A Little Winter Scandal: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Perhaps she really was a ninnyhammer, after all.

  Chapter 7

  As Weston’s carriage rattled along the quiet streets of London, but for the winter still, there was little else quiet about the day.

  “I don’t want to go meet Lady Patrina for silly ices,” Daniel grumbled from the opposite bench.

  Charlotte shook her head with a worldly-wisdom better suited a matron than a mere girl. “Oh, do hush. You’ll enjoy the ices immensely.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You will,” Charlotte shot back. “Papa, tell him—”

  “Both of you, please, stop arguing.” Perhaps even at their young age they detected the thread of desperation in his words because brother and sister exchanged a look and fell remarkably silent. With a sigh, Weston sat back in the comfortable squabs of his seat. Charlotte burrowed against his side, with a total lack of regard as to how her shifting figure threatened the very existence of the sugary ices from Gunter’s.

  He frowned. He’d never considered the mere three miles between Berkeley Square and Hyde Park an overlong carriage ride. However, with the precariousness of the ices in his and Daniel’s hands, he began to doubt he’d arrive with Lady Patrina’s ice fully frozen. A bit of cream dripped onto his hand.

  Or even frozen. It seemed more likely melting was to occur.

  His son frowned and appeared torn between tossing his ice to the carriage floor and licking it. In contrast, Charlotte’s eyes danced with excitement. She bounced up and down on the seat, in this instance the lighthearted child he remembered.

  She clapped her hands. “I’m ever so excited to see…” She blushed. “Er…the frozen river,” she finished lamely.

  Daniel glared in his younger sister’s direction. The look in his eyes suggested his thoughts had traveled the same path as his father’s.

  Weston gave his head a slight shake. He’d not embarrass his daughter with the transparency in her plans for he and Patrina. Why, Charlotte could easily displace Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper with ease from their respected places as matchmaking Society hostesses.

  The carriage slowed to a halt and he gave a silent sigh of thanks when his driver threw the door open.

  The servant smiled at Charlotte. “My lady.”

  Charlotte placed her fingertips in his gloved hand. “Why, thank you ever so much, Alan.”

  Weston blinked. He’d been schooling his children on being kind and appreciative to the servants since they were old enough to speak. Cordelia, however, had been nasty and vile to the staff and had seemed to view their presence as if there to please her and not much more than that. She had left a nasty imprint on Charlotte and Daniel.

  “Did you just say thank you?” Daniel called after his sister as he hopped out of the carriage.

  Weston climbed out with a murmur of thanks for the servant.

  “Of course, I did.” Charlotte patted the side of her bonnet in a manner better suited to a seven-and-twenty year old woman and not his seven-year-old mischief-maker. “One must be kind to the servants. After all, imagine how very difficult life would be without them.” She spoke the words as though reciting them back from memory.

  As Weston and his children made their way through the peacefully empty grounds of Hyde Park, their bootsteps disturbed the untouched soft blanket of snow. His breath stirred puffs of white in the cool air, a silent testament to the madness in visiting Hyde Park in this godforsaken cold. With frozen ice treats, no less.

  He glanced down at his children. They trudged slowly, he lightened his stride so that his small children were better able to match his pace.

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “It’s cold.”

  “Well, this was your idea,” Daniel groused, nudging her in the side with his elbow.

  “Be careful, Daniel, or you’ll drop them. Papa, tell him he’ll drop them.”

  Weston eyed the two ices in his gloved hands and for the briefest moment, considered stuffing the ice cream into his ears to drown out the constant bickering between his children. It had become a good deal worse in the years since his wife’s death. In his attempt to prevent them from further hurt after their mother’s betrayal and death, he’d allowed them to become hoydens, running wild, their ill-behaviors unchecked. Guilt burned in his belly as he confronted the accuracy in Lady Patrina’s earliest charges against them.

  Yet…as they continued on through Hyde Park, off toward the Serpentine, he glanced down at Charlotte. She’d thanked his driver when she’d only just recently viewed Alan and all the other members of his staff as mere servants. What would have caused such a radical change in his…? They walked about a slight crest and a red-cloaked figure pulled into focus. The breath went out of him as Lady Patrina shoved back her hood. She smiled at his children and raised a hand in greeting. Then her gaze moved to his. Their stares locked and Weston froze, at the sheer beauty of her, warm and effervescent amidst a cold, iced-over world.

  “Lady Patrina!” Charlotte squealed and hurtled the short distance over to the young lady’s side.

  Not something. Someone had wrought this change in Charlotte. He’d wager Lady Patrina’s influence accounted for his daughter’s kindness toward Alan. He stopped before her. She continued chatting with Charlotte.

  His daughter gesticulated wildly, her words running together. “Muscadine, but I said you most certainly preferred…”

  Patrina laughed and leaned closed, and lowered her voice to a not-so-conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t think one can truly have just one favorite ice.”

  “We got you muscadine,” Daniel blurted and then kicked the snow as if embarrassed to have been pleasant and agreeable to a young lady.

  Patrina turned her attention to his son. “Well, muscadine is quite my favorite. It is ever so delightful.” She winked at Charlotte and then raised her gaze to Weston. “Isn’t that right, my lord?” Merriment danced in her eyes.

  You are delightful.

  He expected to be horrified by his almost moon-sick fascination of the young lady, but he’d never before known a woman like her. Young ladies did not fawn over young children or escort said troublesome mites home when they became separated from their nurse. Most young ladies would have placed the child in a carriage, with a servant, and sent them on their way.

  That is if they’d so much as noticed the misplaced child in the first place.

  “Papa?” Daniel nudged him in the side.

  “Hmm? Oh…er, yes.” Weston cleared his throat and resisted the urge to tug his cravat. “Delightful. It is delightful,” he finished lamely. Wordlessly, he handed Charlotte’s burnt filbert ice over and his daughter took it with eager fingers, all the while he remained fixed on the faintest cleft just under Patrina’s full-lower lip. The oddest desire to place his lips to that slight indentation filled him.

  Patrina angled her head and studied him.

  Weston held out a hand. She hesitated and then placed her fingertips in his. “Lady Patrina.” He bowed his head and held out the glass he’d purchased from Gunter’s. “Your muscadine ice.”

  She stared wistfully at the sugared treat and then wet her lips like the kitchen cat about to swallow the canary and accepted the glass with its small silver spoon tucked in the softening treat.

  “Papa, can we play?” Charlotte pleaded.

  He waved his hand. “Take care to avoid the river,” he instructed. Though one of the coldest winters since the Thames had last frozen, one could never be certain of the ice’s thickness.

  Daniel and Charlotte sprinted off. They waved their spoons about the air, they way they might a vicious rapier, yelling playfully at one another between bites of their ices.

  Weston and Patrina stood at the frozen water’s edge in companionable silence. How very unlike Cordelia and most other Society misses who seemed to think it their responsibility to fill all voids with useless chatter. “She misses her mother,” he finally said.

  “I imagine she does.” She fiddled with the glass in her hands. “My father died whe
n I was just a girl and even now, not a day passes that I do not think of him.”

  Weston captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He should not ask for intimate details about her life. Such prying posed a threat to his carefully maintained world where his children were not hurt by those outside the folds of their family.

  “What do you think about?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “I wonder about the foods he liked. Did he detest chocolate the way I do?”

  He glanced at the ice treat in her hands. “It is fortunate then I didn’t come bearing chocolate ice.”

  Patrina widened her eyes. “Oh, no!” she said hurriedly. “I would have still been appreciative. I…” The rose hue of her cheeks from the cold, darkened to the shade of holly berries. “Oh, you’re teasing me.” She didn’t sound at all upset by the truth of that.

  He gentled his expression. “Yes, I was.”

  Patrina toyed with her spoon. She dipped the tip into her grape-flavored treat and took a bite of her ice.

  “You detest chocolate? I rather imagined no one disliked chocolate.”

  “I do,” she said around her spoon. She took another bite of her ice. “It is too sweet. I prefer a bowl of raspberries and strawberries.”

  As she spoke of the delectable summer fruit, he dropped his gaze to her bow-shaped, bright red lips. Desire surged through him. A longing to explore the sweetness of her mouth. He fought back a groan.

  Patrina continued, seeming wholly unaware of his inappropriate thoughts and continued speaking once more about her father. “I suspect my sisters would be better behaved had he lived.” She grinned. “Then I quickly realized they would have surely found different reasons to misbehave.”

  He grinned, forgetting until this moment how much he’d missed being happy just for the sake of being happy. His smile slipped. “I imagine he was a good parent.” Unlike Cordelia who’d complained about Charlotte and Daniel since the moment she’d learned she was in the family way.

  A wistful look stole over her face. “I was merely a girl when he died. Sometimes I can’t quite sort out who he really was in my mind and who he really was while he lived. Does that make sense, my lord?”

  “It does.” Having heard the memory Charlotte crafted of the heartless woman who’d given her life, he knew exactly what Patrina spoke of. “Thank you for joining me…” He coughed into his hand. “That is to say, thank you for accompanying my family.” He glanced around for Patrina’s maid.

  Patrina cleared her throat. “My maid is at the carriage. It seemed unfair to drag her along through the snow and ice for my own enjoyments.”

  Ah, this regard for servants. “I believe you spoke to Charlotte about her treatment of my servants?”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth but then squared her shoulders. “I understand it was not my place to instruct your daughter on matters of your household. However—”

  “I’m not displeased, my lady,” he interjected. He’d not have her believe he was a stodgy, pompous lord who’d abuse his servants.

  She blinked. “You’re not?”

  “I’m not.”

  Patrina appeared deflated as though she’d been braced to defend her stance. She’d but known his daughter for a handful of days and yet, had exacted more positive change than Cordelia had managed in the course of all Charlotte and Daniel’s lives.

  With Lady Patrina’s contemplative solemnity, it occurred to him, yet again, how vastly different she was than his late, viperous wife. Still, for the seriousness to Patrina, she always managed a gentle smile and kind words for his children. He enjoyed how carefree Charlotte was in Patrina’s presence. Just as he appreciated the fleeting smiles that occasionally wreathed the young lady’s cheeks whenever she was with his imps.

  When it became apparent Patrina didn’t intend to break the quiet, he said, “Charlotte has clearly missed the presence of other females in her life and would benefit from the gentle influence of a proper, young lady.” Both of his children would.

  Patrina froze, as stiff as the iced over Barn Elm tree branches overhead. Her skin turned an ashen gray to match the sky. He searched his mind for what inadvertent insult he must have dealt. “They are good children,” she defended quietly. “Are they close?” The question emerged almost haltingly from her lips.

  From the corner of his eye he detected the tip of her pink tongue dart out and lick the smooth cream from the edge of her spoon. He bit back another groan, wishing he could trade places with that muscadine ice. “They fight often,” he said at last.

  She smiled around her treat and it transformed her from serious woman to bright-eyed young lady. “That is part of being a sibling.”

  Filled with a desire to know more about this woman who’d slipped past the defenses he’d constructed, he asked, “And what of you, my lady?” He didn’t understand this sudden, insatiable need to know more about her. “Are you close with your siblings.”

  “Undoubtedly,” she replied, her response instantaneous. She wrinkled her nose. “Please, just Patrina,” she offered. “After all, considering our relationship these past five days, I imagine we’ve moved beyond the category of polite strangers, my lord.”

  “Weston,” he corrected.

  “Weston,” she murmured as though tasting his name on her lips like she had the frozen ice moments ago.

  He paused. The sweet lyrical quality of his name upon her lips gave him pause. Their whole refined, polite world knew him as a title and nothing more and hearing her gentle tone wrap about the two-syllables of his name filled him with longing to hear her utter it over and over.

  “It suits you,” she said, and smiled.

  They seemed to have begun as cold, angry strangers, and now? Now, the warm glimmer in Patrina’s eyes made him want to forget the pledge he’d taken to never trust another woman.

  Patrina continued on about her family, allowing him entry into her private world. “I am the eldest of four sisters and I have a brother. The Earl of Sinclair.”

  Weston paused. Sinclair. The man known as Sin. He remembered the gentleman from their earlier days. The earl was touted as an infamous rogue who quite enjoyed the gaming tables.

  Clearly perceptive, the young lady hurried to assure him. “Oh, he’s quite reformed, now.” She ran her spoon around the perimeter of her ice.

  “Is he?” he said wryly.

  She closed her lips over the dash of cream. “Oh, he is.” Patrina licked her spoon clean. Again.

  He groaned at the erotic sight wishing she’d get on with finishing it so he didn’t have bear the torturous sight of her inadvertently sensual movements.

  “My mother and I had despaired of him ever settling down, but he fell in love.” Something sad and wistful stole over Patrina’s face.

  Desire fled, replaced by an overwhelming urge to drive back the pained regret reflected in her eyes. “It must have been interesting in such a crowded household.”

  She grinned, and the sadness lifted. “It was certainly eventful.” She took another bite and the faintest bit of ice touched the corner of her mouth.

  “You have ice here,” he gestured to his lip.

  She colored prettily. “Here?” she murmured and used the back of her gloved hand to brush it away. Another dash of cream smeared her cheek.

  His lips twitched. “Here,” he murmured and withdrew his handkerchief. “Allow me.” He touched the crisp, white fabric to her cheek and then the corner of her lip.

  His breath caught. Or was that hers? This was madness.

  Her sooty black lashes fluttered and he lowered his head, as reality slipped away and only they two remained. He longed to know the taste of her.

  Playful shouts in the distance snapped him from his reverie. He jerked back and took a hasty step away from the tempting beauty. He glanced around for his children and saw them disappear over the crest, hurling snowballs at one another and laughing. “Forgive me,” he said quietly.

  She blinked as if she’
d been spun in too many circles. “There is nothing to forgive, Weston. You’ve done nothing improper.”

  But he’d wanted to. God, how he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to take her lips under his and kiss her until she moaned with a desperate hunger for more of him.

  Her chest rose and fell in a heavy rhythm and he suspected she wanted his kiss as much as he wanted hers.

  He was lost.

  With a groan, Weston lowered his head and claimed her lips. He dimly registered the crystal glass in her hands falling soundlessly to the thick blanket of snow at their booted feet. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again. He nipped at that too-full lower lip and when she moaned, he explored the hot, moist cavern of her mouth.

  Her tongue, cool from the ice, heated his blood. She tasted of grape ice and lemon and if he could drown in the sweetness of her, he’d be content to go forever thinking of her in this moment. She twined her hands about his neck and pressed herself to him. Their tongues met in an age-old dance.

  He groaned again, encouraged by her boldness and pulled her close. More than a foot smaller than his own frame, she molded to him as perfectly as if she’d been made for him and only him. Help me, I want more of her. Knowing now the battle faced by Adam in that garden of sin, Weston drew back. He lowered his brow to hers. “Forgive me now, then,” he repeated. He should step away. He should set her from him. But he could not do either of those things. Instead, he touched his lips to her forehead.

  Patrina brushed her fingers over his cheek. “There is still nothing to forgive.”

  He clenched his jaw. Except there was. She was an innocent young lady. “There is everything to forgive.” He dragged a hand through his hair. He was not one of those depraved lords who went about kissing marriage-minded misses, in the midst of Hyde Park, no less. Weston glanced around at the snowy scape. It mattered not that the ton didn’t tend to come out in such inclement weather and the threat of discovery was unlikely. It mattered that he’d acted in a wholly dishonorable manner.

  Weston, the 4th Marquess of Beaufort, had of course drawn the erroneous assumption she was in fact a proper, young lady.