your service,” he said smiling as he made a flamboyant bow in the style of his cavalier namesake, Prince Rupert with great aplomb.

  Her eyes widened and her cheeks reddened. “A most inappropriate introduction, my lord.”

  “Will you permit me the pleasure of your name?”

  She cast a glance at his approaching butler. “It is Lady Verity, though I suspect you are very well aware of it.”

  At his silence and admiring stare, she clutched the skirts of her gown almost nervously. “Why is the garden door locked, it is usually left open? I have permission, had permission from the late Baron to pick mistletoe but I could not get in and had to leave Rufus outside.”

  The dog barked in reply to his name. Rupert could see that he was a spaniel, a ruby red in colour of the type favoured by King Charles the second and he was peering through the ornamental wrought iron gate which of course, Rupert had ordered to be locked. Rupert picked up the lady’s basket which she had laid on the bench. It already had a few meagre sprigs within in and placed the new sprig in the basket.

  “I think I can reach better clusters fairly easily, but perhaps we should relieve Rufus of his durance vile, to quote Rabbie Burns, Ah, Farrant could you open the gate and let Master Rufus in, please?”

  “Yes, of course, my lord,” the old retainer said, pulling a large and slightly rusty key from a large ring.

  He toddled over to the gate and with a turn of the key let the gate creak open only to be greeted by a very exuberant and somewhat muddy spaniel, who dashed to his mistress’ side.


  “Down Rufus, and sit as you can see, his lordship although unorthodox in his welcome, is not an enemy.”

  That much was clear to the dog as he wagged his tail over to Rupert and allowed him to ruffle his velvety ears.

  Chapter 2

  He kissed me.

  That single thought knocked around Verity’s head as she valiantly tried to appear worldly and unaffected by the rogue’s behaviour. It would not do for him to realize how much his kiss affected her, and it most certainly would not do if he knew how much her heart still pounded, and her hands holding the pieces of mistletoe sprigs trembled. She was acquainted with the behaviour of rogues and rakes and it was clear the baron belonged in that category.

  What upset her the most was her reaction to his boldness. Verity’s skin felt sensitized, her lips tingled, and a very odd yet warmly pleasant sensation lingered inside her body. Quite different to the sensations previously roused by her fiancé’s tender embraces. Verity frowned, wondering if this Lord Rupert had felt a similar connection? She peeked at him as he stooped to ruffle the top of Rufus’ head. Her loyal dog sniffed and trotted over to her. Good boy.

  The baron rose and reached for the branch which had eluded her height earlier. She had to admit that he was a fine figure of a man as he agilely stretched to reach more mistletoe. Although somewhat dishevelled, the new baron’s lean muscular form was a tailor’s dream and topped with a mischievous visage which, if not perfectly classical, had a pair of dazzling twinkling hazel eyes. His light brown hair was streaked with blond where the sun had bleached it naturally, which accented his deeply tanned skin.

  The new baron walked over. Verity tried not to ogle and appear like a gauche country bumpkin. He was terribly handsome, his posture confident, and a bit roguish.