I don’t love him, Justina stubbornly admonished herself. It was nothing more than girlish infatuation and an understandable physical response to a charming man well-versed in seduction.
Good God.
She dropped her balled hands to her sides, horror encompassing her.
Was wantonness another legacy from her disgraced mother?
Cringing at the thought, at what had become of Elsa Trattner as a result of her poor decisions, Justina reminded herself she ought to be grateful. Why, she might’ve found herself with child, just like her mother, and then what would she have done?
Aunt Emily didn’t deserve that burden either.
No, Baxter’s perfidy had cleared the stars from Justina’s eyes and the cobwebs from her thinking. Too bad it hadn’t curbed her physical yearnings.
That would come. In time, Justina vowed. She knew that to be the lie that it was.
Recalling the pitying glance Aunt Emily had given her during their midday meal today, which Justina had barely touched, she groaned aloud again.
“Foolish dolt,” she mumbled to the open trunk.
Anxious that Aunt Emily would object, Justina had permitted nearly a full week to pass before she’d mustered the gumption to tell her aunt that Baxter would be calling upon her.
To her astonishment, Aunt Emily had only softly said, “I expected as much.”
“How could you have known?” Justina had asked in astonishment.
She didn’t dare share how he’d come to her room and what had transpired afterward, so she’d fibbed and said he’d asked her in the greenhouse the day Emily was indisposed.
“My dear,” her aunt had said, laying aside her sewing, Justina’s remade ballgown for the upcoming Christmastide house party. “You couldn’t keep your eyes off one another.”
Had everyone noticed?
Is that why Mr. Bixby’s eyes had twinkled knowingly when Justina had slipped him the note with her address?
Chagrin singed her pride.
Aunt Emily had given Justina a long, probing look, faint tension evident in the lines bracketing her mouth.
“I would urge you to go slowly, Justina. Take your time and truly become acquainted with Mr. Bathhurst. You might think you suit now, but only time spent together will reveal the truth of that.” She’d blushed prettily, her lovely porcelain skin turning quite pink. “Desire dies in the face of the unexpected and unforeseen.”
At the time, Justina had thought the remark quite odd and, as usual, longed to ask precisely what Aunt Emily meant. But a forlorn, stricken look had entered Emily’s gaze, and Justina simply couldn’t stand to cause her beloved aunt any more pain. So, she’d kept her question to herself. However, that didn’t mean curiosity didn’t burn within her.
Justina would’ve been wise to listen to her aunt’s solemn advice. For she spoke from experience, but the giddiness that had previously spiraled through her was disinclined to wait.
More fool she.
Melancholy creasing the corners of her mouth and eyes, Aunt Emily had looked out the window, rain lashing the panes with angry, tear-shaped droplets. After a moment, she returned her regard to Justina once more. “I rushed into a marriage after a brief acquaintance. I was utterly convinced I was in love, and similarly positive that Clement loved me.”
What had caused her to believe otherwise?
“What happened?” Justina asked softly, almost afraid to voice the question lest her aunt retreat into her usual silence on the matter.
Aunt Emily had only shaken her head and said, “That’s a tale for another time, my dear.”
Pushing all thoughts of Baxter Bathhurst aside, Justina finished her packing and then went in search of her aunt. It was time to tell Aunt Emily that Justina had been mistaken about Baxter. He wouldn’t be calling. She intended to put him from her heart and mind and to thoroughly enjoy her time at the Sutcliffes.
She might even flirt with the unmarried male guests.
Flirt?
Justina didn’t flirt.
Well, wasn’t there a first time for everything?
I shall never visit Bath again.
The unbidden thought intruded upon her reverie.
Codswallop.
If Aunt Emily could recover from what appeared to be a tragic, albeit short marriage, Justina most assuredly could square her shoulder, hold her chin up, and paste a smile upon her face for their dinner with Gertrude this evening.
For goodness sake. Justina had barely known Baxter, and seven days’ acquaintance was assuredly inadequate to form a proper opinion about anyone let alone an attachment. Yes, indeed, she’d learned a valuable lesson and thanked Providence she had not sacrificed her virginity for an unworthy scapegrace.
She’d not even leave word with their manservant, Fletcher Tambling, or his wife, Eunice, informing Baxter that she was away until the new year. No indeed. A man who couldn’t be bothered to keep his word wasn’t a man she was interested in furthering an acquaintance with.
You are a liar, Justina Farthington.
Chapter Eight
Bathhurst Hotel and Spa
Bath, England
December 16, 1810
Baxter arrived home in the early morning hours, having pushed on to Bath despite his bone-deep weariness and Knight’s fatigue as well. The loyal horse would’ve continued on until dawn had Baxter required it of the eight-year-old bay gelding.
Yawning widely, Baxter climbed from his rumpled bed before the clock had chimed seven. As exhausted as he’d been, his slumber had proved restless, and he’d awoken frequently, his mind turning over and over to Justina.
She’d been in his thoughts continuously.
How he’d missed her.
That impish twinkle in her eye and the curve of those perfect lips.
Over three long weeks had passed since he’d vowed to her that he’d call as soon as he returned to Bath. And by Odin’s toes, he was a man of his word. In hindsight, he should’ve asked her for her address before he left her chamber that night. Then he could’ve written to her and explained his delay in Lancashire.
As it was, she might very well believe he didn’t intend to keep his word, and he couldn’t blame her. He only had three days to call upon Justina and convince her of his sincerity before he must leave for Essex and that goddamned Christmas house party.
Baxter would cry off if he hadn’t given his word he’d attend and if he didn’t need to discuss a business venture with the Dukes of Pembroke and Sheffield as well as James Brentwood. The Dukes of Kincade and Asherford had also indicated an interest, as had his countrymen, the Dukes of Waycross and Heatherston.
Baxter couldn’t deny it was most convenient that the men would also be in attendance. Such an opportunity could not be dismissed. It saved him from running about all over England and Scotland to meet with them.
He chuckled, imagining all of the dukes in one place. Seductive scoundrels, the lot. Well, they had been until several of the former rakes had recently wed. Still, a dozen dukes, all assembled for a Christmastide house party. Surely, that must be some sort of record.
The Scots didn’t celebrate Christmas, so Baxter had absolutely no idea what to expect. And he’d been assured the only unmarried ladies attending were dear friends of the hostess and not a one was on the prowl for a husband.
The latter, he found nearly impossible to believe.
Making short work of dressing, he grimaced as he tugged on a pair of polished boots awaiting him. Covered in travel grime, the pair he’d worn for the journey home lay where he’d tossed them the night before.
As he didn’t retain a valet, Coyle or Perkins would have them gleaming by this evening, but he couldn’t prevent a small stab of guilt at the unpleasant task before them.
As eager as he was to see Justina again, Baxter wouldn’t appear at her door looking like he’d come straight from his travels. She deserved more respect than that, though he’d venture to guess she wouldn’t mind in the least if he did.
; No, Miss Justina Farthington wasn’t full of bumptiousness, nor did she affect airs. Not once had he heard her blather on about insipid topics such as the weather or fashion, drop the names of people of position she might’ve met at one time or another, nor did she gossip incessantly as the Popkin sisters were wont to do.
Justina was even-tempered, keen-witted, and delightfully unpretentious. But of utmost importance, she liked Baxter for himself. It had been five years since a woman—a woman of marriageable age, he swiftly amended—hadn’t gazed upon him with a calculating glint in her gimlet eye and a determined set to her mouth.
Just the mention of his ducal title in conjunction with his single status had women frothing at the mouth like rabid hounds. Egads, it was almost enough to make a grown man turn tail and run.
Straight back to Scotland.
In the dead of winter.
Never an enviable prospect.
As Baxter swiftly brushed his sandy blond hair into some semblance of order, a frown tugged his mouth downward at the corners. He supposed he’d have to meet with Bixby and make sure all was well with the hotel before heading to Bristol.
That was the responsible thing to do, and the additional delay oughtn’t to annoy as much as it did. Why, since Justina Farthington had burst into his life, did duties and responsibilities—both things he’d previously thrived upon—seem too damn inconvenient?
As it had turned out, his plant manager, Irving Grassley, had grossly understated the issues at Baxter’s Lancashire plant. By the time Grassley had notified Baxter, someone had been sabotaging the equipment on an almost daily basis for a fortnight.
If that weren’t inconvenient enough, not only had half of the workers become severely ill with what turned out to be influenza, but the others were also afraid to work for fear of contracting what they termed, “The curse.”
A rather superstitious lot, according to Grassley, the laborers blamed the sickness which swept the factory on the newly hired, one-eyed engineer, his face and body severely scarred by an explosion years ago.
Baxter had retained Jerome Carnes himself, also Scottish, and a bloody genius when it came to engines and machines. Soft-spoken and painfully conscious of his alarming appearance, Carnes avoided contact with other people to spare them the shock. Unfortunately, his avoidance only served to strengthen the groundless rumors that Jerome also dabbled in the dark arts, Grassley had reported.
In short, the buildings had sat silent for over a week, despite Grassley’s efforts to encourage the unaffected workers to fulfill their duties. Then a few of the more radical young pups had decided to take matters into their own hands and had set fire to Carnes’s living quarters, hoping to drive him away. The flames had spread to other buildings, putting six families from their homes, including sixteen children.
Thank God the worst injuries were smoke inhalation and a few minor burns. One man had sustained more severe burns when he dashed inside his home for the third time to save the last of his six children: seven-month-old twin lasses.
Baxter had been so enraged upon learning of the recklessness of the four imbecilic youths who’d set the fires, his first instinct had been to throttle them within an inch of their lives. The reckless fools had been summarily dismissed without reference, though Baxter hadn’t brought them up on charges as they’d deserved.
They’d been ordered to leave the community and never return. As it turned out, those rotters were also responsible for the equipment malfunction. That, too, had been an attempt to frame Jerome and see him dismissed simply because the man was scarred, and they were superstitious idiots.
After the displaced families and Jerome Carnes had been relocated to other accommodations, Baxter had assembled those workers well enough to attend a meeting. He’d very concisely and firmly stated his full confidence in Jerome and told the others if they were unhappy with his choice of an engineer, they could take their leave, and he’d provide them with a reference.
Any future murmurings against Carnes would result in termination, and anyone engaging in further acts of violence would be turned over to the magistrate. Hence, what Baxter had believed would be a relatively quick trip had turned into an exhausting three-week-long trial.
As he descended the steps in search of Bixby, his dogs prancing at his heels, he grinned. Today he’d see that green-eyed enchantress that had plagued his waking hours as well as his dreams each night. He couldn’t recall the last time such anticipation had assailed him.
“Bixby!” He strode through the expansive entry, excitement and expectation quickening his pulse and step. He glanced at the mahogany longcase clock, imported from Dundee, and calculated how long his discussion with his manager might take as he debated whether to skip breaking his fast.
Damn, was he actually considering not eating to expedite his departure and his reunion with Justina?
A derisive smile quirked Baxter’s mouth.
That was a first.
He’d become a besotted numpty. Skipping meals. Riding his faithful horse until they were both ready to drop. Wishing to rush his duties, all to see a woman he’d known seven short days. One magical, marvelous week had been long enough to realize she was a treasure he couldn’t allow to escape.
“Welcome home, Mr. Bathhurst.” Beaming a sincere welcome, Bixby pushed his spectacles up his nose as he stood proudly behind the counter on the stool Baxter had ordered built for him. “I trust all is well in Lancashire? We expected your return far sooner.”
“Aye, unfortunately, ignorance and fear breed mischief, and circumstances in Lancashire proved a great deal more complicated than I’d anticipated.” Hands on his hips, Baxter grinned and surveyed the spotless entry. Duke and Princess had deserted him, going in search of their morning meal.
“Things are well here?”
Bixby dipped his head. “Yes, sir. We currently have seven guests, and I received word yesterday that another four will arrive this afternoon. We have reservations for an additional eleven. During your absence, seven and thirty have come and gone.”
Not too bad during the winter months.
Not too bad at all.
Bixby straightened to his full height and tugged on his lapels, a shadow of unease pleating his broad forehead and crinkling the corners of his usual jovial features.
“Has something occurred?” Baxter asked, unease prickling along his spine.
“Edie eloped with Becker eight days ago.”
Not at all surprised, Baxter chuckled and scratched his eyebrow. The maid and groom had been sweet on one another for months. Honestly, he’d expected an announcement sooner. “Why couldn’t they simply have told you or me? I’d have let them retain their positions. I have no objections to married couples working in the same establishment.”
It worked out well at his other ventures.
“So I tried to persuade them.” Bixby darted a wary look toward the entry. “The real issue is Edie’s father. Emmet Swern promised her to another, and he says you are to blame for her elopement. He’s been by every morning for the past week, demanding to speak with you.”
“Me?” Baxter arched a brow. “What have I to do with the matter?”
One of the local blacksmiths, Swern had a fondness for the bottle that adversely affected the quality of his work. What was more, he was obstinate and meanspirited. More than once, Edie had arrived at work with a bruise upon her cheek or her lip split.
When Bixby failed to answer, Baxter leveled him a stern look.
“Bixby? Why is he demanding to speak with me?”
Bixby cleared his throat, appearing distinctly uncomfortable. Normally unflappable under the most trying of circumstances, a distinct reddish hue crept from his neck and upward over his cheeks before disappearing into his hairline.
“Well, sir,” he hedged, fiddling with something behind the counter and not quite meeting Baxter’s avid gaze.
“Yes?” Baxter bit out, far sharper than he’d intended. He nearly ground his teeth to powder at the servant’s
continued silence but checked his impatience. It wasn’t Bixby’s fault a siren with petal-soft skin and velvet green eyes called to him.
After a swift glance about the entry and his voice lowered to a discreet level, Bixby said, “It seems Edie was, ah,”—the man’s face turned impossibly redder—“in the family way, and Mr. Swern believes you are the father.”
Baxter went utterly still, absorbing the startling information before finally saying, “Is the man daft?” Nae, but foxed to his fleshy jowls? Aye, Swern was off his head. “Why would she abscond with Becker if I fathered her child?”
His elfin ears turning crimson, Bixby swallowed audibly. “As to that sir, Mr. Swern claims you forced yourself on his daughter. He is demanding compensation, or he’ll make his accusation public.”
Shite.
Emmet Swern was a sodding idiot. If he’d spoken to Bixby about his ridiculous demands, Baxter could damn well guarantee half of Bath knew of the accusation by now.
Baxter, too, glanced at the hotel’s entry.
Hell and damn.
He’d have to delay his departure until he put the blacksmith in his place and disabused him of his ludicrous misconception. That neatly answered the question about whether to stay for breakfast. Baxter supposed it was just as well. He could hardly arrive at Justina’s with his stomach growling from hunger.
“I believe Miss Farthington left something for me?”
“Ah, yes.” Obviously relieved at the change of subject, Bixby reached into a rectangular cubby, withdrawing several slips of paper. He swiftly thumbed through them. A frown drew his brows together. “Where did I put that?”
He opened a drawer and rummaged around inside. “Hmm,” he mumbled to himself. “That’s odd. I swear I placed it with the other messages for you.”
“Is something amiss?” Baxter kept his voice calm, but visions of banging on door after door after door in Bristol invaded his mind.
He swallowed a vile oath.
“No, sir. I’m sure it’s here.” Bixby never misplaced anything. He didn’t even permit the maids to dust his desk. “Ah, here it is.”
Wedding Her Christmas Duke: A Regency Romance Page 7