Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  “I like it here,” she said, happiness shining in her eyes. “And it smells delicious.”

  “Not as delicious as you, I’ll wager,” he said, just loud enough in the burble of noise surrounding them that she heard and blushed a lovely shade of pink.

  The look in her eyes said wicked man, but the smile on her lips said that she liked him just fine. Ludo sighed and realised that he was happy. How strange life was, that one could be so low, so close to despairing, and then be lifted to such dizzying heights by another.

  Their meal came—pork chops and boiled potatoes and good, thick gravy—and Ludo tucked in with gusto, polishing off his serving and ordering another before Bunty was half way through hers.

  “Eat up,” he chided her. “You need to keep your strength up, my lady.”

  Puzzled for a moment, she looked up at him.

  “Why…?” she began, and then pursed her lips as he chuckled at her.

  Once their meal was over, Ludo paid and escorted her outside once more.

  “Oh, Ludo, it’s snowing,” she said in delight, holding out her gloved hand and watching as the tiny flakes settled for a moment before disappearing.

  “So it is. I had better take you home and warm you up, then.”

  She laughed, looking up at him with such an expression of happiness that the earth seemed to pitch beneath his feet and settle anew, as though rearranged and nothing would ever be the same again. The frail, blossoming flame of hope unfurled a little farther inside him, warming him. He stopped in his tracks and she opened her mouth, no doubt to ask why, but Ludo bent his head and kissed her, there in the street, in full view of everyone.

  She gave a soft gasp, and for a moment he thought she was cross, but then her mouth tilted up at the edges, a smile for him alone.

  “Bunty,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse, trembling with uncertainty but wanting to tell her, to give her the truth of everything he felt. “Bunty, I—”

  “Well, well, if it ain’t Ludo, and feeling up his light-o’-love in the middle of the street, no less.”

  Ludo stiffened, his heart jolting in his chest, the familiar sense of panic washing over him at that voice, that vile, awful voice.

  “That’s my wife you speak of, Bramwell,” he said, turning towards the face of his nightmares.

  Stupid. He was a grown man, big enough to pick Bramwell up and shake him in one hand, yet somehow he was never a grown man with his big brother. Instead, Ludo found himself reduced to a snivelling child, pissing his pants with terror of what the beast would do next.

  “Ah, yes. Heard you got yourself caught in a snare, big, dumb ox that you are. Thinking with your prick as ever, eh?” Bramwell turned those cold, green eyes to Bunty. “And you, you foolish chit, did you think he had his hands on the family money, my sweet? He ain’t and won’t ever have.”

  Ludo felt the way she stiffened with indignation, and drew her in, close to his side. He would not let Bramwell hurt her. Surely he could manage that at least. Couldn’t he? He felt frozen, his guts churning.

  “You heard wrong, my lord. It was a tryst, and one I was eager for, I assure you. Incidentally, I wouldn’t touch your money with a ten-foot pole, and neither would Ludo,” Bunty said, with all the poise of a queen speaking to a lowly pleb.

  Ludo stared at her in awe.

  “Ah, a feisty one, and toothsome too,” Bramwell said, leering at Bunty in a way that made Ludo long to knock his teeth down his throat.

  The hand that wasn’t holding Bunty plastered to his side closed into a fist, but he couldn’t breathe. Something cold and panicky held him immobile. Years of being locked in cupboards and small spaces, of pranks that had seen him tumbling down stairs or tripped on his face, of myriad little everyday cruelties and bigger ones too made him freeze with terror. Dangling him by his ankles from an upper storey window had been one of Bramwell’s favourites until Ludo had become too big to hold. Bramwell hadn’t realised his limitations before he’d almost dropped Ludo on his head, mind you.

  “No, not in the least feisty, just honest,” Bunty said with a thin smile. “You see, I recognise a bully when I see one.”

  “Ha!” Bramwell seemed genuinely amused by that. “One need not be a bully when a fellow’s such a weakling. Don’t let all that brawn fool you, my flower. He’s a pathetic worm. No, you come see me if it’s a man you’re wanting, I’ll see you right….”

  Bramwell raised his hand, as if he would touch Bunty. He reached for her, cruelty in every bone, down to his marrow, and something inside Ludo fractured. Bunty was everything good in his life, a golden gossamer thread, a bright glimmer of hope, of truth and kindness and trust, and he loved… loved her. Yet Bramwell reached out as if he had the right to lay his filthy hand on her lovely skin. Ludo reacted. He didn’t know what he’d done at first, what exactly had happened, but the next moment Bramwell lay sprawled on the floor, ungainly and ridiculous, his hat having tumbled away into the gutter. Bramwell was gasping, fishlike, his glassy eyes dazed, and he was bleeding like a stuck pig. There had been the crunch of bone, Ludo thought. Bramwell’s nose, perhaps? He looked at his fist, a little stunned. He’d done it. After so many years of wishing he had the courage, he’d done it. He had fought so many bigger men—far more dangerous men—and yet Bramwell had always effortlessly reduced him to that terrified child.

  No longer.

  Ludo turned to look at Bunty, who was beaming at him. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

  “Well done!”

  He fought the urge to preen, aware he’d not acted as a gentleman, but too relieved to have acted at all to give a damn. He looked back to see Mr Middleton, the family’s man of business, helping Bramwell up. He’d not even noticed him before now. That was Middleton all over, though: never noticed, always in the background, quietly smoothing over the difficulties Ludo’s loud-mouthed brothers and his devil of a father created. No. Not his father. Ludo was none of his, thank God.

  Bramwell looked shaken, and older than Ludo remembered. Well, he was older, fifteen years older. He’d been the nightmare that had terrorised Ludo once his mother had died. Bramwell and his brother George had been partners in crime, devising ways to torture Ludo with their father’s blessing until he was afraid of his own shadow.

  “Stay away from my wife,” Ludo managed, clutching Bunty’s hand.

  He drew strength from her, strength enough to look into the eyes that had always made him afraid, but without flinching. Never again would he flinch. He’d fight dragons for Bunty. He could deal with this… this obnoxious, overweight fool. Ludo allowed himself to really look at Bramwell, and saw the paunch, the double chin and bloodshot eyes. He was getting old, old and weak, years of dissipation and cruelty shown plainly on a face that did not understand kindness, tenderness, or compassion. Ludo pitied him.

  “I don’t want to see you again, Bramwell, and you may tell George to expect the same treatment. Stay away from us. I want none of you, and we certainly have no interest in your money.”

  He looked at Bunty, saw her eyes shining with admiration, and with belief in him.

  “We don’t need it,” he added.

  She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

  Bramwell sent him a look of pure loathing, one hand clutching a handkerchief to his nose, which was bleeding profusely. Middleton, efficient as ever, had hailed a hackney and helped Bramwell inside. He hesitated before moving back to Ludo.

  “Come and see me, my lord. As soon as you may. It’s important.”

  Ludo opened his mouth to say he wouldn’t go anywhere near anyone associated with his family, but Middleton put a hand out, holding Ludo’s arm for a moment. From neat, balding, precise Middleton, this was so extraordinary that Ludo could only stare.

  “Please,” he said urgently, and then hurried back to the hackney and got in.

  Ludo was silent as they walked back home, and Bunty did not press him, aware that he needed a little quiet to gather himself. She held tight to his arm, though
, so he knew she was with him, supporting him. Once again, she remembered the look on his face when he’d seen his oldest brother. He’d gone the most startling shade of white, his big frame rigid with tension. She’d known then, or at least she suspected she knew what kind of man Bramwell Courtenay, the Earl of Edgmond, was. He was the kind to inflict harm on those weaker than him and take pleasure in it. She could see it at once in those callous eyes, as lacking in feeling as a dead fish. It was in the cruelty of his thin lips, just as much as in his vile words and insinuations. It was in the way she had felt Ludo react, an instinct born of years of abuse at the hands of an older brother.

  She imagined Ludo as a boy, all glorious tumbling black curls and big blue eyes, and then two brothers in Bramwell’s mould, and….

  And the Marquess of Farringdon. Everyone knew of him. Everyone knew of the marquess and his cruelty, his vicious temper and his pride. How must a man like that have felt to have discovered himself a cuckold?

  Oh, Ludo.

  Her heart broke and she held tighter to his arm. It had been such a shock to see his fear. Ludo was so large, so vital and strong, so powerful. She’d read of his brawling, read of his skill in the boxing ring. One of Jackson’s favourites, he was a natural. All that beautiful strength that he had given her so wholeheartedly and with such tenderness, had been driven away with a few words from a man who must have tormented his childhood. She wanted to go back to Bramwell now, this instant, and… and….

  Bunty sucked in a breath, startled by the violence of her own thoughts, the anger and the need for retribution. She had never in her life wanted to hurt someone, but… but Bramwell had hurt Ludo. Bramwell had been his big brother, a role that ought to at least be one of camaraderie, if not of protection. And instead….

  “Bunty?”

  Bunty blinked, looking up at Ludo’s appalled face, only then realising her eyes were wet with tears.

  “Oh, God, Bunty, I’m so sorry. I should not have let him speak to you so. I… I should have—”

  She reached up and pressed a finger to his lips. “You did. You were admirable. I’m so proud of you. Now do open the door and let us go inside. The snow is falling heavier, I think.”

  Bunty watched as he fumbled for the key, letting them in. He seemed a little lost, uncertain, and she took off his overcoat, guided him to a chair and made him sit down as she stoked the fire back to life and put a kettle on for tea. She hung up wet things and pulled off his boots as the kettle sang. Calmed by routine, she poured tea, putting a cup into his hand, dosed heavily with sugar.

  He sipped and she watched him come back to himself. To her. Taking his empty cup, she put it down and sat in his lap. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, laying his head against her shoulder as she stroked his hair, curling now, damp from the snow despite his hat.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  He did, haltingly at first, and then a tumble of words like water rushing over a cliff’s edge, eager for the fall, eager to rid himself of the memories and let them flow away.

  Bunty heard it, all of it, stoic, not weeping, though she wanted to. She wanted to sob and rage and howl with fury, but she held it back, certain he would not want that. She held him, though, kissed him when she could no longer bear not to, smothered her anger and turned it into a caress. It was at once just as she had imagined, and far worse. When he was done, she did not move, aware that he was calm now, not wanting to disturb his tranquillity by doing or saying the wrong thing.

  “It wasn’t all bad,” he said, squeezing her fingers.

  She blinked hard as his face blurred, touched that he would want to reassure her, when he was the one who had lived it.

  “Whilst my mother lived, I was protected and cosseted and loved. I do remember that. She told me about my real father.”

  “The Italian count?”

  He nodded.

  “She would not run off with him because she did not want you to endure the scandal, yet she named you Ludovic? Like your father, Ludovico?” She tried to keep the censure from her voice, but failed.

  He shrugged, his big shoulders rolling. “At first, she thought she’d got away with it, I think. I think she believed it would be her private joke. Yet it wasn’t long before it became clear I was not like my brothers, and the rumours flew. She believed she’d been discreet, yet someone knew. Someone always knows. She took me away then, ran away, more like.”

  “Where did you go?”

  Ludo smiled. “She had a house in Kent. Hers, not Father’s. He could not take it from her. Some legal quirk. He tried to get around it, but her mother had been a canny soul, I think. Anyway, she took us there, and we were happy.”

  “Until she died.”

  Pain flickered in his eyes, and Bunty wanted to never see such an expression again. She vowed she would do anything she could to prevent it.

  “Yes. I was eight. Then… Then it was not good at all. Not for a long time. Not…” He reached up and cupped her face, and she wondered at the gentleness of this man, who’d had so little of it in his life. “Not until you.”

  Bunty turned into his touch and kissed his palm, holding his hand there with her own.

  “It is the strangest thing,” he said, a wondering tone to his voice. “To think he has frightened me so these many years when… when he’s nothing. He’s less than nothing. A vain, vile nothing of a man. He has money and power, and yet he’s….”

  “Pathetic,” Bunty said firmly, disgust in every syllable. “Preying on those weaker than himself. He’s no man, Ludo. Not like you. He does not deserve a moment more of your attention, and I should like it very much if you never thought of him ever again, but… but if you do, if you want to tell me more… anything. I shall always listen.”

  Ludo tipped his head back and stared at her.

  “I don’t understand it,” he said, almost to himself. “I don’t understand what I did. How did I manage it? How did I convince you to marry me?”

  Bunty did not consider that a question worthy of an answer, as it was far too obvious, so she kissed him instead, and he seemed to like that well enough.

  Chapter 6

  “Wherein the final piece of the puzzle reveals a lovely picture.”

  London

  December 14, 1820

  Ludo awoke early. It was barely dawn, just a faint smudge of daylight creeping around the curtains. Bunty sighed and snuggled closer to him, and Ludo smiled. Lucky bastard. She was warm and soft and… and rather astonishing. He’d tried to untangle everything it was he felt for her, but it had all been so sudden, and yet a creeping thing that he’d been vaguely aware of for years. He’d always held his breath when he’d caught sight of her in a crowd, on a street, or at the theatre. It had been like glimpsing a dream, something lovely and so impossible you could not hope to hold on to it, aware that it was never to be real, never to be yours. He tightened his grip on her lush curves—which were reassuringly tangible and mouth–watering—as she sighed and stretched. His feelings rose in a mess of untidy bafflement. He did not understand why she had protected him so fiercely when he’d been so obviously, pathetically weak. He did not know why she should smile at him with happiness sparkling in her eyes when he’d done so little to deserve it. God, he’d taken her from an opulent home and installed her in this dingy place, and yet she looked at him like… like she was glad.

  The tangle in his chest was woven so tight he suspected he would never unravel it, but in the end it resolved itself into one bright, shining truth, so obvious it was undeniable. Not that he wanted to deny it. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops, but he did not think she would like that. Besides, he needed to tell her first.

  She stirred again, with a flutter of dark eyelashes, and her lovely eyes were warm and soft, hazy with sleep, and then with a hotter emotion as her gaze settled on him. Oh, he liked that look.

  “Good morning,” she murmured, giving a contented sigh of pleasure.

  Ludo shifted down the bed until they were eye to eye. />
  “Good morning, beautiful.”

  She made a little harrumphing sound and put a hand up to her hair, wincing. “You are an odd creature, to enjoy such a sight.”

  “No. I am your husband, and right about all things. I do not care that your hair looks like a bird has nested in it. You are beautiful: quite astoundingly lovely.”

  There was a helpless laugh that made his heart kick about behind his ribs, and then she looked up at him.

  “You are an odd creature, but I like you very much. I like your compliments, and I love waking up with you.”

  “I love you, Bunty.”

  Her mouth fell open, and Ludo sat up as she lay there, gazing at him.

  “I do. I love you.”

  She blinked hard, her eyes glittering, and Ludo panicked as a tear escaped.

  Oh. Oh, no. Ought he not have said that? Was it too soon? Should he have waited?

  “Oh, Bunty… I….”

  He did not know what to say. He could not… would not take it back. The truth of it had settled inside him, weighty and honest, and he did not want to deny it.

  Only… only if she did not want it….

  Her soft hands reached for him, pulling his head down. She kissed him, murmuring against his lips.

  “Love you. I love you, Ludo. You’ve made me so happy.”

  Oh, thank Christ for that.

  He kissed her back, enthusiastic now, eager to make her happier still. As a husband he might not have been up to much—not yet, anyway, though he had plans, lots of plans—but this… this he could do. This he could do very well, thank you very much.

  So he did. Several times.

  It took a great deal of persuading to get Ludo out of bed, more to get him out of the house, particularly when he realised where she wanted to go.

  “He said it was important, Ludo.”