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.”
It wasn’t until he was half-way back to the drawing room that he realized the girl hadn’t once batted her eyelashes at him or thrust out her bosoms. Likely, the Duchess of Sutcliffe took particular care to assure her staff had no aspirations of bedding her house guests.
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.”
“Wait, Justina.” Baxter jammed his foot in the door, wincing as the wood pinched his toes. “I can explain.”
She shook her head, her expression desolate. “Can you not be a duke?”
“What?” The question took him aback. “Of course not. But I care for you. Deeply.”
By God. He might very well love her. Did love her.
The truth of that epiphany struck him with such force, his breath and pulse stalled before resuming at an alarming pace. He loved Justina Farthington with her gorgeous eyes the color of Scotland. Each time he gazed into them was a homecoming.
“Then this is goodbye, Baxter.” A nascent smile, sad and fragile, curved her mouth. “I mean to convince my aunt to leave on the morrow, and I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”
Chapter Eleven
Early the next morning, her head aching from lack of sleep and the tears she’d wept after a stricken Baxter had backed away, permitting her to close and lock her bedchamber door, Justina went in search of her aunt.
She knocked thrice upon Aunt Emily’s door and, after a long moment that stretched out into the corridor, received a groggy, “Who is it?” in response.
“It’s me, Aunt Emily. I need to speak to you before the others arise.”
After a bit of shuffling around inside, her aunt opened the door. “Come in, my dear.”
“Forgive me for waking you.”
Emily looked Justina over from head to toe. “You’ve looked better, I must say. Did you sleep at all?”
No.
“As I’m sure you can imagine, I found slumber elusive,” she admitted dully.
After yanking the bellpull, her aunt urged Justina into an armchair, then threw open the draperies. “I cannot stand drawn curtains when the sun is coming up. Light is healing, especially morning light.”
Justina managed a wan smile.
“Now what has you dragging me out of bed at...” Emily glanced at the bedside clock, her eyes going wide. “Merciful heavens,” she exclaimed. “At half-past six?”
Justina folded her hands and met her aunt’s eyes directly. “Can we go home this morning?”
“I take it you haven’t looked outside?”
Justina shook her head.
“Darling, it snowed heavily overnight. Even if I thought we should depart, we cannot.”
Despair gripped Justina, and then her aunt’s words caught her attention.
“You don’t think we should leave? Why not? Baxter lied to me, Aunt Emily. He’s a duke, and you and I both know there cannot be anything between us.”
Her aunt angled her head. “I’ll admit I was quite miffed with him last night, but upon further reflection, I believe you should give him the chance to explain himself.”
Justina’s mouth sagged and she blinked several time in confusion. “You…” She shook her head again. “I don’t understand.”
A brisk knock echoed at the door.
“Come in,” Aunt Emily called, securing the belt of her night robe at her trim waist.
“You rang, Mrs. Grenville?” A pretty maid with big blue eyes asked.
“Hot chocolate for my niece and I, please. And croissants and hot cross buns if they are available. The duchess always has the most delicious croissants.”
“Of course.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and left.
“Now, where were we?” Aunt Emily sat in the other armchair. “Ah, yes, his grace.” She chuckled as she put a forefinger to her chin. “I knew there was something about him I should recall. Remember when we first arrived at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa, and I said Bathhurst sounded familiar?”
Nodding, Justina strove to understand what her aunt was going on about.
Aunt Emily laughed again. “I remembered last night, and I must bear part of the blame for this situation. He attended the Duke of Westfall’s ball last spring.”
He had?
“I didn’t meet him, of course, for I surely would’ve have remembered him.” Her aunt cocked her head, her eyes slightly squinted. “I believe I overheard that unpleasant Lady Crustworth complaining to her crony, Lady Darumple, that a Scot should never be permitted to inherit an English title.”
“Be that as it may, Aunt Emily, that doesn’t change the fact that he wasn’t honest with me, he did not call as he’d promised to, and then there’s me.” She waved a hand toward her midriff. “I’m illegitimate. A nobody. Not duchess material.”
“Justina Madalene Honoria Farthington. I take great exception to that statement.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Emily. I meant no offense.”
Her aunt drew herself up, hurt etched upon her pretty face and shadowing her forest-green eyes. “I have taken extraordinary care to raise you in the manner of a most proper, gently-bred young woman. You are too duchess material. More so than most of the blue-blooded aristocrats I’ve met.”
Turning her attention toward the window, Justina sighed.
It was snowing again.
Of course, it was.
Was God determined she should always be stranded in the same house as Baxter?
“Justina, may I ask you something personal?”
She veered her focus to her aunt once more. “Of course.”
There’d never been secrets between them. Well, except for the reason behind Aunt Emily’s silence regarding her marriage.
“Do you love San Sebastian?” The words were soft and empathetic, and yes, probably very hard for her wary aunt to ask.
“I do. I truly do.” Swallowing, Justina battled the sudden swell of tears behind her eyelids. “So much so that I don’t know how I can face the future without him.”
Her aunt came to her then, and crouched before her, taking her hands in hers. “Darling, then tell him so. That man is in love with you. I’d wager everything I own upon it.”
Justina studied her face, unable to deny the sincerity stamped upon Aunt Emily’s features. “How can you, who won’t even talk about what happened in your marriage, advise me on love?”
Hurt flashed across her aunt's face before she schooled her features once more. After taking a deep breath, she met Justina’s gaze and clasped her hands tighter.
“I was in love. Very much so. Clement vowed he loved me too. We were married after a whirlwind courtship, and we were blissfully happy for two months.”
Justina longed to ask what happened, but forced herself to wait patiently. She instinctively knew there was no rushing the telling of this tale.
Going pale, Aunt Emily looked away and bit her lower lip. After a long pause, she continued, her words strained.
“But, you see, my dear, he was already married. His wife was in England with their three children. He received his new orders and began packing at once to leave. I assumed he’d send me home to England to await him. When I asked hi
m what arrangements I should make, he finally told me the truth.” She managed a rueful, heartbreaking smile. “Oh, he swore he loved me, that his wife was a cold, unfeeling woman, but he had his children to consider, you see.”
“Oh, Aunt Emily.” The heartless, rotten bounder. To hurt her sweet aunt in such a heartless fashion. No wonder Emily had no interest in marrying again.
“He was killed shortly thereafter.” A sad nascent pulled her aunt’s mouth upward. “I never even told my brother the truth. I was too ashamed, and Richard was a stickler for propriety. I honestly feared he’d turn me out.”
With a bent knuckle, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
That made Justina rather grateful Richard Farthington was not her sire. Or if he was, as her grandfather had sworn he was, that Justina had never known him.
“But you dear, what you have with San Sebastian. It’s beautiful.” Emily gave a tiny, self-conscious laugh. “I confess, I was envious. I didn’t want to lose you, to be alone.”
“I would never leave you!” Justina exclaimed, throwing her arms around her aunt’s shoulders. “After all that you’ve done for me? How could you even think it?”
Aunt Emily gave her a tight hug in return and then a little shove. “Go, darling. Tell him how you feel.”
“I don’t know which room is his.” Giddiness tumbled around Justina’s middle.
Could she really do it?
Proclaim herself?
Could she trust this feeling that had taken control of her life?
“Three doors down from yours.”
Was her model-of-decorum aunt honestly telling her to visit a gentleman’s bedchamber?
“I do believe I shall,” Justina said, her courage growing with each word.
What had she to lose but the man she loved?
After kissing her aunt on the cheek, Justina hurried from the room, wishing she’d worn a different gown other than her slate gray and navy-blue traveling ensemble. She retraced her steps, this time her heart light and full of hope.
She would listen to what Baxter had to say. Hear what he’d wanted to tell her last night. She’d not throw away a chance for happiness because of her wounded pride.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 10