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

by Anna Campbell

  He’d gotten out of there just in time, or he wouldn’t have been able to hide what was going on under his towel.

  Without warning, desire welled up, hot and sweet and fiery. Damn it! He’d have to think of that tapioca pudding the English served that looked like phlegm—or flabby tripe, served cold and congealing.

  With a sigh, he tugged at the length of silk again. He needed to get a grip on himself—in every sense—and keep strictly to what she’d asked of him. Sweet as it would be to take a bite of that peach, he knew a single taste would never be enough.

  The beguiling Mrs. Mortmain wanted him to appear enamoured, so that’s what he’d do. He just needed to remember that the sooner he was out of here and back where he belonged, the better.

  Everything was mortifillicating—as Lady Pippsbury would say.

  Entering the drawing room with her aunts, Cornelia found herself searching for Burnell, and was both relieved and vexed to find him yet to arrive. Certainly, it was going to be awkward to look him in the eye. She didn’t think she’d be able to look at him again without picturing him as he’d been little more than an hour ago.

  She’d taken for granted that most people looked better clothed than otherwise, but he was most definitely an exception to the rule.

  Accepting a glass of sherry, Cornelia drifted in her aunts’ wake, feeling just as vulnerable as she ever had. There was no denying that having Burnell around made her feel more at ease. He, at least, didn’t pretend she was invisible. He teased her mercilessly at times, but without spite—and she doubted anyone would make a disparaging remark about her while he was in earshot.

  She glanced warily at Lady Pippsbury, but the marchioness was far too occupied to turn her attention to Cornelia. She’d cornered Lord Studborne and appeared to be doing a great deal of simpering. Tonight, she was sporting a surprising number of lace ruffles on her evening gown, in various shades of citrus, and had dressed her daughters in matching ensembles.

  Cornelia felt a pang of sympathy for the girls. It was no fun being hauled round like a prize sheep, hoping to catch a man’s eye.

  This time, Cornelia resolved, she’d be the one taking stock of the possibilities, such as they were. Eustacia had promised to have a quiet word with the duchess, to place Lord Fairlea at her side rather than the baron, and she did wonder how far Burnell might be right—regarding other men’s interest being heightened while he acted his part as a love-struck beau.

  Across the room, Colonel Faversham was in rather loud conversation with Reverend Nossle, reciting some tale of derring-do from his time among the Boers.

  He’d found something else to cover his pate, Cornelia noticed. It was only sensible to travel with a spare, although this model fitted less well, tufting strangely above his ears, and was a rather alarming shade of orange. The original was drying on the mantle in her room, well out of Minnie’s reach, and Nancy had promised to slip it into the colonel’s room at some point in the evening.

  He was looking rather put out, as well he might, but the alteration in his appearance seemed to have passed by her aunts.

  “Very good teeth.” Eustacia bent her head close to Blanche’s, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I am partial to a decent moustache.”

  “I wouldn’t say no,” Blanche whispered back. “And there’s something to be said for a man with only one eye.”

  Cornelia spluttered on her Amontillado.

  “Do try and conduct yourself with more decorum, Cornelia,” chided Aunt Eustacia. “Skewering oneself on a bayonet is no laughing matter, even when the weapon is your own.”

  “Very unfortunate.” Blanche nodded sadly. “Such are the perils of searching for the latrine on a moonless night—but don’t mention it, dear. Men can be very sensitive about these things.”

  Cornelia made a concerted effort not to look at the colonel. “I really hadn’t noticed anything was amiss.”

  “Finest Murano glass apparently, and made to order, but has a tendency to expel itself if he becomes overexcited. Rolled right across the table and onto the floor during our final hand of whist. The duchess’s dog might have swallowed it if she hadn’t been quick off the mark.”

  Cornelia was unsure quite what to say but, as if on cue, the colonel grinned in their general direction and beetled over.

  At the same moment, a drawling voice spoke to the right of Cornelia’s ear. “Why, Mrs. Mortmain, how ravishing you look.”

  “Now, now,” admonished Colonel Faversham, reaching them just as Burnell raised her gloved hand to his lips. “No ravishing until the connubial night, don’t you know!” He guffawed at his joke. “Although I do concur. Your gown is most becoming Mrs. Mortmain; red for passion and all that! You’re a lucky man, Burnell.”

  Cornelia took several deep breaths. Though she much preferred compliments on her intellectual or practical abilities, and the colonel’s comments were vastly inappropriate, she’d hardly put on the crimson gown without some hope of recognition. It had been part of her trousseau on marrying Oswald and even he had intimated, in a rather lurid way, that the dress was becoming.

  Blanche had insisted she wear her drop ruby earrings and had refused to produce the matching red velvet slippers unless Cornelia permitted her to dab a little scarlet on her lips. The neckline of the bodice revealed far more of her shoulders and décolleté than she was comfortable with but, in the soft candlelight, she couldn’t refute that the effect was pleasing.

  Burnell turned to the colonel with a slow smile. “I wouldn’t dream of jumping the gun with a lady of Mrs. Mortmain’s character. She deserves to be put on a pedestal by the man who claims her as his own, so it’s just as well she has a good head for heights.”

  “Heights, eh?” The colonel looked thoughtful. “Not so good with them myself. Studborne’s children were climbing a ladder to decorate the tree on the morning I arrived. Made me quite queasy, I must say—and one can’t be too careful as one’s years advance. Can’t afford to put out my hip—or not without company for the bed rest, at any rate.”

  Blanche and Eustacia tittered as he gave them a saucy wink.

  “Mrs. Mortmain has no anxiety on that score.” Burnell placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Wherever she stumbles, I’ll be here to catch her.”

  Cornelia felt herself go hot and cold. No one seemed to be taking anything amiss but Burnell’s mention of heights could only be a reference to her earlier escapade—and she’d practically fallen through the window, straight into his arms. She did hope he was going to behave himself. It would be just like him to tell them she was training as a trapeze artist for Barnum’s Circus.

  However, before any more could be said, Baron Billingsworth, a large glass of whisky in hand, sauntered over to join them. He launched directly into a eulogy on the merits of expanding the Empire.

  “Not to diminish your achievements, Burnell.” The baron gave him an imperious look. “But everyone knows that the greatest explorers are British. It is they who have charted the unmapped wildernesses—from the Arctic to the heart of the African continent—in their quest to turn the map pink.”

  “I can hardly argue against their sense of pre-eminence, nor their egotism.” Burnell shrugged. “But even the most intrepid didn’t venture forth on their lonesome—not if they wanted to return in one piece, that is.”

  “He does have a point, Billingsworth.” The colonel took a thoughtful sip of his own aperatif. “Local guides are invaluable in enemy terrain, interpreting in several languages and negotiating safe passage. Natives aren’t always friendly. Better to get them on one’s side.”

  “I’ll give you that Burnell, but I hope you won’t be giving us that poppycock about your precious Palekmul having been built by loin-clothed savages. They’re far too primitive, as any fool can see. I refuse to believe they could construct such elaborate cities.”

  Cornelia felt the man at her side stiffen. Was the baron baiting him on purpose? Anyone who knew about Burnell’s work was aware that he adv
ocated for indigenous tribes having been far more advanced than those living on the British Isles at the time, and that the current residents of the region were their true descendants.

  Several moments passed, the baron looking increasingly triumphant and, when Burnell spoke, she could tell he was fighting to contain his temper.

  “The generations succeeding those who built the great Mayan monuments—who mastered mathematics and language, astronomy and the visual arts, not to mention the perfection of the calendar—live on, farming the land and travelling the same rivers. To claim otherwise is not only inaccurate but insulting to the millions who uphold the traditions of their ancestors. Though the region was Christianized several hundred years ago, the old ways are revered in a hybrid between European Catholicism and Mayan mysticism. In many places, shrines to the Virgin Mary and the goddess Ixchel are interchangeable.”

  “Pah!” The baron’s lip curled in disdain. “That proves nothing. Great the original architects might once have been but whatever enabled those people to rise to supremacy, they’ve long since been brought low—through disease perhaps, or some other weakness of their blood. The peasants who remain are simpletons, and nothing you say will alter the fact.”

  Drawn by the baron’s raised voice, others in the room turned their way.

  Cornelia was aware of Ethan bunching his fist. Surely, he wouldn’t resort to settling a debate of this nature through physical means?

  “While we remain guests in this house, we’d better turn from this subject.” Burnell gave the baron a flinty stare. “I will merely point out that wearing animal cloth and farming the land does not make one a savage, nor a simpleton. I reserve such terms for those who refuse to look beyond their own bigotry.”

  “Why, you arrogant, jumped up mongrel, I’ll wipe that smug look—” Only the interception of the colonel and Lord Fairlea taking either arm prevented the Baron from throwing his punch. “Let me go, damn you!”

  “You’re a disgrace, Billingsworth.” Burnell turned his gaze towards the windows. “And you’re drunk. On that count, I suggest you remove yourself from this company and let the kitchen send a tray up to your room.”

  “Like hell I will!” The baron’s cheeks were turning purple.

  “He’s right, old chap. Don’t know what’s gotten into you, but let’s get you out of here. Very bad form to carry on like this.” Lord Fairlea took a firmer grip of the baron’s arm. “I can call the duke to help drag you upstairs but I’d imagine you’d rather I didn’t.”

  “Damn fools the lot of you.” The baron wrenched his arm away. “I’ll take myself off, but you haven’t heard the last of this Burnell.”

  “What excitement!” declared Blanche, as soon as the baron had departed. “Colonel, would you escort us to a seat, and another sherry would be most welcome—one’s nerves are a little heightened.” Not waiting to be asked, Eustacia took hold of Lord Fairlea and followed suit.

  “Goodness me!” Bustling over, Lady Pippsbury flashed Burnell her brightest smile. “How thrillingly masculine. One doesn’t approve, naturally, but there is something stirrifying, seeing two males batting horns. I’m delighted to see you’re the stronger-willed, Mr. Burnell. A woman choosing her mate takes note of such things, even when the brute force of two warring stags remains contained.”

  Cornelia fought the urge to roll her eyes. Meanwhile, it gave her some comfort to feel Burnell place his other hand atop hers—still tucked into his arm.

  “I don’t countenance violence.” Cornelia noticed that a tick was working in his jaw. “Too many men are free with their tempers, and their fists. It’s the cause of a great deal of unhappiness.”

  “A most creditable sentiment,” the marchioness beamed. “As a doting mama, I’d like to believe that any husband to my daughters would take care on both counts. A man’s honourables lie as much in self-control as in defence of those he holds dear.”

  Mrs. Bongorge appeared beside. “It is true; a woman likes to be assured of a man’s dominance.” She turned bedroom eyes upon Burnell. “But even pleasure must be taken in moderation.”

  Lady Pippsbury turned a condescending glare upon Mrs. Bongorge. “I fear we aren’t talking about quite the same thing. Modesty is the one thing we should never moderate—and vulgipperies are to be moderated at all times.”

  “Vulgipperies?” Mrs. Bongorge batted her lashes. “Whatever they are, they sound immense fun. Knowing so much about them, I do hope you’ll enlighten me.”

  The marchioness pursed her lips. “Fribbilous girl! Those without the gentilicules to know better cannot be taught.”

  Burnell gave Cornelia’s hand a squeeze, and she was obliged to smother her laughter within a fit of coughing.

  Lady Pippsbury’s eyes narrowed. Certainly, she had more to say on the subject but, to Cornelia’s relief, the dinner gong sounded.

  As before, Lady Pippsbury and Mrs. Bongorge fought for Burnell’s attention but he drew Cornelia in, asking her to share her thoughts on the Palekmul treasures. Besides her aunts, she was the only other to have seen them, so her opinions could hardly be disregarded, and Blanche and Eustacia vigorously agreed with whatever impression she put forward.

  Cornelia had no desire to monopolize the table, but the duke and duchess did nothing to intervene as Burnell prompted her repeatedly to speak.

  She was certain she saw Lady Pippsbury yawn, and Lord Fairlea appeared to enter a reverie at her side, focused entirely on the food before him.

  At last, Lady Studborne called the ladies to withdraw, leaving the men to enjoy their brandy.

  “Thank heavens.” Cornelia heard Portia whisper to Paulina as they filed out. “If I hear one more thing about blasted Palekmul I shall scream.”

  With the adjoining doors closed, the duchess invited her guests to coffee and ratafia, and took a seat by the hearth, giving the dogs a generous ear rub.

  “Let’s have something festive from each of us at the pianoforte.” Lady Studborne smiled benignly. “With any luck, the melodies will lull the little one to sleep and persuade him from kicking me for the next few hours.” She looked directly at Cornelia. “You’ll oblige me, Mrs. Mortmain?”

  Though rather out of practice, Cornelia managed a passable rendition of Good King Wenceslas. Mrs. Bongorge followed, playing a jaunty arrangement of Here We Come A-Wassailing and singing her accompaniment, then urged Esther to take her place.

  After that, Lady Pippsbury settled her daughters upon the stool, and Cornelia was in little doubt that they would play through until the gentlemen appeared, and beyond.

  Mrs. Bongorge and Esther excused themselves as Persephone began a halting rendition of ‘The First Noel’, in a key not altogether soothing.

  Her aunts, sitting with Mrs. Nossle, were dozing and Cornelia couldn’t help but notice that Lady Studborne had also taken the opportunity to rest her eyes.

  It had been a very long day and there was nothing Cornelia wanted more than to retire. Rising, she went to whisper in the duchess’s ear.

  “Very sensible.” Lady Studborne patted Cornelia’s hand. “Who knows how long the gentlemen will be, and we have something rather fun planned for the morning. Take your rest, my dear. I shan’t be long behind.”

  Cornelia’s room was located at one conclusion of the corridor, with her aunts next door. Lord Fairlea, the baron and Burnell were opposite and, where the passageway turned a corner, Mrs. Bongorge and her sister had chambers, as did the Pippsbury contingent.

  Voices drifted from the far end.

  “We ought to have stayed in London.” The young woman speaking sounded decidedly sulky. “Even if he doesn’t marry Mrs. Mortmain, I don’t see what good it will do me. I haven’t a clue what to say to him. I’d far rather marry someone like Lord Fairlea.”

  “A title isn’t everything.” The other voice was dismissive. “Half of those foppish aristocrats haven’t two pennies to rub together. One mightn’t know it to look at him, but Mr. Burnell is obscenely wealthy—thanks to all that oil.” />
  “I suppose that would be something.” The first seemed to consider. “But, truly Stella, I’m in no hurry to marry anyone at all. From the little you’ve told me, it sounds rather frightening—and Mr. Burnell is so…”

  The low laugh was most certainly that of Estela Bongorge. “Yes, he is… But, you needn’t concern yourself too much on that score. As his wife, you’d only be required to do occasional duty. A man like Burnell would find more suitable partners for his true needs.”

  The voices dropped, so that Cornelia was unable to discern more of their conversation. She considered a moment, then tiptoed further along. Mrs. Bongorge was known to be well-informed of Society gossip, and Cornelia couldn’t help wondering what she might be saying about Ethan.

  However, as the voices became audible again, she realised they were talking of someone else entirely.

  “Do you notice her face when he talks to me? I believe the expression is ‘like a cat’s bum’.” Mrs. Bongorge laughed wickedly. “Of course, I could have him any time I liked. I’d be interested to see how he rides in the saddle. Has he learnt any exotic lovemaking techniques on his travels, I wonder?”

  “Really, Estela! There’s no need to be coarse.”

  “Sweet Esther, I’ve long since given up acting the virgin. It was a tiresome role even when it was true. It may suit Mrs. Mortmain to present herself so but I doubt that approach will hold Burnell’s attention when there are other, more enticing delicacies within reach.” She laughed again, seductively. “With all that’s said of her mother, I’d expected more, but it seems she knows nothing of how to tempt or tease. She could have half the rakes of Mayfair lined up at her boudoir and not know what to do with them. No wonder Mortmain was sniffing about elsewhere on the night he died. As for Burnell, I can’t begin to understand what he sees in her.”

  Cornelia felt herself sway. Mrs. Bongorge’s words were no more hurtful than many she’d heard before, and yet her stomach knotted. It seemed she couldn’t win. Her reputation was linked irrevocably to her mother’s shocking behaviour, and to her failure as a wife to Mortmain.