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

by Anna Campbell

  A rush of heat flooded Cornelia’s cheeks. He’d only been in London a few weeks. Part of her had begun to hope that her scandals were far enough in the past that people would have ceased mentioning them. Clearly, she was wrong.

  But, he wasn’t gloating, or bestowing his pity. Instead, his tone was forthright. “It’s none of my business how your mother found her happiness. You don’t need to explain anything, but you still haven’t really answered my question.” He set his hands on his knees, looking at her earnestly again.

  “Finding the right sort of man would be my problem, Mr. Burnell, not yours—and I believe it’s questionable whether my mother found ‘happiness’, as you put it.” She pursed her lips. If she carried on talking, she’d reveal far more than she wanted to. The past was the past, and she’d learnt long ago that it did no good to stew over what might have been.

  “So, to recap, you believe that my association with you will cause a different sort of gossip, making me seem more…” She gave an exasperated sigh, unsure of quite the right word.

  “More interesting? More bewitching? More…desirable?” He arched an eyebrow.

  Damn him. He was definitely laughing at her. “Well, yes! I suppose so—although it’s not what I’d have thought advantageous.”

  “You mean you want people to think you’re dull?”

  “No, of course not. Not dull.” He was wilfully misinterpreting her. “I’m merely pointing out that being escorted about by you, however fascinating that may be…” she swallowed and looked out through the window again, anywhere but at him, “Might not attract the sort of man who’d make a good husband.”

  “A good husband, eh? And what does one of those look like?”

  Cornelia sat a little straighter. “Someone upstanding and good-hearted, whom I can rely upon. Someone content to live quietly. Someone who won’t mind that marriage to me will mean restricted invitations within Society.”

  Someone not at all like Oswald, she might have said.

  “Well, if that’s your idea of perfect, it’s all dandy. However, I’d say you’d be going about things the wrong way. When a man’s compelled to pursue a woman, it’s rarely because he thinks she looks dutiful and respectful. It’s because he sees the firecracker inside, however prim she might appear—a woman who knows she’s good enough just as she is, without needing to change for anyone. You ought to be showing them you’re a prize worth the challenge. I’ve a reputation for finding adventure. If my sister’s guests are convinced I’m besotted, believe me, you’ll have suitors flocking.”

  He tipped his head to one side. “Though what with your uptight list and all, it’s likely that none of them will be up to the mark.”

  Cornelia gritted her teeth. “You think it will work?”

  Another of his smiles lit his face. “Does a coyote howl in the desert?

  Their arrival at Weymouth was announced by Minnie’s barking, immediately awakening Eustacia and Blanche.

  From the window, Cornelia saw the Studborne carriage waiting to drive them the final twenty miles to the Abbey—a handsome equipage in black, the family crest painted large upon the door.

  Soft flakes of snow had begun to fall, covering the platform and all about them in a thin layer of white. Mr. Burnell gave his hand to help each of them out.

  “So nice to have a gentleman helping one on journeys such as this.” Blanche flashed him her most flirtatious of smiles.

  “My pleasure entirely, Miss Everly. Now watch your step. If you fall into my arms, I’ll have to carry you the rest of the way—and then all the ladies will be wanting the same treatment.”

  Blanche’s foot wavered, as if she might be contemplating the wisdom of just such a move.

  “Do get a move on, dear.” Eustacia hissed from behind. “Rosamund mentioned blankets and warming bricks in the carriage and a flask of hot toddy. I for one am more than ready.”

  Hoisting Minnie against her shoulder, Cornelia caught Mr. Burnell’s eye over her aunt’s head. Grinning, he gave her a slow wink.

  Chapter 6

  Studborne Abbey

  Early morning, December 18

  Cornelia woke to the tinkling of china.

  “It’s just me, come with your porridge, Mrs. Mortmain. There’s cream an’ honey, as you like it.”

  Tugging back the heavy curtains, Nancy peered out the window. “The snow still be comin’ down. Lucky you an’ the mistresses arrived when you did. I don’t see no other guests gettin’ up that narrow lane—an’ only half gotten here as was planned for, I be told.”

  Fat flakes had begun falling steadily the evening before, filling the rutted tracks off the main coastal road and making difficult their way to the Abbey. By the time they’d pulled up, it had been past midnight and, with everyone retired, the butler had shown them to their rooms. Cornelia had barely slipped between the sheets before falling asleep.

  Someone had lit the fire, thank goodness—giving the room a cheery feel, despite the feebleness of the morning light. Minnie, laying full stretch across the bottom of the golden damask quilt, lifted her head briefly before flopping down again.

  The maid bustled to Cornelia’s side, lifting the tray onto her lap. “A good job I came a day ahead with the luggage, too. Your gowns be hangin’ nicely.” Nancy beamed at Cornelia. “I packed like Miss Blanche told me and only your best things, it bein’ a festive gatherin’ an’ all.”

  “You’re very kind, Nancy—and I am sorry to drag you away from Portman Square so close to Christmas. I hope we didn’t disrupt your plans.”

  Nancy’s large bosom wobbled to the accompaniment of her laughter. “Done me a favour, more like. It warms my heart to be back in Dorset where I was raised, an’ it do look grand downstairs, what with the decorations bein’ up. I never saw a tree so tall in all my life. Right pretty it is, covered all in ribbons. Wait ’til you see it, ma’am.”

  Cornelia began on the porridge. “Are my aunts comfortable, Nancy?”

  “Oh yes. They both be in Miss Blanche’s room through the connectin’ door there, havin’ their own breakfasts. I was just tellin’ the mistresses how nicely done the gardens are. Not that I’ve been out there myself yet, it bein’ so wintery, but the maid whose room I be sharin’ with was describin’ it very poetic like. There be the usual parklands and orchards o’ course, but also a maze, an’ a walled garden as the monks what lived here in past times relied upon for their vegetables. The lake be full o’ trout as well, apparently, though ’tis all frozen now.”

  Cornelia had seen for herself the grandeur of the Abbey, approaching by moonlight through an avenue of limes. It was undeniably beautiful, hewn from honey-coloured stone, its many turrets reaching skyward. Although the original monastery had clearly been added to over the centuries, the original structure remained, its narrow windows lead-paned.

  It was imposing indeed and, no doubt, the guests waking in the various rooms through the house would be similarly intimidating. How many of them would recognize her, she wondered—or recognize her name, if nothing else.

  “I be off then, ma’am, to fetch the water for washin’. I’ve laid out yer russet wool on the chaise—the one with the little roses through the weave. Might as well give it a bit o’ warmth from the fire afore you put it on.” With that, Nancy scuttled out.

  Finishing her bowl, Cornelia shrugged on her dressing gown and hastened through to check upon her aunts.

  While Blanche remained in bed, Eustacia had taken the armchair closest to the fire. It was burning considerably brighter than the one in Cornelia’s room, banked high with logs. Meanwhile, her aunt’s head was buried in an edition of The Strand.

  “Come and give me a morning kiss,” called Blanche, plumping her pillows. “Eustacia has no conversation this morning, and won’t let me near her magazine until she’s read Mr. Conan Doyle’s latest. Something wonderfully lurid, with dancing men in it.” Blanche’s sharp eyes sparkled. “She’s refusing even to read out the good bits.”

  “They’re not
those sorts of men!” Eustacia tutted. “Holmes has just received a note with a mysterious sequence of stick figures. It’s clearly a code of some sort. I suspect blackmail. It usually is.”

  “It doesn’t sound as exciting as his Colonel Gerard stories.” Blanche sipped wistfully at her tea. “I much prefer him to that stuffy Sherlock and imbecile Watson. I’ve long been partial to a man in uniform, of course, but Gerard is especially good; so very accomplished, and a gallant lover.”

  Cornelia couldn’t help but smile. She’d read some Colonel Gerard. The Frenchman was unspeakably vain, always thinking himself the greatest swordsman and bravest soldier. The satire was delicious.

  Eustacia held up her page, showing Cornelia one of the illustrations. “They look a bit like those Palekmul engravings that Mr. Burnell’s keen on working out, don’t you think, dear?”

  Cornelia frowned. The only time she’d heard him talk about the hieroglyphics was during their train journey, when both her aunts had appeared to be entirely asleep—but she knew better than to take anything at face value where those two were concerned.

  She claimed the other armchair. “I came in to mention that Mr. Burnell was spinning all sorts of nonsense on our journey down, about how he dislikes the idea of his sister’s matchmaking so badly he’s prepared to pretend an attachment to me to ward off the young ladies the duchess has invited.”

  “A tendre! How thrilling.” Blanche immediately swung her legs out of bed. “Once he’s playacting the role, he’s sure to fall desperately in love with you, Cornelia.”

  Eustacia put down her magazine. “We did hope, didn’t we Blanche. Mr. Burnell couldn’t keep his eyes off you on the train. It was très romantique.”

  “What are you wearing today, dear?” Blanche looked about for her slippers. “I know it’s rather chilly but something showing a little shoulder would be flattering—or some supplémentaire décolletée?”

  “Stop it, both of you! I won’t be walking around half naked, risking catching pneumonia, just to lure a man; and certainly not that man in particular. Moreover, there was nothing romantic about his proposal.”

  “Proposal?” Her aunts squeaked in unison.

  “Enough! If I’d realized I was going to be forced into such games I never would have agreed to come. As it is, I shall inform Mr. Burnell that the idea is preposterous, and I want no part in it.”

  Blanche looked crestfallen. “But, darling, it really is rather a good plan—especially the part about making other men sit up and take notice. They’re terribly competitive creatures; Mr. Burnell is right.”

  “Eavesdropping is beneath contempt!” Cornelia stood up, marching back towards the door.

  “But very useful, on occasion. We meant no harm.” Eustacia sniffed and buried her face back in The Strand.

  There was nothing for it but to depart, before Cornelia said something she would regret.

  The Abbey was a veritable labyrinth of passageways and staircases, the walls bare stone in places and oak-panelled in others, the level of the floor changing as one moved through the various wings. There were unexpected steps in the middle of corridors and dead ends containing only locked doors.

  In a house of such size, there might be fifty indoor servants, but they’d obviously been well trained, for none crossed Cornelia’s path.

  At last, she located the wide staircase they’d climbed the night before, the sweeping oak balustrade taking her downward in gentle spirals before opening to a suspended vestibule overlooking the entrance hallway. By evening light, she’d hardly taken in its expansive proportions, nor the richness of its furnishings.

  While red velvet draped at every window, the walls were tapestry covered, depicting the usual hunting ensembles and chivalrous gentlemen escorting maidens through pastoral scenes. Higher up, several fearsome stags looked down with bulging eyes, flanked by arrangements of vicious-bladed weaponry.

  Clearly, the interior had been updated since its days as a monastery, for there was nothing to denote austerity, and the double-headed axes mounted so prominently had surely not been used for devotional purposes.

  A chandelier of the old-fashioned sort hung by a long chain, while sconces of candles lined either side. It appeared electricity was yet to be installed at the Abbey, though Nancy had mentioned there being a proper bath adjacent to Cornelia’s room, with a modern boiler to provide the water—an amenity she intended to make full use of.

  Most breathtaking of all was the tree—a fir perhaps thirty feet in height—placed to the right of the main entranceway. Covered in every sort of bauble, from individual wrapped sweets and glass-blown balls to miniature toys and brightly-coloured ribbons, it was a feast for the eyes.

  How she’d avoided noticing it the night before, Cornelia had no idea! She must have been in a daze, consumed by her desire to escape Mr. Burnell’s dominating presence and to seek the comfort of a much-needed bed.

  Pausing at the foot of the staircase, she pondered where her hosts might be. Blanche and Eustacia would be at least another half hour in having their hair dressed, and she ought to introduce herself before wandering any further in the house.

  From somewhere beyond the nearest row of antlered heads, Cornelia caught the sound of children. It was doubtful their mama or papa would be with them at this hour but they’d have a governess surely, and she might direct Cornelia in where to go.

  Luckily, the door was ajar, enabling her to listen in before committing herself fully.

  “That’s it. The ribbon has to pull tight or it won’t hold the mistletoe fast. We want it to stay up until twelfth night, so you better tie the knots properly, Tom.”

  A rather cross voice responded. “I know how to tie a knot. You needn’t always be telling me what to do.”

  Leaning forward a little, Cornelia saw the room was wonderfully bright, receiving the full morning sun—an effect exacerbated by the walls being a pretty shade of pale yellow. The children, both very fair-haired, sat side by side on green sprigged sofa.

  “It’s only natural that I know more than you. When you’re nine, you’ll understand.” The sister’s voice was decidedly disdainful. “And you’re wrong about the song. On the tenth day, it isn’t drummers or pipers, it’s lords a’leaping.”

  “It’s a daft song anyway. What are they leaping over for a start? It’s all nonsense.”

  The girl gave a loud sigh. “It’s fertility rites, silly. Almost everything is. You have to imagine yourself at a medieval feast, with swordsmen jumping about, over a fire pit probably, showing the ladies how virile they are.”

  A feminine voice wafted from an unseen corner of the room. “Good Heavens, Melinda. Where do you hear such things?”

  “I read it,” came the peremptory reply. “It was in one of the books Uncle Ethan sent last Christmas from Hatchards; the other was about conquistadors. Papa said I could look at the pictures, but I was able to read most of it perfectly well.”

  “So I see…” The woman’s voice trailed off.

  “All this green stuff is pagan as well—just ask Reverend Nossle. The church adopted most of the old customs centuries ago, to keep congregations happy.”

  Smiling to herself, Cornelia gave a cough before stepping inside but, no sooner had she done so than a flurry of furry bodies leapt up from the rug before the hearth and bounded over. Tails wagging, they sniffed at her skirts and licked furiously at her hands. The smallest barked excitedly as one final canine—a sleepy-looking spaniel whose belly almost touched the floor—brought up the rear.

  “Lie down, naughty things! And stop that Hercules! No one wants to hear you making that horrible racket.” The voice was that of the woman whom, Cornelia now saw, was half way up a folding ladder, attempting to attach one end of a garland to a hook. With her back to Cornelia she called down, “Put the extra ribbon on the table please Betsy, and can you ask Carruthers to come and help after all. I’m just two inches short of reaching and I daren’t climb higher.”

  Turning, she blinked, peering do
wn at Cornelia. “Oh Goodness, you’re not Betsy!” Giving a wan smile, she stepped carefully from the ladder. “And you’re besieged by beasts; I’m so sorry.” At the click of her fingers, the dogs trotted back to where they’d been.

  Cornelia extended her hand. “I’m Cornelia Mortmain, and it’s I who should be apologizing, walking in without knocking. I was looking for our hostess.”

  “Then you’re in exactly the right place.” Despite her obvious weariness, the woman gave a smile which lit her face. “Delighted to meet you.”

  “Oh, your Grace.” Cornelia fell into a bobbing curtsy. “I didn’t think…and I wasn’t expecting.” She took in the gown of dark grey, made not of serviceable serge but of fine silk, and the bodice delicately embroidered in violets—a bodice which sat high above a prominent roundness.

  Pushing back a lock of hair the same blonde hue as the children’s, the duchess shook her head. “By the by, I must reassure you that I’m not usually to be found up a ladder. I know I shouldn’t really.” She patted the heaviness she was carrying before her. “There’s still three months to go, would you believe. I’m convinced it’s triplets; at the very least, robust twins. And, it’s absolutely the last time I allow Lord Studborne to go leaping over the gardener’s bonfire.”

  Her accent bore only the slightest trace of her American origins but, in that moment, as the woman’s eyes creased in laughter, Cornelia recognized her as the young lady who’d sat with her aunts on the beach a lifetime of summers ago.

  Across the room, the children giggled, then looked at Cornelia shyly.

  “Give your mama a kiss, then run upstairs for a while my twinkles.” The duchess eased herself into one of the fireside chairs, and indicated for Cornelia to do the same.

  She wrapped her arms around her son and daughter as they embraced her. “I’ll be up soon to play a hand of Snip-Snap.” Once the door had closed, she rolled her eyes. “Melinda is more precocious by the day, but I don’t like to squash her.” The duchess gave a rueful sigh. “She’s destined to blaze her own trail, and I fear it may not be an easy one.”