A Very Matchmaker Christmas

by Christi Caldwell

  Winnie let her cue go and it scraped once again along the baize. “You are a rotten tutor,” she said with the same annoyed ire she’d shown as a child.

  In addition to baiting and teasing, the lady had excelled at challenging him—to a stone-skipping contest, a horse race…and now this.

  “Like this,” he positioned himself behind her. A surge of lust ran through him at the close positioning of their bodies. Do not think of it. Do not think of her. Think of kittens and kippers and…not lifting her skirts and taking her hard and fast upon the billiards table.

  “What are you doing?” she muttered.

  And Munthorpe. Think of Munthorpe challenging me to a duel but only after the man properly pummeled my face bloody for being the rogue he’d sworn to never see Winnie with.

  “Teaching you to play a decent game of billiards,” he managed. “Your brother failed you.” And with every wicked thought involving you, I’m failing as a friend.

  She nodded. “He did.”

  At least they agreed on that score. Trent guided her forward. “The heel of your hand and fingertips need to be flush upon the bed of the table, Wee Winnie, like so.” He placed her palm in the appropriate position.

  Winnie twisted back and frowned at him. “Do not call me that.” Her squirming brought her shapely buttocks flush against the vee of his thighs and Trent gulped. Hell. I am going to hell. “Did you hear me, Trent Ballantine?”

  His mind raced. What in blazes had he called her? “Do you want the lesson?” His voice emerged gruffer than he intended.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, very well,” she said stiffly. “You may proceed.”

  He repositioned her hand once more and then swallowed a groan at the unwitting self-torture. “Now, press your thumb against the base of your index finger. Point it upward. No,” he mumbled. How could one who’d taken to fishing and shooting like she was born to it, be such a rotted study in billiards? “Like this,” he said, welcoming the frustration that muted the feel of her pressed to him. Trent eyed her properly positioned fingers, and gave a grunt of approval. “Now, guide the shaft through your channel.” He promptly choked and stepped away from her. “And that will have to suffice for your billiards lesson this day.”

  Winnie eyed him perplexedly. “That is all to the lesson?”

  “That is.” Unless he wished to avoid the duel altogether and be shot through in the Earl of Portland’s billiards room this very day by the protective, but not protective enough, Munthorpe.

  “You are a horrid teacher, Trent.”

  More importantly, he was a horrid best friend. “The lesson, I’m afraid, must conclude there for the day.” With jerky movements he lurched forward and grabbed his jacket. “We will continue our lessons…” Never. “…some later time.” Trent swiped his cravat up.

  She tossed aside her cue and hurried over, planting herself before him and effectively ending his retreat. “Why are you rushing off so quickly?”

  He wracked his mind. “Because…” If he didn’t leave, he’d claim her too-full mouth and ascertain the answer to the question that had kept him awake too many nights these past two years. What did Lady Winifred taste like? Perhaps she’d failed to notice he didn’t have a suitable response that was proper to explain why he fled her side like the hounds of hell were fast on his heel. Trent made to step around her.

  Winnie countered his movements. “You are being rude.” She planted her arms akimbo and glared.

  He, the sought after and whispered about Lord Trent Ballantine, noted as being able to charm a lady out of her chemise in the midst of a crowded ballroom, was now having the charge of rude hurled at him. “Am I?” With good reason.

  The innocent temptress nodded once. “Indeed. And you’ve been rude since I made my Come Out.”

  “Have I?” he croaked.

  Two years. It had been two years since the innocent girl he’d seen as more sister than anything else returned from finishing school as…this. He’d been invited to take part in an intimate dinner party when she’d reentered the family’s fold. And the crimson-haired beauty standing at the window, with an effervescent smile on her bow-shaped lips had set his world off-kilter. Since that frozen-in-time moment, he’d done his best to adopt a dry indifference where the lady was concerned. And by her words, she believed the lies he fed her. “It is not my intention,” he said, forcing a flatness into that pledge. “I do have a meeting.”

  “And my billiards lesson?” Where he’d always admired her persistence in all endeavors, now it set his teeth on edge.

  “Ends here. It’s not appropriate for you to be playing billiards.” Most especially not with him. Alone.

  “You’re ever so stodgy. I preferred you fun and daring and willing to teach me—”

  Trent spoke on a rush. “Matters I had no business instructing you on?” For with those tantalizing few words, she’d conjured all manner of scandalous deeds he ached to teach her.

  “Yes.” She folded her arms. “Well, I was going to say ice-skating but that, too. You were a good deal more fun then.”

  Well, that had been before he’d noticed Lady Winifred Grisham had perfectly rounded buttocks and hips meant for a man’s fingers to dig into while he—He fought down a groan. Munthorpe had been quite clear through the years on what he and his family expected of Lady Winifred—a respectable and, more importantly, titled lord. No, a roguish second son would never do. And as much as Trent despised that truth, wishing he could be more, for her, he concurred; Winnie deserved more than a shiftless bounder.

  She passed her narrow-eyed gaze over him. Which truths did she search for with that probing stare? Then with a sigh, she gave a slight nod. “Very well.”

  He said a silent prayer at her capitulation and made to leave.

  Winnie placed herself in his path once more. “This is where you are to ask, ‘very well, what?’”

  Trent swiped a hand over his eyes. “Very well, what?” he gritted out.

  “A wager.”

  He let his arm fall to his side. “I do not enter into wagers with ladies.”

  She wagged a finger. “Ah, but I’m not a lady.” She was very much a lady, for if she weren’t, he’d have already laid claim to her tempting, alluring form. Blood surged through him at the image of exploring each graceful curve of her—“I am James’ sister.”

  Her words killed his desire with the same alacrity as if he’d been discovered tupping a lady by the local vicar. “And?” He infused dry boredom into that syllable.

  Winnie pointed her eyes up, once more. “And you ask?” She crossed her arms and frowned. “You always entered into wagers with me.”

  Yes, he had, but that had been different.

  “It was not different.”

  Trent tipped his head. “Did I say that particular piece aloud?”

  A mischievous twinkle danced in her eyes. “You did.”

  Bloody, bothersome habit. He folded his arms. “Well, get on with it.”

  Her smile dipped, and she swatted his arm. “Do not be surly.”

  “Winnie?” he said on a low growl.

  “Er, right,” she said hurriedly. “I want you to escort me to the Thames.”

  He dipped his eyebrows. “Why?” What manner of mischief was the lady about now? There was always something more where Winnie was concerned.

  “There is the fair upon the river,” she said quickly. She gesticulated wildly and spoke so quickly her words ran together. “There is skating and makeshift shops that have been set up and games upon the ice.” Her shoulders sagged. “But my brother will not escort me.”

  Somewhere over the years James had run out of patience for Winnie dogging their heels. Whereas Trent had always found a peculiar enjoyment in her spirited presence. Her exuberance for and of life shattered the mold most every other young lady of the ton ascribed to. It was all the more reason to steer clear of her. Her spirit was an aphrodisiac that drew him, until he wanted to abandon all his honorable intentions and make Winnie his,
in every way. “N—”

  Winnie rushed back to the table and hastily swiped the discarded cue. “At the very least, a wager. You tell me the ball to strike,” she glared at him when he emitted a snort, “and I’ll do it.”

  Trent drummed his fingertips along his coat sleeves a long moment and then gave a reluctant nod. “The red ball in the side pocket.”

  A protest sprung to her lips. “I’d said only to strike it.”

  “Your favor. My terms, love.”

  A red curl tumbled over her eye and she blew at it. “Oh, very well,” she muttered. As she moved about the table eying that nigh-impossible shot, she mumbled under her breath something that sounded a good deal like always-a-vexing-bother.

  A grin pulled at his lips, which he quickly concealed when she shot a look back in his direction. “Humph,” she said, and then positioned herself as he’d schooled her moments ago.

  “It really is not—”

  “Do hush.” Winnie fixed a glare on him. “Tis rude to interrupt a lady in the midst of her shot.”

  He smoothed his features. “My apologies, my lady.”

  With a pleased nod, she returned her efforts to that indicated ball, readjusted the cue in her hands, and then snapped off her shot.

  Trent widened his eyes as the red ball sailed effortlessly into the hole. Bloody hell.

  Winnie stood stock-still, gape-mouthed at the pocket her ball had just disappeared into. Then, she spun about, triumph stamped on her oval-shaped face. “You, sir,” she speared her cue in his direction, “owe me a visit to the Frost Fair!” Bloody hell! The fiery-haired temptress tossed her curls. “Before we make for the Countess of Weston’s estate for the holiday season.”

  Her words struck like a well-placed barb to his heart. Unable to meet her wide, innocent eyes, Trent slid his gaze away. Where he’d spent many holiday seasons with James’ family, this year would not be one of them. Not when he was lusting after the damned man’s sister with the same mindless intensity of a green boy just out of university.

  “You are planning to attend, are you not?” Hesitancy blended with shock and stretched out Winnie’s inquiry.

  There was to be no salvation this day. “No, I will not.” When it would place her and the proper lord her family already picked out as her husband on display for him to silently hate in all his vicious envy?

  Her expression fell. “But you always spend the Christmastide season with us.”

  Yes, his had never been one to make any to-do over the holiday season. “I have other plans this season.” Which basically included avoiding wherever Winnie was. Trent stepped around her.

  More tenacious than all of Wellington’s guards combined, Winnie put herself between him and that path to freedom. She layered her hands behind her and pressed them against the door. “Where?”

  “My family is retiring to Leeds.” Which was not untrue.

  “When?”

  “In a week.” Also true.

  “And you’ll join them, when they travel?”

  He’d be wise to go now. “You have a good deal of questions, Wee Winnie.”

  She pursed her lips but did not rise to that desperately extended bait. “Your family doesn’t even serve Shrewsbury cakes for the holiday season.”

  Yes, his family was rather the serious sort who didn’t ascribe to the inanities and cheerful festivities of the Christmastide season. “This year will be different, Winnie.” Which wasn’t altogether a lie. It would be different in the sense that he’d force himself away from her and her entire family so he might preserve what little remained of his honor and dignity.

  “Oh.” Disappointment filled that single syllable and tightened the vise of guilt in lying. Then her eyes, rounded like saucers, met his. “That is not to say I wish you anything but a joyous holiday with your family.” Her shoulders deflated. “It is just…”

  He’d be wise to let that thought remain nothing more than an unfinished one. And yet… “What?” he asked quietly.

  Winnie shrugged. “It is just that you’ve become such a part of our holiday fold.”

  Except, the part conveniently left off was, that as James had said, this holiday party moved beyond the realm of Christmastide celebration and into the world of matchmaking mamas. He’d no place intruding on those determined intentions by the lady’s family.

  He chucked her under the chin. “Come, scamp, you’ll have your good friends there.” Nor was he particularly the sort who preferred self-torture, which is what it would be were he to join that small party, and witness some titled, proper gents properly wooing her.

  Winnie captured her lower lip between her teeth. “It will not be the same without you in attendance, Trent.”

  Regret tasted bitter on his tongue. The close familial camaraderie known by the Grisham family defied the icy, reserved relationship shared by most members of the ton, including his cold, austere family. Until the Grisham clan, Trent had gone through life nothing more than the spare to the heir; an afterthought whose wild antics and bids for attention were met with disapproving frowns and stern lectures. The day James brought him home like a stray pup taken from the streets, he’d been surrounded by a loving happiness that had sucked him into the folds. He’d not besmirch all they’d given him by acting on this hungering to make Winnie his.

  Winnie took a step toward him, and then stopped, shifting on her feet. She darted her tongue out and when she spoke did so with a hesitancy that defied all the boldness she’d demonstrated through life. “Will I see you before you leave for the country?”

  He spoke in droll tones, desperate to restore them to the ordered world where she was Wee Winnie and he was James’ friend, and nothing more. “Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?” She snapped her flame red eyebrows together.

  “Well, there is the recital arranged by my mother for tomorrow evening.” He winked. “We will both have to suffer through my sisters’ performances.”

  She folded her arms. “I did not mean see you at your mother’s annual Christmastide recital.” Winnie paused. “And I rather enjoy their performing.”

  He snorted. “No one enjoys it.” The young lady stuck her finger in his chest and he grunted.

  “Do be nice,” she scolded the way she might an errant child. “And do not be deliberately obtuse. I might believe it of the other lords about town but I know you and as such, I also know, you know, what I referred to.”

  He’d known precisely what she meant. If he were wise he’d stay away. “Well?”

  Trent winced as she jabbed him again with her sharp finger. “You’re as bloodthirsty as you always were.”

  Having known her nearly the whole of her life, he knew everything from the muscle that jumped at the corner of her left eye when she was perturbed…. as she was now…to the way she nibbled her lower lip when she was scheming. “You owe me a visit to the fair, Trent Anderson Ballantine.”

  He tweaked her nose. Which only brought his attention to the smattering of freckles along that dainty organ, and he’d wager those mementos were earned from the lady’s forays through the countryside in the summer. Trent swiftly lowered his hand to his side. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  This time, he all but shoved her away from the wooden panel, and with his heart racing in a bid to be free, he strode quickly from the Earl of Portland’s billiard room. With each step, shame filled him. After all, there was nothing honorable in lusting after your best friend’s little sister.

  Chapter Three

  He despised her.

  There was no other explaining it. And at the height of unfairness, she should love him so, and he should see her as nothing more than a sisterly extension of James that he wished to be rid of. Her stomach clenched. She’d but a handful of days to open his eyes to her being there…and of him loving her…and—

  “Mustn’t look so glum, dear. You simply mustn’t.”

  Winnie blinked and looked about the confines of her family’s crowded carriage. Her gaze landed on her mother
seated across on the opposite bench. Plump, given to prattling and having her head in the clouds, this would choose to be the moment her mother would properly note just what had her daughter so very glum? She opened her mouth and closed it several times.

  Her mother made a sympathetic sound and then leaned over. “There, there. We’ll be there but two hours.” She patted Winnie on the knee.

  Two hours?

  “Infernal recital,” James muttered and shifted his large frame on the crowded bench.

  The recital. Relief ran through her. Her mother thought she lamented the annual recital hosted by Trent’s mother, the Marchioness of Hollingbrooke.

  “Perhaps this will be the year the marquess finally takes note of our girl, eh, Pamela? Imagine both of our families’ good fortune if that match came to be? Each with a child wedded off.” The Earl of Portland affectionately kissed his wife’s hand and the still-besotted-after-thirty-years couple chuckled.

  Mother giggled into her other palm. “Tsk, tsk, what of Agatha’s boy Stephen, my dear? A future earl would do nicely for our girl.”

  Winnie grimaced; put out by her parents’ improper display and their grasping attempt to wed her off to Trent’s brother, or any titled gentleman, for that matter. Cold, polite, and more than slightly condescending, she’d rather wed Prinny himself than Trent’s brother. She pursed her lips. Having attended intimate family dinners and recitals at the marquess’ home, he’d proven himself to be condescending in his address of each one of his siblings.

  From the opposite bench, James caught her eye and gave a slow, commiserative wink. She managed a weak smile. Of course, he’d feel that kindred connection to Mama and Papa’s awkward whispering and prattling. He certainly could not expect that she sat here lamenting Trent’s total lack of regard.

  Their barouche rocked to a halt. At last. “We’re here.” Papa’s jovial voice boomed off the carriage walls.

  “Thank God,” she and James muttered under their breath in unison.

  The footman pulled the door open and she eagerly stuck her hand out, accepting his assistance down from the stifling carriage. Her parents’ nauseating displays of affection aside, her heart picked up a beat.