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

by Anna Campbell

  “Marvellous,” Bunty said closing her eyes, a blissful curve to her lips. “The best, best husband anywhere in the world… ever.”

  Ludo cupped her breasts. You lucky bastard, he thought, grinning.

  “So… you do want me to make you scream, then?” he asked, all innocence.

  Bunty cracked open one eye. “Well, obviously. What are you waiting for, Christmas?”

  Ludo gave a bark of laughter and shook his head. “Certainly not, love. I am yours to command. So… prepare yourself.”

  He flung her skirts over her head and wondered how his heart could contain everything he felt as Bunty laughed, and then squealed. She laughed louder still when he pressed a kiss to her stomach, then blew a wet raspberry against her skin. She squirmed and wriggled, and Ludo stared down at her in wonder.

  “I love you,” he said, serious for just a moment. “And this will be the best Christmas ever.”

  Bunty shook her head, smiling up at him, her dark eyes filled with adoration.

  “No. Only the first of many best evers,” she said.

  Ludo nodded, seeing the certainty in her eyes and believing it.

  “Our first best ever, then. The first of many,” he said.

  Bunty nodded, and he moved up the bed to kiss her tenderly.

  “I love you too, by the way,” she said, stroking his face. “In case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said, because he knew now, because he believed he was loved, and wanted, and belonged. “But don’t ever stop telling me.”

  He kissed her again, long and slow, and then sat up, staring down at her with a devilish smile.

  “Now then, where was I?”

  “Making me scream?” Bunty suggested.

  Ludo nodded gravely. “Ah, yes. Husbandly duties. Let’s see if we can melt all the snow on the roof, shall we?”

  Ludo settled back to his work and, whilst they might not have melted all the snow, he certainly made his wife scream, and laugh, and love him all the more.

  Epilogue

  “Wherein there are roses at Christmas.”

  Five years later…

  Russell House, Kent

  December 24, 1825

  Bunty looked around the dining room with satisfaction. The silver and crystal glittered in the light of the Yule candle that Ludo had lit for her at sunset, as tradition demanded. Her parents were here, having long since come to terms with her wedding to Ludo. That their daughter’s marriage was a success was something the most cynical of critics would have been hard pressed to deny. Ludo’s business had gone from strength to strength, in no small part due to Bunty suggesting they give away some of the puzzles to the most elevated members of the ton. Ludo had been sceptical, remarking wryly that they were supposed to sell the things, not give them away, or he’d be bankrupt in short order. However, the tactic had worked marvellously, as those mamas who saw the likes of the Marchioness of Winterbourne’s children playing happily with such a toy rushed out to get one for their own little darlings.

  Ludo had also finally given in and allowed Bunty to send one of his paintings to Henry Barbour. The response from the man himself had been no surprise to Bunty, who had long been aware of her husband’s many talents, but had stunned Ludo. To have such an acclaimed artist so thoroughly endorse his work had been the boost to his confidence he had needed, and he had agreed to submit a piece to the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition. If Bunty had been any prouder, she would have crowed.

  This Christmas they had a house full, having persuaded Mr and Mrs Middleton and their youngest daughter to come and stay. Mr Middleton’s eldest four girls were now married and off his hands, and the man’s relief was palpable. So only young Betsy remained. She was almost nineteen and would likely spend the entire holiday making sheep’s eyes at Ludo, but Bunty could hardly blame the girl. Besides which, it would do her no good, for Ludo only had eyes for Bunty. It seemed extraordinary, especially after five years and three children, but he could find no fault with her and loved her to her bones. After so many years of finding fault with everything about herself, it was little short of miraculous to Bunty, and she never took his adoration for granted.

  A blast of frigid air from the hallway announced his arrival home, and Bunty hurried out to greet him. Their eldest boy, Luca, had wide, dark eyes like his mother, and his father’s thick dark curls and Mediterranean looks. The child was stamping his feet and leaving chunks of melting snow on the floor with a gleeful grin.

  “Look, Mama,” he said, holding out a fistful of mistletoe. “Papa said you’d have to kiss us if we brought some home.”

  Bunty laughed and ran to him, kissing him on his rosy cheek.

  “As if you need mistletoe to get me to kiss either of you!” she exclaimed. “But it’s very pretty. I shall put a red ribbon on it and hang it up for you.”

  “Oh, Master Luca, you look chilled through,” his nurse said as she bustled into the hallway. “Let’s get you in the bath and into clean clothes, quick smart, or you’ll not be ready in time for dinner.”

  For once Luca needed no chivvying, as he’d seen the splendid feast Widdy had been preparing for days now.

  “Baby is sleeping, and I’ll bring Miss Rose down to say goodnight in a bit, my lady,” the efficient Nurse Robinson informed Bunty, with a quick curtsey, before taking Luca’s hand and leading him off for his bath.

  Bunty turned back to her husband.

  “And what about you?” she asked, smiling at him. “Do I need to get you into a hot bath before dinner?”

  Ludo returned a pleased grin but shook his head.

  “No. Or, at least, in a minute,” he said. “I have something for you. Close your eyes.”

  Bunty laughed and did as he asked, knowing that Ludo would spoil her this Christmas, as he always did. He was forever bringing her presents no matter how often she reassured him she did not need them, but he seemed to enjoy making a fuss of her, and she was hardly going to complain.

  “You can open them now.”

  Bunty gasped at the bouquet of Christmas roses he held out to her, and was at once transported back to their wedding night. He’d decorated his sparse rooms with Christmas roses for her, wanting to make the place welcoming for his new bride.

  “Oh,” Bunty said, taking them from him with care. “Oh, Ludo, they’re so beautiful.”

  “We found them down near the woods,” he said, his blue eyes alight with pleasure at having made her happy. “I’m going to get Mr Widdershins to plant some in the garden, too, outside your parlour. Then you’ll have them every Christmas.”

  Bunty blinked hard and sniffled. Ludo chuckled, pulling her into his arms, careful not to crush the roses.

  “Don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying,” she protested, as tears slid down her face.

  Ludo touched her cheek and lifted his wet finger for her inspection.

  “Proof positive. You’re a proper watering pot these past days, anyone would think—”

  He closed his mouth with a snap and took a step back, inspecting her.

  Bunty huffed. “Oh, and now you’ve spoiled my surprise. I was going to tell you in the morning.”

  Ludo gave a crow of triumph and lifted her up into the air, spinning her around as Bunty shrieked. One of the downstairs maids came running to see what the commotion was about, saw them, blushed furiously, and darted away again.

  “She’s new,” Ludo said, grinning. “She’s not used to us yet.”

  Bunty snorted, wondering how she ever looked any of her staff in the eyes. Only the knowledge that they were all wildly jealous let her hold her head up.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, setting her down gently, one large hand moving to cup her cheek.

  “I am,” she said, smiling at him.

  “How perfect,” he said with obvious pleasure. “You are quite perfectly perfect.”

  Bunty made a sound of incredulity, but he smothered it, kissing her with slow and thorough attention until she remembered
they were still standing in the hallway for all to see.

  “That’s enough,” she protested half-heartedly. “Come along. You must get ready. Widdy will have your guts for garters if you make her spoil dinner. Besides which, I have something for you.”

  “Oh?” he said, waggling his dark eyebrows at her suggestively.

  “Not that,” she said, tsking at him. “There’s not time for that though… later.”

  He sighed heavily, shaking his head with a mournful expression.

  “Well, what is it, then? Nothing else will be half so exciting.”

  Bunty waited until he had closed the bedroom door before setting down her bouquet and handing him the letter which had been burning a hole in her pocket. Ludo stared at it and his eyes met hers.

  “Well, open it, then,” she said, praying it gave him the news he had been longing for.

  Ludo tore open the seal and Bunty held her breath as he read, not daring to breathe until he looked up, his excitement palpable.

  “It’s from him… from my father. He… he wants to meet me.”

  Bunty gave a little shout of joy, for she knew what this meant to him. He laughed and pulled her close before turning his attention back to the letter.

  “He’s been travelling the past few years, which is why we’ve had such trouble finding him. He says….” Ludo swallowed and tried again. “He says my mother was the love of his life, and he is overjoyed to discover he has a son, and… he can’t wait to meet me.”

  “Oh, Ludo, that’s marvellous. I’m so happy for you.”

  Ludo nodded and set the letter down before tugging her back into his arms. “He says he’ll come as soon as the weather improves.”

  “He’ll be so proud of you, love,” Bunty said, hugging him. “I know I am.”

  She watched him as he nodded, believing in himself now in a way he never had when she’d first met him.

  “Do you believe in luck or fate?” he asked, frowning a little.

  Bunty shrugged. “Perhaps, a little at least, but I think we make our own luck on the whole. Perhaps fate gives us a nudge now and then, but it’s what we do with it that counts.”

  Ludo nodded and reached for one of the roses he’d picked, carefully threading it into her dark hair, behind her ear.

  “Everything changed that night in the library. I’d never wanted anything like I wanted you, Bunty, so badly I could taste it. I’d have done anything to get you to marry me. When you practically landed in my lap….” He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know if it was fate, or luck, but whatever it was I thank my lucky stars, every day, and certainly every night.”

  “I love you, Ludo,” Bunty said, holding him tightly, staring up at him, her own heart echoing everything he had just said.

  He touched his finger to the flower in her hair and smiled. “And I you, my own Christmas rose.”

  About Emma V. Leech

  As an accomplished romance author, Emma won the world's largest online writing competition 'The Wattys' two years running. In 2018 two of her Rogues and Gentlemen novels were shortlisted for the Amazon UK Storyteller award, with two of the Girls Who Dare series shortlisted in 2019

  Emma's novels have garnered attention worldwide. When she's not writing she strives to live as far from the real world as possible, otherwise, she can be found in Darkest Dordogne, South West France with her husband, three children, assorted cats and a wild imagination.

  Browse Emma’s gorgeous books, on Amazon

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  The Lady’s Guide to Scandal

  by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Chapter 1

  Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico

  April, 1897

  A storm was coming, the horizon streaked purple with threatening clouds. From their elevated position on the ridge, the vista appeared unbroken. No roads or open places in which cattle might graze. No signs of human settlement. Endless miles of breadnut and sapodilla trees, reaching tall above the forest floor.

  Only as the wind gusted, rippling through the expanse of green, did the small mound break the surrounding canopy.

  His pulse quickened. The summit was distinct.

  And beneath?

  Ethan had seen the ruins at Mérida, Copan and Uxmal. For as many sites as had been unearthed, there were a hundred more—great temples buried by the centuries, concealed by seething life, by rampant vines and gnarled branches. Hidden deep.

  He’d followed the work of other men—their discoveries, their triumphs.

  This was his.

  The fruit of toilsome decades.

  The journey had been comfortless—days of suffocating heat, traversing swamps and near-impassable jungle; and long nights drenched in sweat, kept awake by cicadas, and howler monkeys’ nightmarish calls.

  Plagued by mud and mosquitoes, by scorpions, spiders and deadly snakes, he would never have made it this far without those who accompanied him: his guides Francisco and José Luis, and those who carried their tents and provisions and tools—all that would be needed when they reached their destination.

  Descending the promontory, Ethan directed the porters to make camp in the limestone caverns below. Tarpaulins served well, even against deluging rain, but a cave was better.

  Though the light was fading, he and the guides would continue. They were so close—an hour perhaps, with all three wielding machetes against the tangle of undergrowth. Their progress would be slow, but he needed to see at last what he believed he would find. When the rain came, the treetops would provide partial shelter.

  They splashed through a shallow stream and, somewhere beyond the canopy, a flash of lightning lit the heavens’ dark vault. The treetops far overhead shivered and the birds fell silent. No more the screech of toucans or drum of woodpeckers. Even the frogs seemed to have ceased their croak. The cacophony died away.

  “Ahí, señor.” José Luis pointed. Just ahead, the ground was littered with broken rock.

  Ethan gripped the man’s shoulder. The excitement he felt shone in the other’s eyes. All these weeks of journeying, and this was the moment.

  The perimeter of the city!

  The first drops of water begun to patter high above but they pushed on with renewed vigour until, where the jungle had been dense, it became impenetrable.

  A wall of vines and tree orchids stretched upward, disappearing through enclosing branches. Extending his arm, Ethan reached through, tapping.

  His blade hit stone.

  No instruction was necessary. The rain was coming harder but they worked to remove the section of foliage before them, unmasking the smooth façade. Not merely a wall but an archway, flanked upon either side.

  He recognized the figures at once. Dual depictions of the Jaguar god—he who ruled the Underworld, his power extending over all, his arts fed by black sorcery.

  Ethan placed his palm upon the stone. Through the stillness, he was aware of the falling rain, and something else: the call of those who’d carved this rock, whose feet had stood on this very spot. Strains from a world long-departed.

  And another voice; another face. Smaller hands beside his own, smoothing sand to shape their joint creation. Not a castle, as other children made, but a temple such as this, forming graduated steps to the altar at the peak.

  Chapter 2

  British Museum, London

  Early-evening, December 4, 1903

  Cornelia stretched her neck, rolling her head backward. Little wonder that her shoulders felt so tight. She’d been sitting far too long, hunched over the collection of unremarkable pieces, endeavouring to find something about them to justify the effort.

  She didn’t usually remain beyond four in the afternoon but, on her volunteering days, had been staying gradually longer. Her aunts awaited her, of course, and their efforts to make the residence on Po
rtman Square feel festive had been commendable but she’d been unable to feel "at home" there since her father’s death. The museum was a welcome escape.

  Yawning, she replaced the urn fragment with the others in the wooden box and secured the lid. Mesopotamian, dating from around 1000 B.C. Nothing particularly special. Nothing that anyone else wanted to trouble cataloguing; only Cornelia, who must be grateful to be here at all, where she was tolerated rather than welcomed—and for her father’s sake, rather than her own.

  She’d long accepted that nothing of true historical interest was likely to find its way to the tiny, basement-level room in which she was permitted to work. Nevertheless, she held out hope that, one day, nestled among the mundane would be an item of significance.

  Her workspace lacked natural light, being little more than a storage cupboard, but her keen eye would spot this Special Object. She would seek out Mr. Pettigrew, the Head Curator for Eastern Artefacts, and would proudly present her find. Disbelieving, he would initially attempt to dismiss her but, in this, her private fantasy, his cod-like lips quivered in surprise as he was obliged to recognize the value of what she held in her palm.

  With a sigh, she rose, carrying the box back to its shelf. She ought to be thankful, of course, for it was an honour to be here, in however humble a capacity. The British Museum was like no other, boasting priceless items from every corner of the globe: from the mysterious African continent, to the vast Americas and the Far East. Thousands of visitors passed through its doors daily to see the Egyptian collection alone—the largest array of mummies and sarcophagi outside Cairo, not to mention hoards of priceless papyrii.

  Cornelia’s late father, as a member of the Board of Trustees, and a patron of explorations organized under the aegis of the Royal Geographical Society, had brought her to the museum from the youngest age, explaining to her the history of the Aztec mosaics and the marbles chiselled from the great Parthenon in Athens. She’d stood in awe beneath the colossal granite head of Ramses II, and pored over the Rosetta Stone, captured from Napoleon’s hands almost a hundred years before.