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

by Anna Campbell

  “Nothing is impossible, Thomas.”

  His sigh was full of dark memories. “For you, perhaps. Many things have been impossible for me to change.”

  “We don’t have to be one of those things.” Her certainty upon seeing Thomas at dinner was being crushed under the weight of reality, and desperation was taking its place.

  She kissed him again, this time with more urgency, and grabbed hold of the collar of his jacket. His hands were warm on her back, pressing her closer. His cock lengthened and stiffened between her legs.

  How many more opportunities did they have? How many shared moments remained to them? Was this to be the last one given to them? She would not squander a moment.

  Victoria hiked up her night rail and fumbled with his breeches.

  “Good God, woman. Are you to be the death of me?” His whisper was vehement, but he pushed her hands aside and finished the work, shoving his breeches down his thighs.

  He tugged her night rail up and over her head. She gasped and dug her hands into his shoulders. She was naked while he was clothed. It took a moment to decide how she felt about the disparity. Part of her wanted to insist he disrobe, if only for her own enjoyment of his body, but she only bit her lip.

  It was scandalous and naughty and offered her power when the rest of her life seemed beyond her control.

  “I would have you, Thomas. One more time.” She rolled her hips, sliding her slick folds over his cock. The feeling was delicious. She did it again and again until she was trembling with the pleasure.

  His eyes grew hooded as he leaned his head back and watched her. He skimmed his hands over the dip of her waist and up her torso to cup her breasts and play with her nipples. The sensation made her buck harder against him. Their first time together had been as gentle as the snow falling outside the cottage. This was a tempest.

  “Take my cock in hand and guide me inside you.” The low rumbled of his command rolled through her like thunder.

  She lifted on her knees and grasped him. He was hard and hot, and she was more than ready for him. After positioning the head of his cock at her entrance, she hesitated. Would it hurt like last time? There was only one way to find out. She lowered herself a few inches and gasped. Not from pain, but from the thrill the fullness imparted.

  She craved more. Thomas slid his hands to her hips and stared at the joining of their bodies in rapt awe. Victoria wished she could see but contented herself with watching him.

  She lowered herself another inch and then another. He gripped her harder, the bite of his fingers only adding to the rawness of the moment. A breathy moan slipped out of her. There was no pain, only pleasure. Bliss. Satisfaction.

  Finally, she was seated against him, his cock buried deep inside of her. Waves of sensation engulfed her. She was hanging on the edge of her climax. Her body urged her to move as Thomas had done that morning.

  She lifted herself, the muscles of her legs quivering, and lowered herself. It only took a dozen strokes for pleasure to consume her. She continued to move against him but clumsily. Her nipples pebbled, and he leaned in to capture one in his mouth, tugging and nipping at the sensitive peak.

  He rose with her still impaled on his cock and shuffled to the bed, dropping her on the edge of the mattress. She was on her back with her legs wrapped loosely around his hips. He thrust, his rhythm fast and hard. Another wave of pleasure rose and spun her before the first had receded.

  As he had their first time, he withdrew and spent on her belly, his teeth bared and his groan muffled. The heat in his gaze as it traveled over her naked body spurred her heart into a gallop.

  “You are a temptress. Last time was an error in judgment. This was utter madness.”

  Victoria propped herself on her elbows and pushed him from between her legs with a well-placed foot in his sternum. “Why must you ruin the moment by calling our intimacies an error in judgment and madness?”

  Thomas repaired his clothing, but Victoria only rose to wipe his spend from her body, then turned on him with her hands on her hips. He swallowed and held out her night rail. She ignored the offering.

  “If I could—”

  She held up a hand, silencing him. “If you can’t—or won’t—then I do not wish to discuss the future.”

  The lack of a future was more apt. She snatched the night rail from his hand and turned her back on him. She didn’t let her tears fall until the door snicked shut.

  Chapter 9

  Garrick berated himself the entire trip to the Barclays’ manor house and continued the self-flagellation during his reconnoiter around the grounds as evening approached. His conclusion was that it would have taken a strength he did not possess to deny Victoria when she was naked and writhing on his cock. He was as weak as a sheared Samson where Victoria was concerned.

  Bloody hell, now that her natural sensuality had been unleashed, she could crook her finger and have the nearest duke on his knees between her legs. Was there a duke in attendance?

  Garrick might have to introduce the gentleman to his fists. He ran a hand through his hair and jammed his hat back into place. He had to quit thinking about Victoria as his. She wasn’t and never would be.

  Her parting accusatory words haunted him though. Was he being noble or a coward for not pressing his suit? Perhaps neither. He was being practical. If Sir Hawkins knew Garrick had taken Victoria—twice—he’d be thrown in the Thames with much haste and no regrets.

  However, if the slimmest chance of claiming happiness with Victoria existed, shouldn’t he make the attempt?

  According to the ancient groundskeeper, the deep gulley marked the boundary, and as there was no way down or over, Garrick turned around. He exited the woods surrounding the Barclay property on the western side of the manor. He stopped in the shadows of the trees at the edge of the manicured lawn to wipe the mud off his boots.

  A single horseman arrived. Based on the lines of the horse alone, the man was a gentleman. Garrick squinted when a niggling familiarity wouldn’t leave him be. He stalked toward the man. Surely Berkwith wouldn’t be so idiotic as to make an appearance.

  Berkwith was that idiotic.

  He was giving instructions to the groom and directing the footman to take his satchel inside when Garrick reached him and cleared his throat.

  Berkwith spun around with a smile, examined Garrick, and determined he was not someone he needed to impress. His smile turned into a frown, and he clipped out, “Yes? What do you want?”

  “I wish to speak with you.” Garrick intentionally didn’t grant Berkwith a “sir” or “my lord.” He was no gentleman and deserved no such deference.

  “I’m road weary. Another time, perhaps.” Berkwith turned to the entrance, adjusting his waistcoat and smoothing his hair.

  Garrick grabbed the man by the back of the collar and shook him, not enough to hurt him, but hard enough to garner his attention. “You have time for a chat with me.”

  Berkwith sputtered a few nonsensical words before finding his tongue. “Unhand me, sirrah.”

  Garrick ignored his protests and force marched him away from the goggling of the groom and footman to where they could not be overheard. “Are you in possession of an invitation to this house party, Berkwith?”

  “I played a hand of whist with young Mr. Barclay last evening, and he extended an invitation. He is not arriving until the morrow, but I have his letter of introduction.” Berkwith pulled a wax-sealed letter from the inside of his jacket, and Garrick let him go in disgust. “Why the devil did you accost me? I should call you out.”

  “Please do. I would enjoy destroying you.” Garrick kept his tone cold and calm, and as he hoped, Berkwith was rattled. “I accosted you because of your actions with regard to a certain young lady.”

  Berkwith’s complexion turned waxy, showcasing the blue-and-black bruise peeking out at his temple hairline. “I don’t know what you are referring to. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

  “If it’s a pleasure to be speak
ing with me, I must be doing this wrong,” Garrick said dryly. “You know exactly what I’m referring to. A young lady was attacked. You—supposedly a gentleman—retreated and left her to the mercy of the streets.”

  Berkwith’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing emerged. His eyes were huge with fear.

  “This is what is going to happen. I will allow you to remain this evening as it is late. However, you will make your excuses to the Barclays and depart in the morning.” When Berkwith made a noise to argue, Garrick held up his hand, and the other man snapped his mouth shut. “In addition, if I hear a hint of scandal attached to either lady involved in your mad scheme, I will make sure your body is never found. Is that clear?”

  Berkwith nodded vigorously enough to overcome the pomade on his hair.

  Garrick crossed his arms on his chest and raised his chin. “You are dismissed.”

  Berkwith turned and made his way to the front door as if the devil’s own hounds were in pursuit. Garrick allowed himself a smile, strolled around the house, and entered through the side entrance.

  While he might not be a traditional servant, neither was he an invited guest. Therefore, the room he’d received along the bachelor corridor had been a surprise. It was small but plush and exceedingly comfortable.

  Gaiety spilled from the drawing room where the assembled guests were gathered for merrymaking. He glanced through the door and caught sight of Victoria. She was talking with Lady Eleanor, Lord Percival, and an unknown gentleman. She wore the green gown from her fitting at the modiste. The color highlighted her pale skin and black hair. A golden ribbon weaved through her hair like a crown.

  A pang reverberated in his chest as he turned to make his way to his room. Alone. He’d won his battle with loneliness long ago in the orphanage. Yet there was no mistaking the feeling. He was lonely. Not for just anyone, but for Victoria.

  “Garrick.” Sir Hawkins quickstepped from the drawing room to intercept him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Berkwith had the audacity to show his face at the party. Did you see him? I have a good mind to garrote him myself.”

  “I hope you don’t plan on asking me to murder a peer.” Garrick raised an eyebrow, but Sir Hawkins merely harrumphed. Garrick continued, “The situation is handled. He will be leaving in the morning.”

  Sir Hawkins’s outrage deflated slightly. “You should have turned him out tonight.”

  “The man is a coward and an opportunist, but he isn’t evil.”

  “But he knows Victoria was… He could speak indiscreetly.”

  “I made clear he wouldn’t enjoy the consequences if a single indiscreet word falls from his lips.”

  “Very well then.” Sir Hawkins’s eyes narrowed on Garrick. “Clean up and change into your best clothes, then meet me in the library. I wish to speak with you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sir Hawkins turned on his heel and disappeared into a book-lined room. Garrick found warm water waiting in his room. After repairing his appearance, he changed into a pair of dove-gray pantaloons, a silver-and-cream-striped waistcoat, and navy frock coat. He kept his cravat knot simple and smoothed back his hair. The small looking glass reflected back a man who would never be mistaken for a gentleman, no matter how fine the wrappings.

  He joined Sir Hawkins in the library. The spymaster stood at the fireplace and stared pensively into the flames. Garrick cleared his throat.

  “Ah. Pour yourself a brandy if you wish, Garrick.”

  Garrick wasn’t one to turn down fine spirits. He joined Sir Hawkins with a tumbler in hand. “What do you require of me, sir?”

  “I want you there.” Sir Hawkins didn’t spare him a glance.

  “Where?”

  “In the drawing room and at dinner. I want you to keep an eye on Berkwith.”

  “Would you prefer that I throw him out tonight? I could have accomplished that without changing clothes.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Sir Hawkins turned to pace along the edge of the rug with military precision, his hands linked behind his back. “There’s another matter we need to discuss.”

  The back of Garrick’s neck heated, and his collar tightened like a noose. He forced himself not to fidget. What did Sir Hawkins suspect? Part of Garrick wanted to confess his feelings. He wanted to claim Victoria for more than a night.

  But even now she was socializing with gentlemen who could raise her standing in society. Was it fair of him to force her hand? He wanted her to have the power to choose her destiny, and in doing so, he must accept that he was not the wise choice.

  “You have become a skilled organizer with a head for strategy. The men respect your opinion and obey your commands without question. In short, you are a fine leader, and it’s time for you to actually lead. You will no longer be in my employ.”

  The direction of the conversation was so unexpected, Garrick could do little but gape. Was Sir Hawkins sending him to the front lines to be killed because of his indiscretion with Victoria? It was no less than he deserved. “You’re sacking me?”

  Sir Hawkins paused his pacing to grip the back of the armchair between them and raise a brow. “There is a position being created under the purview of the Home Office that I have recommended you for. Most would consider this a promotion. If you acquit yourself well, further opportunities will open to you.”

  While the position might well offer him a boost in standing, Garrick could only focus on the fact he would be officially, finally separated from Victoria. Their social circles wouldn’t align, and he would never see her. It was an effective, nonlethal way of quashing any further attachment. It was exactly what he had decided for himself, yet the thought of never again seeing her traipse down the stairs with a smile for him was devastating.

  His mind riffled through the implications. Sir Hawkins must be aware of the attachment in the first place. Or at least he suspected it. Garrick quaffed the remainder of the brandy in his glass and straightened his cuffs. “Thank you for the recommendation. When do I report for duty?”

  “In the new year. Tonight, however, you still work for me, and I want you to keep an eye on Victoria.” Sir Hawkins took a seat in the armchair and opened the book on the side table.

  “You aren’t joining in the merrymaking?”

  “Too much noise rattles my thoughts and gives me a headache. I’ll join the group for dinner.”

  Garrick nodded and left Sir Hawkins to his solitude, pausing outside the door to calm his own racing thoughts. He felt adrift in more ways than one. It was difficult to be grateful when he could only focus on everything he was losing.

  Losing Victoria was heartbreaking, but that wouldn’t be his only loss. Sir Hawkins was more than an employer, and Garrick grieved the end of their association. He was also unaccountably hurt Sir Hawkins could dismiss him so readily.

  With heavy feet, he made his way to the drawing room. A game of charades was in progress. He planted himself behind a Greek-style bust of some unfortunate Barclay ancestor with a large nose and narrow-set eyes and stared at Victoria.

  She was seated on a lounge next to Lady Eleanor, laughing and calling out guesses to the pantomime being performed by Mr. Barclay, their host. Victoria touched her nape and twisted around. They locked eyes, and her smile turned tremulous. The noise around him faded until it was just the two of them.

  Lady Eleanor grabbed Victoria’s arm and whispered something in her ear. Her gaze broke with his, and Garrick followed the direction of her attention. Lord Berkwith had arrived, looking fresher and attired in a dapper, extravagantly patterned blue-and-green waistcoat and bottle-green velvet jacket. Only the half-hidden bruise along the hairline at his temple betrayed the harrowing experience he’d muddled through by luck and cowardice.

  Berkwith smiled broadly at Lady Eleanor, who rose as if he were a puppet master. Victoria made a grab for her wrist, but it was too late. Lady Eleanor drifted over to speak with Berkwith. Someone guessed that Mr. Barclay was trout fishing, and a round of clapp
ing ensued. A young lady bounced up and chose a slip of paper from a gentleman’s black hat for her turn.

  Victoria rose and meandered through the room, stopping to chat with ladies and gentlemen, but Garrick could feel the ties that bound them growing shorter as she worked her way closer and closer.

  “I suppose Father sent you to keep an eye on me,” she murmured before taking a sip of wassail.

  “Mostly due to Berkwith, but I don’t expect him to cause any trouble.”

  She sent him a side-eyed glance. “Did you threaten him with bodily injury?”

  He harrumphed. “Of course I did.”

  He was rewarded with a smile that was a lighthouse to his adrift soul. What would happen when he no longer had her smiles and wit to keep him from drowning in his loneliness?

  “I do hope Eleanor doesn’t make a fool of herself over him.” Victoria shook her head and turned to regard him. “I’ve rarely seen you attired for company. You look exceedingly handsome.”

  “The sharpness of your eyesight has now been called into question, Miss Hawkins.”

  “It is you who fail to recognize your charms in the looking glass.” Her flirty eyes kindled a fire in his chest. Their banter had taken on new dimensions now they were intimately acquainted.

  He smiled. How could he not? Just as he was debating the merits of yet another bout of madness in the middle of the night, Lord Percival approached and made a bow. “Miss Hawkins, would you take a turn about the room with me?”

  Lady Hawkins had stepped closer, her glare doing its best to slice him away from Victoria. What could Garrick do but cede the field? He inclined his head and retreated with a murmured, “Enjoy your evening, Miss Hawkins.”

  Lord Percival monopolized Victoria’s attention for the rest of the evening. He even escorted her to dinner. Three long tables were arranged in the large dining room. Garrick found himself sitting in the corner next to a local curate who seemed to be practicing his Christmas sermon on the table.