This was more than lust or desire.
It was a connection of spirits—one soul recognizing its mate against all odds.
“I canna, lass.” Baxter couldn’t say all of the other things, wildly stupid and impetuous things on the tip of his tongue.
Disappointment pooled in her gorgeous green eyes, still slightly glazed with passion. She bit her lower lip—red and plump and moist—and after a moment, averted her gaze while giving a stiff nod. “I…I understand.”
No, she didn’t. Not in the least.
He almost laughed aloud but feared he’d further humiliate her.
He’d be bound, Justina erroneously believed he didn’t want her.
God help him; nothing was farther from the truth. But if Baxter didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t be able to, and he did have to leave before dawn tomorrow. He’d not love Justina, make her his, and leave her for weeks, wondering if he was sincere in his protestations. Fretting she’d given her virtue to a charlatan. Worried she might be with child.
Even in this short time, she meant too much to him to do that to her.
“I shall call upon you, Justina, when I return from Lancashire. My intentions toward you are honorable. I vow it.”
He knew next to nothing about the woman gazing at him so intently and slightly vulnerable as well. Aye, she was gently-bred and as refined as any lady he’d encountered in a haut ton ballroom. Her comportment was without flaw, and she was witty and kind and intelligent.
But he didn’t know anything about her family, her past, or even what activities she enjoyed other than reading and feeding his birds.
I can discover all of that later.
What mattered was that he not lose this opportunity to make his interest clearly known, for whatever this was between them was rare and precious and should never, ever be disregarded. The caution and reason he was renowned for seemed to have flown to the farthest corners of the earth. And to his consternation and astonishment, he didn’t give ten damns.
The Baxter Bathhurst, Duke of San Sebastian, of a week ago would’ve had apoplexy at such a ludicrous notion.
With his forefinger, he lifted her chin inch by inch until her eyes, those mesmerizing pools of green, met his. Dark blue-green rimmed her irises, and the palest yellow-green circled her pupils.
A trace of indecision crinkled the corners of her eyes the merest bit.
“Believe me, please.”
My God, he was practically begging her. Him, the Duke of San Sebastian, who’d never begged for anything.
Her eyes wide and her mouth slightly parted, Justina searched his face. Her expression cleared, her eyebrows relaxing, and serenity settled upon her delicate features.
“I do believe you, Baxter.”
And she did.
He could see the trust in her guileless countenance, and that faith in him humbled Baxter.
“Let’s see you to bed, then,” he said. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be away, but I cannot imagine it will be more than a week. Plus, travel time, of course.”
A persistent grin tipped his mouth.
She nodded, and he couldn’t help notice her elegant neck again. How could the sloping column of her neck be so arousing? Because it beckoned a man to look lower, to the round perfection of her shoulders and the seductive swell of breasts beneath the wholly inadequate fabric of her nightgown.
“That will give me time to tell Aunt Emily and for her to become accustomed to the idea.” A winsome smile teased the corners of her mouth.
He cocked his head. “Do you think she’ll be opposed to me courting you?”
Honestly, Baxter hadn’t considered that.
They dinna ken ye’re a duke.
And he wanted to keep it that way for a while longer. Naturally, Justina would have to know eventually, but not yet. Baxter had to be convinced she wished to be with him because of who he was and for no other reason.
To Justina and Emily Grenville, he was merely a hotel proprietor. Not a disrespectable vocation by any means, but to those who aspired for loftier positions, anyone who worked for a living was inferior—smelled of the shop.
Truth be told, Mrs. Grenville wasn’t even aware of his Scottish heritage. That, in and of itself, caused many of the ton to lift their haughty noses when he encountered them. As if he trod past with fresh horse manure clinging to his boots.
And yet, Justina had been fascinated by the knowledge that he was Scottish.
After guiding her to her bed and seeing her tucked beneath the plush coverlet, he sat beside her. He took her delicate hand in his. “I know this is happening fast, but I shan’t rush you. I’ll call upon you in Bristol, and we’ll see where this attraction between us goes. If you are agreeable, that is.”
She must be.
Justina’s mouth went slack before joy ignited in her eyes, radiating outward and lighting her face. She squeezed his hand. “It is fast. But I, for one, believe in love at first sight or short acquaintance. I know it’s not common, but I am convinced it is real, nonetheless.”
Love?
Who said anything about love?
She must’ve sensed Baxter’s hesitancy for in all honesty, he couldn’t say he loved her. Not yet, in any event. She withdrew her hand, acute embarrassment evident in her strained features, the color tinging her cheeks, and her refusal to meet his gaze.
“I’ve spoken out of turn. Forgive me.” She scooted farther beneath the bedcoverings, pulling them to beneath her chin. A fabric shield to ward off her discomfit. “I’m very tired, Baxter, and need my rest. We’re leaving tomorrow as well.”
Dammit.
She’d retreated into herself, donning a mask of neutrality and politesse.
“Justina, I meant no offense.”
“None was taken,” she said softly.
Little liar.
Unable to help himself, Baxter brushed his hand across her smooth forehead then fingered a lock of silky hair. The color was unusual, shifting and changing, depending on the light. In the muted glow of the candle, her hair shone like warm honey.
“Dinna forget to leave yer address with Bixby. I’d no’ relish havin’ to knock upon every door in Bristol to find ye.”
She giggled, and the tension of a moment before dissipated. “You wouldn’t. Not really.”
“Ye dinna ken me, Justina. I would. When I put my mind to somethin’, I’m no’ easily dissuaded.”
The tiniest furrow crinkled her brow as if she wasn’t positive what to make of his declaration.
For a gem such as she, Baxter would bang upon every door in England and Scotland.
Baxter kissed her again, a tender sweep of his lips across hers.
It was as much a vow, a promise he’d seek her out after he’d attended to his duties, as much as a token of affection. Too many people depended on him for their well-being for him to ignore the problem. His overseer wouldn’t have contacted Baxter if the situation hadn’t been urgent.
Yet this reluctance to leave Justina Farthington, a woman he’d known but a week made him wish, for once, he could cast his responsibilities aside. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he would not. It wasn’t his nature, and so he quirked his mouth into a tender smile.
“Good night, leannan.”
“Leannan?” She tried the unfamiliar word. “That’s Scots? What does it mean?”
“I’ll tell you the next time I see you.”
After another lingering taste of her delectable lips, he blew out the candle and left her chamber. His cock protested by throbbing painfully, but Baxter couldn’t check his broad smile as he sought his own room.
He hadn’t seriously considered marrying so soon.
In truth, he’d spent a great deal of time avoiding the Marriage Mart. How fortunate could a man be that the perfect woman literally showed up on his doorstep? And most conveniently was stranded there during a snowstorm?
If Baxter believed in Divine Providence—which, of course, he didn’t—he just might be persuaded
he’d somehow earned God’s favor.
A wry chuckle escaped him at his fanciful musings.
What was it his mother used to say?
Och, aye. The Lord helps those who help themselves.
An hour later, as Baxter lay naked in his oversized bed, his hands clasped beneath his head, he stared up at the dark green canopy. The fire’s capering flames cast irregular, elongated shadows onto the half-open bed curtains.
When should he tell Justina he held a title?
Very little chance existed that she’d learn that truth on her own. Therefore, he’d take his time and woo her. Not too much time, however.
Ah, Christ.
He exhaled a frustrated breath.
Why had he given his word he’d attend the Sutcliffes’ Christmastide house party?
Because Pennington, Bainbridge, and Pembroke were pains in the arse who wouldn’t take no for an answer. They believed Baxter worked too much and that he needed to take a holiday.
What sane man, in God’s name, would choose to holiday in Essex in December?
Blast and damn.
Between the machinery issues at the textile factory and the holiday festivities, he’d have little time to court Justina.
Unless he could convince the Sutcliffes to invite her too?
No, he mightn’t’ know her well, but she didn’t strike him as the type who was entirely at ease in crowds. Besides, she might be uncomfortable around so many peers.
What the hell was he to do?
Chapter Seven
Bristol, England
December 15, 1810
Brushing a hand across her forehead, Justina sighed for the umpteenth time. Eyebrows furrowed and her bottom lip clamped between her teeth, she considered the gowns laying upon her bed’s light blue coverlet, trying to decide which she’d take to the Sutcliffes’ house party.
None were new, but both she and Aunt Emily were gifted with a needle and thread and gowns from two Seasons ago had been reworked quite satisfactorily. A scrap of lace here, a ribbon or braid there, or a new ruffle, and the garments were hardly recognizable. That was one practical means implemented to stretch coin.
Well, that was stretching the truth, but the frocks were near enough in style to the current fashion to pass haut ton inspection at first glance. And since Justina rarely drew a second glance, except from her friends, she wasn’t concerned about her revamped wardrobe. That business of requiring new garments from the skin out each Season was positively wasteful.
Head tilted, she considered two additional morning gowns.
The mint green or the rose?
Both perhaps?
Justina wasn’t above wearing a gown more than once at a house party. After all, budget and wardrobe restraints already required her to do so with other attire.
She slanted a glance at the nearly full trunk. It already contained three morning gowns, a riding habit, two walking ensembles, six afternoon gowns, and another half dozen evening gowns. Justina had also managed to fit a ballgown, a fichu, her unmentionables, a nightgown and robe, two each of spencers, pelisses, and shawls, and, lastly, a heavy cloak in case it snowed again.
Then there were gloves, shoes, stockings, her sewing kit, and various other necessary fallalls and fripperies. She almost envied servants their simple uniforms. Almost.
She’d wear her redingote and one of the three bonnets she intended to take with her in the coach.
Puffing out an unladylike sigh that ballooned her cheeks in a childish manner, Justina shook her head. Really. This would be so much easier, not to mention less costly, if women weren’t required to change their gowns multiple times a day.
As neither she nor Aunt Emily employed a lady’s maid, they acted as one another’s Abigail, as well as packed an unpacked their own trunks. Theadosia, Duchess of Sutcliffe, would assign them a maid to share for the duration of the house party, but it wasn’t the least necessary.
For months, Justina had anticipated the Christmastide gathering, but now a shadow marred her earlier joy.
Baxter hadn’t come knocking on her door.
He hadn’t written either—not a single letter in over three weeks.
That isn’t so very long, she tried to console herself.
True, but if Baxter had written promptly upon returning to Bath—
But—drat the man—he hadn’t.
Deciding there was room for both gowns, she picked up the green muslin.
Nose scrunched, Justina mentally calculated, again, how long it took to travel to Lancashire and back while allowing a week for him to attend to whatever urgent business had required his attention.
Bristol was but thirteen miles from Bath. A trip he could easily make on horseback in an hour and a half, depending on how much he walked or galloped his mount. How naive she’d been to think that some force beyond her or him had inexorably brought them together.
Lifting her dance slippers to place them inside the trunk, a frown puckered her forehead.
Blast and damn.
A worn spot marred the sole of the right slipper. Running a fingertip across the leather, she pondered whether it would wear through during the house party. She checked the inside of the slipper, as well, grateful no holes were visible.
Giving a little shrug, she accepted the indisputable truth. It was too late to have the slipper repaired or order a new pair. She’d have to save them strictly for dancing and avoid walking about unnecessarily. Perhaps she’d even sit out several dances.
Pshaw.
Her hostess wouldn’t permit it. Theadosia was renowned for making her guests feel at ease. No attendee to any of her events ever felt neglected or loitered by a wall.
In all likelihood, Justina fretted about nothing. No one would be looking at the soles of her feet, for heaven's sake.
After tucking the slippers into a corner of the trunk and adding nankeen half-boots and two other pairs of slippers, she permitted her contemplations to gravitate to Baxter once more.
As if she had any choice.
Like wild ponies, the dashed stubborn things galloped in that direction more often than not, despite her resolution they do otherwise.
As Baxter had requested, Justina had left her address with Mr. Bixby, slipping it to him quietly before Aunt Emily had settled their bill.
“Mr. Bathhurst asked for my direction,” she’d explained, trying and failing not to blush.
The dear man’s eyes had twinkled behind his lenses, a kindly smile bending Mr. Bixby’s mouth as he’d slipped the folded paper into a drawer.
“Rest assured, I’ll see that he receives it promptly upon his return, Miss Farthington.”
Justina had been a fool—fool—to believe Baxter.
I shall call upon you, Justina, when I return from Lancashire.
My intentions toward you are honorable. I vow it.
He’d seemed so sincere and earnest.
Believe me, please, he’d said.
And she had.
Ninny. Pea goose. Twiddlepoop.
Thank God, Justina hadn’t given herself to him as she’d almost impetuously done. Would’ve done had he not drawn away. Never could she have imagined desire would carry her to the cusp of ruination and that she didn’t give two farthings that it had. Even now, painfully aware that Baxter Bathhurst, the most handsome man—the only man—to upset her equilibrium didn’t want her, caused heat to sluice through her.
It was humiliation washing over her—mortification at being dismissed and forgotten so easily.
Bah, what poppycock and tripe.
Justina snorted, refusing to lie to herself.
It wasn’t embarrassment presently hardening her nipples or causing her blood to warm as it hummed through her veins. No indeed. It was the sweet, sensual memories of what Baxter had done to her. She’d wanted him to continue—to make her a woman in every way.
To make her his woman.
Why had he stopped?
Four words, an unwelcome mantra echoing in her mind, taunti
ng and tormenting. Reminding her of her shortfalls.
That he was an experienced man of the world, Justina had no doubt. Perchance he’d found her lacking or repugnant in some manner. All that twaddle about calling upon her had been just that.
Rubbish. Balderdash and claptrap.
Had he only said he’d come to Bristol and knock upon every door so that he could make his escape that night without hurting her feelings?
Chagrin pricked Justina, sharp little jabs of self-castigation and recrimination further bruising her already battered pride. She grabbed the rose gown and carefully folded it before laying it in her trunk. At precisely nine of the clock tomorrow morning, she and Aunt Emily would depart for Colchester, a three-day journey.
Despite her vow, she’d not look for Baxter anymore, Justina’s traitorous gaze wandered to the mantle clock and then veered to her bedroom window, which faced the street. A lone boy, head down and shoulders hunched against the drizzle, walked briskly along the lane.
No carriage drew to a stop outside.
No damp horseman trotted his mount to a halt.
There is still time, a little voice inside her head whispered.
He isn’t coming, her logical self argued.
Stop looking for him. Cease torturing yourself.
Baxter had said he’d be done in Lancashire within a week. Even allowing time for travel, he should’ve been here by now. If he’d meant to keep his word.
Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and she scrunched them closed, refusing to give in to self-pity. She was not a watering pot.
No more crying.
One doesn’t fall in love in seven days.
But that week at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa had been glorious. Baxter had been glorious.
Bah.
That nonsense was the fanciful stuff of childish fairytales and silly novels for even sillier women. Gullible women who believed in love at first sight. Women who were guaranteed a broken heart.
She groaned and pressed her knuckles to her eyes.
Lord, she’d actually told Baxter that she believed in love at first sight.
And he’d promptly become acutely uncomfortable.
That should’ve clued her to his true feelings.
Wedding Her Christmas Duke: A Regency Romance Page 6