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

by Collette Cameron

  Gracious! It was doubtful Lady Abingley could wear them all before they left Forde Hall. Additionally, she was wearing yet another pair even then while seated in a bumpy carriage.

  Hoping she chose correctly, Sarah slipped the necklace into the small toe-section of a green and silver slipper with coral-colored trim. By happy chance, the lady wouldn’t wear it until she got back to Town. And then, it would be a mystery indeed!

  Considering it a job well done, she went downstairs and asked one of the staff for a cup of coffee and a few biscuits to celebrate her success. Then, she chose a book from the library. Happily, Lady Macroun’s collection wasn’t all boring history books and ancient Greek and Latin tomes. She found Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho and settled in for an enjoyable half hour of peaceful leisure.

  Denbigh strode into the house at about the time she expected, undoubtedly having raced as if the Devil were at his back, to catch her in the act of whatever he imagined she was doing. After she heard his footsteps criss-cross the foyer and then their echoes fade up the stairs before returning again, he finally stuck his head around the open library door.

  “Ah-ha,” he said.

  Maintaining her expression of perfect placidity, she asked, “Are you well?” And then she took a sip of the dregs of her now-cold brew.

  “The question is, Lady Worthington, are you well?” he returned. “I heard from Lady Macroun you had every known malady under the sun, and feeling as ill as Dick’s hatband. Yet here I find you the pinnacle of perfect health. What’s that you’re drinking?”

  “Coffee. Shall I ring for a cup for you?”

  “And what are you eating?” he pressed.

  “Sweet almond biscuits. Divine.” There was nothing left but crumbs.

  “Those are hardly the nourishments for an invalid. You should be tucked up in bed with slipslops and simples. What about your head and your stomach?”

  “Much recovered. Thank you for asking. What about your fox?”

  “Still alive at this moment, I expect.” With that, he sank into the chair opposite her.

  She blinked and smiled at him. “So why are you here? I thought you loved to ride and to hunt, to follow the horn and hound, and all that manly stuff.”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then why—?” she began again.

  Denbigh held up his hand. “Don’t you dare ask me.”

  “Very well. But I am going to continue this wonderful book. I’d always meant to read it, and now I have the chance. I’m not going to leave this seat until the hunting party returns. And I’m certainly not going to go upstairs, nor anywhere near your room, nor let you near mine. That way lies the ruin of my reputation. In fact, it would be best if you went right back outside, mounted your spirited rum prancer, and returned to the hunt so as not to cause suspicion.”

  He offered her a wry smile. “How do I explain my hasty desertion?”

  She shrugged. “If asked, you can tell them you needed to return to the manor to make your waters somewhere private. Perhaps you considered it too chilly outside to do what men usually do behind a tree.”

  His shocked expression had been worth the gibe.

  “Or you can tell them when you heard of my distress, you were so deeply disturbed you rushed back to check on me because you care about me so very much. In fact, you are madly, deeply in love with me.”

  She’d kept her tone light, but his expression turned serious. To her surprise, he reached across the small reading table between them and took hold of her hand, where it rested upon the open book.

  “I do, in fact, care about you, Lady Worthington. And in a mad, deep way, too.”

  Those few words rendered her speechless. She blinked.

  “Have you nothing to say?” he asked.

  Truly, she didn’t. The Viscount, Lord Miles Denbigh, whom she found entirely desirable in every possible way, was holding her hand and declaring he cared for her.

  She stared at their joined hands, then back at Denbigh. She’d never had a man tell her anything like it, except her father, who professed his affection even while telling her it was for the best if she married the ancient Earl of Worthington. And when she’d had a few selfish tears, her father had explained how truly lucky she was to have caught the earl’s eye.

  “Any woman would be thrilled,” Parson Sudbury had said.

  Most definitely, she had not been thrilled, but she was a dutiful daughter. When he’d pointed her toward the altar, she’d let him marry her to the old earl. And while Lord Worthington had kindly professed her to be “a pretty, clever young woman,” he had never said anything about caring for her.

  While she’d been fully prepared to live with and obey the earl and to give him her body, the good Lord had taken him home to rest. And then she had felt lucky, indeed.

  Lifting her gaze to Denbigh’s rich brown eyes, she bit her lower lip. Perhaps he felt the need to declare his affection for her because of what they’d done during the Christmastide so far, either as a token of his gratitude or to ensure she would do it with him again.

  “I … that is, is this about our swiving?” she asked lamely. “Doing the rantum scantum?”

  Chapter 13

  Miles was so shocked he nearly released her hand. Naturally, their copulating—glorious as it was—gave him warm feelings for her, but there was definitely something more happening. Something less in the region of his cock, and more to the north.

  “I think you to be an exceptional woman,” he said finally. “And not merely for the rantum scantum.” He could hardly say the silly phrase without smiling, but he didn’t want her to believe he was making light of anything they did.

  “I know we started our association rather in the middle of things. That is, I should have simply told you how fascinating I found you at Lady Dauschande’s instead of tupping you on her sofa.”

  “Oh, no,” she interrupted. “The tupping was quite welcome.”

  She was utterly remarkable in her frankness.

  “Still, I should have immediately courted you and paid you your due in compliments. I shall start now. You are intelligent, thoughtful, beautiful, and have the perfect peppery passion to suit me.”

  He watched her cheeks stain red. Amazing, a lady of the ton—and a widow, to boot—blushing like a new maid.

  “I think we should keep company in Town after this endless party is finally over. Exclusively, if you understand me, and with an eye on our future.”

  “Our future,” she repeated, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  When he squeezed her hand, she offered a small smile.

  “You know, I didn’t get to choose the first time. I was an obedient daughter, but everything worked out for the best. It is much more satisfying, I must say, to be given a choice with whom I wish to keep company.”

  “Then are we in agreement?” Miles felt a sense of urgency that they came to an understanding, for he could see how easily she might be swept away by some other man, right out from under his nose. Even here in the relatively small pool of eligible single ladies, the men had paid her much attention.

  “Yes, I believe we are.” But Sarah withdrew her hand. “Nevertheless, I think it best you go back to the hunt before too much time has passed. It wouldn’t do for them to start wondering, and if the whole household begins to watch us carefully, then…,” she trailed off.

  Then they would have a much harder time with the rantum scantum, he surmised.

  “As you wish, my lady,” he said, standing. “You’ve given me a lovely Christmas so far.”

  Again, her sweet cheeks turned pink. What a delight she was! However, he mustn’t let his affection for her cause him to forget her one glaring flaw.

  “Please don’t do anything disagreeable. Don’t get in the suds, as they say. Nothing that will end up in a trial with your getting put in the pillory or sent across the herring pond at the king’s expense.”

  “You have my word,” she said, sounding sincere. “By the way, did you know
Mr. Asher didn’t go on the hunt either?”

  “I hadn’t noticed. Why?” For a moment, he wondered if the man was a threat to his happiness with Sarah, a competitor for her heart.

  “He’s snooping about the manor, seeming a little unsavory.”

  Miles couldn’t help barking out a laugh. Perhaps Asher was the reason she was on her best behavior, reading the in library. In which case, he would tip his hat to the man.

  “I shall take my leave, and I’m holding you to your word.”

  When he left her, his spirits were much lifted from what they’d been when he’d arrived.

  Miles remained in a joyful mood after an invigorating ride and a successful hunt. Even the rustic picnic was enjoyable, with plenty of bread, meat, cheese, and fruit, as well as wine and beer. No one made remark of his disappearance, and he hoped it was because they hadn’t noticed, too involved in their own festive pleasure.

  The only thing missing was Sarah. And the nagging worry returned as to why she’d remained at the manor when, plainly, she was well. She’d given him her word not to get up to anything, but he had no proof it was a solemn vow, nor that she would keep it.

  Soon, his good mood had soured.

  “Why do you look so crabbed, Lord Denbigh?” Lady Frances was trying again. He had to hand it to her, she was persistent.

  “Not at all, my lady. Merely ready to head indoors out of the cold. Have you enjoyed the hunt so far?”

  “Yes. And right from the start, too. The ride was pleasant, and everyone in the carriage was extremely agreeable, much more so than on the first hunt.”

  He knew she was speaking about Sarah. The earl’s daughter had never hidden her enjoyment of roasting another. And Lady Worthington probably frightened Frances for being an outsider who’d shown up unexpectedly in her pampered world. But he didn’t have to let her get away with it.

  “How so?” he asked, tightly, wondering if he should defend Sarah when it would only draw attention to his burgeoning admiration.

  “I don’t want to say more,” Frances said, showing uncharacteristic restraint.

  Good, he thought and started to turn away. With the picnic over, they were nearly ready to return to Forde Hall.

  Yet Lady Frances wasn’t done. “I would rather ask why you were so hateful to me in the library yesterday. I know you didn’t mean any of those awful things you said. When we were a couple, I would have seen some indication, at least of the drinking, if you were a tippler or a wet soul.”

  He sighed. Strangely, he’d never thought of them as a couple because she’d been another duty he’d been obligated to fulfill. Before he could try to explain in a kindlier fashion how they would never suit, she added, “If, as I believe, you are growing a tendre for the Widow Worthington, I must caution you from doing so.”

  Frances’s restraint had been short-lived, but she had his full attention.

  “Must you?” Miles asked.

  “She is not one of us,” the earl’s daughter said conspiratorially, her voice lowered.

  He sensed that had been the exact topic of her carriage ride conversation on the way to the hunt, and probably her picnic talk, too, although Frances wanted to give the impression of being the epitome of discretion.

  “Your meaning?” he prompted, feeling his jaw muscles tighten. The truth was, if Sarah hadn’t been elevated to the station of Countess Worthington, and therefore invited to Lady Dauschande’s dinner party, Miles would never have met her. He wondered how many other diamonds in the rough had never been mined because they simply weren’t part of the social network of Mayfair’s thousand acres.

  “Not that I mind, of course,” Frances continued, as if she were the sole of magnanimity, “but she came from nowhere, from some place no one has ever heard of.”

  He’d gone out of his way to learn the name of Sarah’s birthplace, Chislehurst, probably best known for its large chalk and flint mines—and to him, for being Sarah’s home.

  “And what of it?” he asked, realizing he didn’t know where Frances had been born, nor the birthplace of most of his acquaintances.

  She blinked. “Her title is by marriage, and very recently, too. She’s the worst sort of mushroom. I’ve heard she wore a ruby necklace while in mourning, and that her half-mourning wardrobe was a little too bright. The grays were nearly violet, which is practically purple!”

  “I see.” Could his class truly be so petty? And how had he not noticed it before? “In that case, Lady Frances, I wonder you remain at this Twelvetide party in close proximity to such a level of pariah. The widow’s lack of refinement might rub off on you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it could,” she said with utter seriousness.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he glanced around for someone with whom he could converse—anyone else—who wasn’t quite so starched and dim, even his horse. Yet all he saw was more of the same.

  “Lord Denbigh,” she continued, plainly not realizing his desperate attempt at escape. “I heard her father sold her to the Earl of Worthington to fund his parsonage in a regular Smithfield bargain, as they say. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  For a moment, he saw a red haze. It addled his brain, he was positive of that, or he never would have spoken the next words. “I’m not sure the parson did any worse than your father who paid me to spend a Season with you.”

  Her face paled, and her mouth opened in a shocked O. Then, as any entitled, privileged, pampered lady, she lifted her chin.

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would he do such a thing? I have had plenty of suitors. He had no need to pay for one.”

  “He didn’t trust you to maintain your refined taste long enough not to let some fortune-hunting swell diddle you into thinking you were a diamond of the first water.” He raised an eyebrow to indicate he thought her nothing of the kind.

  “Why! I…I…!”

  He wouldn’t be so hard on her if she had a whit of kindness. After all, she was an earl’s daughter. She would, indeed, make a good match someday, even if it wasn’t a love match. And she had nothing to gain by cutting down those around her who were absolutely no threat to her happiness or her future.

  “Personally,” he said through gritted teeth, “I would rather be with a woman for whom someone was willing to pay handsomely in order to gain her hand, than with someone who could only attract men trying to obtain her wealth.”

  With a nod of his head, knowing he was going to face an earl in high dudgeon at some point in his future, he walked away.

  Sarah hadn’t dared attempt to return the last piece of stolen jewelry after Denbigh left, not with Mr. Asher under foot. Besides, there were still many days to go, and only one pilfered dazzler remaining.

  Moreover, Denbigh had confessed to a mad, deep feeling for her. She could think of nothing else after that. She’d been giddy with delight for the past few hours while awaiting the return of the hunting party.

  They came streaming into the manor in small groups, except Lady Frances who looked nettled, wearing a more waspish expression than usual. She strode in alone and went straight upstairs to her room.

  Not bothered in the least, Sarah welcomed them back, feeling lighter than she had felt since … since she’d married Lord Worthington and moved to London.

  If Denbigh cared for her, and made his choice public, then she would finally belong in a way she never had when appearing out of nowhere in the Worthington townhouse, only to have her husband die mere weeks later, leaving her unknown to everyone.

  With Denbigh, she would stand proudly by his side.

  There he was, eyes glittering with exhilaration from the ride, searching the foyer and catching sight of her before his generous mouth spread into a smile, warming her all over.

  She sighed. She could certainly become accustomed to this feeling of … love.

  Love! It was exactly that. As soon as she acknowledged it, she knew it for the truth. The man she loved was heading straight for her. So much for discretion.

  Right before he
reached her, Lady Macroun’s formidable figure stepped in her path.

  “There you are, Lady Worthington. Your cheeks have a glow. Have you fully recovered?”

  “I have. Your staff took excellent care of me.”

  “Perfect. Speaking of the staff, they will be serving refreshments in the upstairs drawing room. You shall hear all about the hunt.” She took a step away, then glanced back. “You look lovely in dusky rose, by the way,” she added before moving on as any good hostess, to make sure all her guests made it to the right place at the correct time.

  And then Denbigh was in front of her.

  “Lady Worthington, you look well.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me,” she said, drinking in the sight of him. “I’ve only just learned about a gathering in the upstairs drawing room.”

  “Yes, and you aren’t allowed to beg off with a megrim.”

  “I have no intention of doing so, I assure you.”

  He cocked his head. “And did you keep your promise?”

  She couldn’t help rolling her eyes, but more than a little pleased he trusted her to tell him the truth.

  “I did nothing that would get me transported.”

  His smile turned into a broad grin, and he offered her his arm. “Can you believe we aren’t being made to change for this gathering?”

  “You say that, sir, as if men have anything to do but step out of one pair of breeches and into the next, and then shrug out of one coat for another,” she scoffed.

  He looked surprised. “You don’t change all of your layers each time, do you?”

  She laughed at his expression. “No, but it is a little more complicated than your clothing. Some underthings do not work with some dresses, and then there are the shoes and the shawls—”

  “And we know how much trouble shawls can get one into,” he quipped.