In truth, the old man had been in dire need of finances but was too proud to accept charity. Baxter had paid five times what the honey was worth and would’ve paid double that. He also meant to see Warner’s roof was repaired and that he had sufficient wood to last him the winter. And that his bee hives provided honey for Baxter’s five other hotels, three restaurants, and his signature mead.
“Oh, my!” Mrs. Felton’s face lit up, and she promptly brushed her hands together to rid them of crumbs before wiping them on a damp cloth.
Enjoying her excitement, he chuckled.
“Such a treat,” she said, making her way to the table, a smudge of flour on her dark brown cheek. Black eyes shining, she picked up a jar of the amber liquid and winked. “I suppose you’ll want fresh oatmeal rolls to go with supper tonight?”
Baxter gave her a boyish grin. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Go on with you. Greet your guests and have a cup of strong tea,” she said in her lyrical voice as she motioned toward the door leading to the main house. “I’ll make enough rolls to keep you satisfied for a few days.”
“Thank ye.” The rolls reminded Baxter of his homeland.
He might be an English duke, but his heart would always belong to Scotland.
Hesitating for an instant, he pondered whether he ought to make himself presentable first. Glancing down, he noted the melting snow on his Hessians, but other than that, he looked presentable enough in his fine black wool jacket and trousers, he supposed.
After all, this wasn’t Almack’s Assembly Rooms or Countess Lieven’s drawing room.
He’d never been one to put on airs or wear fancy togs. What was good for the ordinary folks was suitable for him too. Having made his decision, Baxter gave Mrs. Felton a jaunty wave and wink before turning and following the meandering corridor toward the main part of the hotel.
As he walked, voices carried to him marked by an occasional laugh.
He slowly curved his mouth upward into a lazy smile.
Excellent.
If his guests were pleased, they’d spread the word, and in turn, more guests would visit the hotel. As with his other establishments, once Bathhurst Hotel and Spa was running efficiently and profitably, he’d turn the management of the hotel and spa over to a trusted servant. In this case, Solomon Bixby, and then Baxter would move on to his next project, which he’d yet to identify.
Another hotel? A restaurant?
No, he wished to try his hand at something different this time.
But what?
Horse breeding? Shipping? Investments in new inventions?
Now there was an intriguing notion.
Humankind was capable of such extraordinary ingenuity.
A life of idleness and boredom, filling his days with walks and rides in Hyde Park, attending a mind-numbing series of balls, routs, and soirees, or gambling, drinking and wenching were not for him. Baxter made a discontented noise in the back of his throat. Even if he was a bloody, damn duke.
Glancing at himself in a gilded mirror above a highly polished table, he stopped short. His thick dark blond hair needed brushing. Instead, he raked his fingers through the unruly tresses a few times, managing to tame the worst of his mane.
He stared back at the man in the reflection. The pale brown eyes—very near the color of the honey in the kitchen—gazed back at him: his mother’s eyes and hair rather than his sire’s black hair and piercing blue eyes.
As he’d never wanted for feminine company when he desired it, Baxter supposed he was attractive enough. However, now that he’d come into a title, he never knew whether a woman was genuinely interested in him or if the dukedom posed the attraction.
More on point, he didn’t know if becoming the next Duchess of San Sebastian motivated the eager women flocking to his side.
With a careless shrug, he continued on his way.
Unless he mastered mind-reading—which was a likely as sprouting wings or a second head—he could never be certain of any woman’s motives.
At the entrance to the drawing room, Baxter took a moment to assess his guests.
Mildred and Marian Popkin, an elderly pair of spinster sisters, perched like a pair of curious birds on the edge of a forest green settee. They batted their almost nonexistent eyelashes behind their matching spectacles at Mister Godfrey Howlette, a self-important dandy standing by the fireplace, posing for the benefit of the ladies.
Obnoxious coxcomb.
Baxter almost expected him to stretch out his neck and crow, so obvious was his posturing.
Paul and Hester Harmon occupied the armchairs nestled in the bay window. Newlyweds, they only had eyes for each other, though each did glance in Baxter’s direction and gave a brief nod in greeting.
Of middling years and boasting quite the most astonishing mutton-chops Baxter had ever seen, Major Carlton Spaulding of His Majesty’s Army conversed with the new arrivals, both of whom had their backs to the entry.
Miss Mildred spied Baxter first and fluttered her fan flirtatiously. It somewhat resembled an angry or startled fowl flapping his wings. “Mr. Bathhurst. Please do join us, and permit us—
“—to introduce Mrs. Grenville and her niece, Miss Farthington, to you,” her sister finished in a rush.
Every person in the room turned their attention to Baxter as he sauntered into the drawing room. When he bowed, his gaze meshed with the younger woman with eyes the color of the filmy ferns and horsetails growing in the damp woods near Strathyre.
Ah, green. My favorite color.
His signature color too. Which was why all of his establishments were decorated with a matching theme: shades of greens and burgundies.
He found himself staring at her, and pink tinted the young woman’s high cheekbones before midnight lashes lowered to fan her cheeks, and she turned her head away.
Coyle arrived with the promised tray, and Baxter gave a silent prayer of thanks for the interruption. Else he still be gawping like a farmhand seeing a proper lady for the for the first time.
He bowed, perhaps more extravagantly than needed. “Ladies and gentlemen, our fondest wish at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa is to meet your every need. Should you require anything, we’ll do our utmost to provide it for you.”
He didn’t miss the sly, lecherous gaze Howlette slid the pretty woman from beneath his half-closed eyes.
Bastard.
Baxter forced his hands to relax at his sides rather than curl into fists. And punch the lecherous glint from the dandy’s face.
Clearing his throat, Baxter produced one of his most amiable smiles. “Anything within the strictures of propriety, that is, of course.”
An ugly flush washed Howlette’s face, and Baxter swore the green-eyed goddess hid a grin behind her fan. Humor assuredly sparkled in her eyes.
Major Spaulding abruptly coughed into his tea, which caused both of the Popkin sisters to fuss and declare they hoped he wasn’t coming down with the ague.
In short order, introductions were made, and Baxter had claimed a seat beside Miss Marian. No sense in being too obvious, even if Miss Farthington had captured his interest the moment their eyes had met. However, he couldn’t prevent his attention from straying to her several times.
Her hawk-eyed aunt caught his perusal and arched one winged eyebrow knowingly. Her keen gaze seemed to say, “Caught you, cad.”
“So, what brings you to Bath during the first snowstorm in a decade, Mrs. Grenville?” Baxter asked.
A pretty blonde, either late in her third decade or early in her fourth, she regarded him for a long moment before answering smoothly.
“My niece and I are en route to our home. The roads were simply too unmanageable, and I feared for the safety of our drivers and the team. Generally, when in this area, we stay at the Royal Arms. However, as I’m sure you know, they suffered a fire recently. Therefore, we sought lodgings elsewhere. We’ll be on our way as soon as this unfavorable weather allows.”
“I’m certain your dr
ivers will be satisfied with their accommodations in the stables,” Baxter said. His confidence was well-placed since he’d assured the servants’ quarters at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa were clean and comfortable.
He didn’t fail to notice Mrs. Grenville hadn’t mentioned precisely where their home was. He couldn’t decide if he admired her for her protectiveness or if her ambiguity irked him. Nor could he help but wonder if her attitude would rapidly change if she knew he was, in fact, a duke.
Most people’s did, and it annoyed the hell out of him.
“Most fortunate for us,” Major Spaulding offered. Having recovered from his fit of coughing, he puffed out his barrel-like chest. “Do either of you play cards?” he asked hopefully.
The Major was a terrible cheat, and the Popkin sisters equally dreadful players.
Both sisters speared him an injured look. Their numbers had been balanced until the arrival of today’s guests, and even if Baxter took part in the evening’s entertainment, they were one male short. Which meant someone would always be the extra wheel.
“Indeed, Major,” Miss Farthington answered as she lifted her cup to those pink, bowed lips and blew gently on the piping hot tea she’d just poured herself. “I prefer whist or vingt-et-un, but my aunt is quite accomplished at piquet and is simply brilliant on the pianoforte.”
None of Baxter’s current guests had shown any interest in playing the instrument.
Howlette gazed around the room, a rather cunning glint in his eye. Pulling on the lapels of his bright blue jacket, he said, “I say, why don’t we have dancing after dinner tonight?”
Even the newlyweds perked up at that suggestion.
“What a splendid idea,” Mrs. Harmon said, catching her husband’s hand in hers.
“Oh, we quite adore dancing,” gushed Miss Marian. “Do we not, Sister?”
Her sister bobbed her head, the purple feather tucked into her steel gray coiffure gyrating at the movement. “Indeed, we do,” she agreed, peering at Mrs. Grenville expectantly.
The Popkin sisters' fans fluttered so vigorously, Baxter pondered if they might become airborne in their enthusiasm.
“Ah, but our new guests have only just arrived, and they might wish to retire early this evening.” Baxter offered Mrs. Grenville a reprieve from being forced to play for their entertainment. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but appreciate that if she took to the keys, the males and females were evenly matched for dancing.
And damn his eyes, if he didn’t want to take Miss Justina Farthington into his arms and whirl her about the room. Hell, he’d like to do a lot more than that, and his immediate, compelling physical response to her puzzled him as much as it fascinated.
Glancing to the window, Baxter allowed the minutest upward tilt of his mouth.
Snow swirled furiously outside, blurring the view, and by the looks of the storm, his newest guests wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.
Why that delighted him, Baxter refused to examine.
Chapter Three
Bathhurst Hotel and Spa
November 22, 1810
Early Afternoon
Curled into an oversized chair covered in forest green and crimson brocade, Justina attempted to focus her attention on Don Sebastian by Anna Maria Porter, the book she’d selected from the surprisingly well-stocked library at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa. In truth, she was astonished to find the volume which had only released last year.
However, the story failed to hold her attention as she’d hoped, and as her mind often had the past days, her thoughts mulishly migrated to Baxter Bathhurst.
The dratted man had her at sixes and sevens, and she wasn’t the sort of empty-headed ninny to have her head turned by a captivating smile or a disarming glint in an attractive man’s eyes.
No, indeed.
Not until now.
Simply astonishing, and so out of character for her as well.
A very unladylike snort escaped her.
Typically, Justina strove to abide by Society’s strictures and did her utmost not to draw undesirable attention much less say or do anything to cause a raised eyebrow, censorious look, or titillating whisper.
Except, she had joined several other ladies in Hyde Park early one morning last summer, and they’d dared to ride astride, some even brazenly wearing breeches.
Scandalous.
Yes, and ever so wonderful.
A secret smile bent her mouth at the memory.
Mayhap that yearning to be more daring and bolder that she kept rigorously subdued meant to rebel at its confinement.
Heaven help her. She mustn’t allow it.
Wasn’t her illegitimacy disgrace enough?
Wasn’t her contrived relationship with Aunt Emily sufficient to ruin them both should the truth ever be learned?
Hadn’t her adopted aunt sacrificed and risked everything for Justina?
By all that was holy, she would control the wicked streak in her—a tendency Justina must’ve inherited from her mother.
Or perchance her father, as well, since she had absolutely no idea who he was. She’d seen a miniature of Richard Farthington, and Justina didn’t recognize him. If he’d fathered her, he’d cut her mother from his life long before that fateful day a decade ago.
With renewed determination, Justina firmed her lips, pressing them into a hard line as her fingers curled into the book’s pages.
She would resist her wayward tendencies.
I must.
In truth, neither she nor Aunt Emily had expected they’d be delayed this long in Bath. Though the snow had finally stopped in the late afternoon two days ago, at least two-and-one-half feet of thick white covered the ground, rendering coach travel impossible until it melted.
Justina wasn’t the least put out regarding their forced stay, and she was honest enough to admit that her enigmatic host was the cause.
Well, her befuddling reaction to Baxter Bathhurst was the reason.
In the days since her arrival, she’d reluctantly realized she’d looked for him quite often—oh, very well, constantly—and as the guests and their host took all of their meals together, she’d seen him at least thrice daily. Then there were the after-supper interactions with him, the day he’d introduced her to his birds, and four times he’d appeared in the parlor during tea.
It was silly she well knew, but Justina wished the frequent encounters were because he sought her out.
Cabbage head.
Her heart gave that delicious fluttering movement it did whenever her musings drifted in his direction.
God help her, she had it bad. Very bad, indeed.
How could it have happened so quickly?
Staring blankly at the open pages, she shook her head.
Aunt Emily would be horrified had she any notion. Which of course, Justina would make absolutely sure she never had the slightest inkling.
“You’re a besotted idiot,” Justina chastised herself beneath her breath, even though she was alone in the greenhouse’s almost tropical setting. The other guests didn’t favor the birds as much as she and, even confined in their cages as the exotic birds were, the Popkin sisters were quite terrified of the winged menagerie.
That suited Justina perfectly fine.
This bit of heaven was hers, and hers alone, to enjoy since the day Baxter had introduced her to the greenhouse and its avian guests. Today was the first day Princess and Duke hadn’t followed her into her sanctuary. Instead, Duke’s paw now much recovered, they’d gone for a walk with Baxter.
Who, she asked herself, walked in the freezing cold with snow up to their knees?
Baxter Bathhurst, that was who.
There was so much about him that she wanted to know and didn’t dare ask.
Where did he hail from?
Did he have any sisters or brothers?
Were his parents alive? What were his favorite foods? What had motivated him to hire his unique collection of servants? And why rescue unusual birds?
Possibly it was b
oredom that had her so consumed with thoughts of her host. Even as she considered the possibility, Justina dismissed it for the fustian rot that it was.
Baxter—how utterly wicked of her to think of him this way—had permitted her to feed a parrot and a cockatoo a bite of apple that first morning. Now, she was allowed to feed all of the birds a treat or two anytime she wished.
Having never before been infatuated, Justina assumed the eagerness to see Baxter—to look upon him, into his warm, caramel brown eyes, and to hear his rumbling baritone—was infatuation. His tenor held an inflection, the merest melodious accent she couldn’t quite place but which teased Justina’s ears and made him all that much more mysterious and intriguing.
Tantalizing. Fascinating. Enthralling.
And so many more words ending in ing.
Although she’d been ten years of age when she’d arrived in England, and it had taken her two years to learn to speak the language fluently, she hadn’t retained a German accent. At least not one that was detectable, and Aunt Emily had assured her it was so. Not that it mattered for Justina’s Austrian heritage was well-known, and she wasn’t ashamed of it.
From the corner of her eye, a movement caught her attention. She glanced out the window, her book forgotten at what she beheld.
Baxter shoveled snow from the curved walkway.
He’d returned from his outing then.
From beneath her lashes, Justina observed him—for to stare outright would be most ill-mannered—quite enjoying the way his jacket pulled taut across his broad back and shoulders as he worked. He was inarguably handsome, his strong jaw, slightly hooked nose, and weather-touched features perhaps too rugged for the Beau Monde’s standard of attraction compared to the pale-faced, mincing fops in London.
He turned to begin clearing another row, and a shock of sandy-brown hair fell over his forehead. The errant locks made him look younger, more boyish and carefree. Not that he was old, by any means.
She’d wager he hadn’t reached his thirties yet, but there was an air about him as if he were burdened or perhaps troubled.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 3