Her Christmas Rogue

by Christi Caldwell

  Lord Trent Ballantine.

  A dangerous fluttering danced in her belly. His abandoned double-breasted black tailcoat hung haphazardly over the edge of a leather chair in the corner, and Trent now walked down the length of the billiards table while contemplating his next shot. Even with his tall, heavily-muscled form, he moved with the sleek grace of a panther stalking its prey.

  From the day her brother had arrived from Eton with his grinning, teasing friend in tow, Lord Trent had remained a fixed presence in her family’s home. In fact, all her earliest thoughts included him.

  From her position, tucked behind the curtains in the billiards room, she peeked once more through the thick red velvet. Her heart tripped several beats. And now, almost eleven years later, all her thoughts still included him. Winnie sighed, and then stilled, praying he and her eldest brother, James, the Viscount Munthorpe, and the next Earl of Portland, did not hear that audible exhalation of air.

  James picked up his snifter from the edge of the table and took a long sip. Some of the tension went out of her shoulders. No, no, had he heard, James would have dragged her off like she was a girl of nine, and not a woman of twenty sneaking on him, and literally tossed her out on her ear. Blasted older brothers.

  Her gaze unbidden went back to Trent.

  “You’re certain you don’t care to join us?” James offered, breaking the silence.

  Her heart jumped several beats. Was he speaking to her? She peeked through the crack in the curtains once again. James’ bored expression gave no hint of his knowing and relief ran through her.

  Trent leaned over the table and positioned his cue. A lock of blond hair tumbled over his eye, softening an otherwise harshly angular face; the chiseled perfection that would have made stone masterpieces weep with envy. “For the Christmastide season with a houseful of simpering ladies in the market for a husband?” He propelled his cue forward and the cue ball found its mark, sending his target spinning. “I think not,” he drawled.

  She frowned. Why, he’d not put her into that category of simpering ladies in the market for a husband. Her frown deepened. Granted, she was in the market for a husband. But she’d not ever simpered around him. Winnie wrinkled her brow. At least, not with him knowing. Pressed against the wall as she was, she silently drummed her fingertips together contemplatively. Surely he’d not gleaned the shocking truth where his best friend’s sister was concerned.

  James walked about the table and then with far less consideration of his target, took his shot. His cue ball sailed past the intended target where it landed with a sharp thunk against the edge of the table. “Ah, but the stress of being a second son is a good deal less than the horror faced by an heir.”

  She wrinkled her nose at such obsequiousness. It mattered not to her whether Trent had a kingdom or a canary, she didn’t need a lord with a title. Even if her mother, and all of Society, considered that to be of such import. She only needed—Trent. Or rather, the Trent he’d once been. Since she’d returned from finishing school, he alternated between jocular elder brother and mockingly indifferent stranger.

  But on some occasions, he proved himself the man she’d fallen helplessly and hopelessly in love with. The day she’d made her Come Out and he’d braved the tedium of that ball to be at her side. Every time he accepted that she freely spoke her mind and didn’t condemn her, but rather applauded a woman who should think and speak on matters of import.

  Winnie stole another peek through the crack in the curtains and searched about for Trent. He angled his head as he considered his next shot. Whatever his muttered response to James happened to be was lost. Her mouth went dry as with a shameful abandon that would have given her mama the vapors, she took in every inch of his six-foot-three-inch frame of raw-muscled power. With his jacket removed and cravat discarded, his stark white shirt hung open. She’d no business spying upon a man in such dishabille. And yet, throwing the risk of discovery to the proverbial wind, she leaned forward for a better glimpse. Through that slight gape in the fabric of his shirt, a whorl of golden curls matted his chest—a chest as well-muscled as his thickly chorded biceps.

  Winifred hungrily eyed him. How wholly unfair that he should fail to so much as note she’d become a woman.

  For when Lord Trent had ceased to be the boy who’d teased her and became this commanding, half-grinning gentleman, she’d remained nothing more than Wee Winnie to him. She grimaced. God-awful name. A dashing young nobleman with magnificent golden tresses and a heart-stopping smile and an interesting name like Trent would never notice…her. Winifred stole a glance down at her still-as-flat-as-it-had-been-nine-years-ago frame. No, a man such as he will not be enamored of me.

  “My mother is matchmaking,” James muttered, bringing her back from the woes of being uncurved Winifred Grisham to the inevitable journey they were expected to make in one week’s time.

  Trent moved to take his next shot and claimed the spot directly across from where she hid in the curtains. “All the more reason to avoid th—” Through the curtains, his piercing green gaze locked with hers. He narrowed his eyes and Winifred widened hers. Blast. He’d always managed to ferret out her hiding spots. Even when no game was involved and she was sneaking about listening to those scandalous stories older brothers shared only with their best friends.

  But then his face settled into that unaffected mask. Had she merely imagined his notice? “All the more reason to avoid that infernal affair then,” he smoothly finished his previous thought. He completed his next shot, and motioned for James to continue.

  As her brother rambled on about the woes of being an heir to an earldom and all the matchmaking mamas who’d descend upon him this holiday season, Winnie let her shoulders sag and she inched deeper inside her now largely useless hiding place. Not that it was altogether useless. She hardly needed to hear James’ grousing about her being underfoot—as he’d always done.

  Only Trent never had. He’d tolerated her presence when most other boys would have snapped and frowned. And that same considerate friend had grown to be a man who paid visits and spoke to her about matters of import, valuing her opinion when no other gentleman had.

  Damning the prospect of discovery at James’ hands, she stole another look at quietly serious Trent. A scowl marred his harshly beautiful face. No doubt because of my presence. He reached for his snifter, took a long swallow of brandy, and then positioned his cue for his next shot.

  “Though in fairness,” her brother said, pulling her attention to her sibling. “I strongly suspect I have a good deal less to worry about in terms of matchmaking on my mother’s part. It is no doubt Winnie she’s rushing to marry off.”

  The cue slid from Trent’s fingers and scratched the red baize table. “Oh?” That bored utterance pierced her.

  Winnie balled her hands into fists. She wanted James’ words to matter to Trent. For the reality was, though Mama had set her sights on Lady Agatha’s son, Stephen for her only daughter, she’d marry Winnie off to the first living, breathing English nobleman who put forth an offer, if she could. To Trent, however, she was nothing more than James’ sister. Just as she’d always been. The muscles of her belly clenched.

  “And who is the proper nobleman whose been selected for your sister?”

  Your sister. Not Winifred. Not Winnie. Your sister. As she’d always been to Trent. She gritted her teeth and fed her annoyance which was safer and less painful than regret. Liar.

  “I daresay one of my mother’s estimable friends’ titled offspring.” James snorted. “No doubt Lady Weston’s son, Stephen, the future Earl of Weston.”

  Jane’s brother, the dashing Viscount Rochmont set the hearts of all ladies aflutter, from debutantes to dowagers. Only, Winnie didn’t require a well-titled lord. She’d never wanted such a cold, emotionless connection.

  Silence fell as the two gentlemen returned their focus to their game. Wasn’t that a man, though? They should speak so freely and casually about a lady’s future, husband, and happiness, and then
carry on with their games as though they’d remarked on something as insignificant as the weather.

  Winnie angled her head slightly to gather a better view of Trent. He moved about the mahogany table with a sleekness a lion would be hard-pressed not to envy. With long, powerful fingers, he swiped the bottle of brandy from the edge of the table and poured the glass to the rim. He took a sip and then set it down alongside the bottle. She sighed. Then, he’d always been so coolly elegant. And she’d always been bumbling. And he’d always been too kind to point out that she was bumbling. When her brother had and—

  James spoke, bringing her fanciful remembrances to a screeching halt. “Given up your latest mistress, have you?” He hit his next shot squarely, sending his ball sailing into Trent’s.

  Trent made a noncommittal sound. Was that a yes-I-have-since-given-up-my-mistress-because-I-am-hopelessly-in-love-with-your-sister sound? Or the-papers-are-wrong-and-I’m-still-carrying-on-with-the-flawless-beauty sound?

  Her heart dipped. Granted there should be a joyful lifting of the blasted organ, after all, the gossip columns and now her brother all indicated Trent had parted ways with the French, rumored to be siren-stunning creature. She squared her jaw. It was Christmas. And her mama was forever saying that at Christmas, anything could happen. Well, Lord Trent Ballantine had officially dallied his last dalliance. The stubborn-headed lummox might have failed to see the truth before his eyes all these years, but Winnie had every intention of forcing him to look at that which was right before him.

  Then, what was the likelihood he’d actually note that she, Lady Winifred, had become a woman…and had every intention of marrying him?

  Chapter Three

  The moment Lord Trent Ballantine had entered his life-long friend, the Viscount Munthorpe’s billiard room, he’d taken one glimpse across the space and known: either Lord Munthorpe’s velvet curtains were very much alive or Lady Winifred hid behind the thick fabric.

  On his third shot, with the slight parting of the curtains, the latter supposition had proven correct. She was spying. Just as she’d done as a small girl. And just as she’d done as a young woman who’d made her Come Out. And just as she did now as a still young woman, albeit, on her third Season.

  Trent situated himself at the table, directly across from that slightly shifting fabric. He positioned his cue. How in blazes did her brother not gather she hid there even now, listening as they spoke of—

  “…I take it you have another mistress lined up?”

  The tip of his cue scraped the baize once more. Heat burned his neck; which had little to do with the fact that at this rate he’d strip the expensive piece of its lining and everything to do with Wee Winnie listening on as—

  “…If it weren’t in poor taste to take on with a friend’s former mistress, I’d gladly give the lady a spot in my bed.”

  With that, he slid his eyes closed. By God, it had everything to do with that. Trent went to yank at his cravat. As his fingers brushed his exposed throat, he remembered belatedly that he, in fact, had discarded those garments, as well as his jacket and stood with the same Wee Winnie observing—observing while he and her brother spoke of mistresses.

  “I say, Ballantine. You’re all flushed. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Fine.” Except, the garbled quality of his tone and the concerned glint in his friend’s eyes spoke an altogether different tale. He should simply out the lady. Turn her whereabouts over to James, who’d set her out on her ear. Unbidden, his gaze wandered to her hiding place. He gave his head a slow, frustrated shake. Except, the same way he’d been unable to turn her over to her brother then was the same way he could not divulge her presence now.

  “…and you’re quiet.”

  “Hmm?” Trent snapped his attention over to James. He was saved from saying anything further by the slight rapping on the door.

  Their gazes went to the entrance of the room. “Enter,” Munthorpe called out.

  A footman stepped into the entryway and sketched a bow. “Lord Munthorpe, your presence has been requested by the countess in the Pink Parlor.” He cleared his throat. “Her Ladyship’s guests have arrived.”

  James waited until the servant took his leave and then with a curse tossed his cue onto the table. “Matchmaking, meddling nonsense,” he muttered. “You do not know how fortunate you are that you can carry on as you will with your endless number of fancy pieces.” Trent stole another look at the shifting curtains and another flush burned his neck. Would his friend not shut his bloody mouth? “And I? Why, I am expected to entertain Mama and the young ladies she less than discreetly parades before me.”

  Inclined to argue that point, at least for the curtain’s benefit, Trent rushed to interject. “I hardly carry on with an endless number of…of…” Christ.

  His lifelong friend, who unfortunately knew him better than anyone else, snorted. “False modesty is hardly required between friends.” He grabbed his sapphire jacket from the back of the leather sofa and shrugged into it. “No, you needn’t worry about being harangued for all the lovelies you take to your bed and your name being bandied about.” James grabbed his cravat.

  “It’s not really bandied about,” he lied. It was. Through the years, gossip columnists made it a point to print anything from his conquests to his severed ties with former ladyloves.

  “You’re a rotted liar.” Munthorpe chuckled. “That roguish behavior is the very type I’d protect my sister from.” Trent’s insides knotted and for an instant, he thought Munthorpe knew, and even now issued him a warning. “Then, I do believe Winnie is wise enough to not fall for one of those bounders.” Trent managed a jerky nod. Munthorpe sighed and gave him a hopeful look. “I do not suppose you’d care to join m—”

  “No.” He resisted the urge to steal another look at the at last still curtains.

  The future Earl of Portland frowned in return. “You didn’t even allow me to finish.”

  Trent gave a dry grin. “You intended to ask whether I wished to join you, which I do not.”

  “Oh, very well.” His friend started for the door and then cast a questioning glance over his shoulder.

  Trent inclined his head. “After all these years, I feel confident I can show myself out.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Do not allow me to keep you from your company.”

  Munthorpe made a crude hand gesture that earned the requisite, if garbled and forced, chuckle from Trent. He stole another look at those curtains, shifting once more in no doubt an attempt to see that crude gesture. Not much had changed where Lady Winifred Grisham was concerned.

  And yet, at the same time, everything had changed.

  Munthorpe paused at the doorway once more. “A visit to Forbidden Pleasures after my afternoon meeting?”

  He momentarily closed his eyes and sent a prayer skyward. For the love of God, would the other man not shut his bloody mouth? “Er…perhaps another afternoon. I’ve a meeting to see to.”

  Thankfully, Munthorpe chose not to pry into that particular meeting—an exchange that involved those very noisy curtains. He schooled his features as the viscount inclined his head and then took his leave, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Trent waited a moment, staring at the paneled door. He folded his arms at his chest. “You can come out.” Ah, so she was capable of keeping those curtains still. “Wee W—”

  “Oh, I do despise when you call me that,” she muttered, shoving back the fabric.

  “I know.” He winked. “That is why I do it.” And why he’d done it since she’d been a small girl trailing after him and Munthorpe. Except, the pink satin that hugged her hips and generous buttocks was no body belonging to an innocent miss. Desire shot through him. Trent closed his eyes a moment. God in heaven, he was going to hell. There was nothing else for it.

  “Are you praying, Trent?”

  He snapped his eyes open. Winnie stood at the side of the billiards table, her fingertips frozen on the edge. “Praying?” Indeed he had. For patience. Forgiveness.
For sanity.

  “You said, ‘God in heaven.’”

  A black curse burned his tongue and he tamped it down. Bloody habit of speaking aloud. Except, he’d only ever seemed to do it around this one. “Err…” He glanced about and sought to reclaim his unsteady footing. “You shouldn’t be here, Winnie.” There, that was a safe, proper response a gentleman would give his best friend’s younger sister. Especially the same friend who’d been clear over the years in his expectations for the man who’d wed Winnie—a proper lord, and never a rogue—unless the bounder wanted to face James at dawn.

  Winnie rolled her eyes. “Oh, come, when did I ever do what I was supposed to?”

  She hadn’t. She’d been the girl who’d baited her own fishhooks and rode astride through the hills of Kent during her family’s annual summer picnic. He’d found a young man’s enjoyment in those girlish shows of disobedience. Somewhere along the way, some great shift had occurred and he’d come to admire a lady who would throw off Society’s conventions and simply be the spirited woman she was.

  Now, he wished she’d be just like every other proper, well-behaved lady who didn’t smile that wicked, tempting grin…a smile, in her innocence, she couldn’t even know was tempting and wicked and—

  “What are you doing?” he gritted out.

  Winnie froze, with her brother’s discarded cue poised over the billiard table. “Taking my shot.”

  He really shouldn’t rise to her baiting. “It is not your shot.” But he’d always been helpless where Winnie was concerned.

  “You’re always so surly.” She waggled her eyebrows in a like manner he’d done a short while ago. “Do you know,” she said matter-of-factly, “I think you don’t much like me, anymore.”

  He swallowed hard. She’d be wrong. He liked her. Liked her more than he had a right to. And then, Winnie gave a slow, saucy wink and sent her cue flying. Her ball hopped, skittered several inches, and then remained forlornly alone in the middle of the table. Winnie furrowed her brow. “Oh, rot it.”