“Indeed, Major,” Miss Farthington answered as she lifted her cup to those pink, bowed lips and blew gently on the piping hot tea she’d just poured herself. “I prefer whist or vingt-et-un, but my aunt is quite accomplished at piquet and is simply brilliant on the pianoforte.”
None of Baxter’s current guests had shown any interest in playing the instrument.
Howlette gazed around the room, a rather cunning glint in his eye. Pulling on the lapels of his bright blue jacket, he said, “I say, why don’t we have dancing after dinner tonight?”
Even the newlyweds perked up at that suggestion.
“What a splendid idea,” Mrs. Harmon said, catching her husband’s hand in hers.
“Oh, we quite adore dancing,” gushed Miss Marian. “Do we not, Sister?”
Her sister bobbed her head, the purple feather tucked into her steel gray coiffure gyrating at the movement. “Indeed, we do,” she agreed, peering at Mrs. Grenville expectantly.
The Popkin sisters' fans fluttered so vigorously, Baxter pondered if they might become airborne in their enthusiasm.
“Ah, but our new guests have only just arrived, and they might wish to retire early this evening.” Baxter offered Mrs. Grenville a reprieve from being forced to play for their entertainment. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but appreciate that if she took to the keys, the males and females were evenly matched for dancing.
And damn his eyes, if he didn’t want to take Miss Justina Farthington into his arms and whirl her about the room. Hell, he’d like to do a lot more than that, and his immediate, compelling physical response to her puzzled him as much as it fascinated.
Glancing to the window, Baxter allowed the minutest upward tilt of his mouth.
Snow swirled furiously outside, blurring the view, and by the looks of the storm, his newest guests wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.
Why that delighted him, Baxter refused to examine.
Chapter Three
Bathhurst Hotel and Spa
November 22, 1810
Early Afternoon
Curled into an oversized chair covered in forest green and crimson brocade, Justina attempted to focus her attention on Don Sebastian by Anna Maria Porter, the book she’d selected from the surprisingly well-stocked library at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa. In truth, she was astonished to find the volume which had only released last year.
However, the story failed to hold her attention as she’d hoped, and as her mind often had the past days, her thoughts mulishly migrated to Baxter Bathhurst.
The dratted man had her at sixes and sevens, and she wasn’t the sort of empty-headed ninny to have her head turned by a captivating smile or a disarming glint in an attractive man’s eyes.
No, indeed.
Not until now.
Simply astonishing, and so out of character for her as well.
A very unladylike snort escaped her.
Typically, Justina strove to abide by Society’s strictures and did her utmost not to draw undesirable attention much less say or do anything to cause a raised eyebrow, censorious look, or titillating whisper.
Except, she had joined several other ladies in Hyde Park early one morning last summer, and they’d dared to ride astride, some even brazenly wearing breeches.
Scandalous.
Yes, and ever so wonderful.
A secret smile bent her mouth at the memory.
Mayhap that yearning to be more daring and bolder that she kept rigorously subdued meant to rebel at its confinement.
Heaven help her. She mustn’t allow it.
Wasn’t her illegitimacy disgrace enough?
Wasn’t her contrived relationship with Aunt Emily sufficient to ruin them both should the truth ever be learned?
Hadn’t her adopted aunt sacrificed and risked everything for Justina?
By all that was holy, she would control the wicked streak in her—a tendency Justina must’ve inherited from her mother.
Or perchance her father, as well, since she had absolutely no idea who he was. She’d seen a miniature of Richard Farthington, and Justina didn’t recognize him. If he’d fathered her, he’d cut her mother from his life long before that fateful day a decade ago.
With renewed determination, Justina firmed her lips, pressing them into a hard line as her fingers curled into the book’s pages.
She would resist her wayward tendencies.
I must.
In truth, neither she nor Aunt Emily had expected they’d be delayed this long in Bath. Though the snow had finally stopped in the late afternoon two days ago, at least two-and-one-half feet of thick white covered the ground, rendering coach travel impossible until it melted.
Justina wasn’t the least put out regarding their forced stay, and she was honest enough to admit that her enigmatic host was the cause.
Well, her befuddling reaction to Baxter Bathhurst was the reason.
In the days since her arrival, she’d reluctantly realized she’d looked for him quite often—oh, very well, constantly—and as the guests and their host took all of their meals together, she’d seen him at least thrice daily. Then there were the after-supper interactions with him, the day he’d introduced her to his birds, and four times he’d appeared in the parlor during tea.
It was silly she well knew, but Justina wished the frequent encounters were because he sought her out.
Cabbage head.
Her heart gave that delicious fluttering movement it did whenever her musings drifted in his direction.
God help her, she had it bad. Very bad, indeed.
How could it have happened so quickly?
Staring blankly at the open pages, she shook her head.
Aunt Emily would be horrified had she any notion. Which of course, Justina would make absolutely sure she never had the slightest inkling.
“You’re a besotted idiot,” Justina chastised herself beneath her breath, even though she was alone in the greenhouse’s almost tropical setting. The other guests didn’t favor the birds as much as she and, even confined in their cages as the exotic birds were, the Popkin sisters were quite terrified of the winged menagerie.
That suited Justina perfectly fine.
This bit of heaven was hers, and hers alone, to enjoy since the day Baxter had introduced her to the greenhouse and its avian guests. Today was the first day Princess and Duke hadn’t followed her into her sanctuary. Instead, Duke’s paw now much recovered, they’d gone for a walk with Baxter.
Who, she asked herself, walked in the freezing cold with snow up to their knees?
Baxter Bathhurst, that was who.
There was so much about him that she wanted to know and didn’t dare ask.
Where did he hail from?
Did he have any sisters or brothers?
Were his parents alive? What were his favorite foods? What had motivated him to hire his unique collection of servants? And why rescue unusual birds?
Possibly it was boredom that had her so consumed with thoughts of her host. Even as she considered the possibility, Justina dismissed it for the fustian rot that it was.
Baxter—how utterly wicked of her to think of him this way—had permitted her to feed a parrot and a cockatoo a bite of apple that first morning. Now, she was allowed to feed all of the birds a treat or two anytime she wished.
Having never before been infatuated, Justina assumed the eagerness to see Baxter—to look upon him, into his warm, caramel brown eyes, and to hear his rumbling baritone—was infatuation. His tenor held an inflection, the merest melodious accent she couldn’t quite place but which teased Justina’s ears and made him all that much more mysterious and intriguing.
Tantalizing. Fascinating. Enthralling.
And so many more words ending in ing.
Although she’d been ten years of age when she’d arrived in England, and it had taken her two years to learn to speak the language fluently, she hadn’t retained a German accent. At least not one that was detectable, and Aunt Emily had assured her it was
so. Not that it mattered for Justina’s Austrian heritage was well-known, and she wasn’t ashamed of it.
From the corner of her eye, a movement caught her attention. She glanced out the window, her book forgotten at what she beheld.
Baxter shoveled snow from the curved walkway.
He’d returned from his outing then.
From beneath her lashes, Justina observed him—for to stare outright would be most ill-mannered—quite enjoying the way his jacket pulled taut across his broad back and shoulders as he worked. He was inarguably handsome, his strong jaw, slightly hooked nose, and weather-touched features perhaps too rugged for the Beau Monde’s standard of attraction compared to the pale-faced, mincing fops in London.
He turned to begin clearing another row, and a shock of sandy-brown hair fell over his forehead. The errant locks made him look younger, more boyish and carefree. Not that he was old, by any means.
She’d wager he hadn’t reached his thirties yet, but there was an air about him as if he were burdened or perhaps troubled.
Little puffs of air floating from his much too alluring and well-formed mouth as he repeatedly inserted the broad, flat shovel into the snow and then heaved the load to the side gave testament to the frigid temperature outdoors.
Inside the conservatory, heated pipes kept the space quite comfortable. Should Justina require it, a knitted emerald-colored afghan lay draped across the arm of a nearby sofa. Two more were stacked upon a nearby table.
Naturally, neither were necessary during the warmer months when, she imagined, the space might feel as tropical as it looked with all of the shrubs, plants, and citrus trees.
The occasional squawk of a bird rent the tranquility every now and again, but she’d become so accustomed to the birds’ sounds, she scarcely noticed any longer. In point of fact, she rather liked the chirps and chatter, and a desire to explore the places where these birds had originated swept her.
Baxter tossed another shovel of heavy snow with the ease of one emptying a dustbin.
Wasn’t he cold?
He swiped a forearm across his forehead.
Well, perhaps not, given the rigorousness of the activity. It somewhat surprised Justina that, as the owner of the hotel, he didn’t think himself above physical labor. She had been introduced to gentlemen and peers that she was convinced didn’t even prepare their own toothbrushes.
As if sensing her perusal, Baxter glanced up, and a slow, devilish grin tilted his firm mouth upward. He winked—the wicked man actually winked!—before returning to his task.
A tremor, much like the one that had skittered up Justina’s spine when he’d taken her in his arms to dance the other night, caused her to shudder again.
She could still feel his iron-like arms embracing her, smell the masculine scent of his cologne—something woodsy-mossy with a hint of cloves and leather—and see the faintest dark stubble on his jaw. She closed her eyes, savoring the memory, the feel of his legs brushing hers as they waltzed, how they moved in such perfect timing, swaying and dipping—
No! Cease this instant!
Justina popped her eyelids open and clapped the book shut, setting it aside as she lowered her feet to the floor. After donning her slippers, she considered joining Aunt Emily in the spa, but then upon further consideration, decided against it.
She’d satisfied her curiosity about taking the cure the day after their arrival. Truth be told, the experience had left much to be desired. Guests were offered an earthy tasting, cloudy water. They relaxed upon chaise lounges, sipping the less than appetizing beverage. If one wished, a bath in the mineral water could also be arranged.
Justina wrinkled her nose.
No, thank you very much.
It was said the waters were a cure for a myriad of ailments, including leprosy and infertility. But as Justina boasted a strong constitution and had seldom been sick with so much as a head cold her entire life, she’d eschewed the experience.
She had no interest in visiting the acclaimed Bath Pump Room at a later date either.
Aunt Emily had indulged in taking the waters and a bath but had declared a rather annoying film had stuck to her skin afterward, and she feared she smelled like rotten eggs. That was the salt in the chloride, Baxter had explained. The minerals were the cause of the murky tint to the waters as well.
How did a simple hotelier know such a specific detail?
Well, he did own a spa, and it did seem reasonable he’d educate himself about the history of the hot spring, Justina supposed.
A gorgeous blue macaw named Romero cocked his head and lifted a foot, his version of a wave. He then billed the latch to his cage, more of a good-sized rectangular pen.
Ah, he wanted out.
Baxter had shown her which of the birds were permitted to fly about the greenhouse as long as the doors were firmly shut. Astonishingly, some of the birds returned to their cages when they needed to relieve themselves, for which she was most grateful.
Once Justina had checked the outer door to assure it was shut tight, she made her way to the other, which opened into a small covered courtyard that led to the main house. Before she reached the doorway, however, Godfrey Howlette swaggered into the conservatory.
Had he been drinking this early in the day?
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d imbibed before the midday meal. The man tottered about half-pished most of the time. What was more, he ogled her in a most disconcerting fashion as well. This, however, was the first occasion they’d been alone together, and at once unease prickled her skin and took to wing in her belly.
It was also the first time he’d actually ventured into the greenhouse while she’d been a guest at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa.
Had he sought her out, knowing she’d be alone?
“Ah, there you are, Miss Farthington.” His mouth pinching in distaste, he cast a fleeting glance at the birds. So his venturing here wasn’t out of any admiration for the flora or fauna. “I wondered where you’d hidden yourself away these past few days.”
Retreating to the center of the room to put more space between herself and Mr. Howlette, who had the disgusting habit of staring at her bosoms while running his tongue over his lower lip, she squared her shoulders.
“I assure you, I am not hiding away, Mr. Howlette.” Boorish buffoon. “I am simply particular about whose company I keep.”
In an instant, his affable expression transformed into annoyance.
“I do hope you aren’t referring to me,” he remarked casually as he closed the door behind him with a distinct and rather portentous snick. “I am the nephew of an earl,” he informed her with an air of great self-importance, his nose elevated in a haughty manner.
La de da.
A thread of unease traipsed across Justina’s shoulders, and she speared a glance at the window where she’d seen Baxter shoveling snow earlier.
Drat and blast.
He was gone.
She’d hoped… Well, she didn’t know precisely what she’d expected.
Yes, she did.
She’d hoped he’d notice what was occurring in the greenhouse and save her from this wretched man.
“Mr. Howlette, unfortunately”—fortunately for me—“you’ve caught me just as I was leaving.” Romero’s exercise would have to wait, poor bird. “My aunt is expecting me.”
Howlette advanced toward her, his movements predatory and calculating, a smug smile quirking the edges of his too-full lips.
“Justina,” he drawled with an alarming gleam in his gaze. “May I call you Justina? It’s such a lovely name.” A shudder of revulsion rippled through her. “We are rather like a family here at Bathhurst, are we not? Dining together, seeing one another all day, sleeping under the same roof.”
The way he said sleeping raised her hackles, and she’d wager her virtue that his lewd gaze sank to her bosoms before she counted to three.
One, two…
His lascivious focus slid to her breasts again.
“No, yo
u may not. And no, we assuredly are not,” Justina snapped.
She made to move past him, but the boor stepped in front of her. She stepped to the left and, once again, he blocked her way, that oily smile yet skewing his mouth.
“What childish game do you play?” Thoroughly miffed with his machinations, she planted her hands on her hips. “As I already said, my aunt is expecting me. I am tardy in meeting her as it is.”
God forgive her for that little taradiddle.
Howlette’s smile grew slyer still. “I know for a fact that your aunt is having a lie-down. She has the headache and retired to her chamber nearly half an hour ago.”
And this unscrupulous rat took the opportunity to seek me out.
“Then all the more reason for me to go to her.”
What was the rotter about?
Was she going to have to be rude?
Howlette stepped nearer, so near Justina could smell the spirits he’d been imbibing, as well as sweat and a whiff of garlic. Nonetheless, she resisted the urge to back away.
This churl would not intimidate her.
She couldn’t, however, prevent her nostrils from flaring or narrowing her eyes.
“From the moment I laid eyes upon you, Justina Farthington, I knew there was something special between us.” He brazenly traced a finger along her jaw, his attention once more trained on her bodice. “I’m sure we can find a pleasurable way to relieve the godawful tedium of being housebound.”
“You go beyond the mark, sir.” She jerked her face away and beat a tactical retreat as she furtively sought a weapon of some sort. The fireplace was too far away to avail herself of the poker.
How much damage could an apple thrown at his head do?
Not enough.
He pursued her, advancing a menacing step for everyone one she took backward.
“If you do not let me pass, I shall scream.”
Grabbing her upper arms, he hauled her to him, wrenching a gasp from her. He ground his hips into hers before smiling lecherously. “I like it when my women scream.”
What the devil?
“I beg your pardon?”
Wedding Her Christmas Duke: A Regency Romance Page 3