A Little Winter Scandal: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  A weak Alison hovered at her shoulder, eying the empty taproom.

  Cara tugged off her wet gloves and continued to pass her gaze over the dimly lit space, searching for the owner of that foul cheroot. A fire raged in the hearth, casting eerie shadows about the cracked and chipped walls. “Hello?” she called out in an icy tone. From the back of the establishment, footsteps shuffled.

  A portly, white-haired man with a pipe stuck between his teeth, rushed forward to greet them. “Ah, in need of rooms are you?”

  Did he think she preferred to spend her night out of doors in this violent storm? Cara bit back the tart response. “I require a room,” she said tightly, dusting her gloves together. She cast a glance at Alison. “That is, two rooms.” After all, it wouldn’t do to be quite so alone in the miserable inn.

  The innkeeper removed his pipe and grinned, displaying a row of cracked and missing teeth. She rocked back on her heels, nearly bowled over by the scent of stale garlic on his breath.

  “And meals,” she said.

  At her side, Alison sneezed into her elbow.

  “And a warm bath.”

  The older innkeeper took another puff of his pipe. “Is there anything else, my lady?”

  She gave a brusque shake of her head, and shrugged out of her dampened cloak, and turned it over to the older man’s care. “That is all.”

  An equally wizened woman with shocking white hair and a twinkle in her rheumy eyes rushed forward. “Allow me to show you to your rooms, my lady.”

  Cara held up a staying hand and cast a look back at the earl’s driver. “I would have my trunk brought abovestairs immediately.”

  The man opened his mouth, but a large gust of wind slammed into the door, rattling it on its frame and beating against the lead windowpanes. He doffed his hat and beat the wet piece against his leg. “But my lady, the storm…”

  Her heart started and she turned her attention to the window. Why in blazes had she not carried her heart pendant on her person? Because you were so hurt and angry at your father’s inactions this day, that you spitefully lashed out at the piece given you by the one person who ever loved you. Her throat worked painfully. And what had she done? Had her maid bury it into the bottom of her cold trunk. This bloody day. Nay. It was her blasted impulsivity. Jane Munroe slid into her thoughts once more and Cara forcefully thrust the kind, former instructor’s visage from her mind.

  Cara squinted out into the dark as a blanket of white snow swirled past the frosted pane. She swung back to face the driver and set her jaw to hide the faint quake there. “I require my belongings this instant.” The gowns and other fripperies she’d been granted as the daughter of a duke could go hang. Her heart pounded with panic. “I need—” My mother’s necklace. The assembled collection of servants fixed peculiar looks on her. Cara’s skin went hot. “Dry clothing,” she finished lamely. “I require dry clothing.”

  The old woman beamed. “Well, that is easy enough, my lady. I’ve several lovely gowns. Nowhere near the fancy garments you are accustomed to.” She turned to go.

  “No,” Cara cried out and her utterance echoed around the inn, earning shocked silence. She turned back to the earl’s driver and forced her tone into a semblance of icy calm “Go.”

  The earl’s servant shifted on his feet with the gusting storm raging its fury at the door. “But, my lady,” he whispered. “It is snowing.”

  She took a step toward him. “It is a bit of snow and I command you to go.” Please go.

  He dropped his unrepentant stare to her wet boots.

  “You’d send a person out into this Godforsaken weather for your own fripperies, brat?”

  A harsh, angry voice sounded beyond her shoulder and she spun about. Her heart stilled and fear settled like a stone in her belly at the big, broad, bear of a man glowering down at her. She fisted the fabric of her gown and swallowed hard. A man who glowered at her. With the gruff stubble on his face and towering height, the imposing stranger wore the rank of his lesser class like a stamp upon his skin. As though he’d followed the direction her thoughts had traveled, he narrowed his blue, nearly black eyes in a menacing fashion. She swallowed hard and backed away from him.

  A mocking grin pulled at his hard lips. “Nothing to say, brat?”

  Outrage blotted out the nervousness swirling in her belly. Brat? Why, the lout had called her brat. Twice. And challenged her, before this small, shocked cluster of strangers. Finding her courage, she settled her feet on the wood floor. “How dare you?” She prided herself on those evenly delivered words when inside she quaked. By God, the man was a foot taller than her own five-foot four-inch frame and his powerful muscles strained the confines of his coarse garments.

  He folded his arms at his chest, stretching the fabric of his white sleeves over his defined biceps. She really had no place ogling a figure such as him and yet—she warmed. She’d spent most of her life filing men into the category of worthless, shiftless bounders such as her father. Never before had she admired a man, and warmed at his mere presence, alone.

  “How dare I? You are a spoiled ice princess who’d send out her servants to rescue what? Your fine gowns?” His condescending opinion jerked her back from her foolhardy musings with all the effect of being dumped into that icy snow outside.

  Cara ground her teeth. “Do not call me ice princess. Furthermore,” she raked a gaze over him. “It is not your business.” What should she expect a rude-mannered lout such as this one to understand about that necklace buried in the bottom of her trunk?

  He took another step closer and her courage deserted her. “Not my business?”

  Oh, dear. She’d never before been expected to account for her opinions to anyone beyond her father. And he cared even less for her opinions than he did for her on the whole. Cara retreated until her back collided with the wooden door. She winced, managing a jerky nod. “That is correct. N-not your business.”

  “Not my business that a spoiled lady would send a man out into a bloody blizzard for her fancy baubles?” A seething fury graveled his voice.

  His highhandedness grated on her last nerve. In a bid to goad him, she tipped her chin up a notch. “I see by your words, you at least understand.” What did he know anything of her?

  It proved the wrong thing to say. He ate away the distance between them in three long strides. His alacrity wrung a gasp from her and she held her hands up to ward him off, but he continued coming until a hairsbreadth separated them.

  Even weakened from fever, Alison managed a fierce look for the stranger. “How dare you? Do you know who—?”

  Cara glanced around the hulking beast’s shoulder, silencing the girl. It would hardly do to reveal the truth of her birthright before this thunderous brute. Despite his cultured tones, he clearly detested those of noble birthrights. He was likely some indulgent nobleman’s by-blow son who despised anyone and everyone of the peerage. Who knew what an uncouth lout such as he would do with the truth of her identity?

  “I do not give a jot if your mistress is the Queen of England,” he directed his icy words to Cara. He stuck a finger under her nose and she went cross-eyed staring down at it. “If you are in such desperate need of your fineries, then risk your own life but not another person’s.”

  She wanted to spew rancorous words at him, lauding her station and birthright that would effectively silence him. Except, by the unrelenting set of his strong, square jaw, this man would never be suitably, or even unsuitably, impressed by any of that. Cara swatted his hand. “You mannerless lout. Do not put your finger near my face.”

  “Mannerless I may be, but I am not a self-centered snob who’d put my own well-being before that of another’s because of some inflated sense of self-worth.”

  That harsh accusation ran through her. Never before had anyone spoken to her so. There was something humbling in being so disparaged by a person’s words and his thoughts. Only, this desperation was not for her fineries and fripperies as he’d called them, but rather for one particu
lar finery. “You know nothing about it,” she bit out between clenched teeth.

  “Oh, don’t I?”

  “No, you don’t!”

  The servants swung their heads back and forth, as though they took in a game of racquets.

  A wry, condescending smile pulled harder at his hard lips. “Nor do I care to know anything about it.”

  It, as in her. Humiliation slapped her cheeks with heat. Embarrassment…but something more blended with that emotion. Hurt. Which made little sense, and surely could only be accounted for by her blasted maudlin thoughts at this silly time of the season with her father’s latest display of indifference.

  The earl’s driver cleared his throat. “I-I can fetch my lady’s belongings.”

  She swallowed back bitter regret. A bit late for that. All of this mortifying exchange could have been avoided if he’d made that offer before this uncouth stranger put his aquiline nose in her affairs. Cara gave a brusque nod and the man turned to go.

  “You will do no such thing.” The brute’s icy, commanding tone would have impressed her austere duke of a father.

  Pain stabbed at her heart. In a desperate bid to feign nonchalance, Cara snapped her skirts, and with her nose in the air, stepped around the servant’s champion. “I would like to be shown to my rooms.” That request contained what little remained of her pride.

  “Of course.” The old woman rushed over. “If you’ll follow me.” She motioned to Cara and Alison.

  With her neck burning from the hard gaze the stranger fixed on her, she forced her steps into the practiced, unhurried ones meant to convey control when all she wanted to do was shut herself away in the miserable rooms of this inn, lock the door, curl up in a heap on her borrowed bed, and forget this whole blasted day.

  Chapter 4

  Seated alongside the blazing fire in the empty taproom, William stared into the contents of his tankard. His earlier peace and calm had been effectively stolen by a tart-mouthed, self-important lady. He scowled and then took another swig of his drink.

  All the golden-tressed harridan had done was rouse thoughts of the pretentious lady his parents would see him wed to; one of those young ladies who put her own material desires before the safety and security of a servant, or anyone, as long as her needs were met.

  It really was quite a shame that a lean, lithe creature with the heart-shaped face of an angel and that pale blonde hair should be as frigid as a January freeze. He’d like to kiss the frown from the lush contours of her lips and melt that icy veneer. He growled. He’d been too long without a bloody woman if he was lusting after that one.

  The innkeeper shuffled over and motioned to William’s drink. “Another?”

  William gave thanks for the timely interruption from the fleeting madness of lusting after the ice princess. He smiled and held his nearly empty glass out to be refilled. “Fine ale, thank you…?” He stared expectantly up at the older man.

  “Martin. My name is Martin and my wife is Martha,” he motioned to the old woman running a rag over empty tables.

  He lifted his tankard in salute. “Fine ale,” he lied. It was blasted rubbish stuff.

  A twinkle lit Martin’s eyes. “Kind of you to say as much.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But it is lousy stuff.” He nodded off to his wife and William followed his stare. “But I do not have the heart to tell her that it’s as bad as our accommodations here.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Takes pride in this place and I’m content to let her believe we run the finest inn in the king’s kingdom.” Martin gave a wink. “Then, that is what you do when you’re in love, isn’t it?”

  His smile grew brittle. To conceal that telling gesture, he took a sip of his awful ale. “Indeed,” he murmured. He’d never personally experienced that sentiment and with the future his parents expected of him, he never would. The man made to move, but William motioned to the seat opposite him. “Please, sit.” On a cold, dreary night like this, he didn’t welcome being alone with thoughts of the life awaiting him. The old innkeeper swiftly set down his jug and claimed the rickety chair William had indicated.

  In actuality, William knew nothing of being in love. His own parents’ marriage was a happy union, so he did not doubt that reality existed for some gentlemen. It just would not be him. For even as this man and that nameless harpie abovestairs who believed him to be a coarse commoner with his pockets to let…the truth was, he’d someday ascend to the vaunted title of duke. As such, those simple, but important pleasures afforded others—the ability to bind them to a person they respected and admired, and mayhap even loved—well, that was not a luxury afforded all members of the ton.

  The servant cut into the silence. “Do you have a lady you call wife?” he asked, following the path William’s thoughts had wandered.

  “No wife.” Not yet. He took another sip, welcoming the warmth afforded him by the miserable contents of his drink. But there would be. God help him, there would be. His throat burned for the sting of more drink and he raised his glass once more.

  “Ah, the lady abovestairs is indeed a lovely one.”

  William paused with his glass halfway to his lips. Surely he’d heard the man wrong. Or mayhap there was another, sweeter, smiling creature he’d not had the pleasure of meeting. He managed a noncommittal grunt.

  That glimmer deepened in the man’s eyes. “A spirited one, she is.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “She is a lady.” And more specifically, the manner of cold, unfeeling figures he’d spent his life avoiding. It was enough that his parents would see him honor a connection to one of those very ladies. William clenched his jaw as the age-old resentment swirled through him. Nay, they could not have selected a woman who was, at the very least, pleasing and kind. His mother’s devotion to her late friend had come before even William’s own happiness.

  Martin leaned close. “Eh, but then even with your coarse garments and bullish figure, I’m not supposed to believe you are anything other than a gentleman.” He gave a wink.

  William started. Craving the obscurity that came with being a titleless figure, he’d foolishly hoped those in this inn would fail to see past his unassuming attire.

  “Your secret is yours, my lord,” Martin assured.

  He passed his drink back and forth between his hands. “Thank you.” As it was, the freedoms enjoyed by him these years were nearing an end.

  “She was a bit cold.” Martin withdrew a stained kerchief and dabbed his brow. “But then, all ladies are a bit cold, and there is something to be said for those spirited creatures.”

  “Is there?” He infused a droll edge that earned a chuckle from the other man.

  “Oh, of course. In your youth, you just don’t realize it.” He nodded toward his wife who’d moved on to cleaning another table. “My Martha is a spirited one. In her earlier days, she could out bellow the gruffest of men to enter these doors.”

  “There is a difference between spirited and unkind,” William felt inclined to point out. And there was nothing redeeming in a woman who’d send her servant out into this fierce blizzard.

  “Perhaps.” Martin rocked back on the legs of his chair and hooked his fingers into the top of his pants. “But I always think there is more to a person than what is first seen upon the surface.”

  He bit back the retort. He’d not disabuse the innkeeper of his more hopeful thoughts. In actuality, William belonged to a world of cold, condescending nobles and had relished every moment of freedom from that same glittering society. His parents and siblings had proven the exception rather than the proverbial rule where the peerage was concerned.

  “Martin, come along. The guests abovestairs require their meals.”

  The innkeeper settled his chair back upon the spindly legs and climbed to his feet with a sigh.

  William touched the bridge of his imagined hat. “Good evening to you, Martin.”

  “My—”

  “William,” he cut in. “Just William.” For he’d embrace this last strand of
obscurity afforded him before he was thrust back into the world he’d spent years running from. As the man hurried off, a twinge of sympathy pulled at him. He did not envy the innkeeper his dealings with that shrew abovestairs.

  Cara walked in a circle, surveying her rooms. She rubbed her hands back and forth over her arms to drive back the chill that still lingered from her trek through the snow. Her efforts proved futile. With her sharp gaze, she took in everything from the cracked wash basin and pitcher to the scratched and scraped hardwood floor. She surveyed the thin, threadbare carpet at the foot of a too-lumpy bed. Perhaps it was not as uncomfortable as it appeared. Cara crossed over and sat on the bed. She placed her hands on the edge and shifted back and forth, testing the lumpy mattress. With a beleaguered sigh, she closed her eyes a moment and then in a move that would have earned a stiff recrimination from her father, flung her arms out and sprawled backward, with her head hanging off the edge of the bed. She glowered up at the cracked plaster ceiling with water marks hinting at wear to the roof.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  In the dimly lit space, she sought out that grating fall of water. A cold, wet drop landed on her nose. She followed the path up to the ceiling where a puddle of moisture pooled on the peeling paint. Cara slid her eyes closed. With the disastrous course of her day, why should she expect anything else? Another drop landed on her forehead and she rolled onto her side, disabusing the fates of the further pleasure of tormenting her.

  Her teeth chattered noisily in the quiet space, punctuated by the gusting wind beating against the window. She drew her legs close to her chest and huddled in a ball and, because it was far easier to focus on a stranger who despised her than a father who did not care, she ran through her meeting with that brute in the taproom. His antipathy had been palpable and really should not matter. After all, no one liked her. And on most days, she did not even like herself. And yet… A blasted sheen of tears blurred her vision and she blinked them back.

  Foolish signs of weakness, gel. Her father’s thunderous admonishment echoed off these foreign walls.