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

by Anna Campbell

  Thus far, this arrangement had been orchestrated seamlessly and with the utmost discretion. It had excited Emily to receive an invitation to such an exclusive gathering, and more so because they had also invited her future betrothed. Roger hoped the festivities would distract both his siblings from what he would be up to over the next fortnight. Considering it wasn’t like Roger to pay marked attention to any woman, they might think he was simply considering marriage. No one would suspect him of engaging in an affair with a widow, and that could work to his advantage.

  After leaving his sister and brother to settle into their guest chambers, Roger made his way to the garden, hoping time alone in the cold outdoors would help him clear his head. He’d practiced his introduction to ensure he wouldn’t trip over the words and taken several deep, calming breaths.

  However, upon finding the lady standing before him, Roger had gone no further than the initial introduction before feeling as if he’d collapsed into himself. His hands were numb, but he managed to make the left one work long enough to take hers so he could press a kiss to her knuckles. Beyond the scent of her leather gloves, he detected the aroma of her perfume—light and pleasant.

  She stood no taller than his chest, though even beneath her pelisse he could see she was bursting with feminine curves.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said with a soft smile, and it struck Roger that she could have an entire ballroom full of men at her beck and call with nothing more than that smile.

  The lady wasn’t a stunning beauty on first glance. Her features were soft and charming, and her large, round eyes were the color of warm honey. A tendril of dark brown hair kissed her cheek and jaw in a wispy coil. It was her mouth that arrested him—narrow and plump, with a deep bow in the upper lip. When she smiled, something within him lurched toward her, like an invisible tether snared around his stomach and pulling taut.

  Swallowing past his thickened tongue, Roger did his best to register the words falling from those pretty pink lips—she’d started talking. Rambling, really, but it was charming.

  “I must admit to being a little nervous,” she rushed out, twisting her hands together. “I have done nothing like this before. Have you? Oh … well, of course you haven’t. Mr. Sterling informed me you are … oh, goodness. I’m so sorry.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he managed, watching her pace toward the shrubbery and gently caress the petals of a pink blossom. That she was anxious brought him a modicum of relief. At least he wouldn’t be alone in his feelings

  “I suppose we ought to get to know one another. Mary—erm, the dowager Lady Rodingham—told me you and your family traveled here from London just as we did. Do you reside there primarily, or do you make your home in the country?”

  “My brother, sister, and I spend most of our time in London.”

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, lips twisting as if she wasn’t certain what to say next. Damned if he knew; this sort of thing was foreign to him.

  “I see. My daughter and I prefer London as well.” She pinched her lips together for a moment, her cheeks flushing before she quickly changed the subject. “I just love Christmas, don’t you? I can hardly wait for tomorrow evening’s ball. Oh, and Lady Rodingham says there is to be a fox hunt on Boxing Day. Are you fond of the hunt, Mr. Thornton?”

  Roger struggled with which of her questions to answer first, then realized they both garnered the same answers. “Yes.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed together in consternation, making him wonder if he ought to elaborate. But he couldn’t make his lips form words when his gaze was so riveted on the intriguing curves of her lips. Kissing was something he could do well, something he had experience with. It stunned him to realize he wanted to kiss Lady Hughes. Badly. Her lips looked like ripe summer berries, and the thought of tasting them created a stirring in his groin.

  The strength of his desire was disconcerting, to say the least. He had wanted other women and felt potent attraction, and had come close on one humiliating occasion to doing away with the nuisance of his virginity. But to look upon someone and know that in short order they would be naked in a bed together … it affected him in an unexpected way, making it difficult for Roger to keep his eyes from wandering as she spoke. In the periphery of his vision Roger was all-too aware of the swell of full breasts pushing at the front of her pelisse.

  “You mentioned that you have siblings,” she blurted, turning to face him. The full force of those honeyed eyes struck him, pinning him to the spot. “Are you the eldest?”

  “My brother is,” he replied. “He is the Viscount Thornton. My sister is the youngest.”

  She gave him another smile, and Roger realized it was because he’d spoken more words just now in response to this question than the others. Typically, conversation went two ways. At least, that was how it worked when one party didn’t suffer from a debilitating impairment.

  “I have no siblings,” she said, pacing away from him and then coming back, as if she had no idea what to do with herself. “I find myself incredibly jealous that you have two of them.”

  The corner of Roger’s lips twitched with amusement, but he couldn’t make them part into an actual smile. “Having them is … an interesting experience.”

  She raised her eyebrows and leaned in, as if expecting more. Of course, Roger had nothing to offer. What could he possibly say to her about Angus and Emily? Should he tell her his idiot of a brother was the reason they had been brought together? Or that Emily’s need of a dowry had made him desperate enough to become her paid lover?

  Her face fell when he didn’t elaborate, and the tight sensation in his gut worsened. Why wasn’t he the kind of man who could charm and woo and indulge in small talk without feeling as if he might faint?

  “Well then,” she said, shoulders sagging. “I suppose we ought to part ways before we are missed. I will see you at dinner this evening?”

  “Of course,” he replied, offering her another stiff bow. Behind his back, his hand twitched to take hold of hers for another kiss, another whiff of that sweet perfume.

  But she had turned her back on him, her footsteps light and swift. Roger let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the garden wall, squeezing his eyes shut. At the first test of his ability to do this job, he had failed abysmally.

  He was going to have to gather his wits and prepare to try again this evening. Emily’s future depended on it.

  Throughout what remained of the afternoon, Miranda told herself that Roger must be shy. It made sense, considering that the man had never bedded a woman and likely felt out of his depth. As the experienced party, it was up to her to coax him into unwinding so they could grow comfortable with one another. So, when the time came for dinner, she entered the drawing room to join the other guests with resolution straightening her spine. She would be charming and amiable and crack through her courtesan’s rigid veneer. Their first conversation had left much to be desired, but perhaps the presence of others at dinner would help the man find his tongue.

  She was greeted at the drawing room door by Mary, who was dressed in a soft lavender evening gown. Despite the length of time since the death of Rodingham, she clung to the last vestiges of mourning as if to proclaim to the world that she was still off-limits.

  “Miranda, darling!” she said, loud enough to be overheard by those already gathered. Then, taking her arm, Mary lowered her voice and leaned in close. “Your chere-amie has arrived. He’s rather handsome, isn’t he?”

  Miranda’s gaze darted to the corner of the room where Roger stood, silent and stoic. A dark-haired man lingered at his side, looking enough like him that she supposed this must be the Viscount Thornton. Their coloring and features were where the resemblance ended, for the viscount talked while waving his hands about, his expression as animated as Roger’s was detached. Seated in a chair to Roger’s other side was a young woman with blonde hair and a sweet smile. When she glanced up at Roger, he met her gaze and offered a warm quirk of
his lips in return. The younger sister, perhaps?

  “He is,” Miranda agreed absently, unable to look away as Roger accepted a before-dinner drink from a passing footman.

  The stark black of his evening attire made him look as unapproachable and harsh as ever, and yet Miranda felt the stirrings of desire low in her belly. There was something about him that appealed to her, though she could hardly understand what that was. The men she’d courted before her marriage had been a lot like Lord Hughes—outgoing and charming, men of easy smiles and sly quips. Roger Thornton was the very opposite of that. Perhaps that was the allure of him. Mystery clung to him like a second skin, inviting a deeper perusal.

  “The small drawing room at the end of this corridor will always be left available to you,” Mary whispered. “In the event the two of you cannot wait to ensconce yourselves away in a bedchamber.”

  Mary’s eyes shined bright with excitement, as if she were living vicariously through Miranda’s experience. Meanwhile, Miranda felt as if a cold stone had settled in her chest. She had been nervous before meeting Roger, but was now even more so.

  She took Mary’s hand for a moment and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. I’d better make my way to him.”

  “Dinner will be served shortly.”

  They parted ways, with Mary going off to mingle with her other guests. Miranda took her time approaching Roger, pausing to greet friends and acquaintances alike. She found Joan in a corner, having a little tête-à-tête with Lord Vaughn. Catching Miranda’s gaze, she offered a sly wink before darting her gaze at Roger. Maud followed her progress across the room with shrewd eyes.

  Accepting one of several glasses from the tray of a passing servant, Miranda took half of her sherry in one swallow. The heat of the drink fortified her nerves by the time she reached him, enabling her to paste a bright smile on her face.

  “Good evening, Mr. Thornton,” she said, lacing her words with cheer.

  Roger blinked as if surprised she had addressed him. But she couldn’t very well greet his siblings, having not yet been formally introduced.

  “Good evening, Lady Hughes. You are looking lovely.”

  Again, his voice was nearly flat and devoid of all intonation, each word succinct and sharp.

  “Thank you,” she replied, before darting her eyes at his brother and sister.

  Roger cleared his throat and gestured to his brother first. “May I introduce my brother, Viscount Thornton. Angus, the dowager Baroness Hughes.”

  The viscount’s smile stretched across his entire face as he took Miranda’s hand and bowed over it. “It is an honor, my lady, and may I echo my brother’s sentiment that you look quite lovely in that shade of burgundy.”

  Miranda inwardly cringed as his gaze lingered at her bodice, but managed to maintain her smile as the young lady came to her feet.

  Roger’s expression didn’t change, but his voice held a sharp edge as he indicated his sister. “My sister, Miss Emily Thornton.”

  While the girl offered her a neat curtsy, Roger’s dark eyes swiveled to his brother—who was still studying Miranda with a gaze that bordered on lascivious.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Hughes,” Emily said with a sweet smile.

  She was quite lovely, though didn’t favor her brothers at all. Roger was staring into his drink as if it tasted rancid, while the viscount roped her into a conversation that could only be described as one-sided. The man clearly loved the sound of his own voice, waxing on and on about horses and his new carriage, before moving on to the last few soirees he had attended in London, followed by his opinions on current ladies’ fashions. By the time dinner was announced Miranda had grown bored and irritated, and both Thornton brothers were to blame. While Angus held her verbally hostage, Roger merely stood there like a statue, watching them with eyes that betrayed nothing.

  Didn’t he wish to speak to her at all, or pry her out of his brother’s clutches? Perhaps he had decided an arrangement with her wasn’t what he wanted after all. They had agreed to this liaison without ever laying eyes on each other. Horror seized her at the thought of him finding her lacking in some way. It would be highly ironic considering the man was a virgin. Perhaps his lack of experience had to do with a fussy nature. If Roger were looking for something specific in his first lover, he might be disappointed that she didn’t possess whatever quality he desired. But, if that were the case, why hire himself out as a courtesan? The profession didn’t exactly put him in a position to be persnickety about who his first bedmate would be.

  Her heart sank when the viscount offered his arm to escort her to dinner. Mary’s insistence on informal seating left people free to select their dinner partners. It would be rude to refuse the viscount, and Roger did not seem inclined to intervene—choosing to offer an arm to his sister.

  The etiquette that had been drummed into her from girlhood guided her for the rest of the night, as she found herself seated across from Roger and his sister, with the viscount at her side. Amid the cacophony of silverware clinking against dishes and voices tangling in conversation, Miranda heard no more than a few words spoken in Roger’s deep voice. By contrast, Viscount Thornton paused only long enough to guzzle wine and consume course after course with the appetite of a man just released from Newgate. How he could devour so much food while carrying the bulk of the conversation was a mystery.

  Miranda watched Roger through most of the meal, noting the way he listened politely to those seated around him without contributing much by way of commentary. An occasional nod or monosyllabic answer were his only concessions to speech, leaving Miranda wondering if he were indifferent to the entire affair, bored with the company, or simply shy. The man was almost impossible to read.

  Dinner seemed to drag on forever, with Miranda finding it difficult to conjure an appetite. While the women took themselves back to the drawing room to allow the men their port and cigars, Miranda told herself that if she didn’t make any headway with Roger this evening, she would simply call off the arrangement. She would admit to herself that it had been foolish to believe she could be the sort of woman who arranged and took part in an affair simply because she could—because she wanted to. Because feeling desired again was something she wanted more than she’d realized.

  When the men rejoined them, a game of charades was suggested to the delight of all. Miranda sat along the perimeter of the rug with Roger at her back and Emily on one side while Joan sat on the other. Viscount Thornton—who obviously enjoyed being the center of attention—volunteered to go first and made his selection from the book Mary offered him.

  Clearing his throat, he raised his voice to be heard and read dramatically, “You witness in my beauteous first, the wonders of creation; my next is blessed or cursed, as he fulfills his station. My total whole dances around the year; the present will soon disappear.”

  Miranda furrowed her brow as answers to the riddle were called out by various guests.

  “A Maypole!”

  “The sun!”

  “A ballroom!”

  The viscount shook his head at each one, further puzzling Miranda. She’d been certain that maypole must be the correct answer. More guesses flew about the room, all to no avail. She flinched when a stream of warm air tickled her neck, and Roger’s voice rumbled in her ear.

  “Season,” he whispered.

  Jerking her head to glance back at him, she found him staring down at her, his face set in grim lines and rigid angles. There was a twinkle of something in his eyes, however. Amusement?

  The viscount grew increasingly agitated by the failures of the other guests. Roger’s answer made perfect sense when she thought over the words of the riddle again.

  “It’s a season,” she called out, coming to her feet. “We ‘see’ it in the beauty of creation. It fulfills its station like a ‘son’. See-son. Season. It dances around the year from one to the other, and each one soon disappears!”

  The viscount grinned. “Well done, Lady Hughes. You are c
orrect.”

  Miranda glanced back at Roger to find him still watching her, one eyebrow raised. She had no time to wonder why he hadn’t simply given the answer himself, because then the viscount was thrusting the book of riddles into her hands. After flipping a few pages, she found one she liked.

  “My first makes nature appear with one face, my second has music, and beauty, and grace. And if this charade is not easily said, my whole you deserve to have thrown at your head!”

  Her lips quivered at the confused looks traded between guests. Then she looked to Roger, who had cupped his hand at his mouth and leaned down as if to whisper to his sister. But then he caught her gaze and faltered. Miranda gave him a little nod of encouragement and raised her eyebrows expectantly. If he knew the answer, he should simply say so instead of allowing someone else to take credit for what Miranda was coming to realize was a quick mind. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d puzzled out the answer before she’d gotten to the third part of the riddle.

  Straightening, he waited for a break between shouted, incorrect answers. For some reason, Miranda held her breath as Roger parted his lips, chest swelling with an intake of breath. She couldn’t explain why a sharp spike of anxiety went through her as every eye in the room seemed to settle on him at once.

  “Snowb-b-” he managed, before ducking his head into his sleeve and erupting into a coughing fit.

  Miranda’s fingers tightened around the book of charades when Roger turned away, still coughing and sputtering as several handkerchiefs and sympathetic looks were offered to him.