A Christmas Scandal

by Jane Goodger

  “Oh, Carson. Yes.”

  “Yes, darlin’. Oh, God, I have to taste you.”

  Amelia didn’t know what he meant until she felt his mouth on her breast, sucking, tugging, licking. And nothing had ever felt so good as what he was doing to her now. Nothing.

  “I have to have you, Amelia. You know I love you, right, honey? I want you in my bed. Now. No one will know. No one goes into my room during the day.”

  “Oh,” Amelia said, groaning in pleasure as he lavished her other breast with the same wonderful attention. She began moving her hips, unknowingly trying to assuage the building pressure between her legs. “I can’t,” she gasped, wishing with all her being that she could. “You know that.”

  Carson muttered something beneath his breath. “You can’t get me all riled up and then leave me hangin’, darlin’,” he said, smiling. “You just can’t. Come on, darlin’, just a little bit more. Just…” He picked up her skirts and felt her firm buttocks, pulling her against his erection. “Just a little more. God, you’re killing me, darlin’.” His hand had somehow made it between her legs when Amelia’s sanity returned.

  “No, Carson,” she said, pushing his hands away. But he brought them right back.

  “Please, darlin’, you have to let me. I need you. I love you.”

  “I know, Carson, but it’s not right. Not before we’re…” She stopped herself, because even though Carson had said he loved her, he’d yet to mention marriage. “I mean, I could never do that with any man I wasn’t married to.”

  He kissed her nipples again, losing himself in her, and she allowed it because it felt so good and because as long as he was caressing her breasts he was staying away from where he oughtn’t to go.

  “I’ll marry you, Amelia. I’ll marry you. Now, come on, darling,” he said, tugging up her skirts again, stopping only when she squealed in happiness.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Amelia said.

  Carson pulled back looking momentarily confused. “Then let’s find us a fine bed and we’ll do this up proper.”

  “No, you silly. I’ll marry you. Yes, of course I will. I love you. As to the other, we’ll just have to wait until we’re married. We’ll have to be quick about it, because you’re leaving so soon. Perhaps you could delay your departure? I was so hoping you could stay for the season. We must put the banns in the paper, find a church. Oh, and you have to ask Edward’s permission.”

  “Permission,” Carson repeated.

  “I really think that’s the proper thing to do. He is the head of the household, after all.”

  Carson rubbed his jaw. “Well, sure, honey. I’ll do that. But…”

  “But?”

  “Well, I was just thinkin’ that if we’re getting married anyway, I sure don’t know if I can wait all that long.” He gently cupped her face in his hands. “You drive me crazy with wanting you, did you know that?”

  Amelia smiled, his words making her entire body tingle. “You drive me quite crazy, too. I suppose if we are definitely getting married, it won’t do much harm.”

  Carson let out a long breath. “Thank God, ’cause I’m about to bust here.”

  “Not tonight. You must talk to Edward first. You understand, don’t you, Carson?”

  He smiled. “Course I do. If anything was worth the wait, it’s you. I’ll talk to your brother tomorrow and we’ll see if we can get you and me engaged before I head back to Texas.”

  Amelia squealed again and leaped into his arms. “Oh, Carson, I don’t believe I’ve ever been so happy in my life.”

  Edward looked at Carson, dread in his heart. He knew, from the way the man was pacing, that he was here to ask for his sister’s hand. He didn’t want to give it.

  “Lord Hollings,” the American said, looking as if he were about to be ill. “I’ve come here to ask for your sister’s hand in marriage.”

  “I see.”

  Carson Kitteridge was about the same age as Edward, and yet at that moment, the American looked far younger. “Well. Can I?”

  Edward narrowed his eyes. “Do you love my sister?”

  “Sure,” he said affably.

  “My sister is accustomed to a certain way of life. I don’t know if she’d be suited to life on a farm in Texas.”

  He expected Carson to bristle as his use of the word “farm” but he didn’t.

  “I think Miss Hollings would do fine.”

  Edward gave him a grim smile. “Yes, I’m sure she would. My question, however, pertained to whether or not you can support my sister. I know nothing of your ranch, your home, your income.”

  “I do all right.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means. What is your income, sir?”

  Carson looked taken aback. “It’s enough.”

  Edward let out a sigh of frustration. “My good man, you are coming to me to gain my permission to marry my sister. She is used to living like this,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “She is used to having servants, buying the finest things. While I would never say she is spoiled, one does become accustomed to living a certain way. I simply want to be certain you can provide my sister with a good life.”

  “Sure I can.”

  Edward narrowed his eyes and wondered whether Mr. Kitteridge was not quite the brightest fellow. “What is your income, sir?”

  “Money goes a lot further in Texas. My brother and I own one of the largest ranches in Texas. We have more than one thousand head of cattle. I don’t know exactly what that’s worth, ’cause the market fluctuates a bit every year. But it’s enough to keep your sister wearing all the frewfaws she wants and then some. My house may not be as grand as this one, but it’s the grandest house in Small Fork, that’s for sure. Now, sir, can I marry your sister or what?”

  Edward drummed his fingers on his desk, torn as to what to do. He knew his little sister would never forgive him if he forbade her to wed this man. He’d never seen her so consumed by anyone. Unfortunately, Edward knew all too well how love could make you act rather insane. Clearly, Amelia was engaged in an infatuation, one that most likely would run its course until Amelia came to her senses. The problem was, Kitteridge was leaving in less than two weeks. This was something he’d never thought to encounter. He always thought Amelia would meet someone in England, someone he perhaps knew or at least someone he could ask questions about. He leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers against his mouth.

  Standing abruptly, he said, “I’ll give my permission, but I want my sister to have a season first, to make certain this is what she wants. If she still wants to travel to Texas in June, I’ll happily let her go.”

  Kitteridge looked amazingly pleased with the plan. “That sounds right generous of you,” he said. Then, apparently seeing Edward’s confusion, he quickly added, “It’s not that I don’t want to get married right away, but I’m just glad you saw fit to say yes. You see, I have to get back to Texas. My older brother’s been in charge, you see, and he’s a bit dim-witted. Lord knows what he’s been doing while I’ve been gallivanting around England. I can’t stay here until June. Tell you what. I’ll go back home and send for her.”

  Edward smiled. “If Amelia still wants to get married, I’ll send her off.” Edward was quite certain that once Amelia experienced her first season, the last thing she’d want to do would be to head to a strange land to marry a man she hardly knew. Chances were his fickle little sister would fall in love with someone far more appropriate than Carson Kitteridge. And if she didn’t and still wanted to go to Texas, then he’d reluctantly let her go.

  “In the meantime, we’d be more than happy if you would stay here through New Year’s. It will get a bit chaotic with the children, but we’ve no other plans and Amelia would love to have you.”

  Kitteridge gave him a grin that fairly lit up the room. “That sounds right nice,” he said, clapping his hands together.

  As he left, Edward wondered whether the man truly did love his sister. He was willing to wait for her
, and he’d seemed sincerely happy that the meeting had gone well. And, Edward noted, he hadn’t even asked about a dowry. That was perhaps the most interesting thing of all.

  Chapter 23

  Maggie stood on Centre Street outside the imposing the bleak facade of the Hall of Justice, known by New Yorkers as The Tombs. The building was designed to look like a Roman tomb, forbidding and unwelcoming. She pulled her cheap cloak around her tighter, trying in vain to stop the bitterly cold wind from penetrating the thin fabric. The sun shone weakly in a milky sky, giving off little light and even less heat. She wished she could visit her father wearing her old ermine-lined coat and muff. The last thing she wanted to do was to worry her father more by arriving looking like some sort of scullery maid. But it was Christmas Day and she was alone in New York and she wanted her father.

  The Tombs, a huge granite building, took up an entire city block. Maggie hadn’t known there were so many criminals in the city. It seemed as if all of New York could fit inside. Clutching a small parcel against her, she walked up the broad steps, fear touching her, almost as if she were to be locked up. At the top of the steps was a large portico with towering columns that seemed to block any light from penetrating the gloomy, frightening, cavernous entrance that was about as welcoming as the gaping opening of a grave. The portico was nearly deserted, but for a single uniformed guard leaning up against the dark granite lighting a cigar in his boredom. Maggie nodded to him, unsure where to go, until she spied a small sign directing visitors to a second building just beyond a courtyard.

  She knew, suddenly, why her father had forbidden her mother and her to visit him. The Tombs was a frightening place. It smelled of damp and mildew, almost as if a fog of despair hung over the massive building. Men were killed here, sent to the gallows and hanged until they died. Maggie shuddered, more from that thought than the wind that swirled about the courtyard, kicking up long-dead leaves. She quickly walked to the door and opened it, finding herself in a small room where the smell of mold was almost overwhelming. Walking to a window where another guard sat, she informed him that she was here to visit her father.

  “Reginald Pierce, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fourth floor. Through that door and up. At the top is another guard, he’ll bring you down to see him. What’s that?” he asked, nodding at her parcel.

  “A book,” she said, suddenly afraid she wouldn’t be allowed to give it to her father.

  “Let’s see,” he said, holding out his hand. Then seeing her stricken face, he smiled. “It’s for your protection and ours, miss.” Maggie gave him the book, her heart breaking as he undid her ribbon and unwrapped the brightly colored paper.

  “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” he read. “Never heard of it.” He riffled through the pages. “You wouldn’t believe what you can hide in books.”

  “People do that?” Maggie asked.

  “Once found a pistol in a copy of Moby Dick.” He handed the book and the paper and ribbon back to her. “Good day, miss. And Merry Christmas.”

  Maggie gave him a watery smile. Oh, this was just horrid. Her father should not be in this cold, damp, dark place. He should be at home in their beautiful town house, his feet up on his ottoman, his pipe in his hand, sitting before a cozy fire. He should be listening to her read to him or perhaps singing along as Maggie played Christmas carols on their piano. As she walked up the stone steps, she brushed a few tears away. She’d nearly cried that morning in church, her mind not on the birth of Jesus, but on her poor father who no doubt was unable to participate in any Christmas tradition. She pinched her pale cheeks and forced her mouth into a smile, just to test it. It would only make her father more upset if he saw that she was sad. She’d smile, pretend nothing was too horrid about the place, and let him know that all was well.

  When she finally made it to the fourth floor, Maggie’s thighs were burning from the exertion. She knocked on the door, which was almost immediately answered by a guard. “I’m here to see Mr. Pierce. I’m his daughter.”

  The man smiled at her, a genuinely happy-to-see-you kind of smile that seemed so out of place here, Maggie was completely taken aback. “So, you’re Maggie,” the guard said. “Reggie will be just tickled. And don’t you worry that he’ll be upset. I know he didn’t want you to come here, but I just know he’ll be pleased as punch.”

  “You certainly are a jolly guard,” Maggie said, laughing.

  “There’s enough misery here without me adding to it,” the guard said, becoming somber. “I’m Sergeant Fisk. Your father and I play chess every day at four o’clock. Haven’t beaten him once but I’ve come awful close a couple of times.”

  Maggie smiled, so completely astonished to find such a nice man working as a prison guard. She followed the guard through another door and found herself high above the ground floor, walking along a long, open hallway with cells on either side connected by a bridge. Two stovepipes ran up the center of the building, connected to two large stoves on the ground floor, giving off dismal heat. Despite skylights on the ceiling, the prison was dark, as if light could not penetrate through the gloom. It was noisy with shouts from below, and the smell of unwashed bodies and human feces was almost overwhelming.

  “Block your ears. And your nose,” the guard said good-naturedly. “Lady coming through,” he called out, a warning to the men in cells along the way.

  “I need a lady,” someone yelled from below. “Come here, lady.” The prisoner proceeded to make obscene noises until another guard thankfully put a stop to it.

  The guard ignored the catcalls and Maggie’s flaming cheeks, concentrating only on his charges. “This fourth tier is the cream of the crop,” he said. “We got a banker, a lawyer, and…” As he passed by one cell. “What are you again, Vonner?”

  “A falsely accused schoolmaster,” came the disembodied answer from one of the cells.

  They skirted around a woman sitting on a small bench outside one of the cells, clutching the hands of the inmate inside, and continued on to the last cell.

  “Yeah, a schoolmaster. And, of course, your father. Reggie,” he called. “You got yourself a visitor and a mighty pretty one, too,” he said, winking at her. “You sit yourself right here.” He pulled a small bench closer to the cell, then turned and left, good-naturedly returning all the gibes the prisoners threw at him.

  “Oh, Maggie, what are you doing here?”

  Maggie clutched at the thick, cold iron bars and gazed into the gloomy cell. “Papa, come here and let me see you,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. She simply couldn’t take it in, that her father was living in this tiny cell in this horrid place. It was worse than her imagination, far worse. Two cots were crammed into the tiny cell, and another man lay on another cot, apparently sleeping.

  As her father came to the bars, she got an even greater shock. He looked…wonderful.

  “I hate to say this, Papa, but prison seems to agree with you.”

  Her father, his blue eyes glittering with tears, smiled. He’d lost weight, and his eyes had lost that fear, the worry that had etched so many lines on his dear, dear face. She put the book down on the bench, then reached through the bars and grabbed one of his hands, holding it against her. “Oh, Papa, it’s so good to see you,” she said. “I should have come sooner. I should have ignored your order. Shame on you for making us stay away.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you, my dear. Oh, Maggie, please don’t cry,” he said, laying a trembling hand on her head. “How are you? How is your mother?”

  “We’re both fine. Mother is still in England, but I had to come back. I’m so glad I did. I can’t believe you’re spending Christmas here. But it’s your last, isn’t it? Why didn’t you write to us that you were being released? It’s wonderful news.”

  “I did write. Perhaps you haven’t received it yet. I could hardly believe it myself. Apparently Charles Barnes worked on my behalf to have the sentence reduced. I’ll be in his debt for a very long tim
e.”

  Maggie remained silent, not wanting to talk about Charles Barnes or even think of him. She certainly didn’t want to feel grateful toward him. She couldn’t stop looking at her father, taking in all the changes in him. “I imagine the food here is terrible.”

  “It’s edible,” he said. Reginald had always been a man who overindulged in everything—food, wine, spending. “I do miss Cook’s tarte a l’oignon. Sometimes I dream about it,” he said wistfully. “And how is your Sir William? Is there a wedding to look forward to?”

  “Well, perhaps,” she said. “But not to Sir William. He did propose, but I said no. He was a very nice gentleman, but I don’t think I would have made him a good wife.”

  “Of course you would have,” her father insisted loyally.

  “I didn’t love him, Papa.”

  “I take it there is someone else, then?”

  Maggie swallowed a knot in her throat and nodded. “Do you remember Lord Hollings?”

  His eyes widened. “The earl from Newport?”

  “I haven’t said so in my letters, but I’ve seen quite a lot of him in England. He is best friends with the Duke of Bellingham and spent a lot of time at Bellewood. It seems as though he loves me. At least he did. When I return to England I have to sort things out. And if I don’t, I’ll always have you, Papa. Oh, here,” she said, spinning around to gather up her present. “Merry Christmas.”

  “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” her father read.

  “It’s supposed to be quite entertaining. I haven’t read it yet, myself.”

  “Stevenson is one of my favorite authors,” her father said, smiling. “Thank you.” He went back to his cot and laid the book upon it. The task seemed to take an inordinate amount of time and Maggie suspected he was trying to compose himself before returning to her.