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

by Anna Campbell

  Cornelia nodded. She knew only too well what it meant to diverge from the expected path.

  “Would you mind pulling the bell?” Lady Studborne indicated the rope hanging to one side of the mantel. “We’ll have some tea brought in, and some drop scones I think. It’s one English custom I’ve had no trouble embracing—the endless drinking of tea—although I’m on the fence about a few other habits; the eating of black pudding for one.”

  The duchess pulled a face. “As well as all these seasons for gunning things down. Fortunately, Benedict’s eyesight makes him a terrible shot. He prefers to fish on the lake, which seems a slightly more humane way of catching supper.”

  Cornelia couldn’t help but notice how the dogs, of which there were five in all, had shifted a little closer to the duchess since she’d seated herself. The smallest of the pack, a wiry border terrier with a mischievous glint in its eye, had laid claim to her left foot while the overweight spaniel had its head on the other. The remaining three—all Labradors—looked on with obvious jealousy.

  The door opened a moment later, the elusive Betsy appearing—and swiftly given a list of cakes and fancies to seek out for her ladyship.

  “It’s such a pleasure to meet again after all these years. As soon as your aunts are up and about, I intend to monopolize them. They were marvellous company for myself and my mother that summer.” The duchess’s gaze drifted to the window, through which the snow could still be seen falling. “Such an age, yet it seems almost like yesterday. Everything was so different then, of course, but I think of those times fondly.” Absentmindedly, the duchess picked up a few sprigs of holly laying on the side table and began tying them with ribbon.

  “You won’t be disappointed. My aunts are just as eccentric as they ever were—except they apologize far less these days.”

  “The very thing we should all aspire to.” The duchess gave a warm smile which made her look much younger, so that Cornelia was reminded of that long-ago time again. She hadn’t paid much attention to Ethan’s sister, since she’d always sat decorously with the adults, but her brother’s mouth pulled in the same shape when he was amused.

  “I don’t remember much, I’m afraid. Except Ethan playing with me, and then he wasn’t there, and my aunts soon after returned me to London, where there was a governess newly installed.” Cornelia hesitated, biting her lip. “We didn’t get on awfully well. For ages, I asked my mother to put me on the train to Dorset again. It had turned autumnal but I was convinced that if I returned to the beach, it would still be sunny there.”

  Cornelia wasn’t accustomed to sharing personal details with strangers, but the duchess was so warm and open, like an old friend she hadn’t known was waiting for her. Something about her manner invited confidences. Nevertheless, the outpouring left Cornelia feeling self-conscious. “Sorry. Rambling on! Funny what stays with us, isn’t it?”

  Lady Studborne looked up from the holly in her lap. “I know just what you mean. It was rather an usual summer for me, too—or the beginning of something unusual, I ought to say.” She gave a sudden, stifled cry, uttered a rather unladylike curse, and popped her finger into her mouth. Drawing it out, she grimaced. “So pretty, but I always forget the thorns.”

  Seeing the blood beading red, Cornelia offered the small linen handkerchief from her pocket and, at the duchess’s nod, folded it neatly, tying the ends tight.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mortmain.”

  “Please do call me Cornelia, your Grace.”

  “But, of course.” She smiled again. “And, when we’re alone, I’d welcome your calling me Rosamund, especially as I hope we shall soon be more intimately connected. I must say, I’d no idea you’d kept in touch with my brother all these years, or that an attachment had formed between you. It was a great surprise to receive Ethan’s telegram, explaining his intention of bringing you as his guest, but a wonderful surprise, naturally. I’m immensely pleased you’re here.”

  Cornelia’s chest constricted. What exactly had he been telling his sister? They hadn’t even discussed his plan until the day before—and she now had every intention of breaking it. She felt herself blushing. “Really, your Grace—I mean Rosamund. I must tell you that there’s no formal arrangement between your brother and I. In truth, we’re only very recently reacquainted.”

  “Your unassuming manner does you credit, Cornelia, but there’s no need to be shy. Truly, we couldn’t be happier. I’ve been telling my brother to settle down for years. To see him finally thinking of doing so is such a relief.” She held up her finger as Cornelia made to protest. “Even to have him considering the matrimonial state is an achievement, so I congratulate you.”

  Cornelia found she didn’t know what to say. Rosamund would surely have heard what everyone else knew about her mother, and the embarrassing circumstances of Oswald’s death, yet she spoke so sincerely, and so very kindly.

  A knock on the door announced Betsy’s return and the next few minutes were taken with the ritual of tea pouring and the duchess recommending one sort of pastry over another, while taking one of everything for her own plate.

  “I’m not usually such a fiend for sweet things but, lately, I can’t help myself.” She licked some iced-sugar from her fingers. “Binky understands me, don’t you?” She reached down to scratch the ears of the spaniel. “She’s due to deliver any time now and has been ravenous for weeks. We’re expecting a bumper litter, which is just as well, as Benedict has promised a puppy to almost everyone we know—though I do rather fear how they may turn out. Benedict arranged for his cousin’s pedigree champion to do the deed, with the promise that Lord Fairlea could have first choice, but naughty Hercules got to her first.”

  On cue, the border terrier looked up, pressing his head to the duchess’s skirts. “He really is a terror. Being too short-legged to mount her, he climbed onto my embroidery box to have his way.” Her eyes flashed with wicked humour. “Mind you, Binky was hardly putting up a struggle, so they’re equally culpable. I’m hoping the pups will be such a muddle of the two breeds that we’ll be obliged to keep them all.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be adorable.” Cornelia laughed. “My own little Minnie is mostly Jack Russell but she has a secret ingredient no-one is quite sure of—Lhasa Apso perhaps, or a dash of Shih Tzu. Her tail has the most wonderful curl.”

  “Oh yes, you brought your dog.” Lady Studborne clapped her hands. “You must bring her down to meet everyone. Hercules will flirt dreadfully, of course, and make Binky jealous, but I’m sure they’ll work it out.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the crackle of the fire, the soft breathing of the dogs and the occasional thump of tail.

  At last, Lady Studborne spoke again. “I’ve been wanting to say, my brother had a difficult time growing up, returning to Texas without my mother and I. As to what passed between him and my father, I can only guess.”

  “Families can be difficult.” Cornelia frowned. “That is to say, having no choice, we’re obliged to make the best of things. Even where we’re better off without someone, we don’t stop loving them, or missing them when they’re gone.”

  “Very true.” Lady Studborne darted another smile Cornelia’s way, then looked down, chasing some crumbs around her plate.

  “I hope you won’t think me interfering.” The duchess cleared her throat. “Whatever is between you and my brother, I’m sure it will unfold just as it should, but I’ll be wishing most ardently for you to find true happiness together. It’s frightening, I know, to say how we feel, to open ourselves to the possibility of caring for another person so deeply, of needing them—but l’ve learned that love is worth the risk. I almost lost my chance, years ago. If I hadn’t told Benedict how much I loved him, I’d have regretted it forever.”

  Cornelia found her eyes were pricking.

  True love?

  Of course, in her secret heart she yearned for someone who would love her so ardently that nothing else would matter; for someone she could
admire, respect and love in return. But, to wish for such things was inviting disappointment. She’d yet to meet a man capable of giving himself to her in that way. Oswald hadn’t even tried.

  There was no doubt in her mind. She’d rather be alone than tied to someone who cared nothing for her feelings.

  Ethan wasn’t the worst sort, she sensed, but he’d made himself plain. He cared more for spiting his father than for anything else. There would never be a ‘happy ever after’ for him, however hard his sister wished it.

  The thought made Cornelia terribly sad. Her own circumstances were beyond her control but Ethan had chosen his, and she doubted any woman would change how he viewed the world.

  If she played the role he’d invented for her, pretending to care for him, pretending a future he had no intention of ever making real, she’d be deceiving Rosamund.

  And deceiving yourself, whispered a small voice.

  She ought to come clean.

  But, the duchess was smiling again, telling her about the gifts she’d purchased for her staff, asking if Cornelia would help in wrapping them, and looking so very pleased that she was there.

  She couldn’t spoil this. She didn’t want to.

  Mr. Ethan Burnell was never going to be hers; was never going to be any woman’s. But, perhaps, Rosamund might become Cornelia’s friend.

  And then the dogs were tail-wagging, barking and bounding across the room again, because Aunt Blanche and Aunt Eustacia had made it down at last—and all other thoughts were put aside during the happy reunion.

  Chapter 7

  A few hours later…

  Everyone was gathered in the drawing room prior to luncheon, to partake of an apéritif.

  Blanche and Eustacia, having shared an enjoyable catch-up with Lady Studborne, were in high spirits (helped along by having ogled young Carruthers as he secured the duchess’ festive festoons).

  Cornelia, meanwhile, was feeling overwhelmed. Her hair was refusing to remain neatly pinned, Minnie’s claw had snagged a thread near the hem of her gown, and she feared a spot was attempting to erupt just above her left ear.

  Lord and Lady Studborne were exceedingly welcoming but Cornelia felt the penetrating, and highly curious, scrutiny of her fellow guests who were, no doubt, speculating on why she and her aunts had been invited.

  So far, Burnell was noticeably absent though, Cornelia supposed, he would surely make the effort to join them, if for no other purpose than the alleviation of hunger.

  “Oh look!” Blanche nudged Eustacia. “I’d recognize that nose anywhere. It’s Myrtle Mivvetsump, as married the Marquess of Pippsbury the same year we made our curtsey to the Queen.”

  Eustacia drew out her spectacles. “So it is! She always was fond of peach taffeta, and those must be her daughters; one doesn’t see eyebrows like those in the general way of things. Everyone said Pippsbury only married her for the sake of her father’s sardine empire, but twelve children are rarely begotten through duty alone. Although, with the first eleven being girls, I suppose they had to keep going until an heir made an appearance.”

  “I hear she went into five years of full mourning after his passing. Rather hard on her youngest girls. What with one thing and another, they’re getting a bit long in the tooth for husband-hunting.”

  Cornelia fought to arrange her face in an attitude of composure. “Be quiet, both of you! Someone will hear.”

  Blanche merely helped herself to a glass of madeira from a passing salver, and passed another to Eustacia. “Nonsense, darling. They’re far too engrossed in saying similar things about us—if not far worse.”

  Cornelia could hardly argue; it was what she found most discomforting—the knowledge of being whispered about, of being pitied and, inevitably, judged. For this reason, she’d spent years avoiding the theatre, the opera and all such public entertainments. She hadn’t attended a house party since…well, since Oswald’s death—and she recalled nothing about that occasion with fondness.

  “Myrtle used to be a good sort but Pippsbury’s title made her far too hoity-toity,” Eustacia sipped at her drink. “If she’s here to bag our American friend for one of her offspring then the rumours of the marquess gambling away most of their fortune must be true. Of course, young Ethan has other things to recommend him besides money. As sister-in-law to the duke, his wife will be assured connection to the most illustrious circles.”

  “Which would certainly help those other poor Pippsbury girls.” Blanche drained her glass and looked wistfully into its bottom.

  Lady Pippsbury chose that moment to cast her eyes their way. With the bearing of a steamship launching majestic upon the seas, she glided towards them.

  “My dear Miss Everlys, what a surprise.” The marchioness’s eyes flicked briefly to Cornelia. ”And your niece.” She smiled with mock sweetness. ”Looking fetching in brown.”

  She drew her daughters forward. “May I introduce, Penelope, Portia, Persephone and Paulina—just returned from Paris.” Lady Pippsbury fluttered her fingers airily. “We always order our spring wardrobe from Atelier Pointilleux; nothing in London can compare.”

  The young women, dressed in various shades of a rather dazzling green, dipped respectful curtsies to the elderly Miss Everlys.

  “I must say I admire your fortillitude, Mrs. Mortmain.” Lady Pippsbury turned to Cornelia again. “To have endured so much. The passing of time cannot ameliorate such mortifillication, cannot wash clean the putridifying stain of scandal. The only blessing is that your mother and husband died before enroasting themselves in further degradation. We must be thankful for small mercies.”

  Cornelia stood quite frozen, her stomach clenching. Though her father had found Mortmain quickly enough to save her from the worst sort of cutting behaviour, she’d endured enough such condescension to last a lifetime.

  “Now, now, Myrtle. Children cannot be blamed for the misdeeds of their parents. Nor can we berate our sex for the ignominies visited on us by wayward husbands.” Eustacia spoke in her usual jaunty manner but Cornelia could see her eyes flashing with barely concealed ire.

  Lady Pippsbury sighed. “To err is human, to forgive divine, as they say. For myself, I would never dream of blaming your niece for her mother’s wicked ways, nor for her husband’s lack of decorum, but her story provides a valuable lesson to all young women of virtue.”

  She linked her arm through Penelope’s. “A woman must exert her magnetissimo not just to entice a man but to keep him by her side, while remaining steadfast in her wifely loyalty.”

  Penelope made a study of her slipper.

  “Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Bongorge’s advice in the matter, since her charms have won not one but four husbands—of conveniently elderly age and financial surety.” Blanche inclined her head towards the door.

  “Estela Bongorge?” The marchioness’s head swivelled.

  The woman entering the room was indisputably elegant and fashionably attired. Her expanse of creamy bosom, encased precariously in black guipure lace, would have stopped a regiment in its tracks.

  Cornelia had known her by quite another name the year of her first season. At the time, the beguiling Estela had been newly married to her third husband, a soap-millionaire. Nevertheless, her wedded state had done nothing to dampen her popularity among the bachelors.

  “That hussy can sniff out an eligiboble man from the next county.” Lady Pippsbury’s grip tightened on poor Penelope’s arm, causing her to squeak.

  “Probably true,” mused Eustacia. “But one can hardly fault her ‘magnetissimo’ as you put it Myrtle, dear.”

  “Sex appeal,” mouthed Blanche.

  “And isn’t that little Esther behind her?” Eustacia squinted.

  Lady Pippsbury’s lips pressed in disapproval. “The vixen must be touting her about, though the girl is barely of age.”

  “Now, Myrtle, such vulgarisms are beneath you,” chided Eustacia. “If Mrs. Bongorge has bothered to travel this far, it’s more likely she’s looking for herself. Alth
ough her husband isn’t quite ready to drop off the perch, I hear it won’t be long.”

  Cornelia’s stomach lurched again. The whole business was distasteful, and she’d no desire to hear more. Clearly, the various young ladies gathered were there for Mr. Burnell’s benefit, just as he’d foreseen.

  She was about to make some excuse and drift away when the gong sounded and Lady Studborne invited everyone to walk through.

  “Jolly good.” Eustacia guided Cornelia to fall in line. “I hear the Duchess’s cook is exceptional, particularly when it comes to pastry. Her game pie is praised far and wide.”

  Cornelia smiled weakly. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat anything at all, and there was still no sign of Mr. Burnell.

  “Blanche and I are seated on either side of Colonel Faversham.”

  Cornelia believed he was the one wearing the rather awful toupée.

  “You’re placed between the vicar’s wife and Baron Billingsworth,” her aunt went on. “He looks pretty harmless, but watch out for his hands. I know his sort. No female posterior is safe.”

  “He’s a reasonable catch.” Blanche added. “Though a dreadful one for the drink, so he’ll probably die soon. At least you wouldn’t have to put up with him too long if things didn’t work out. Still capable of fathering children, though rather quick to the finish line, I’ve heard.”

  Eustacia elbowed Blanche in the ribs. “Ignore her, Cornelia. He’s far too long in the tooth. You can do markedly better.”

  As in the drawing room, the walls were papered in pink silk, the rose hue echoed in velvet curtains swagged at windows sufficiently tall to balance the height of the ceiling. Quite in contrast to the darkly ornate decoration of the entrance hall, the connecting rooms had a lightness which spoke of a feminine hand.