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

by Anna Campbell

  The Cut.

  How many had he received and lived through? Too many to count.

  “I told you last month in Paris to give it a few years, come back when people have other things on their mind.” Marsden growled but stayed in his seat. Still a friend then.

  Ilya motioned vaguely. “Leave, go drink with the others. Personally, I recall them being rather insipid, the conversation droll and their lack of courage for life appalling.”

  “You’re a bastard you know. You could have at least told me. You know I would have held your confidence. Let alone Seph.”

  “Ah… but to a Russian, family business is family business.”

  Madam Debuverey, standing by the bay window with guests he didn’t know, raised a glass of champagne in welcome. So, there would be no personal welcome and stroll around the room he’d merited in December. It would be up to him to re-establish his acceptance and standing in the salon, yet the visual toast was a signal to all that he had the support of the patroness.

  The curtain rustled and then opened.

  The Duchess of Somerset and the Baron of St Alban, was announced.

  Ilya sat up straighter. Heart suddenly pounding at the sight of her.

  Too long. Too long without her.

  Marsden groaned and ground out under his breath. “For heaven’s sake man, leave her alone, you did enough.”

  She stood, the light from the hall behind her pale hair a shining halo like something out of a fairy tale. Her face was a little thinner and the smile she beamed at the man behind her too devastating for Ilya’s liking.

  “She’s engaged now. Due to tie the knot in the spring.” Marsden said in a harsh whisper.

  Ilya ignored the slice in his gut the words caused and waved a dismissive hand. The man didn’t know about persistence, didn’t know anything about Russian charm.

  Didn’t know what happened in December.

  Ilya placed his tumbler on the side table and deliberately rose.

  He wore the formal military red dress jacket he knew she always liked. ‘It makes your chest look broad,’ she’d said as she ran her hands across his back, then pressed her face against his cheek, ‘as if you were someone a girl could rely on to hold the world back.’ But he hadn’t held that world back, had he? He’d sent her running to ground in Paris, the family needing him back in St Petersburg before he found her.

  Her gaze swung around the room, peppered it with smiles and a dip of her head as she recognized friends and acquaintances. Then she saw him.

  Their gazes collided.

  A crack of lightening flashed through him, emotions fused in a single slice of connection, of belonging, of finding your heart. In the next second his heart twisted as if wrapping around a blade that slowly sank inch by slow inch into it as he watched the smile beaming through her eyes fade at the sight of him.

  The joy leaked out of her like the last rays of a spectacular sunset fading from the sky. His chest tightened. Ilya stood taller and steeled his face. He had done that to her. He was the reason she now looked haunted.

  Her gaze shuttered and a smile that could fool everyone but him settled over her features. Her arm reached blindly for the man beside her and the knife in his heart sliced deeper.

  The man, his competitor, Baron St Alban, bent down.

  Seraphina whispered in the closeness of his chest as Ilya squeezed his palms into tight fists. Reminded himself that tonight was all about letting her know he was back. Was all about sending the message that he was single, that he was back for her. He didn’t expect a warm greeting... Didn’t expect joy or welcome, a war was not won in one bout.

  They turned, pushed back through the curtain, and left.

  Ilya took a single step, wanted to follow. Wanted to be in every salon she entered and silently proclaim his intent.

  A hand shot out and clasped his arm.

  “Sit down you bloody idiot, she’s gone.” Marsden growled next to him.

  The seconds ticked by as every muscle strained, as every instinct screamed to follow.

  “Ilya!” Marsden rumbled, firming his grip.

  Ilya sat, heart hammering, gaze still glued to the curtain she had gone through. Willing her to walk back through it, press across the room and throw herself into his arms.

  But those dramatic displays were for actresses and mistresses, not for a poet with skin as soft as satin and as pale as cream. Poets who whispered phrases, words enticed from deep in her heart, whispered them into your ear as she lay curled in your arms.

  “Who is he?” Ilya growled.

  “Stop looking at the bloody curtain.” Marsden clicked his fingers and pointed down at their glasses which were, in moments, refilled.

  “Who is he?”

  “Baron of St Alban.”

  Ilya cursed in Russian, the frustration bleeding out of him. “I heard his name but what does he do, what does he have?” Why did she choose him?

  Marsden ignored the tone. “St Alban, he’s building a parliamentary career. Works too much for my taste.”

  “Seraphina likes him?”

  “Loves him is the term used for affianced people I understand.”

  Ilya shook his head. “No, she doesn’t love him.”

  “What? You have seen her for less than a few minutes. They are thick as thieves.”

  “I know what that woman looks like in love and it isn’t that drawn worn out look she is wearing.”

  “I believe that look is what’s left after the ‘look of love’ leaves.” Marsden growled.

  “I will put it back.”

  “You will leave her alone.”

  Never!

  Their glasses raised, they threw back the contents as if the December deception hadn’t happened and they were right back to when he was here last, kicking up a storm with women, gaming halls, house parties and getting mentioned in the gossip columns every day to help his brother break his betrothal. A totally pointless exercise as the man married her anyway and thanked his luck every day since.

  But it had cost Ilya. Cost him his heart’s desire.

  Chapter 21

  “What were you doing sitting with him at Madam Debuverey’s salon?” Seph scowled at Marsden as she paced his parlor. “You of all people know how much he hurt me.”

  “You know Ilya and I have sorted out our differences over your liaison and how he treated you. The whole business about the betrothal worked out for Georgie. You said so yourself. She has never looked happier than when they came back to London in the Spring and you caught up.”

  “I don’t want to see him.”

  “You better get used to Ilya because he bought that house, the one they rented last year in Mayfair. The man intends to live in London and has brought his sister.” Marsden hooked her arm through his, stopping her pacing and swung her to face him. “And. We’ve talked about this before. The whole appeal of trysts and liaisons is that they are exactly that. Exciting adventures or misadventures and then it’s over.”

  She shrugged away from his hold. “You could have warned me he was in London. That he was at the salon.”

  “I see, by carrier pigeon after I ordered my drink.”

  Seph scowled at him.

  “He came in and sat down not twenty minutes before you arrived with St Alban.”

  Seph rolled her eyes. She was being a tad unreasonable, but she had a heart to protect and it hadn’t even remotely healed after its last exposure to Ilya.

  “Listen sweetheart. I didn’t know he was in town. Last time Ilya and I spoke, as you know, was in Paris at the Exposition Universelle. I told him to steer clear of London for a while longer.”

  “Forever would be too soon,” she muttered. “Did you mention my engagement?” Her body tuned itself to Marsden’s every tone and shift in body language.

  “You weren’t engaged when I went to Paris. Last Month!” Marsden sounded frustrated.

  Was the man stupid? Didn’t Marsden understand she wanted to know every minute detail of every conversation
he’d had with Ilya? Wanted to know Ilya pined for her. Foolish girl, Ilya would have had a hundred paramours under his belt since he’d last had her…but still. Marsden was supposed to know what women wanted. What they needed and yet he made her go fishing.

  “Did you tell him now?”

  “Yes.” He sounded more than frustrated. Marsden had no right to be. She was the one twisting in knots, not knowing what to do next. She thought she’d had everything sorted. Forget about Ilya. Choose a decent man like St Alban and settle down, have a brood of children and write about her broken heart for the rest of her placid life.

  “Did he ask about St Alban?” Getting information out of him was like drawing teeth.

  “Yes. For god’s sake what do you expect? The man stood up and made it clear to all and sundry how he feels about you.”

  “Standing up means nothing.” Yet a flurry of something rather pleasant went through her.

  “Oh, come on, you’re the poet Seph. It was a declaration of intent! He’s come back to London for you.”

  A flock of birds seemed to have been released in her chest.

  Her mouth tugged into a smile despite herself. A declaration of intent.

  She swallowed. Got a grip of herself. She wouldn’t survive another round if it went pear shaped. The pleasure evaporated.

  “You know, I think you still love him as much as you ever did,” said an exasperated Marsden.

  “Never!” Always. She would always love him, the wretched beast. “Beside I have St Alban now.”

  Marsden shook his head not buying one word. And neither should he.

  One look at Ilya in the Salon and the man stole her heart all over again. One look at his chiseled face, the hungry eyes and she remembered every touch, every caress rising from the grave she’d thrown them in and coming alive like phantom touches over her skin. She was going to write a whole book of poetry lamenting how loved ruined you. Read Bronte’s Wuthering Heights as if it were the story of her and Ilya, for the rest of her life.

  “Well there’s another topic we don’t agree on! You should have talked to me before bounding back into the marriage mart.” Marsden stalked over to the bell and called for another service.

  “I’m too restless for tea.” Seph huffed reaching for her hat and gloves.

  “Where are you going?” Marsden looked tired as he sank into his chair.

  “I am going …out.” She waved her hand around. Anywhere except home where she could be found.

  He grunted “You’re making a hash of things Seph. Your first tryst and you fall in love. Then you rebound into an off-the-cuff engagement.” He held up his finger. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re in love with St Alban, because I have seen you in love and the two of you are not even lukewarm. You are both broken. Both wanting to be done with it all, say you are married and not feel anything again.”

  Seph picked up a nasty little vase she had never been fond of and threw it at him. His reflexes were too good, and he caught it before it hit him.

  Drat.

  She didn’t like what he said because it was probably true. There was the warmth of friendship between her and St Alban. His heart was still with a young wife who ran off to the continent and filed for divorce. Hers was with an undeserving Russian.

  “I’ve never written better in my life.” But it wasn’t St Alban she wrote about. Oh no, not a single word. It was all Ilya.

  “Good for you but that doesn’t mean you are making the best decisions now.”

  “Who are you to judge? You have never loved a thing in your life!” She flung the hurtful accusation at him knowing how false it was and regretted it straight away. Marsden loved her, loved many people, he had just never been in love.

  He shook his head at her again. “That was below you Seph,” he said quietly, and she felt awful.

  “I take it back. But have you been in love? So in love you were no longer a single person but somehow fused to another?” she said as the hurt surged forward and ripped her insides apart all over again. Her eyes welled up.

  Marsden rose and was beside her in seconds, arms came around her and drew her into a hug. “No sweetheart. I haven’t. But don’t take that slice of life which you lived with so much courage and turn it into cowardice.”

  Chapter 22

  Seph didn’t even see the words in the book on Greek archeological sites in front of her. The June afternoon sun reflected off the glass windows across the street flickering shadows as pedestrians passed it like the reel of a movie, as she sat in her usual chair in the Bond Street Bookshop. St Alban was taking them to Greece for their honeymoon. He wanted to know her top five locations so he could have the trip planned to cover her interests as well as his. She should be thinking about St Alban and the wedding.

  Yet she wasn’t.

  Of course, she wasn’t. She wasn’t even interested.

  How could she be, knowing that Ilya was back in town? The gossip columns were already nibbling at scraps. ‘Is the usurper prince back for the elusive widow?’ was this morning’s offering.

  Idiots!

  She’d asked the staff to deliver a second service as she just couldn’t face leaving and going home in case Ilya called on her there. And he would.

  Marsden was right.

  Ilya was here with a purpose, and his actions in Madam Debuverey’s salon made it all too clear he was going to look her up. That they were clearly not done. It sent a ripple through her even as it scared the living daylights out of her.

  Some men were hard to survive.

  Ilya was front and center in her thoughts today, like every other day of the last five and a half months. She’d spent the last half hour unsuccessfully swatting away the image of him standing in the salon the night before last. Unapologetic in his hungry regard as he claimed her with his eyes.

  He’d come to win her back. It scared her to her very core. She was a coward. She’d run and now she was hiding.

  The last two nights she’d tossed and turned so much she woke in a tangle of sheets. Yesterday she’d taken a brisk walk in Hyde Park before driving over to lambast Marsden. Today she’d skulked out of the house using the back entrance and hidden herself here at the Bond Street Bookshop.

  Ilya in London just haunted her where she now looked for him everywhere.

  Seph finally yielded and closed the book on Greece, placing it on the small side table as her second tea service arrived. She didn’t even want to go to Greece.

  Delaying the inevitable, she poured the tea, then reached out and picked up the dastardly little seducer, the newest edition of The Motor Car Journal, A Medium For All Interested In Self Propelled Traffic. She hated herself just a little more as her heart gave a flutter of anticipation.

  Since having her first experience in a motor car she had joined the growing debate as a supporter and believer that the motor car was part of their future. That the noble beast and its drawn conveyances would be a thing of the past. Those who were pro-motor car expounded the benefits including a cure for insomnia and a wealth of sensual properties such as endless and varied scenery, the whistle of the wind in one’s face and the beauty of sun and shadow.

  Seph turned the page. Ah, more complaints were listed in jest. Those against the motor car complained of the noise pollution saying motorcars sounded like an avalanche of tea trays, that the dust they generated ruined washing, increased throat and eye infections, ruined crops and even clogged a woman’s typewriter. But that wasn’t why she had the periodical. No, that was because of the article on Prince Vladimir Ilya Petroski, newest member of the Royal Automobile Club and investing partner in Dennis Brothers Limited.

  Some part of her couldn’t help but be proud for him. Knew the shifts he’d made to follow a passion that those closest to him doubted the validity of.

  Seph took a sip of tea and picked up a short bread, drew in a large breath and turned the page.

  And there he was.

  A quarter page photograph, full head and shoulders. She nibbled her
shortbread, her eyes gobbling up the words…investing here despite France’s lead in the automotive industry...a strong supporter of Britain’s position in the race to motorize…reforms needed…yes he intended settling in the UK. Her eyes darted back to his photo, not the one where he stood alongside the Dennis Brothers at their factory in Guildford, but the quarter page head and shoulders. She looked and nibbled, nibbled, and nibbled until the shortbread was gone. As if that delicious melt-on-the-tongue accompaniment to tea were able to fulfill the need for him rioting through her body.

  Seph snapped the periodical closed. But she knew she would add it to the pile of her purchases, despite already berating herself for even taking the dastardly little seducer off the shelf in the first place.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  Seph lurched to standing.

  The periodical dropped to the floor as she instinctively stumbled backward, almost knocking the chair over.

  Ilya reacted with all the speed and instinct of the predatory wolf he was. He stepped forward, arms darting out, wrapping craftily around her waist, swiftly drawing her against him to stabilize her. There was nothing short of actually launching herself at him, that could have more successfully opened the opportunity for him to hold her.

  And here he was, as if her deepest desires had manifested him right here, right now, holding her close. Her hands rested naturally against his all too fine chest, so close his magical cologne of cedar an oud wash right through her, making her body purr with remembrance.

  “I thought the likeness a good one,” he murmured, his delectable mouth in a half smile.

  “Overly flattering portraits can lead to disappointment when one meets the subject in the flesh.” She made an unconvincing attempt to step out of his hold that even she didn’t believe. His arms tightened.

  “Seraphina.” He said her name in his oh-so-delicious Russian accent and her knees wobbled. Seph’s fingers curled in his jacket, traitorous appendages.

  “Did I disappoint in the flesh?” he murmured. “I am honor bound to make it up to you.”

  She scowled at him. “Perhaps you need to look ‘honor’ up in the dictionary.”