Seven Rogues for Christmas: A Historical Romance Holiday Collection

by Dawn Brower

  He remained silent. As he remembered it, Jocelyn hadn’t wanted to listen to counseling from any of her family members. At the time, she’d been enamored with the whirlwind courtship as well as the idea of being in love and subsequently being wed. She had no choice other than being thrown right into family life and the heartbreak of having her husband go off to fight Napoleon and losing him shortly after.

  Though the Duke of Stanwycke was Cecil’s godfather, he rather doubted that tenuous link to the loftier circles in Society would do much good helping with Emily’s launch—should that responsibility fall on his shoulders. Plus, with unrest and unease following last year’s abysmal harvest due to not having warm, summer temperatures and its effects on the food supplies with shortages all over, there was continuing rioting throughout Europe and America, as well as immigration to escape famines.

  None of this his sister needed to hear at the moment. “Where will you go?”

  “John’s family owns property somewhere in the Caribbean. I forget exactly where, but his father offered the loan of it if I ever wished for time away from England.” She worried her bottom lip. “So, not only do I need you to retrieve Emily from school, but you’ll also have to keep her while I’m out of pocket.” The last was said in such a soft voice, he had to move closer to hear it.

  “For how long?” Inwardly, Cecil reeled. So, it had come to the worst of what he feared. Of course he’d take Emily in even though every alarm bell went off in his head. How could he be a surrogate father at his advanced age of six and thirty? What did he know of parenting a child let alone a young girl on the cusp of womanhood, and if his sister was to be believed, in a trying phase?

  Jocelyn shrugged. She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I’m not certain. All I know is that if I don’t do something, I am unsure how long I’ll be able to be a good mother to Emily.” A tear escaped to her cheek, and she wiped it away. “Or even to stay alive for anyone in this family.”

  He staggered as if he’d been struck. “You would kill yourself?” How far gone in grief she still was to even think such a thing.

  “I might.” She paused, lifting a haunted gaze to his. “It would be all too easy to off oneself during this time of year when it is driven home with every song and story of how alone one is. I still miss John after all this time. It grows worse every year.”

  “Yet me letting you slip away to the ports unknown is a better idea? Perhaps a visit to a physician would be best.” Cold fear slid down his spine. Not only would he be responsible for Emily, but now worry for his only sister gripped his heart. “Jocelyn, you don’t have to do this. Let me take care of you. It is my duty as your eldest brother.”

  “No. No doctors, no coddling, no brotherly concern. No locking me away for my own good.” She shot to her feet, and only then did Cecil see how thin and gaunt she’d become since he’d been in America. “I need distance to discover who I am again. I must find closure from John’s death or I fear I will waste away. I… was never able to give my husband a proper goodbye or to grieve. I had to be strong for Emily. Perhaps in this way I can finally lay him to rest in my heart.” She put a hand on his arm, and her fingers trembled. “Cecil, let me go. Take care of Emily. I promise to return soon.”

  For the longest time he held her gaze. His heart broke at the infinite sadness lurking in her eyes. Finally, he nodded. “You’ve already made the arrangements, I assume?”

  “Yes. The paperwork is in my reticule. Niles is bringing my bags to the hall as we speak. I merely need your permission… and your blessing.” Tears welled in her eyes. “There is a ship leaving from the Port of London this evening. In order to make certain I’m on it, you must go after Emily. I cannot do both, and it’s uncertain if there will be another ship any time soon with the way prices have gone mad, and no one wishes to brave the unruly seas without just cause so close to Christmas.”

  A headache pounded behind his eyes. It would seem life was becoming trying all over and not just on home soil. “Have you spoken to her of your plans?”

  “No.” The tears fell to her cheeks, and she left them there. “Please tell her I love her and I’m doing this so I’ll be there for her in years to come. I hope she’ll forgive me.”

  Unable to do nothing, Cecil bundled his sister into his arms as his throat thickened with emotion. “Go with my blessing, and come back to your family whole. I’ll strive to do my best by Emily.” Please God let me not make a mess of this. It was better to let Jocelyn go than to lose her forever and have to explain to his niece why she’d lost her mother. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Godspeed.”

  How was he supposed to break the news to Emily when he’d only seen the girl a few times each year?

  Brighton, England

  Four hours later, Cecil strode the deserted corridors of Miss Pennyroyal’s Academy for Young Ladies. He would have arrived earlier except his carriage had broken a wheel, and it had taken both the driver and him to switch it out in the dismal rain and the mud. Deuced bad weather for Christmastide, yet snow would have made the journey ten times worse.

  The delay would have been all well and good on an ordinary, but it seemed the students had already departed, no doubt anxious for their holidays to begin. Had Emily gone or was she fuming in a parlor or dormitory? A shudder ripped down his spine. Dealing with a temperamental young woman was bad enough. Facing one at the height of annoyance was a terrifying prospect.

  Though he’d been greeted by a formidable dragon of a woman at the front door, he’d waved away her offer of a late tea and told her he’d seek out the headmistress himself despite the fact he looked a mess due to the inclement weather and carriage mishap. She hadn’t opposed him as it was plain she’d been on her way out, her arms full of sweets and parcels, no doubt given her by kind-hearted students.

  Cecil shook his head as he marched with purpose along yet another hallway in the building. The scents of lemon oil and chalk filled the air. It reminded him of his own youth and time spent in various schools stuck behind desks when all he’d wanted to do was strike out on his own and explore the world. They competed with other, more holiday-inducing scents—sharp pine from the boughs hanging at the doorways and the pungent aromas of oranges and cloves nestled within the greenery. Such simple things, those scents, and ones that transported him back to his own school holidays when he and his siblings caroled through the halls of the Brighton property and played games to their hearts’ content.

  He glanced at oil paintings of various distinguished teachers that lined the walls and suppressed a shudder as he came back to the present. The stern visages didn’t appear any more likable than his own instructors had been, with the exception that most of them were female in this hallowed institution.

  He stopped before a portrait of a rather attractive woman. Though her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe knot and her arms were crossed firmly over her chest and her mouth was set in a disproving line, her light blue eyes—the color of a summer sky over the ocean—held intelligence and a sense of humor. The lace fichu she wore covered her generous décolletage, proclaiming her position on the shelf, but she didn’t appear to be that old, perhaps a few years younger than him. An odd sort of thrill careened down his spine as he stared at the enticing peek of cleavage. He snorted away the aberration. Imagine feeling anything for such a severe sort of woman.

  Cecil peered at the gold-plated placard beneath the painting. It read: “Miss Phoebe Pennyroyal, Headmistress, 1812 to present.”

  What a pleasant name. Again, his thoughts jogged to very personal suggestions about her. How did a woman end up as a headmistress of a young ladies’ academy if she wasn’t a dragon like the one who met him at the door? But he couldn’t tear his attention from her eyes. Once more he stared into those painted depths. What secrets did she keep, and did she ever let her hair down? If so, how long was it, and was it curly or straight? Interest of the lustful kind prickled through him, stirring his groin to life. What did such hair look like spread out ove
r a pillow by candlelight? The thought made him smile then alternately frown. He shoved the inappropriate musings away. I’m too old for such things. Romance or even desire had no claim on his time anymore. Not when there were more important things to spend one’s attention on.

  As he started off along the corridor once more, his frown deepened. Over the course of his life, he’d kept busy with various pursuits and adventures around the world, so that when he’d been home for any length of time and his focus had wandered to the possibility of leg shackling or setting up a nursery, anxiety set in, he threw himself into another quest.

  Being rooted or connected would have put an end to his cavalier life and a stop to his global exploits, yet sometimes, in the dark of night when his bed was empty and cold, he wondered if he’d missed his chance for courtship and romance.

  As the first son, wasn’t it his responsibility to make certain the Tame name lived on? Not that there was a title which needed attention, or holdings depending upon an heir—his father was a successful merchant and ship captain, and a bastard son of a marquess besides—but what of Cecil’s personal needs and wishes? Neither of his parents had meddled in his life or even hinted he needed to set his house in order. They’d much preferred all their children find happiness.

  For that he’d been grateful. Sure, they doted on Emily as she was the only grandchild thus far, but had they given up hope he’d ever procreate? At six and thirty, he’d never taken a mistress, never felt admiration or respect enough for a woman that would warrant the need to declare himself or slake his desires. Did that mean he was a confirmed bachelor or damaged in the upper story that he hadn’t settled down?

  Or, damnation, was he broken in some way because he didn’t move from bed to bed like so many others of his age and social standing?

  So lost in thought was he that when he rounded a corner, he ran right into a woman.

  “I beg your pardon.” Instinctively, he put his arms around her to prevent her from tumbling to the floor, and then he became aware of how pleasant it was to actually hold a woman—a woman to whom he wasn’t related, and he tightened his grasp. A subtle, floral scent invaded his nose, and soft curves gave way beneath his fingers as he moved his hands to her waist to steady her. The pleasing flare of rounded hips urged him to further explore, but he was frozen, his fingers still as her body heat seeped into his hands through his gloves. “I should have paid more attention to where I walked.” As he held her at arm’s length, he stifled a gasp of surprise.

  The woman he’d run into was none other than the school’s headmistress. And, God help him, she was more attractive in the flesh than she was on canvas. Once more his member stirred.

  “That you should have, sir. I expect wool-gathering from my students. I do not expect it from adults who should know better.” Chastisement rang in her voice—a strong, forceful voice needed to demand order and attention in the classroom as well as from the teachers under her command. “And your appearance certainly leaves something to be desired.” She demanded his immediate focus and pinned him to the floor with her direct, blue-eyed gaze. Not one hair on her blonde head was out of place. Not one tendril escaped the confines of its severe bun.

  Cecil had the wicked urge to tug a few strands free merely to see how she’d react to such disorder. “I cannot help the weather or the abysmal state of the roads due to the same.” He would gladly do whatever she asked if only a smile would touch those eyes. Would they dance with amusement or would they remain frosty cool? How to make that happen?

  “That is not an excuse.” She quirked an arched eyebrow. “Also, you are still holding me. For no reason that I can ascertain.”

  He was indeed. His mouth opened and closed like a fresh-caught trout. It was as if he’d been caught up in a whirlwind that had his mind in a fog. Shaking his head and hoping like mad his common sense would return post haste, Cecil cleared his throat and released her as if she were on fire. Immediately, he mourned the warmth of her. “I apologize.”

  “You already said that.” Not a hint of amusement entered her slightly annoyed expression. She stood rigid with her back ramrod straight as if she didn’t know how, or had never had the opportunity, to relax. Her dress of plain, long-sleeved navy wool didn’t compliment her figure and looked very much like the one she’d worn for the portrait in the hall. Even the lace at her bosom remained in place. The one flair of personality was the bit of merry holly pinned upon the lace.

  How different would she appear if she wore jewel-toned silks or satins that would give personality and vibrancy to her face?

  “It does not make it any less true for the repetition.” He dared to grin at this mystifying woman.

  She rested an assessing gaze on him and heat crept up the back of his neck. “Is there something I can do for you?” She didn’t return his grin.

  Besides doing me the honor of walking through the park, sharing dinner, perhaps allowing a kiss so that I may try to melt the ice surrounding you? Apparently, his common sense had taken a holiday along with the students at the school. Feeling foolish and very much like a green, callow youth, he cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. I am Mr. Cecil Tame, and am here to collect my niece, Miss Emily Bertrand. I realize I’m late, but—”

  “You’re beyond late. I am the last teacher on property and am ready to close and lock the school. All the other students were released to their caregivers over an hour ago.” She narrowed those spectacular eyes, but the effect was as stunning as ever.

  “Once again, I do apologize.”

  “I’m certain you do. Meaningless words, those. No matter. You’re here now. Miss Bertrand is in the back parlor, but I must warn you, she’s in a mood and is most surly.” Briefly, she shook her head. “Hers will not be a pleasant journey home.”

  A laugh escaped him. “I believe it. From all accounts, my sister is quite frazzled with the girl.” His laughter died, nearly choked him as his thoughts lingered on his Jocelyn and her fragile state of mind as well as what he needed to tell her daughter. “Perhaps it would be best if you showed me into the parlor straightaway. There are pressing matters afoot.”

  “Oh?” She laid a hand on his sleeve, and small tingles of shock worked their way up his arm. The woman was a few inches shorter than his average height and she was of the perfect stature that he could stare at her highly kissable lips without attracting too much scrutiny. Lips that were full in the slightest of ways. Lips that had the capacity to glide over skin and wrap around certain parts…

  Devil take it! Now was not the time. He forced such thoughts away and put Jocelyn front and center.

  “Are you quite all right?” The concern in the headmistress’ voice sent his thoughts scattering once more. “You look as if you could be ill at any moment.”

  Get hold of yourself, Cecil. You’re past the age of making a cake of yourself in a woman’s presence. Though he wasn’t so certain since his insides were in knots, to say nothing of the new interest his groin showed. “I shall be fine. I merely need to impart some unpleasant information to my niece regarding her mother.”

  “I see.” The woman nodded, all traces of annoyance gone from her eyes. “Now that I think on it, she has seemed more worried than troublesome.” She tapped a slender finger against her chin. “Would you rather I accompany you for moral support? At times, family drama can use a mediator. I am comfortable in the role.”

  The thought of being by her side in any capacity sounded like a splendid idea. Perhaps it would give him more time to harness his wild imaginings. “That would be most appreciated.”

  “Very well.” A small smile lifted the corners of her lips. It transformed her from a severe, serious headmistress into a woman who could break the heart of any man she chose. Those damn kissable lips slightly parted and revealed pearly white teeth. “Now it’s my turn to beg your pardon. I’ve yet to introduce myself. I’m Miss Phoebe Pennyroyal, headmistress of this school.” She held out a gloved hand, her gaze intense, clearly expecting him to take it.
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  “A pleasure to meet you.” The second Cecil took her hand warmth sank into his skin despite the kid gloves they both wore. A spark danced up his spine, much like it had when he’d briefly and accidentally held her in his arms. Curious indeed. “Well, my driver is waiting and the rain is still falling. I should get the distasteful task over with so I can begin my new life with my niece—or at least the holiday.”

  “Yes, of course. This way, please.” She disengaged her hand from his then led him down the hallway. “I assume from your hint you’ll be taking custody of Miss Bertrand?”

  “I am, at least temporarily.” I hope. The swish of her rounded hips captured his attention and his fingers itched to hold her again.

  “Well, you seem a decent sort, and are fit enough and of sound mind to take on a strong-willed adolescent such as Emily.” The report of her heels on the worn hardwood echoed in the silent hall. No doubt she wore hideous, serviceable boots instead of satin, beaded slippers. But, of course, such footwear wouldn’t be practical in this setting. As it was, he didn’t have a chance to respond to the awkward compliment, for she said, “Here we are, the back parlor where the girls often practice presiding over tea services and entertaining using the social graces they’ve learned.”

  Cecil stepped into the room and steeled himself for hysterics and tears. Instead, Emily sat on a settee, the picture of a composed young lady, in a dress of pale yellow with a matching ribbon tied around her upswept brown hair. She looked so much like her mother had at that age, he caught his breath. An ache overtook his heart. This would not be pleasant. “Emily.”

  She jerked her head toward the door. Surprise filled her expression. “Uncle Cecil.” After springing to her feet, she rushed across the room, holding out her hands to him. When he took them, she said, “Mother sent you. She’s finally gone ‘round the bend and has left England, hasn’t she?”