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

by Collette Cameron

  In response, she grabbed the rest of her clothes in a bundle and ran to the thick draperies where she disappeared behind them, proving herself a woman experienced in concealing herself.

  Slipping into his banyan, he answered a second rap upon his door. Yanking it open, he was faced with Lady Macroun’s paramour.

  “Sorry to disturb your … uh, nap,” Lord Fenway said, his eyes flitting past Denbigh to take in the utter disarray of the bed. “There’s a bit of bad bread going on in the green drawing room. The viscountess is requesting your presence at once.”

  “Please tell Lady Macroun I shall be there upon the instant.” And he closed the door, hoping he hadn’t been rude. When he turned around, Sarah had already reappeared.

  “You must finish dressing me first,” she said, “or I shall be trapped here.”

  “Agreed.” With all due haste, he laced and hooked until she was passingly robed, and hopefully, only her maid would be the wiser.

  “Go straight back to your room,” he urged, “even if all the excitement is happening in the drawing room.”

  Her expression turned to exasperation. “Of course. I’m not a fool. I only hope Dorie is there to tidy me up.”

  “Ready?” he asked, feeling the mad urge to kiss her, which he denied himself, given the now-stiff set to her shoulders.

  Nodding, she let him open the door a crack while she peered out, barely hesitating before she stepped into the hall, moving to the far side of it before swiftly walking away. He shook his head at the ease with which she handled furtive maneuvers.

  Miles had never dressed so fast in his life. Three more minutes and he was hurrying into the second-floor drawing room.

  “There you are, Lord Denbigh,” Lady Macroun began. She was standing between two ladies, both unmistakably uppish and crabbed, with Lord Fenway leaning by the fireplace, and other onlookers standing in clusters.

  He rolled his eyes. If the viscountess wanted discretion, she’d gone about this all wrong. Nevertheless, he approached the trio of ladies.

  “I heard the cry of robbery,” he began.

  “Most foul,” Lady Burtram added.

  Miles wondered if there was any other kind in the eyes of the victim.

  “Indeed,” said her husband from a safe distance by the window, seated and drinking brandy.

  “Lies!” Lady Totterly exclaimed. “I found it. How do I know it’s yours?”

  “How do you know?” spluttered Lady Burtram. “You know because I am telling you.”

  “What did you find?” Miles addressed Lady Totterly, who had her hand clasped over her chest. Slowly, she peeled back her fingers to reveal a stunning sapphire broach.

  Lady Burtram sighed. “I haven’t seen it in over a fortnight.” She looked to her husband. “When was the Huntingdon party?”

  “The sixth of December,” Lord Burtram intoned.

  “How do you know that?” his wife asked, surprised. “You don’t even recall the date of our children’s births.”

  His face reddened at the insult. “I know because it was the St. Nicholas Day party.”

  “Oh,” she said, chastised, since St. Nicholas Day always fell upon the sixth. “So, it was. That was the last time I wore it.”

  Miles frowned and addressed Lady Totterly again. “You found the broach at the Earl of Huntingdon’s townhouse?”

  Lady Totterly shook her head, then lifted her chin defensively. “I’ve never been there.”

  Miles set his confusion down to having been pulled so recently from the arms of a goddess after having two climaxes that had him seeing stars.

  “Where exactly did you find it?”

  “Why, right downstairs. In the front hall.”

  This time, it was Lady Macroun who gasped. “Cecelia, it was very wrong of you. You ought to have brought your discovery to my attention immediately, so I could have asked my other guests.”

  Lady Totterly began to remove the broach, whose sapphires reminded Miles of a certain saucy widow’s sparkling eyes.

  “I only pinned it on for the afternoon,” Lady Totterly explained. “I knew if it belonged to someone here, then she would let me know.” She glared at Lady Burtram. “However, before I could even say as much, you started screaming about robbery.”

  Lady Burtram had the grace to look chagrinned. “It was such a shock to see my broach on your gown,” she said. “I do apologize.”

  Miles shook his head. No one cared how puzzling it was that a broach last seen a hundred miles away had turned up in Great Oakley. Just then, Sarah arrived, dressed impeccably, in a deep-blue gown, with her hair redressed with curls and pearls. She looked as if she’d spent the day reading a book and not mixing giblets with him for the past hour.

  Taking up a position right inside the doorway, she stood off to one side. Briefly, their eyes met. It was impossible to believe the failed hunt had been only that morning. Even their afternoon of passion, when she’d ridden rantipole on him, seemed as though it had occurred ages ago. And considering the last time he saw her, she was in utter disarray, with even her hair in a snarled if charming mess, he had to tip his hat to her maid.

  After another guest leaned close to fill her in about the surprising appearance of a lost broach, he watched her glance at her fingers, pick at some lint on her sleeve, looking bored. Hm.

  “Everything has worked out splendidly,” Lady Macroun said, her relief palpable. Not only had there been no case of thievery that could darken her reputation as a hostess, quite the contrary, a second guest had recovered jewelry.

  What a coincidence, Miles thought, not believing such a thing for a moment.

  Chapter 10

  The following day, the Hollingsworths left as soon as his lordship, his bandaged arm in a sling, was comfortable enough to do so and before the snow started. The rest of them settled in for a day’s worth of diversions, with the promise of another attempt at a hunt in two days.

  Knowing the luxury of another week was before them, Miles tried to keep from devouring Sarah with his eyes—and with his mouth. His perception of her had shifted from an opportunist to a delightful woman with whom he could allow his feelings to grow. Moreover, if he could fight the sensual pull of her, he would treat her as a lady ought to be treated.

  At least for a day or two, until she begged for his wickeder self to come out and play.

  Meanwhile, no one stole anything or screamed about robbery for a day, and they enjoyed charades, rounds of card games, backgammon, chess, checkers, and another game of Steal the White Loaf. Someone even decided to count the remaining mistletoe berries and announced a shocking depletion of them.

  That evening, on the eve of the new year, as Lady Macroun had promised, there was an opportunity to dance with the same accomplished guest playing the piano while the men and women lined up in Forde Hall’s spacious ballroom. The gathering was informal, wine flowed freely, and everyone laughed until the wee hours. Afterward, they had a late light supper.

  Miles had danced with all the single ladies, even Lady Frances so as not be rude. Yet when she pressed against him, he found nothing exciting about it, feeling a little sorry for having duped her on her father’s behalf. Firmly, and as politely as possible, he increased the distance between them until the music stopped.

  During each dance, he kept his gaze upon Sarah, taking note of her partners and whether she preferred any man. It seemed she didn’t. Even Mr. Asher had been favored with only two dances.

  When it was his turn to dance with her, staring into her glittering cerulean eyes and admiring the joyful curve of her mouth, it was difficult not to think of her naked beneath him, and his vow to behave like a gentleman was sorely tested.

  Given their past, it had not been particularly surprising when Sarah had been willing to engage in an ardent hour in his bed. It had confirmed their lovemaking was beyond the pale, beyond anything in fact he’d ever experienced. And discovering she’d not received his missive allowed him to think well of her again.

  In f
act, his mistaken notion of her as a loose, conniving woman was precisely that—mistaken. He couldn’t recall her name having been linked with any man’s since her husband’s death. She wasn’t a lightskirt, although she was definitely light-fingered.

  His own diamond tie tack was still missing, and he’d had no one else in his bedroom since her, except his valet, whom he trusted more than he trusted himself. And she’d been at every single party where jewels had gone missing in the past two months, including the Earl of Huntingdon’s St. Nicholas party. Directly after the scene in the drawing room, Miles had confirmed her name on the list of guests he’d created for all the parties in the past two months.

  But why? She had plenty of money from her dead husband. It made no sense unless she stole for the thrill of it.

  At the end of the evening, when it was already the following morning, he escorted Sarah no farther than the top of the stairs.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she spoke like a mouse in the cheese so no one else could hear.

  He tilted his head. “I am not doing anything except treating you like the lady you are.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. You’re on your best behavior, not at all like the man who first swept me off my feet, literally, at Lady Dauschande’s.”

  She had a twinkle in her eye. Without touching him, her presence enveloped him along with her soft, floral fragrance. He nearly leaned closer, forgetting momentarily where they were.

  “Good night, Lord Denbigh,” she said and walked away.

  A brief snowfall blanketed the gardens and fields around the house. With no travel to worry about, Miles didn’t mind in the least, and Sarah proclaimed it “As fine a Christmastide adornment as any of the festive sprigs and garlands in the house.”

  He invited her, along with a small, intrepid group, to take a stroll in the new snow, which they did, with a reward of mulled wine when they returned to the manor. That day and the next passed without incident until late afternoon.

  “Wicked thievery,” he heard a woman’s voice. Not again!

  Rising from the desk in his room where he was writing to his parents, wishing them happy returns of the Christmas season, he glanced down to see only one line of his neat scrawl and, below it, the sketch of a woman’s face. Clearly, he’d been doing more wool-gathering over a certain blue-eyed widowed countess than writing. Shrugging into his jacket, he left his room and hurried along the hall to find Lady Evingdon in great distress.

  By happenstance, coming from the other direction and her own room was Sarah.

  “Oh, Lady Worthington, lock up your valuables!” the older lady declared.

  Sarah appeared to falter but quickly recovered. “What has happened?”

  But her ladyship now turned to him. “Lord Denbigh, what will I do?”

  Before he could respond, they were set upon by guests coming out of their rooms and up the staircase, as well as Lady Macroun, looking downright peevish at the notion of another unpleasant scene.

  “What is the matter, my lady?” he asked, having to raise his voice above the others, but taking the trouble to narrow his eyes at Sarah, because he feared she was the cause of the latest disturbance.

  Instead of growing quieter so the countess could reply, the guests, particularly the female ones, were becoming louder, all squawking at once, each sounding as distraught as the next.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please, calm yourselves,” Denbigh commanded.

  Everyone hushed this time, and then he asked Lady Evingdon once more, “Are you saying you have been robbed? If so, what was stolen?”

  The countess lifted her chin. “I noticed I was missing my favorite shawl.”

  A shawl! All this fuss for something his granny could have knitted. Miles noticed Sarah raise her head and shoot him a disarming grin.

  See, she seemed to be saying, I didn’t do anything.

  “It had a ruby broach attached to it,” Lady Evingdon added, getting his full attention. “Otherwise, I might not have noticed the broach’s absence.”

  “Do you know when the shawl and broach went missing?” he asked, glancing at Sarah again, who now appeared a little less cock-sure.

  Countess Evingdon looked to her husband, who shrugged. Obviously, the man didn’t give a damn about the shawl or the broach.

  “Did you have it this morning?” Miles tried again.

  “I am not entirely sure,” the countess said. “It may have been missing since yesterday. I do know where I left it, and now, it’s not there.”

  He sent a questioning look to Sarah, whose eyes widened, looking affronted.

  Lady Macroun stepped forward. “Perhaps we have a guest who felt the chill and, seeing your shawl left lying around, thought it the perfect remedy.”

  Denbigh had to hand it to the viscountess. In a heartbeat, she’d managed to put together a tale that would save face to the guilty party and keep her gathering a congenial one.

  “But I didn’t leave it lying anywhere except over a chair in my room,” the wronged lady protested.

  Denbigh considered for a moment.

  “I suppose if the shawl’s borrower would return it immediately, I’m sure all will be forgiven. After all, the house is particularly drafty this time of year.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Lady Macroun rebuked him. “My home is not drafty. Ever!”

  He sighed. “I am only agreeing this wasn’t an act of intentional larceny. Someone might have walked past Lady Evingdon’s room, where the door was ajar, and this person, feeling chilly as you said, especially with the frosty day we had yesterday and then the snow, decided to borrow the shawl for a brief period.”

  “And then?” Lady Evingdon asked, her voice as cold as his portrayal of Forde Hall. “Borrowing usually indicates returning. And it has not been returned. Moreover, I did not leave my door open.” She turned again to her husband for confirmation, but Lord Evingdon merely crossed his arms.

  Miles sighed. “We’ll give the borrower a single hour to return the item, privately, so there shall be no embarrassment. Otherwise,” and he looked around him at all the gaping faces, “rooms will be searched.”

  At this, Lady Macroun gave an exclamation of dismay and fanned herself. “I hope that isn’t necessary, Lord Denbigh.”

  Other guests looked equally unsettled, including Sarah—to his consternation. No one wanted their personal belongings rifled through, and it would take him the rest of the Twelvetide to get through all the rooms. He fervently hoped the threat of such an unpleasant action was enough.

  Moreover, if it came to that, he would start with Sarah’s room and discover what other treasures he could dig up, although it would give him no joy.

  But first, he had to give the thief the opportunity to come forth.

  “I shall wait in the library for the full hour, and I hope the borrower comes to see me, knowing this will be handled with all due discretion.”

  Trying not to look over at Sarah, he turned heel, pushed his way through the onlookers, and went downstairs, feeling all their eyes upon him. By a happy fluke, he ran into the butler.

  “Bring a glass of wine,” he began. “No, make it brandy, to the library. Actually, anything other than the overly sweet eggy cream stuff,” he added. “It’s starting to give me a toothache.”

  “Yes, sir. Brandy, sir.”

  With the promise of such a perfect fortification, Miles headed to the library. Taking the most comfortable chair—an upholstered and winged reading chair—he propped his feet upon the tufted ottoman and awaited his drink and, with any luck, the beautiful twitcher. If she knew what was good for her.

  As he hoped, the door pushed open a few moments later. However, the lady who entered was Lady Frances. Miles frowned at the unexpected apparition of the earl’s daughter.

  “You’re not the thief,” he said, rising to his feet in the presence of a lady, no matter how unwelcome.

  “Of course not, but how do you know?” She thought it a particular compliment by the way she made
a moue of her lips and looked up at him from under her lashes. How he detested simpering!

  “Because it would be entirely out of character, and your father can buy you a hundred shawls and at least three ruby broaches.”

  She smiled. “True. Five broaches, I believe. But I think you’re certain I’m not the miscreant because you already know who it is. Am I right?”

  He shrugged. Precisely whom was she judging and condemning? He wasn’t going to answer her, nor ask what she thought she knew. “Why are you here?”

  “Why, to see you, naturally. This seemed the perfect opportunity to speak with you privately. I’ve been thinking of us.”

  “Us!” his tone alarmed, although she didn’t appear to notice.

  “I haven’t come across anyone I like spending time with as much as I did you. And even though you’ve been a little standoffish since Christmas eve, I suggest we make amends and keep company again.”

  Sighing, he wasn’t sure how to go about getting her to leave him alone. He couldn’t humiliate her with the truth, that she’d been merely a paid assignment. Yet nor could he allow her to keep any kind of hope in his regard.

  He needed to make himself utterly unappealing. Was such a thing possible? he asked himself with a terrible lack of humility. In all honesty, though, women had always fallen all over him. Hence his overblown reaction to the mistaken notion Sarah had ignored his invitation following their lovemaking.

  “Lord Denbigh,” Frances said, and he realized he’d forgotten her again while thinking of Sarah.

  “I am too old for you,” he began.

  She grinned. “Men tend to die at a younger age, so that signifies nothing but a blessing. Should we marry, I could be a widow on the younger side of life and find another mate.”

  His mouth dropped open, and he closed it closed it with a sharp clack of his teeth. What a bean, she was. A veritable shrew, calling his early death a blessing.

  “You are too young for me,” he tried again.

  She frowned, not taking his meaning that she was childish and shallow. The next instant, the butler arrived with his brandy.