Scandal At Christmas - A Christmas Novella

by Danelle Harmon

  “I see.”

  “Does that not worry you?”

  “Not at all.” He folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “I had a nice little discussion with your brother last night. I asked him if he would approve of my courting you. Of course, your father is the one from whom I need official permission, but I felt I owed your brother the respect he deserves as your sibling. He was ready to call me out at dawn this morning and I wanted to settle his conscience that my intentions were honorable.”

  “You wish to court me?”

  “If you are agreeable to the idea, of course.”

  It was hard to speak past the sudden dryness of her throat. “Of course,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound like too much of a ninny. But oh, it was hard to form words when her tongue suddenly forgot how to move, the pit of her belly was filled with butterflies, and her skin had gone all hot and prickly. “And what did my brother say?”

  “He gave his consent. And what do you say, Miss Ponsonby?”

  Say? What could she say? She could barely speak. “I would be most receptive of your attention, Lord Weybourne.”

  “Tristan.”

  “Tristan.”

  “And may I call you Letitia?”

  She felt as though someone had poured melted butter into her very veins. “You may ... or Lettie. Or even—” her eyes sparkled with sudden humor—“Ledyard.”

  A door slammed somewhere upstairs and Letitia lowered her voice. “I can’t be here alone with you. You know that. I know that. I must go.”

  “So go find a chaperone and come riding with me.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, now.” He reached out and took her hand, stroking the back of it once, twice, through her glove before releasing it. His very touch caused her to shiver in delight. “I’ve a mind to clear my head after the excesses and overindulgences of last night. Besides, you promised you would join me. What do you say, Lettie, to a good, bracing canter across the heath?”

  “I would say that I’d far prefer that to staying here and finding ways to avoid Homer Trout, whose arrival is surely imminent.”

  “Go find a chaperone. The older, the blinder, the better.”

  A chaperone? At this hour? And in this weather?

  Ohhhh, drat! Here she was, with the chance to ride out with Tristan St. Aubyn, to race him across a frozen heath and hope he hadn’t brought one of his famed Norfolk Thoroughbreds. Or to maybe hope that he had. What to do? Her maid could not sit a horse. She knew none of the staff.

  Simon. Should she ask him?

  He certainly wasn’t “blind” as Lord Weybourne wanted.

  Footsteps were coming down the hall, and any moment now their owner would come around the corner and catch the two of them together.

  “I’ll be out in the stables,” Lord Weybourne murmured, and reaching up, traced the side of her jaw with a forefinger. “Don’t keep me waiting. Unless I miss my guess, the snow will be stopping soon.”

  And with that, he gave her a little bow and was out the door in a soft whoosh of cold air and blown-in snow.

  Letitia reached up and cupped the side of her jaw with her palm, trying to hold in his touch. Oh, what to do? Her blood began to thrum. Chaperone ... chaperone....

  She hurried back toward the dining room.

  Simon was up, sitting alone at the long table. He was leaning back in a chair, a newspaper at his elbow and a cup of black coffee before him. His back was toward her; he had not seen her. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a dark gray coat with a high-standing collar cut to fit his fine form perfectly, his hair thick and handsome and resisting the brush’s attempts to coax it into a neat, orderly fashion. He looked helplessly windblown, even when he wasn’t standing on the quarterdeck of his frigate, and Letitia figured that made him pretty much irresistible to the ladies.

  His expression this morning though was brooding.

  Chaperone?

  No. Not Simon. Her brother might have consented to Lord Weybourne’s courtship of her, but he was too upstanding, too protective, to let the two of them out of his sight if he was called upon to accompany them.

  The devil take a chaperone. She had no time to find one anyhow, and she suddenly knew what she must do.

  If she got caught, the whole house party would come crashing down around her ears. But she was young. She was clever.

  And nobody was up yet anyhow.

  Chapter 10

  Tristan had just selected two hunters—one bay, the other a strapping chestnut—from the Weston stables and was helping the sleepy groom tack them up when Letitia came silently in from outside, snow frosting her little round hat and the cold pulling roses from her cheeks. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

  He quickly moved away from the groom, his brows rising in surprise. “No chaperone?”

  “The house is asleep. We’ll take our gallop across the heath and be back before anyone is even stirring.” She glanced over her shoulder through the falling snow to the quiet majesty of the mansion behind them, but no outraged brother, mother or anyone else was charging through the falling snow to stop her. “That is, if you’re game.”

  “If your mama or anyone else finds out, it’ll be more than just a ‘little scandal’ you’ll find yourself dealing with.”

  “I am good at this. Very good.” She grinned and moved further into the stable, her feminine curves shown to perfection by a close-fitting riding habit that made him want to devour her with his eyes. His hands. His mouth. “Did you bring one of your Norfolk Thoroughbreds?”

  “I did not. The herd isn’t built up enough yet to be using one as my own personal mount.”

  “Perhaps it will be a fair race, then. Let’s be off before the snow stops.”

  “Are you certain you want to risk this?”

  “We’ll head out the back of the stables and into the fields. They can’t see that from the house, even if someone does happen to wake and look out the window. It will be worth the risk.”

  Yes, it will be, he thought. He liked her brazen confidence. It was infectious, seductive, and it made him want to take her into his arms and kiss her until she couldn’t see straight. No simpering little miss was the Honourable Miss Letitia Ponsonby; she was like a breath of fresh air through a hot, stale room. Or maybe, he thought wryly, more like a hurricane wind.

  The groom had led the two horses out into the aisle. The chestnut stood pawing the stone floor, his hooves echoing in the close confines.

  “This is going to be fun,” she said, her eyes glowing. She lifted the flap of the saddle to check the girth, pulled the billets up another hole, and let the flap settle back down. “Are you ready, Lord Weybourne?”

  Oh, the girl had spirit, he’d give her that. And a reckless bravery that was going to land them both in plenty of hot water if any of this got out. He looked at her standing there, a vision in blue, so deliciously beautiful that the sight of her left his mouth dry and his tongue all but cleaved to the roof of his mouth. But oh, it wasn’t just her beauty that had his blood warming his veins on this cold and snowy morning. It was her boldness, her courage, her complete confidence that all would turn out exactly as she wanted it to.

  “So you need a little scandal to put off this Homer person,” he mused. “Do you think your father will deny my intentions and favor this Homer Trout person’s suit instead?”

  “I don’t know, but Mama did invite him here, so she obviously has plans. If I can create just a bit of scandal, perhaps he’ll decide that I’m too wild, too controversial, to take an interest in, and that will put a swift end to his intensions—and Mama’s plans.”

  “What kind of scandal are you considering, Letitia?”

  “I don’t know yet. It was a matter of deep discussion last night with my friends Pru, Winnie and Jane, and none of us came up with anything that might possibly work.” She led her horse to a nearby mounting block. “I’m told the men will be going shooting this afternoon but perhaps at dinner tonight, you can help me create a mino
r disturbance.” She paused, catching her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it in a way that caused it to swell and redden prettily and the breath to catch in Tristan’s lungs. “Perhaps —” she yanked down a stirrup iron and turned to look at him— “perhaps I will spill some of my drink on myself and you will grab a napkin and try to wipe it off in front of everyone, and I will pretend I’m outraged and Mr. Trout will question not only my grace and elegance, but your touching me so boldly—”

  He laughed. “Should I take such a liberty, it won’t be Mr. Trout who will be questioning you, it will be your brother questioning me, and demanding to meet me at dawn with pistols or swords.”

  She made a little dismissive gesture with her hand. “That is absurd.”

  “Is it? He is your brother. A very by-the-book, overprotective brother, unless I miss my guess. He will be bound to defend your honor. Not that I’m afraid of meeting him or anyone else at dawn, but if we end up killing each other it would be dreadfully unfair to both you and your family.”

  “You worry too much, Lord Weybourne.”

  “Lettie, I did not come down here to look for a wife,” he said, trying to sound convincing.

  “And I did not come down here to look for a husband.”

  “I have no time for a wife. My horses and my estate keep me busy. I only came here to determine the quality of a mare that Stephen Pemberly asked me to evaluate.”

  “And I have no time for a husband. I only came here because I had no choice.”

  “You could have joined my employ and stayed at my estate in Norfolk.”

  “I could have, as insane and impossible as the idea is. But you kissed me and ruined everything. I had to leave after that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  They stood looking at each other, each thinking of that stolen kiss and yearning for a way to repeat it.

  Letitia allowed him to hold her mare while she climbed the mounting block, stepped into the stirrup iron, and mounted the horse. She looked down at him, smiling and wishing she dared to reach out and wipe away the snowflakes melting on his cheeks. “We should leave before the house begins to wake.”

  “We should. Because if we stand here gazing at each other for any longer, I might give into temptation, and then we will most surely be delayed.”

  “What temptation?”

  “The temptation to pull you down from that saddle, take you into my arms and kiss you.”

  “Oh!” She flushed pink and hot, but her eyes sparkled and for once, she was at a loss for words.

  “Oh!” he mimicked playfully, his own eyes warming in a way that made her heart skip a beat and then two. He took her gloved hand in his own and drew it down to his lips, letting them linger for a long moment on the back of her fingers. “So where do we go from here?”

  She gazed down at her knuckles against his lips, smiling foolishly. “How about for our ride, to start?”

  “A perfect idea,” he said, reluctantly relinquishing her hand. Still flustered, she gathered up her reins and watched as he swung up onto his own mount. Together they trotted away from the back of the stables and across the frozen pasture, where the snow had already obliterated the grass and left everything mantled in white.

  * * *

  “Why Lenore, whatever do you find so fascinating outside that window?”

  The four mamas were breakfasting on tea and rolls in a small drawing room, but Viscountess Penmore, sipping thoughtfully from her teacup, was standing by the great windows and looking outside into the snow.

  Except she wasn’t looking outside into the snow, but down through the snow and toward the stables below where, in the gloom of an open door, she could see two well-bred hunters standing saddled and ready for a ride.

  “Lord Weybourne,” she said, taking another sip from her cup. “And my daughter.”

  The other women, with Lady Weston in the lead, hustled over to join her at the window.

  “I don’t see Letitia anywhere,” said Lady Portland.

  “If you stand here long enough, you’ll see her pass before the open door of the stable,” said Lenore with satisfaction. “Along with Lord Weybourne. Those are their footprints in the snow, leading into the stables.”

  The others pressed to the window. Lady Carlisle gasped in shock. “My goodness! You are correct!”

  “Do note that she is with a man,” Lenore said, taking another sip. “Without a chaperone.”

  “This is quite beyond the pale!”

  “Yes, delightfully so.” The viscountess looked like a cat that had just finished off a bowl of cream. “The perfect scandal, I should think.”

  Lady Weston put her hand to her open mouth, her eyes dancing beneath her pretense of horrified shock. “Someone will have to discover them, of course.”

  “Trust me, Someone will.” She tapped a finger against her top lip. “Time to get my darling Simon roused, enraged, and engaged in his brotherly duty, I think. He has a sister whose honor must be defended.”

  “Oh, do hurry, Lenore. In case your Letitia comes to her senses before you can get her neatly trapped.”

  The viscountess grinned, excitement making her look more like a youthful maiden than a conniving mama. “My daughter abandoned her senses the moment she met the dashing and devastatingly handsome Lord Weybourne. And by the look of him last night, the feeling is mutual.” She drained her tea, set the empty cup and saucer down on the silver tray on the table, and headed for the door. Now, if you will excuse me, ladies? I have a daughter to marry off.”

  Chapter 11

  It was slippery on the cobblestones, slippery on the short, clipped grass of the lawn, but once out in the pastures where the footing was rougher and more secure, they gave the horses, fretting, prancing, and impatient to be off, their heads.

  “Race you!” Letitia cried, leaning forward and pressing her heels and calves to her mount’s side. The big bay mare all but burst out from beneath her, and laughing, Letitia let her go, the falling snowflakes stinging her face, frosting her eyelashes, the cold wind whipping her cheeks. Beneath her, the steady, rapid thunder of the horse’s hooves was a familiar thrill. She glanced to her right and saw Tristan keeping pace. He was a natural rider, Letitia thought in admiration, his hands giving and taking in time to the lunge and pull-back of the horse’s head with each stride, his seat secure, relaxed and effortless.

  Ahead was a copse of pine, dark against the gray sky. They slowed their mounts to a walk to let them cool down, plumes of steam blowing from the horses’ wide and flaring nostrils, the snow still whispering down all around them.

  “That was fun,” Letitia said breathlessly.

  “You are a fine rider, Lettie.”

  “You aren’t so bad yourself.”

  She grinned, her eyes sparkling, quietly wishing him closer. He seemed to have the same idea for a moment later he’d urged his horse nearer to her own so that his thigh was nearly touching her skirts. Shocking, she thought. Delightful.

  “Do you know what I would love to do someday?” she asked, her heartbeat picking up at his nearness and a breathless sense of need, of longing, heating her blood.

  “What is that?”

  “When he is old enough, I would love to help you train Amir to saddle. To gain his trust, to be the first one on his back, to feel him fly like Pegasus beneath me.”

  His smile warmed. “There are very few people to whom I would entrust such a task, but you, Lettie, would be the first person I would ask.”

  Her eyes grew dreamy. “Are they really that fast?” she asked. “These horses that your father developed?”

  “They are really that fast.” They had reached the copse and the snow whispered silently down around them, mysterious, beautiful, lovely. Already, the sweeping boughs of pine were mantled with white, bowing beneath the weight. Tristan halted his horse and dismounted, holding the reins of both animals while helping Letitia to do the same. She landed lightly on her feet. “And there is no greater thrill on earth than to ride one,
except, maybe this.”

  “This?”

  He moved closer, so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body as he transferred the reins to one hand and slid the other beneath the tails of her riding habit, his fingers warm against her hips, now finding that perfect little spot in the hollow of her back with which to draw her close. “This.”

  And with that, he bent his head and kissed her.

  Letitia melted beneath the onslaught of his lips like the snow that whispered down around them. She was aware of nothing but him. Of the heat of his hand, pressing against the small of her back and drawing her closer to him. Of the hard length of his body, of the feel of his powerful arms. Of his mouth, closing over hers with firm insistence, impatient and demanding, slanting now as his tongue came out and licked at the seam of her lips. She hesitantly opened to him and he plunged inside, the sudden shock of his tongue against hers, in her mouth, sending a jolt of pleasure radiating through her blood and out into the nipples of her breasts. He tasted of the orange he must have had for breakfast, tart and delicious, of sharp cold air, melted snow and hot passion. She felt his fingers stroking the curve of her bottom, tracing it, pulling her even closer up against him. She made a little sigh of contentment deep in her throat, and reaching up, finally did what she’d been longing to do yet again, sliding her hands up into his hair, wet now with melted snow, relishing the silken softness of it, the loose, short, glossy waves and curls threading through her fingers as she molded her hands to the sides of his skull. Standing on tiptoe, she pushed herself more urgently against his mouth and into his embrace.

  Snow fell from the sky, tingling and melting against her face, against his. A now-familiar ache began somewhere in the pit of her belly, in the junction of her thighs, and she knew it for what it was:

  Desire.

  He felt it, too. His mouth slanted against hers, growing more insistent, more persistent, and Letitia moaned as the ache between her legs strengthened and became almost piercing.