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

by Anna Campbell

  She made it into the passageway with less grace than she might have managed had her eyes not been blurry with tears. In fact, she all but stumbled into the small withdrawing room some way down an adjoining passageway before she realized her mistake and had to hold her breath and pray she’d arrived unnoticed.

  Fortunately, Lady Quamby and the gentleman…good lord, was that really Signor Boticelli the dancing tutor with the fall front of his pantaloons unbuttoned, and her hostess with her breasts exposed?

  Venetia had to blink rapidly, first to clear the tears, and then to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

  Of course, she should have been alerted by the moans and squeaking of the settee upon which they now lay, and, if she had, she’d have got no further than the screen which partly exposed them. The room was one she’d never been in, and no fire had been lit in the grate, so it was unlikely they’d be disturbed, Venetia supposed. But…

  She was deeply shocked. Fortunately, the couple was so involved in their lover’s tryst that they were insensible to the soft tread of her dancing slippers as she made the most judicious retreat she could.

  With heart thundering, she hurried back toward the saloon, stepping into the library on the way to catch her breath.

  A small fire was dancing in the grate, lending it a cheerful air, and, to her relief, the room was unoccupied. The strains of the orchestra sounded through the walls, and she closed her eyes, imagining what she was missing.

  Sebastian’s arms about her as he twirled her around the room in a waltz?

  She sighed. That would have been perfect.

  If only...

  The clock above the mantelpiece chimed the hour, causing Venetia to leap out of her reverie. Warming her hands by the fire in a deserted library was not how she’d intended to spend her unusual reprieve from her role as Lady Indigo’s handmaiden so, reluctantly, she straightened and headed back into the passage.

  Confronted by the long length of the dim, carpeted space, she felt suddenly nervous when she saw the young man who’d earlier pursued her to dance, coming toward her.

  She shouldn’t be alone in this rabbit warren of corridors. Sebastian claimed he’d been tricked by circumstance and Venetia knew that, for a young woman to be alone—anywhere—courted danger.

  Avoiding him by turning back into the corridor from which she’d originally come, she squinted at the sound of a gasp at the far end.

  It was difficult to see properly due to the fact that only a few candle sconces lit up this part of the house, but she could just make out the form of a young woman in the process of exiting from one of the withdrawing rooms.

  In fact, the very withdrawing room where Venetia had come upon Lady Quamby and Signor Botticelli.

  Miss Reeves?

  The girl was hurrying very fast, and as she neared, Venetia could see the shock on her face. In fact, she was sobbing, as if she’d been personally affronted by the activities of her hostess and the dancing master.

  Venetia pressed herself against the wall. She had no wish to speak to Miss Reeves.

  Yes, no doubt she was upset at coming upon such a disturbing sight. But it was not as if Miss Reeves were an innocent virgin who had no idea that such activities didn’t have consequences.

  And when Venetia glimpsed Sebastian, heading toward her from the saloon, she walked past him with her head held high.

  “Venetia, I’ve been looking for you!” he said, taking her hand, but she shook it off.

  “I can’t talk to you alone here, Sebastian.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I think your duty is to comfort the very distressed Miss Reeves, who,” she added pointedly, “might not be in such a disturbed state if you had behaved as you ought.”

  More than a little puzzled, Sebastian watched Venetia disappear down the passage and into the saloon.

  What had Sebastian’s behavior got to do with Miss Reeves?

  He was about to go after her when he heard his name and, turning back, saw Miss Reeves leaning back against the wall of one of the antechambers a little farther up the passage.

  “Mr Wells! Oh Mr Wells!” she cried, coming toward him.

  He was shocked by her haggard, tearstained face. There was no vestige of the doll-like prettiness that was part of her appeal. She would not age with grace, like Venetia.

  “You haven’t spoken to my father yet?” She sounded breathless.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Reeves; I really don’t think—”

  “Good!” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “Oh Mr Wells, I’ve just witnessed something horrible. Yes, horrible! Please take me away from here. I want to die!”

  This was dramatic enough from anyone, but the fact that it was accompanied by gulping sobs and genuine tears, was sufficiently compelling for Sebastian to accede to at least her initial onslaught of grief as he offered his arm and began to lead her toward the saloon.

  “What’s horrible?” he asked. “Why do you want to die?”

  “Roberto…” She stabbed her finger in the direction of the room she’d just exited. “Roberto is…” She shook her head as if she could not articulate what she’d just seen, but Sebastian had an inkling.

  She must have come upon her true love behaving in a most untrue fashion.

  “Who was he with?” Sebastian saw the merit in making her accept the truth rather than trying to smooth over her disappointment.

  “He was with...with… Oh, I can’t say!” she wailed.

  “You can tell me,” Sebastian prompted. “Better that you say it than pretend it never happened. Who was Signor Boticelli with?”

  “He was with Lady Quamby!” Miss Reeves wailed as Sebastian paused before the double doors of the saloon.

  “Lady Quamby?” Sebastian was shocked. But only for a moment. And, he supposed, he wasn’t surprised.

  “Yes, Lady Quamby! I hate her!”

  Sebastian patted her hand soothingly. “I think the time will come when you will be very grateful to Lady Quamby. Now, allow me to remove this last angry tear from your cheek, take a deep breath, and I shall deliver you to someone who I believe will want to comfort you after such a disappointment.” He cleared his throat. “Though perhaps it would be wisest not to mention the exact cause of your disappointment.”

  “Who are you taking me to? Not Lord Yarrowby.”

  Sebastian nodded.

  “But…he’ll just cluck and sympathize like a mother hen and...and tell me that everything will be all right when I know it won’t be.” Arabella sniffed. “Just like he’s done his whole life.”

  Sebastian dropped her hand to put away his handkerchief. “And would that be such a bad thing?” he asked with a quizzical look.

  Miss Reeves blinked rapidly, frowning as if she hadn’t properly considered the answer to such a question. Her mouth dropped open, and she frowned even more. Then she straightened suddenly, and as the double doors opened before them, she turned to Sebastian and said, quite decisively, “No...no it wouldn’t!”

  Chapter 15

  Back in the ballroom, Venetia had never felt more miserable in her life. She ought to go to bed and put an end to what was only going to bring more pain.

  She certainly ought not to be listening in on other people’s conversations but when she heard Lady Fenton refer to Sebastian as she spoke to her husband, she could not drag herself away.

  “So, Fanny, what are you telling me?” Lord Fenton was asking her. “That there will be no announcement regarding Sebastian and Arabella? Or that there might be? Or that there will? Really, you’ve suggested all three possibilities in the one sentence.”

  “May I have the pleasure?”

  With a start, Venetia found herself looking up into Sebastian’s kind, beautiful eyes. She could not refuse. She did not want to refuse.

  Especially when this was the last time she’d be so close to him in a respectable fashion.

  In any fashion, she reminded herself with a stab of anger, pain, and disappointment.

  “Oh Sebastian, w
hy did you do it?” she asked as he led her onto the dance floor, and he put his hand gently on her waist.

  “I don’t know but…just know that I believed I’d lost you forever. And...succumbed in a moment of weakness.” He steered her toward the corner farthest from the crowd. “I’ve never loved anyone as I’ve loved you. I wish you believed that.”

  Venetia swallowed. “I do believe that. That’s what’s so painful.” She heard her voice break.

  “But darling, you and I...we took risks, too.” He speared her with a look that needed no interpretation, but she shook her head.

  “Not the same risks—clearly—that you took. Not risks that actually had consequences…”

  She closed her eyes, feeling the old weakness come upon her whenever Sebastian was near. Four years ago, she’d nearly succumbed to that feeling.

  Until Sebastian’s father had highlighted the long-lasting consequences: his ruin.

  Well, this time, if Venetia succumbed to that feeling, it would be Miss Reeves’s ruin that would be placed at Venetia’s door.

  “Please, Venetia; I know you love me. Don’t be so stubborn; I beg of you. If I can tell you, hand on heart, that she has released me from all obligation, will you relent?”

  Venetia took a shaky breath. “Of course, Sebastian. But why would she?” She dropped her voice and raised herself on her toes to hiss in his ear, “You slept with her.” They were well out of earshot and there was some catharsis in making her disgust so palpable. “And she claims you’re the father, Sebastian!” She broke off. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

  She was shocked and embarrassed that he took her hand and led her quickly through the crowd and into the corridor.

  “Sebastian, you can’t!”

  But he didn’t release her hand as he marched her down a second corridor and into the library that was unoccupied, before closing the door behind them and then taking both her hands in his.

  “Venetia! Stop this nonsense!” he begged as he brought her fingers to his lips.

  “You know you couldn’t live with yourself if your honor was compromised by your actions, Sebastian!”

  “I could...if it meant I had you.” He framed her face with his hands and his voice grew hoarse as he whispered brokenly, “Please, Venetia. Kiss me, and tell me you feel nothing.”

  Before she could object, his lips were on hers, his arms cradling her in a warm embrace from which she had no wish to break free.

  A flicker of recognition fired in her brain, warning her that this was against her very principles, but her body was awash with the desire to wring from him every last drop of what he could give her in these final precious moments before she did what was right.

  Before she made him do what was right.

  Before she gave him up—forever.

  She felt lit up from within as she clung to him, matching his ardor in a kiss that radiated from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

  “God, I love you, Venetia,” he murmured as he trailed kisses the length of her throat. “I love you so much!”

  “Oh Sebastian,” she heard herself whisper brokenly. There had never been anyone else for her. “Oh Sebastian, I wish—”

  “See!” he said triumphantly, drawing back just enough to look into her eyes. “You do love me!”

  “I never claimed I didn’t but—”

  “One can’t deny what’s in one’s heart. Venetia, say you’ll give up this nonsensical idea of yours, and that you’ll marry me.”

  For one desperate moment, Venetia nearly said yes. In that moment of simple feeling, her doubts and fears seemed overstated and ridiculous.

  But then the door was thrown open and Miss Reeves burst into the room, her face alight as she saw Sebastian, saying, as if she were surprised, “Goodness! I hadn’t expected to see you here!” She glanced at Venetia, before turning back to Sebastian to add, “I have some news! My father will be announcing our betrothal before midnight! Yes, you have every reason to be surprised! I’m surprised!”

  She seemed almost giddy with joy as she went toward Sebastian, who, ignoring her, called after Venetia, “Please come back, Venetia! Where are you going?”

  Venetia shrugged off his hand, only stopping at the doorway to turn and say in as quelling a tone as she could manage, “I’m going to bed, Sebastian. Clearly, events have overtaken both of us.”

  Chapter 16

  Fanny wasn’t surprised to see the dark shadows beneath her sister’s eyes when she found Antoinette prostrate on a striped chaise longue in the yellow drawing room the day following the grand Christmas Ball.

  “I don’t wonder you’re exhausted, my dear,” she remarked, drawing back the curtains to let in a little more of the weak early afternoon sunshine.

  “Please, Fanny; I was trying to sleep!” Antoinette exclaimed, sitting up. “I’ve just farewelled our three most vexing guests who insisted on early departures.

  “Afternoon departures, nevertheless, Antoinette. Here! Drink this!” Fanny poured them both a cup of tea from the little tea tray resting on the sideboard and handed one to her sister before taking a seat opposite.

  The yellow drawing room generally was filled with guests sitting in clusters of chairs arranged artfully around the cavernous space, but this morning, Fanny saw that only Lady Indigo had managed to be up before noon. She was sitting by the fire, a rug over her knees, while Venetia sat at her side, darning yet another of the old woman’s stockings. For it certainly wasn’t a dainty article belonging to a young person.

  She checked herself. Since Venetia was again wearing the drab lace cap she favored, so that she bore no resemblance to the radiant creature who had been transformed by Antoinette’s silver net gown the previous evening, perhaps it was her stocking.

  “Wasn’t last night the most marvelous success?” Fanny leaned forward, eager to solicit Antoinette’s opinion. “Goodness, there were so many rapturous compliments about the food and the decorations. That alone should bring the color to your cheeks. Come and be merry with me, Antoinette. You do love a good compliment.”

  With a groan, her sister straightened before putting down her teacup with a sigh.

  “I do. But I’m too exhausted right now to go into any of it.”

  “But Antoinette! We had dancing; we had love affairs that were begun. No doubt a few that were ended too, but we won’t know about those, and it doesn’t matter,” she added as an aside. “And we had two betrothal announcements! Miss Libby Wells and her young man, Mr Clayton. They’ve waited more than five years to get her father’s approval. Why, wasn’t it too marvelous?”

  “I don’t know, Fanny.” Antoinette yawned before saying with more energy. “Was it marvelous? Maybe it was for Libby. And maybe it is for Arabella. But since I orchestrated neither betrothal, I don’t know how marvelous it can really be.”

  “Well, you can’t pretend to know why it didn’t happen!” Fanny said sharply. Since Antoinette’s scandalous behavior had been even more inappropriate than usual—Fanny had heard the story a little while later—she’d been prepared to be charitable; after all, it had precipitated what Fanny considered the most marvelous betrothal news.

  But Antoinette was behaving like a spoilt child. “The reason why it didn’t happen was because of your carryings-on with Senor Boticelli,” Fanny went on, and perhaps too loudly, she realized only afterward. “Really, Antoinette. You can’t have it both ways!”

  “Oh, all right then! I don’t approve of Arabella’s betrothal, but you think it will make her happy so...good luck to her.”

  Fanny was interrupted from making a rejoinder by what she thought was Venetia wishing to say something; but when she glanced at her, the girl looked away as if she had no wish to be noticed. Which was a pity really, because Venetia had the potential to be quite an engaging beauty, if she only took the trouble.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” It was old Mr Wells, stomping into the room and looking surprisingly benign as he was joined by his daughter and p
rospective son-in-law. “I had intended staying longer, but Libby is anxious to start making preparations and, since I seem to have become too soft in my old age, I shall indulge her.” He scanned the company, nodding at the other ladies. “Didn’t realize how much easier it was to have a happy daughter. But the jury is deliberating,” he added fiercely, turning to Mr Clayton. “You had better keep my Libby happy, otherwise you’ll wish I hadn’t been so lenient in allowing her heart to rule her head.” He turned, paused, then considered Venetia for a long moment.

  When he said nothing, and when Venetia simply bowed her head to concentrate on her darning, which Fanny thought a trifle impolite, Fanny interjected brightly, “Venetia looked very lovely last night. It was kind of you to arrange for a gown she could wear.”

  The old man harrumphed, still staring pointedly at Venetia, who refused to meet his look. “A trifle. Not nearly as much as she is owed.” He cleared his throat again. “Good luck to you, Venetia. I’m sorry I won’t see you again. It was a great pleasure to be reunited for this short time and...and I’m sorry, young lady.”

  Fanny was surprised both by the intensity of his words, but also by the lack of enthusiasm in Venetia’s response when the girl was generally so deferential.

  “Good day, Mr Wells.” Venetia hesitated, then added, “Please tell Sebastian I wish him all the best for the future.”

  “I’ll do that. He’s seeing to the travel arrangements. Libby and her young man are traveling together, which means Sebastian will bear me company home.”

  After murmuring their thanks and compliments, the young couple departed in Mr Wells’s wake, just as the parlormaid entered the drawing room with a silver salver bearing the afternoon’s correspondence.

  “This one is for you, Antoinette, from your even more scandal-prone friend, Mrs Brice,” Fanny said, handing her sister a scented letter covered in an elegant scrawl. “I hope you can decipher it, for she seems to have written it in a particularly exuberant mood.”