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

by Collette Cameron

That last time, though, she’d left without a word, not even deigning to answer his missive the following day. He’d been a bit shaken by her sang froid.

  Miles slipped his gun into the pocket of his overcoat. “I was right,” he said.

  “About what?” she asked, a fine eyebrow arched.

  “I was convinced the carriage contained a highwayman setting a trap. And here you are, not a common footpad, but a thief nonetheless.”

  She sighed, deigning neither to protest nor to respond. Yet after peering past him to his comfortable carriage, she gave him her most winsome smile.

  It made his heart clench. Ignoring his own foolish emotions, he said, “I assume you’re heading to Lady Macroun’s house party.”

  “I am.” She batted her lashes at him like an actress on the stage. “I didn’t expect you to be there.”

  Evidently not. She wouldn’t want him keeping an eye on her. Speaking of which, he noticed her shivering.

  “I am shocked an ice queen such as yourself feels the cold.”

  Rolling her eyes flippantly, she asked, “Is that any way to greet me?”

  He leaned forward so only she could hear. “You mean after you left my bed cold and slithered from my townhouse.”

  Unbothered, she made a moue of her mouth, looking infinitely kissable. Then she leaned forward so he could feel her breath upon his ear. “I did neither. I warmed your bed all night, as I recall, and I sauntered from your townhouse because I had better things to do.” Then she stood back. “Now, greet me properly, or I shall declare you petulant and jealous.”

  He was neither. However, he had become smitten with her a few months back, despite her penchant for marrying old men who died quickly. But he couldn’t possibly truly care for a thief, not in his line of work, and somehow, despite her notoriously humble beginnings, she had married into a fortune and rumor had it jewels disappeared when she was nearby. He’d experienced it himself with his own diamond cravat pin missing after she’d spent the night.

  Before the loss of his pin, he’d been ready to help her clear her name, but after slaking her desire with him that evening, she’d walked away, denying him the chance to play the knight in shining armor, not to mention piercing his pride, too.

  And now she had a cocky, devil-may-care expression that infuriated him.

  “I should turn you over my knee and spank you,” Miles said, half to himself. The danger to her person should she be caught, tried, and found guilty did not bear thinking about.

  “Oh, do tell,” she said, then smirked. “I can’t recall, did we try that?”

  He gritted his teeth. She was implying their encounters were forgettable, and worse, she’d said such in front of their footmen. Reputations had been lost for less. Too late now.

  “You’d best come with me after all. We’ll have to see if Lady Macroun’s carriage-house has a spare wheel, and a wainwright nearby whom she can send out.”

  She shrugged delightfully. “Perfect.”

  She was plainly unbothered by such things. Other people took care of them for her, as he was doing at that moment.

  Calling up to the coachman, he said, “I believe we are about twenty minutes away, so hopefully, within the hour, help shall arrive.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  Turning to her, he offered his hand, noticing his own footman had put the step down. “Shall we?” he asked.

  “We shall,” she agreed and climbed in.

  “Are you traveling alone?” Most of the people attending the party were couples, although undoubtedly, there would be single men and women attending, all of them hoping for a festive twelve days, except for himself, who would be working.

  And except for Sarah apparently.

  “I am, apart from my maid, of course.” She cocked her head. “Why do you ask? Wondering if I might be husband hunting? I hear there will be at least one ride to the hunt.”

  He smiled at her witticism, although inside, he felt her words like a dart. He might have been interested in being her next husband if she hadn’t walked out and refused to respond to his invitation. How he’d let her get under his skin so easily was beyond him.

  “I’m quite confident there will be hunting,” he agreed, playing along. “I’m merely surprised you’re not with your sister for this festive season.”

  “Julia had other obligations,” she said cagily, “and a gentleman who requested her presence elsewhere.”

  “A wealthy nob, no doubt,” he said, thinking of Sarah’s equally stunning sister. From what he’d gleaned, Julia Sudbury used her good looks in the same fashion, to manipulate and get what she wanted. They were often at the same London parties, leading men on a merry dance.

  “I have wondered how a parson could have two such—”

  “Beautiful daughters,” Sarah finished for him, arranging her fur-trimmed pelisse and smoothing her skirts.

  He cocked his head. “I was going to say conniving and dishonest daughters.”

  “Shame on you, Denbigh. ’Tis the season of peace and good will.”

  Miles considered. “It is, isn’t it? And that’s why I didn’t leave you in the frost to await help.”

  She paused as if she hadn’t entertained the notion he might not wish for her company. Then she dazzled him with another smile, leaning forward to place her hand upon his pant leg, squeezing his knee in an outrageously bold fashion.

  “How kind of you,” she said.

  While his body was still humming from her unexpected touch, his head filled with her delicately enticing floral fragrance, she added, “And my trunks, if you please. I cannot possibly arrive and be unable to change out of these dusty rags.”

  Sighing, he slid the window down and addressed his footman. In a moment, he felt the weight of her luggage added to his traveling coach. Good thing it had the sturdiest wheels money could provide, unlike hers, which he could see were all for show. Silly things, painted powder blue and probably made out of kindling.

  “And my maid,” she added as he was about to signal his coachman to drive on.

  “I have come without my valet,” he pointed out.

  She looked him up and down.

  “Such déshabillé is your prerogative. However, I intend to look my best, even in the backward countryside of Great Oakley. Besides, if we show up and I have no companion, tongues will begin to wag at once. Do you want our names to be irrevocably linked in scandal? I don’t mind in the least, but it might interfere with your stellar reputation as one of Prinny’s prized lackeys.”

  “Careful, Lady Worthmore, you’re a guest in my carriage.”

  She paused. “You just called me Worthmore.”

  He blinked. Had he? “I did not,” he insisted. “I said Worthington, for your poor, dead husband.”

  “You did,” she said with a pretty lifting of her shoulder in a shrug. “And poor is the one thing my husband was not. Anyway, at least I didn’t call you a toady. Nor lickspittle or flunky. My intent was nothing but polite, I assure you.”

  He had performed a valuable service for the Prince Regent during the War of 1812 as a hired man who could get done certain sensitive tasks, helping to bring about the Treaty of Ghent, which was, in fact, about to be signed in a few days. He wouldn’t let her make him feel tainted by her snide remarks. In fact, she was undoubtedly fishing to discover what he was doing at Lady Macroun’s.

  Miles leaned his head out again. “Her ladyship’s maid may accompany us.” He nearly ordered her to take a seat up with the coachman, but it was cold and almost Christmas, after all.

  As soon as the pudding-faced maid climbed aboard and took a seat beside her mistress, all interesting talk had to cease. Instead, they discussed which guests they knew would be there and what parties they’d already attended in Town. He watched Sarah’s face when each name was brought up, but he could ascertain no particular interest she might have.

  Before Miles knew it, they’d reach the long drive to Lady Macroun’s expansive manor house. And he couldn’t quite
believe he was with Lady Sarah Worthington. She was going to be trouble—a big Christmas helping of it, to be sure.

  Sarah managed to remain as cool and in control as she’d ever been—whether trapped under a bed in a marquess’s chamber, a diamond ring held in her mouth, or escaping out a second-story window onto an adjacent rooftop, a sapphire necklace with matching earrings in a small sack stuck down her décolletage. Harder than doing either, in fact, was the mission of remaining relaxed while sitting a hairsbreadth from the Viscount Miles Denbigh, the only man who’d ever made her desires rage and who’d brought her to the peak of passion on two separate occasions. And glorious peaks they were!

  Nevertheless, she had a goal for the Christmastide, and it didn’t involve enjoying passionate relations with Denbigh. Unless … she looked him over while he ordered their trunks taken inside as smoothly as though he were her husband, and then he went about asking for a wainwright.

  Hm, perhaps they could slip in a tryst without disturbing her plans. After all, she was beginning to get used to the life as a lady of the bon ton. As a widow, she’d been invited to partake of many an assignation. She could hardly imagine Denbigh’s insufferable male pride if he knew he was the only one with whom she’d actually shared a passionate rendez-vous. Twice! None of the others had tempted her in the slightest.

  On the whole, he seemed to be a good sort of man, a solid, upstanding citizen of England, loyal to crown and country. She loved her country, too, but they had different roles to play, and she had one very large burden to carry and, hopefully, to relieve herself of by the time she left the Yuletide gathering at Forde Hall.

  Chapter 1

  After settling into her room, Sarah let Dorie, who’d been assigned a small adjacent chamber, change her into a dress for the late afternoon.

  “I hope you can get the wrinkles out of the blue silk by eight o’clock,” Sarah said, taking a look in the mirror at her current gown of pale burgundy with cream trim.

  “Yes, my lady. Don’t worry your head.”

  And Sarah decided Dorie was correct. She shouldn’t spend a moment worrying about fashion, as she had plenty of other things to keep her occupied, thanks to Julia’s antics. Hopefully, her sister would stay out of trouble until the Epiphany when Sarah would be back in London.

  She had more than enough time to carry out her onerous tasks, as long as she could stay away from Denbigh’s watchful eye, although she wouldn’t mind an encounter with his firm, warm lips, his wicked tongue, his expert hands, and his—

  “My lady, the schedule said there is a gathering in the east drawing room. It is already underway.”

  “Thank you, Dorie. I’ll go at once.” All hot and bothered with thoughts of Lord Miles Denbigh.

  Sure enough, as soon as she entered the room on the first floor, despite there being many guests milling about, her gaze landed upon the tall, attractive man who’d left a heavy stamp upon her heart.

  If only he weren’t in his particular line of work. If only her younger sister weren’t up to no good, and she, Sarah, the only one who could make it right.

  Immediately, she was met by Lady Macroun, a decade-long widow, who enjoyed her freedom, her parties, her friends, and her lovers. Many a younger woman aspired to everything the viscountess had.

  “So glad you could come,” Lady Macroun said by way of welcome.

  A true hostess, the viscountess treated Sarah as though she were a coveted guest instead of one who’d wangled an invitation by hook and by crook.

  “I am grateful to have been invited,” Sarah assured the woman, giving her a small curtsy of respect. While she might be titled Lady Worthington, and considered a countess, she was still a nobody, with no influence and no friends among the ton.

  Lady Macroun stood half a head taller than most females, and looked every inch in command of her estate and her Twelvetide party. And that night, she stood out like the North star, wearing a silver silk gown and dripping jewels from her throat, her upper arms, her wrists and fingers, and even from her coiffure.

  Sarah gave a silent sigh of gratitude Julia was not in the vicinity. The temptation to her sister would be far too great.

  Soon, she was drinking an egg-and-milk flip, a hearty afternoon beverage to tide them all over until there would be small edibles at dusk before an enormous meal later. House parties were notorious for providing one opportunity to eat and drink followed by another, intertwined with outdoor entertainment when the weather permitted and indoor amusements for the rest of the time. Although this was Sarah’s first such experience, she had heard a Yuletide house party would be the ultimate in gustatory indulgence.

  “We’ll be having music with our refreshments,” the viscountess said. “We’re so fortunate one of my guests is an accomplished pianist. If you will excuse me.” And she glided away in a silvery, glittering motion of regal smoothness.

  Despite having been a titled lady herself for nearly two years, Sarah felt in her bones there was a difference between those born to the manor and those, like herself, who married into it. A vast divide. Dress up as she might, she would always be a parson’s daughter with a wayward sister. However, her cunning might set her apart from some of the more complacent, indolent noblewomen who hadn’t had to lift a finger to get where they were.

  Then again, maybe she’d merely been extremely lucky.

  Hoping her luck would hold, Sarah sipped the frothy beverage from the sideboard and found it to be the creamiest, most delicious flip she’d ever tasted. A few sips made it easier to turn and survey her fellow guests. One in particular was on her mind, and in the next moment, she spied him. Lord Devonstone was missing a particularly expensive ring, given to him by his father, and he wasn’t going to rest until it was returned. He’d been crying its loss all over London.

  At that moment, Sarah had the precise piece of jewelry nestled between her breasts, resting on the seam of her corset, awaiting a moment when she could slip it into the man’s coat pocket, to be found later by him or his valet. It should be one of the easiest tasks she’d ever performed.

  “There you are, looking bewitchingly lovely,” Denbigh said, suddenly at her elbow. “Not to mention furtive, even a little guilty, dare I say.”

  Even when he was accusing her, she thought him charming. But she must try to steer his attention in a different direction.

  “I do not look furtive, nor guilty. So, no, you may not dare. And you are standing out like a sore thumb. If you’re attempting to appear as an honored guest and not a blasted bloodhound, then at least, take a glass of Lady Macroun’s exceptional egg-and-milk flip.” She sipped hers again. “You won’t be sorry.”

  He stared at her, blinked, and then, strangely, he grinned, looking for all the world as if he intended to laugh. At her?

  “What?” she demanded. “Why do you have that look upon your face?”

  “Your lip,” he said quietly. “You have a cream mustache, and it is perfect on you.”

  Now Sarah could feel it, foam upon her upper lip. Quickly, she licked it away, wanting to wipe the back of her hand across her mouth, too. None of them were wearing gloves indoors at that time of day, so she wouldn’t soil her satin. Still, if someone saw her…

  “Is it gone?” she asked, unable to keep from leaning close and whispering.

  His gaze was fixed on her mouth. “Your tongue did exactly what mine wished to do,” Denbigh murmured, making her insides turn molten instantly. What a salty rogue he was!

  Sighing to keep from leaning closer to him, which was what her body wanted to do, Sarah said, “A gentleman would give me his handkerchief, so I didn’t have to use my tongue.”

  “Not nearly as fun,” he quipped, but drew a linen square out of his pocket nonetheless and handed it to her.

  Their fingers touched as she took it. How could his fingers be so warm in the middle of winter, sending sparks of excitement through her?

  Recalling the ecstasy of those same fingers trailing across her skin, she shivered, despite the fir
e blazing merrily in the enormous hearth at one end of the room. Their gazes met. Was he recalling the way she’d responded when he’d caressed her, especially when his fingers had dipped into her intimate place?

  Still looking at his intense brown gaze, she took another long draught of the flip, this time carefully wiping her mouth with his handkerchief.

  “In America, they call it egg-nog,” he said, “and they serve it as quite a strong drink.”

  “This might be strong, too. It’s hard to tell with all the sweetness.” She felt like giggling and decided there was an ample amount of liquor in Lady Macroun’s holiday beverage.

  “I think it’s time for some prittle-prattle with the other guests,” Sarah told him. “The fortifying flip will undoubtedly give me courage since, besides you, I don’t know anyone here.” And she wasn’t the bravest of souls—at least not when it came to the vast gatherings of nibs and nobs, all of whom seemed to know she wasn’t truly one of them. When it came to slipping into someone’s room and returning their rightful baubles, she was as brave as St. George. Anything for her sister!

  Remembering this and that she had a backbone, she straightened it and walked away.

  Miles watched her approach a small group of other guests, many whom he recognized—the Belmonts of Grosvenor Square, the Evingdons of St. James’s Place, and even old Lord Devonstone in his decade’s old garb, which he still wore proudly. All extraordinary wealthy members of the ton. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he was certain Sarah was up to no good, and also firmly convinced she was the most beautiful, desirable creature at Forde Hall.

  They would have nearly a fortnight together, as these Yuletide gatherings lasted the entire twelve days of Christmas. He had the distinct suspicion they would find themselves in a compromising position before the Epiphany because he was doubtful he could resist their intense attraction—or stop himself from pleasuring her if she gave him the opportunity.

  Not when she was obviously so affected by his touch and his glance, and not when he felt like kissing her every blasted time they were within three feet of one another. Happy Christmas, indeed!