Wedding Her Christmas Duke: A Regency Romance
Page 9
Baxter Bathhurst was not only Scottish, but the rapscallion was also the Duke of San Sebastian. He’d conveniently forgotten to mention that critical detail. Not once had he hinted that he held a title, the rotter. No wonder he’d failed to keep his promise. He’d been hiding a rather large secret.
He was a duke.
Just what this assemblage needed—another bloody duke!
Chagrin and anger and hurt all vied for dominance, swirling inside her, a maelstrom of emotions. Taking a deep breath, Justina strove for equanimity as she set her teacup upon the table with a steadiness that surprised but pleased her.
Tucking her fingers beneath her skirts, she curled them into claws.
Justina wanted to hit him.
Slap his handsome, arrogant face for making a fool of her—for so cruelly toying with her affections.
My God!
She’d kissed him. Allowed him unspeakable liberties.
Wonderful liberties.
Her blood burned hot at the intrusive memory, and shame wasn’t entirely to blame.
“Justina, dearest?” Distantly, as if through a cloying haze, she heard Aunt Emily say her name.
How fast could Justina pack?
Could their carriage be readied in ten minutes? Five?
Forget packing.
The clothes on her back would suffice quite nicely. She’d send for her things later.
Once she’d escaped and her every breath wasn’t labored and her every heartbeat a lancing pain.
“Mrs. Grenville. What an unexpectant but pleasant surprise,” Baxter said, that mesmerizing touch of brogue washing over Justina like sweet, warm chocolate.
Could one drown in chocolate?
Throat tight and lightheaded, she very much felt like she was drowning. Placing a palm on her ribcage, she felt the irregular cadence of her breathing.
In and out. In and out. That’s it.
“And Miss Justina Farthington.”
Was it her imagination or had a possessive, caressing inflection entered the timbre of his voice?
Caressing?
Oh, my God, Justina. Collect your scattered wits and be gone.
“You are acquainted with his grace, Justina?” Ophelia asked the obvious question, two neat lines puzzling her forehead. The inquisitive glance she leveled Justina fairly shouted, “You’ve been keeping secrets, Justina Farthington.”
Justina sent Nicolette and Rayne a desperate look.
Utter befuddlement was stamped upon their features. Of course, they’d help her in a blink if only they knew how.
Baxter, damn his gorgeous eyes, stood beside her now, and she couldn’t help but notice the drawing room’s excruciatingly lengthy and painful silence or that all eyes keenly watched their exchange.
“Only very slightly,” Justina said, lifting her chin. “So slightly, in fact, to not count or be remarked upon at all.”
So there. Make of that what you will, Your Grace.
“That is not my recollection,” he replied silkily. “I remember it quite clearly, and it was most memorable.”
Her friends’ gazes bored into her as heat flamed across her cheeks.
Oooh, now Justina really did want to hit him.
To clobber him soundly—box his ears.
To wipe that self-assured expression from his handsome face and the humorous glint from his knowing eyes.
Summoning every ounce of gumption she possessed, Justina slowly rose and met his probing gaze and those warm, tempting caramel-brown eyes.
One can definitely drown in caramel and not mind it in the least.
The inane thought only further fueled her wrath.
She shouldn’t be noticing his eyes or his voice or the angles of his face. Nor the way his superfine black coat fit his ridiculously broad shoulders and chest to perfection.
And all the while, his gaze remained open and inviting.
She had no doubt, fury and betrayal sparked in her eyes. Dipping into a curtsy that would’ve had the patronesses at Almacks applauding, she murmured, unable to keep the note of contempt from her tone, “Your Grace.”
Scapegrace was more like it.
Codpated cabbage head.
Liar.
A monologue of much worse expletives marched along inside her head. She’d save those invectives for the privacy of her bedchamber where she might pummel a pillow to perdition as well.
Betrayed. Wholly and utterly betrayed. Eviscerated. The pain and humiliation nearly doubled her over.
And yet, Justina must hold her head up, keep her spine straight and pretend as if everything in the universe was right. That her whole world hadn’t just tipped off of its bloody damn axis. That the man standing so close to her that his essence drifted to her nostrils hadn’t shredded her stupid, gullible heart.
God, the sweets Justina had so enjoyed earlier roiled in her belly, and nausea crept up the back of her throat. Swallowing hard, she willed the contents of her stomach to remain where they were.
Theadosia might be the epitome of graciousness, but even she would be hard put to remain so should Justina cast up her accounts on the expensive Aubusson carpet.
“Please, excuse me.” Mustering all of her composure, and with the aplomb of a queen, Justina swept past Baxter without another glance and made for the door.
“Justina?” Aunt Emily and her friends chorused behind her, their voices a mixture of concern, distress, astonishment, and perhaps a tinge of curiosity too.
“Whatever is going on?” one of the men queried.
Perhaps one of those two fellows she’d never met before, the Earl of Keyworth or Kingston Barclay, the presumptive heir to another bloody dukedom.
Just as Justina grasped her ivory and ocean-blue skirts to pelt to her chamber like a wounded fox chased by zealous hounds, Baxter said, “I must speak with her.”
Perfect. Reveal to all and sundry that there was something—had been—something between her and Baxter.
“I think not!” Aunt Emily clipped out, each syllable razor-edged, and her tone frostier than the Austrian Alps in January.
Indeed, he would not, Justina vowed, her teeth clamped to keep from spinning on her satin-slippered heels and telling him to go the devil.
“In fact, I absolutely forbid it,” her aunt declared, which—blast it to Hades—would only serve to pique the interest of every person present all the more.
Justina’s friends wouldn’t rest until they had extracted every minuscule detail from her. And she simply could not share something so intimate.
Perchance she’d skip calling for a coach altogether.
Yes, she’d fetch a horse from the stables.
Wasn’t there an inn three or four miles away? Anything to avoid Baxter and the guaranteed inquisition she’d face from her friends if she didn’t escape at once.
Something very near a growl of frustration reverberated in her throat.
No, she couldn’t leave Aunt Emily to face everyone alone, more was the pity.
Her gown held indecently high, Justina took the stairs two at a time. She simply could not spend another second in the same room with him and maintain her composure.
Once in her chamber, she locked the door before flopping onto her back onto the bed.
Oh, the cad.
The charlatan.
It had all been a lie.
The kiss. The caresses. The whispers. The vows.
Lies. Lies. All lies.
Turning onto her side, Justina pulled a pillow to her chest and tucked her knees up. Burying her face in the fine cloth, smelling slightly of honeysuckle, she let the tears come.
When, exactly, had she given her heart to a duke?
Chapter Ten
Baxter swallowed the oath tapping at the back of his teeth.
He could hardly dash after Justina without giving rise to unwanted speculation. He didn’t know most of the guests beyond a mere acquaintance, and by damn, he wasn’t going to have anyone slinging mud upon her reputation. Although, these
people appeared more concerned for her welfare than bent on conjectures about what had just occurred.
The dinner gong pealed, and the Duchess of Sutcliffe motioned for her guests to precede her. After giving her adoring spouse a speaking glance and receiving a nod in response, she sailed directly toward Baxter.
Mouth pulled tight, Mrs. Grenville stabbed him with an icy glare. “I should check on my niece,” she informed her hostess.
“I think, perhaps, Emily, Justina wants time alone. I shall have a tray and a bath sent up. A hot toddy as well.” The duchess curved her mouth into a sympathetic smile.
Mrs. Grenville shot him another speculative glance then tilted her head in agreement. “Perhaps you are right. I’ll speak with her before I retire.”
Kingston Barclay approached, standing a respectable distance away so as to not intrude upon the conversation. “I would be honored to escort you into dinner, Mrs. Grenville.”
With another starchy glance at Baxter, she accepted Barclay’s arm. Since neither held a title, they were amongst the last to go through to dinner.
Her grace threaded her hand through Baxter’s elbow and quite deliberately lingered until they were the last to depart the drawing room.
“Tell me, San Sebastian, how is it that one of my dearest friends has never mentioned you? But given her reaction of a few moments ago, I would venture you are more than slightly acquainted with Justina and her aunt.”
More so Justina.
Emily Grenville he’d scarcely had a conversation with.
When he’d arrived at their house a week ago and learned they’d left that very morning, he felt as if a draft horse had kicked him. He’d wanted to pummel Swern for delaying him. And when the closed-mouth servants refused to even hint at where Justina had gone so he might write to her, dual yokes of frustration and despair had settled upon him.
He’d nearly sent word to Sutcliffes that he wouldn’t be able to make their gathering after all. But he’d managed to wheedle out of Fletcher Tambling—with the aid of several coins—that Justina wouldn’t return home until the first of the year.
Baxter wasn’t sure whether he should alert her to the servant’s susceptibility to bribery, but on the journey here had decided against it. Tambling had kept his mistress’s destination confidential and likely surmised, rightly so, that Baxter would return again and again. By telling him when Justina was expected home, the wily servant had put off having to deal with Baxter until that time.
“I’m waiting, Your Grace.” The duchess wasn’t having any of his delays, nor would she permit anything to upset her house party.
“I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but I shan’t discuss Justina with you.” Baxter quirked his mouth into a sideways smile that a few ladies had claimed was charming. “Particularly not before I’ve had a chance to converse with her.”
“Hmm.” Her gaze shrewd and assessing, the duchess said, “My husband assures me you are one of the most decent men he has had the pleasure of not only doing business with, but with whom he is acquainted. If Victor trusts you, then so do I.”
“But?” He could see the challenge in her intelligent gaze.
“But, should you hurt Justina, or in any other way disrupt my holiday plans, you’ll find I can be quite impossible.”
He grinned. “Duly warned, Your Grace.”
“Come along, then.” She angled her head regally toward the doorway. “My guests are waiting.”
The beautiful duchess promptly left his side when they entered the dining room and fairly floated to her end of the table. Once more, she met her husband’s gaze, and sparks fairly flew between them.
And they weren’t the only couple enjoying such intimate exchanges.
Rarely did the aristocracy marry for love, but from his brief observation this evening, each of the married dukes and duchesses present appeared to be the proverbial head over heels in love.
Rather than invoke Baxter’s usual cynicism, the knowledge encouraged him.
God, when Justina had looked at him with such accusation and betrayal, he’d wanted to sweep her into his arms right then and there and beg her forgiveness and explain everything.
However, he had a distinct impression that she was livid that he was a duke.
Was there ever such a woman?
Tomorrow was far too long to wait to speak with her—to set things right between them. To apologize. If he had to pick the lock to her room, he’d do so.
Baxter found himself seated between Nicolette, Duchess of Westfall, and Ophelia Breckensole. Both women peppered him with questions about Justina, which he diverted by continually changing the subject or by asking them an unrelated question.
“You sir, are deliberately steering the conversation away from Justina,” Miss Breckensole accused with a merry twinkle in her eye. “Rest assured. Your evasiveness will do you no good, Your Grace. I shall have the whole of it from Justina sooner or later.”
He’d only smiled and speared a piece of asparagus.
Never had a meal passed so damned painfully slowly, nor the brandy and cigars afterward—each minute inching by. Nonetheless, Baxter couldn't help but be impressed at the assembled men. Most were dukes save James Brentwood, Landry, Earl of Keyworth, and Kington Barclay. However, none of the aristocrats affected the arrogant air and haughty superiority he’d come to expect from English peers.
It also pleased him rather more than it ought to have that other Scots were present as well. True, they were Scottish dukes, but it made him feel less of an oddity.
The men chatted like old friends, jesting and mocking, and despite the earlier scene with Justina, he found himself relaxing and enjoying their company.
Afterward, he tried not to gnash his teeth, roll his eyes, or sigh too often as various guests took turns at the pianoforte, some singing along and others strolling the room’s perimeter.
What wouldn’t he give to hear the pipes and enjoy an exuberant jig?
A dram of whisky wouldn’t go amiss either.
Waycross caught his eye, and he swore the other man read his thoughts. “I prefer the pipes, myself,” he said, casting a furtive glance toward their hosts, who were singing a duet. “I may have brought mine and some Scotch too. I dinna ken how to celebrate Christmas, but Hogmanay…? Aye, I ken what that is all about.”
Mayhap during their stay, the Scots could teach the English a thing or two about Hogmanay and how the Scots celebrated the new year.
The clock chimed half-past ten.
Emily Grenville had departed forty minutes ago, insisting she needed to check in on her niece before she retired. Despite the young dragon’s determination to keep him from Justina, Baxter meant to speak with her. Even if it meant climbing a lattice to her balcony.
He checked the grin the image evoked.
He forced himself to wait until a few more guests bid goodnight before he begged exhaustion. He took his leave, mindful of a few raised eyebrows and swiftly exchanged glances from those remaining, not the least of which was his hostess’s.
Hours ago, after using the excuse of needing the necessary, he’d casually inquired after Justina’s health to a passing maid. The talkative servant also happened to be quite informative.
The slightly buck-toothed girl had grinned, shoving several strands of light brown hair beneath her cap.
“She didn’t eat much of her dinner, Your Grace. But after a bath and a hot toddy, Miss Farthington is right as rain. I made certain myself that her balcony doors were shut tight, her grate was full of coal, and I laid an extra blanket on the bed so she wouldn’t catch a chill. When I left her, she was drying her hair before the fire. Her room is only three doors down from yours.”
He’d rewarded the loquacious slightly obtuse servant with a crown. She should never have revealed the location of Justina’s room to him.
“Anything else you need, Your Grace,” she’d beamed. “You just ask Hannah.” She jabbed a thumb at her less than ample chest. “I’ll be happy to assist you.”
He’d wager her grace had no idea just how helpful Hannah was, however.
Another hour and a half passed before the manor settled into the serenity of a slumbering house. He’d be daft to think everyone had already fallen asleep, but given it was already nearly midnight, Baxter didn’t wish to delay any longer. He’d shucked his boots and jacket upon entering his room and had nursed a glass of brandy while staring at the capering fire.
Justina might already be asleep, and he didn’t want to frighten her.
Hell, who was he trying to fool?
His motivation was purely selfish.
He needed to see her.
Needed to explain and set things right between them.
Feeling very much like a thief in his stocking feet, he rapped upon her door. “Justina. It’s Baxter. I need to speak to you.”
His mind flashed back to The Bathhurst Hotel when he’d done this very thing. That night she’d opened the door, and he’d tasted her berry pink lips.
Tonight, only silence greeted his attempt.
He rapped again, casting a guarded glance up and down the corridor.
The last thing he needed was to be caught.
Still nothing.
He rested his forehead against the door and sighed.
“I’m sorry, leannan. I should’ve told you I was a duke,” he murmured to the stout wood panel. “I vow, I’ll make it up to you.”
To his astonishment, the door opened six inches, as if Justina had been standing on the other side, listening.
Soulful green eyes gazed up at him, and his stomach clenched.
He’d done that to her.
“I couldna stay away,” he said, slipping into Scots. “I had to make it right between us.”
“I only opened the door to tell you to leave me alone, Your Grace. There can never be anything between us. You should’ve told me straightaway you were a duke, and I would never have allowed you to kiss me.” She glanced away, color skating up her silky cheeks. “Good night.”