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

by Anna Campbell

  “You were a worthy opponent, sir—and no need to reckon up. Add my winnings to your tip for the household staff when the time comes.” Ethan dipped his head to the colonel.

  “Generous of you, I do say.” The colonel extended his hand.

  “What about you, Billingsworth?” Lord Fairlea was already setting up the rack to position the balls anew. “Fancy your chances?”

  The baron stubbed out his cigar and took a new cue from the stand. “You’ll find I’m not so easy to beat, having both my oculars. Besides which, I need some respite from all that caterwauling of carols. Damn women love to sing, don’t they? Only thing interesting about it is seeing who opens their mouth widest.” Leaning over, he took the break shot, pocketing a red.

  Lord Fairlea raised an eyebrow. “Bit vulgar, old chap.”

  “Driven to it,” grumbled Billingsworth, pausing to refresh his glass with another inch of whisky. “I’ve had enough of making polite conversation with seasoned nags.”

  Colonel Faversham frowned. “I’ll ask you to keep that talk to yourself, Billingsworth. His Grace’s guests are all ladies, whether they bear a title or not, and they deserve to be spoken of with respect.”

  “Keep your wig on, Colonel.” Billingsworth grinned wickedly. He positioned his bridge and sent the yellow home with a gentle bank shot. “I’m not stepping on your toes. I don’t mind what shade of brown the fluff is, but I draw the line at grey.”

  “Damn cur! I won’t stand here and be insulted. “What say you, Burnell. Those are your fiancé’s aunts this toad is disparaging.”

  “If the shoe fits, I’ll wear it, but you don’t fool me, Colonel. You’d as readily grind that old harridan Pippsbury as that scrawny pair.” Billingsworth chalked his cue and gave a loud guffaw. “The old ones are more grateful, I’ll give you that.”

  “Steady there.” Ethan took hold of the colonel’s arm. “He’s not worth your time, Faversham. He’s goading you. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  The baron swirled the golden liquid around his glass and narrowed his eyes. “There is one filly I’d gladly take a run at. Two peaches ripe for squeezing and a hungry look about her. She’s bound to make good bedsport—but perhaps you know that already, Burnell.”

  Letting go of the colonel, Ethan took a step towards Billingsworth. “Apologize, or I’ll make you squirm on the ground like the worm you are.”

  “Only saying what everyone’s thinking. Tongues will wag, you know, and the woman is hardly a diamond of the first water. Not that it should bother you. Americans may have money but you’ve no blood to recommend you. Can’t afford to be too fussy.”

  Ethan clenched his fists. He’d aimed to take the high road but his mood was black and no one spoke like that without deserving a good pummelling. It was the least this vermin deserved. A shot between the eyes would be more like it, and handling a gun was one thing his father had taught him well.

  The baron moved around the table, putting some space between them but he was still leering. “Have a mind when you’re off gallivanting, Burnell. Perhaps I’ll pay a call on that lovely bride of yours while she’s languishing in Portman Square. Cheer her up a bit.”

  As Ethan lunged, the baron ducked left, surprisingly agile for one of his age, and gave Ethan a jab to the ribs. Dancing back and forth on his toes, he presented his fists. “Hit me if you can, Burnell, but I warn you, I’ve been an expert pugilist since my Oxford days.”

  “Is that right?” Ethan spat on his own fist and planted it full centre on Billingsworth’s smug face, sending the baron staggering back. His next punch landed on the side of his opponent’s head, dropping him to his knees. A final push to the chest with the sole of Ethan’s foot sent the baron sprawling onto his back, spluttering and gasping. It was all over within seconds.

  “Dear God!” Lord Fairlea leapt forward. The baron lay recumbent, clutching his nose and cursing, crimson oozing between his fingers.

  “He’s fine.” Colonel Faversham sent Ethan an approving nod. “Vile toad deserves that and more.”

  “Speak ill of Mrs. Mortmain or any other lady in this house and I’ll bloody more than your nose, Billingsworth.” Ethan looked at him with loathing. “I doubt Studborne will throw you out the door, but I damned well will.”

  The baron glowered back, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Ethan bowed to Fairlea and Faversham. “I’ve somewhere else to be.”

  Ethan was shaking as he took the stairs two by two.

  Was that the sort of man Cornelia had thought to marry—some arrogant bastard like Billingsford? Even that milksop Fairlea wasn’t much better. She deserved respect from someone who treated her like an equal—a marriage at least as harmonious as that his sister enjoyed with Studborne.

  She deserved a man who would fight for her.

  His anger bubbled hot inside—not just for how the baron had dared speak, but anger with himself.

  He’d buried so much bitterness and resentment over the years. Giving the baron what was coming to him had been satisfying but it achieved nothing.

  His father had been a selfish, vindictive, merciless asshole and now he was dead, along with the woman he’d turned into a cowering wreck.

  That man deserved none of Ethan’s energy, and no more thought than a burr under the saddle—plucked out and tossed away.

  Rosie had worked that one out. She’d managed to move on—creating a family, finding her place of peace.

  She was all he had now.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned instinctively towards Cornelia’s room.

  The urge to go to her was so strong he felt the breath knocked out of him, but she’d made it clear.

  What he was offering wasn’t enough.

  She wanted more.

  She wanted to be with him every step of the way, through all the craziness, and she probably wanted them to make babies on top of it all!

  The ache in his gut twisted.

  She was a whole heap of cuckoo.

  Unrealistically optimistic. Foolishly trusting.

  Prickly and passionate and impishly comical.

  His gut stabbed him again. She’d asked him to share her life, for them to protect and care for one another. She’d asked him to love her.

  Goddamn it!

  Running down the passageway, he flung open her door.

  Meanwhile…

  The sun’s warmth was certainly making the snow recede. Only twice had the coachman needed to step down to shovel away a particularly stubborn patch from the road.

  “I must say, ma’am, our leaving is unexpected.” Nancy pursed her lips, but kept her gaze firmly out of the window of the Studborne carriage. “I just hope the lanes are clear enough and we don’t get stuck somewhere. I can’t say as it’s how I’d be hoping to spend Christmas Eve.”

  Cornelia knew she ought to admonish Nancy for grumbling but she understood her dismay. Though everyone below stairs at the Abbey must be run off their feet, there had been an undeniably festive atmosphere. Cornelia knew Nancy had been excited to join the Studborne staff in their celebrations.

  However, within the hour, they’d reach the cottage at Osmington, where her aunts’ housekeeper and gardener—the Applebys—were in permanent residence and, with Nancy’s help, Cornelia hoped they’d soon have the place looking cozy.

  Above all, she’d be away from the Abbey and away from Burnell.

  Lady Studborne had been extremely kind. Though she’d pressed Cornelia to stay, she’d accepted her decision without explanation. Moreover, she’d insisted not only that Cornelia make use of the carriage but accept a hamper of victuals to tide her over until a delivery could be arranged.

  She’d even promised her own lady’s maid to look after Cornelia’s aunts until they were well enough to join her.

  Though Blanche and Eustacia were both in good spirits, they’d come down with a cold and were now tucked beneath a multitude of blankets, surrounded by magazines and novels from the d
uchess’s own shelves. Fuelled by tea and hot toddies and plates of buttered toast, they seemed perfectly comfortable. Though their disappointment had been evident, they’d urged Cornelia to act as she thought best.

  Being anxious to leave as soon as possible, Cornelia had packed only the smallest of her trunks. The rest of her belongings could follow on later.

  Tugging at Minnie’s ear, she thought again of Lady Studborne and the budding friendship between them. The duchess had such a lively spirit. Cornelia sensed she’d experienced heartache but it was surely that which gave her the empathy Cornelia so admired.

  Only by enduring unhappiness could a person understand how it changed someone deep inside. Only then, perhaps, could they offer others true compassion. Cornelia had read something similar in Rosamund’s Lady’s Guide. She ought to find herself a copy when she returned to London. Hatchards would be bound to track down a volume. If nothing else, browsing its pages would remind her of the duchess and the short, wonderful time she’d spent in Ethan’s arms.

  She gave a small sigh, knowing she must be sensible. She and Ethan were not destined to be, and there were so many things in life that brought her joy. She would concentrate on those rather than pinning outrageous hopes on romantic love. That way lay only madness.

  And yet, her heart pained her.

  Can I return to that old life?

  Can I make myself forget him?

  Chapter 20

  With the fire blazing and a side of ham baking in the stove, Nancy had perked up considerably. The presence of the Appleby’s rather handsome nephew, who had leave for a few days from his regiment, hadn’t hurt either.

  Under Nancy’s direction, he’d been sent to cut greenery from a nearby copse. Cornelia had left them securing garlands over the hearth mantel and each doorway, with Nancy paying particular attention to the positioning of the mistletoe.

  “I shan’t be long.” Wrapping up, Cornelia ventured into the garden. The Applebys had flown into a whirl of activity, preparing everything necessary, and Cornelia knew they’d appreciate having her out of the way for an hour.

  Besides which, she was rather longing for some tranquility, and the best place for that was the beach. This late in the afternoon, she and Minnie would surely have it to themselves.

  Taking the coastal path that ran from the rear of the cottage, downward, Cornelia let the sea breeze carry away her heavy heart. For now, she would forget what might have been and appreciate where she was—surrounded by shingle and sand, and the sea sparkling and the golden hues of the great Osmington cliffs.

  Why had it been so long since she’d come here?

  She’d a mind to write to Mr. Pettigrew, letting him know she’d be taking an extended sojourn from her work at the museum. Forget London, and Society, and the hurtful gossip. Here, she’d have the space to recover her equilibrium—and there were all sorts of things she might do that didn’t involve poring over crumbling fragments of pots.

  Kneeling, she took off her gloves. Taking handfuls of sand, she banked them into a pyramid, building it higher, shaping the graduated steps.

  This was how they’d played together, all those years ago, she and Ethan. She had a memory of her aunts sitting beneath the cliffs, a picnic blanket spread around them. She was proud of her multi-turreted creation, with its moat and channel running towards the sea. Her mother and father weren’t there to see it, but her aunts were clapping their hands, calling brava, and then the boy appeared. The sun was in her eyes, but she could see he was very tall, and his hair curly. Reaching over her shoulder, he placed a large shell on the uppermost tower.

  Ethan.

  Encouraging her to get her skirts wet and her knees dirty. Cheeky and daring and with an answer for everything.

  He was infuriating at times, but he wasn’t responsible for the fears she’d been carrying around all these years. If anything, he’d forced her to face them. She still had no desire to mix with people who spoke ill of her, but she no longer felt cowed. He’d shown her that she was strong enough to speak up for what she wanted, that she was worthy of love and passion and the joy of spending her life with someone who valued her.

  It just wouldn’t be with him.

  Believing that it might be otherwise had been foolish. They hardly knew one another, truly, and he’d made it plain from the start that the last thing he wanted was to be tied down. His life was elsewhere, and she could never be a part of that.

  She knew all this to be true, yet acknowledging it sent a pang through her heart. Her feelings were real, even if his weren’t.

  And then a shadow fell across the sand. When Cornelia looked up, the man who stood above her was tall, and his hair was curly. Reaching over her shoulder, he placed a cockleshell on the mound.

  Her chest leapt and her stomach tumbled, and her breath stuck somewhere in between, but she held out her hand and let him pull her to her feet.

  Paddling where the waves met the sand, Minnie began to bark and wag her tail furiously.

  “Still disturbing the peace with that menace dog of yours, Mrs. Mortmain.” Ethan’s arms came about her and his brow rested against hers.

  When she tipped back her head, he grazed his stubbled chin playfully against the end of her nose and pulled her tighter. “Disturbing my peace, anyways. It doesn’t matter what I do; I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Ethan…” She sighed his name rather than spoke it.

  “I’ve been a damned fool, but I’m wise enough to know when I’m wrong. I kept telling myself I was fine on my own, that I didn’t need anyone, but being with you is so much better, and I don’t want to hide anymore.”

  Cornelia couldn’t hear the sea anymore—only Ethan’s voice; and there was no chill breeze—only his breath, warm on her cheek.

  “I could return to where I was before. Carry on as before. We both could.” His voice hitched. “But I don’t want to. Whatever this is, I don’t want it to end. I want to share the adventure with you, Nellie, and no matter what happens, I want you right next to me.” His eyelashes brushed hers. “Dammit, Nellie, tell me I’m not on a limb here. You feel it too, don’t you? You don’t really want to run away?”

  “No matter what, we’re in this together?” Her heart was hammering now.

  "No matter what—as long as you’re sure.”

  “Does a coyote howl at the moon?” Choking laughter bubbled up from nowhere. She gulped back some silly tears that wanted to come. Laughter was better.

  He caught her face in his hands and answered with lips whose sweetness made her ache.

  The seagulls spun above them, and the waves sucked at the pebbles and threw them back upon the beach, and the tide was almost touching their feet before they broke the kiss to look at one another again.

  They didn’t need carols or a tree, or mulled wine, or fig pudding to feel the true spirit of Christmas. All they needed was the transforming power of love and the desire to embrace a shared happiness.

  “Do you like hot chocolate?” Cornelia asked. "I’m sure we have some in the cupboard.”

  “You’re offering me cocoa?” Burnell’s mouth quirked in the smile she knew so well.

  Cornelia clasped his hands, lacing her fingers between his. “Call it part of my bridal dowry.”

  Epilogue

  Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico

  September, 1904

  Cornelia placed her palm to the stone. Within the portal of the temple, all was still, though the rain fell heavily outside.

  Other feet had stood here, long-ago; now, hers. On the wall, she recognized the carving of the great Tree of Life, towering to reach the mountain paradise of Tamoanchan. Nothing died; there was only the cycle of life.

  Standing behind, Ethan wrapped his hands around her middle, resting them lightly on her swollen belly.

  “You see each of these has a slight variation, building on the last.” She indicated the series of symbols engraved deep in the stone. “And these two are composites.”

  She unfolde
d the piece of paper, cut from the edition of The Strand: a row of dancing men rendered in ink—a secret code unravelled by Sherlock Holmes.

  “What if this block represented the tree, and this other the notion of life?”

  “You may have something, Nellie.” He brought the fingers of her right hand to trace the marks in the limestone, his own above.

  “Is it enough, do you think? To start deciphering the rest of the hieroglyphics?”

  “We’ll ask Francisco and José Luis. They’ve been working on the vocabulary far longer. They’ll likely see more connections than us.” He pressed his cheek to Cornelia’s. “As soon as this deluge stops I’ll fetch them in.”

  She peered out at the sheeting rain. These jungle showers didn’t tend to last more than an hour but one had to be patient. You couldn’t venture out without becoming soaked.

  “Until then, what shall we do, Mrs. Burnell?” Ethan brushed her neck with his lips, kissing downwards, grazing his teeth where she was most sensitive and teasing with the tip of his tongue.

  Cornelia dropped her head back upon his chest and closed her eyes.

  She was dappled with the pattern of hidden mysteries and memories of things she’d never seen.

  Amidst that half-light, she was learning the meaning of what mattered. The jungle lay lovely on her skin, and the rain washed clean old wounds, and love nestled inside her with a pulse ever stronger.

  The promise of all that was to come bloomed softly over her heart.

  I hope very much that you enjoyed Ethan and Cornelia’s story.

  Want to find out more about the secret of the crypt at Studborne Abbey?

  ‘The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire’ (Rosamund’s story) will be releasing in early 2021.

  About Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Emmanuelle lives with her husband (maker of tea and fruit cake) and her snuffle snoof, Archie, her favourite hairy pudding connoisseur of squeaky toys and bacon treats.