Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2)

by Collette Cameron

  Unless he could convince the Sutcliffes to invite her too?

  No, he mightn’t’ know her well, but she didn’t strike him as the type who was entirely at ease in crowds. Besides, she might be uncomfortable around so many peers.

  What the hell was he to do?

  Chapter Seven

  Bristol, England

  December 15, 1810

  Brushing a hand across her forehead, Justina sighed for the umpteenth time. Eyebrows furrowed and her bottom lip clamped between her teeth, she considered the gowns laying upon her bed’s light blue coverlet, trying to decide which she’d take to the Sutcliffes’ house party.

  None were new, but both she and Aunt Emily were gifted with a needle and thread and gowns from two Seasons ago had been reworked quite satisfactorily. A scrap of lace here, a ribbon or braid there, or a new ruffle, and the garments were hardly recognizable. That was one practical means implemented to stretch coin.

  Well, that was stretching the truth, but the frocks were near enough in style to the current fashion to pass haut ton inspection at first glance. And since Justina rarely drew a second glance, except from her friends, she wasn’t concerned about her revamped wardrobe. That business of requiring new garments from the skin out each Season was positively wasteful.

  Head tilted, she considered two additional morning gowns.

  The mint green or the rose?

  Both perhaps?

  Justina wasn’t above wearing a gown more than once at a house party. After all, budget and wardrobe restraints already required her to do so with other attire.

  She slanted a glance at the nearly full trunk. It already contained three morning gowns, a riding habit, two walking ensembles, six afternoon gowns, and another half dozen evening gowns. Justina had also managed to fit a ballgown, a fichu, her unmentionables, a nightgown and robe, two each of spencers, pelisses, and shawls, and, lastly, a heavy cloak in case it snowed again.

  Then there were gloves, shoes, stockings, her sewing kit, and various other necessary fallalls and fripperies. She almost envied servants their simple uniforms. Almost.

  She’d wear her redingote and one of the three bonnets she intended to take with her in the coach.

  Puffing out an unladylike sigh that ballooned her cheeks in a childish manner, Justina shook her head. Really. This would be so much easier, not to mention less costly, if women weren’t required to change their gowns multiple times a day.

  As neither she nor Aunt Emily employed a lady’s maid, they acted as one another’s Abigail, as well as packed an unpacked their own trunks. Theadosia, Duchess of Sutcliffe, would assign them a maid to share for the duration of the house party, but it wasn’t the least necessary.

  For months, Justina had anticipated the Christmastide gathering, but now a shadow marred her earlier joy.

  Baxter hadn’t come knocking on her door.

  He hadn’t written either—not a single letter in over three weeks.

  That isn’t so very long, she tried to console herself.

  True, but if Baxter had written promptly upon returning to Bath—

  But—drat the man—he hadn’t.

  Deciding there was room for both gowns, she picked up the green muslin.

  Nose scrunched, Justina mentally calculated, again, how long it took to travel to Lancashire and back while allowing a week for him to attend to whatever urgent business had required his attention.

  Bristol was but thirteen miles from Bath. A trip he could easily make on horseback in an hour and a half, depending on how much he walked or galloped his mount. How naive she’d been to think that some force beyond her or him had inexorably brought them together.

  Lifting her dance slippers to place them inside the trunk, a frown puckered her forehead.

  Blast and damn.

  A worn spot marred the sole of the right slipper. Running a fingertip across the leather, she pondered whether it would wear through during the house party. She checked the inside of the slipper, as well, grateful no holes were visible.

  Giving a little shrug, she accepted the indisputable truth. It was too late to have the slipper repaired or order a new pair. She’d have to save them strictly for dancing and avoid walking about unnecessarily. Perhaps she’d even sit out several dances.

  Pshaw.

  Her hostess wouldn’t permit it. Theadosia was renowned for making her guests feel at ease. No attendee to any of her events ever felt neglected or loitered by a wall.

  In all likelihood, Justina fretted about nothing. No one would be looking at the soles of her feet, for heaven's sake.

  After tucking the slippers into a corner of the trunk and adding nankeen half-boots and two other pairs of slippers, she permitted her contemplations to gravitate to Baxter once more.

  As if she had any choice.

  Like wild ponies, the dashed stubborn things galloped in that direction more often than not, despite her resolution they do otherwise.

  As Baxter had requested, Justina had left her address with Mr. Bixby, slipping it to him quietly before Aunt Emily had settled their bill.

  “Mr. Bathhurst asked for my direction,” she’d explained, trying and failing not to blush.

  The dear man’s eyes had twinkled behind his lenses, a kindly smile bending Mr. Bixby’s mouth as he’d slipped the folded paper into a drawer.

  “Rest assured, I’ll see that he receives it promptly upon his return, Miss Farthington.”

  Justina had been a fool—fool—to believe Baxter.

  I shall call upon you, Justina, when I return from Lancashire.

  My intentions toward you are honorable. I vow it.

  He’d seemed so sincere and earnest.

  Believe me, please, he’d said.

  And she had.

  Ninny. Pea goose. Twiddlepoop.

  Thank God, Justina hadn’t given herself to him as she’d almost impetuously done. Would’ve done had he not drawn away. Never could she have imagined desire would carry her to the cusp of ruination and that she didn’t give two farthings that it had. Even now, painfully aware that Baxter Bathhurst, the most handsome man—the only man—to upset her equilibrium didn’t want her, caused heat to sluice through her.

  It was humiliation washing over her—mortification at being dismissed and forgotten so easily.

  Bah, what poppycock and tripe.

  Justina snorted, refusing to lie to herself.

  It wasn’t embarrassment presently hardening her nipples or causing her blood to warm as it hummed through her veins. No indeed. It was the sweet, sensual memories of what Baxter had done to her. She’d wanted him to continue—to make her a woman in every way.

  To make her his woman.

  Why had he stopped?

  Four words, an unwelcome mantra echoing in her mind, taunting and tormenting. Reminding her of her shortfalls.

  That he was an experienced man of the world, Justina had no doubt. Perchance he’d found her lacking or repugnant in some manner. All that twaddle about calling upon her had been just that.

  Rubbish. Balderdash and claptrap.

  Had he only said he’d come to Bristol and knock upon every door so that he could make his escape that night without hurting her feelings?

  Chagrin pricked Justina, sharp little jabs of self-castigation and recrimination further bruising her already battered pride. She grabbed the rose gown and carefully folded it before laying it in her trunk. At precisely nine of the clock tomorrow morning, she and Aunt Emily would depart for Colchester, a three-day journey.

  Despite her vow, she’d not look for Baxter anymore, Justina’s traitorous gaze wandered to the mantle clock and then veered to her bedroom window, which faced the street. A lone boy, head down and shoulders hunched against the drizzle, walked briskly along the lane.

  No carriage drew to a stop outside.

  No damp horseman trotted his mount to a halt.

  There is still time, a little voice inside her head whispered.

  He isn’t coming, her logical self
argued.

  Stop looking for him. Cease torturing yourself.

  Baxter had said he’d be done in Lancashire within a week. Even allowing time for travel, he should’ve been here by now. If he’d meant to keep his word.

  Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and she scrunched them closed, refusing to give in to self-pity. She was not a watering pot.

  No more crying.

  One doesn’t fall in love in seven days.

  But that week at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa had been glorious. Baxter had been glorious.

  Bah.

  That nonsense was the fanciful stuff of childish fairytales and silly novels for even sillier women. Gullible women who believed in love at first sight. Women who were guaranteed a broken heart.

  She groaned and pressed her knuckles to her eyes.

  Lord, she’d actually told Baxter that she believed in love at first sight.

  And he’d promptly become acutely uncomfortable.

  That should’ve clued her to his true feelings.

  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.