Page 1 of His Wicked Little Christmas
Literary Wisdom
“Love is my religion—I could die for that—I could
die for you. Mycreed islove, and you are its only tenet.”
~John Keats
Chapter One
A boisterous Derbyshire manor where neither hero nor heroine want to be…
December 21, 1820
It couldn’t be, but she knew it was.
Georgiana stood in a shadowed recess beneath the imperial staircase gracing Buxton Hall’s entrance, a beaded reticule dangling forgotten from her wrist, her breath trapped between her lungs and her lips. The fragrances of the season—frankincense, cinnamon, roast goose—swirled, and she closed her eyes, hoping,praying…
But when she opened them, Dexter Reed Munro, the Marquess of Westfield, mere days from becoming the Duke of Markham if the rumor was correct, stood on the lowest step of the flight across from her, his expression amused, his head tilted as if someone had told a joke and he was considering whether to laugh.
When oneyearnedto hear that laugh.
A horde of fluttering, preening admirers surrounded him, and his smile, polite but winsome, looked so authentic they’d no idea he was soundly rejecting them. She could spot a fake right off. And,heavens, did she recognize the Munro brand ofrejection.
He doesn’t care for society, she’d love to tell the flock.
He only cares for his bloody rocks.
Georgiana released the punishing grip on her reticule, then smoothed the velvet tuft into place. With murmured appreciation, she took a glass from a passing footman and climbed the staircase opposite Dexter’s, knowing they were likely to meet on the landing. Champagne bubbles erupted on her tongue, the fiery sensation giving her much-needed courage. She’d never been able to shut off the part of her that whisperedthat one pleaseevery time she came within spitting range of him. He hadn’t known about her obsession, and truly, she didn’t need to recall. Those untamed children racing over moor and heath, roaming the limestone caves and caverns of Derbyshire, were long gone. Their lone kiss, a glancing brush of his lips against hers before he departed on his adventures, meant nothing.
His love of fossils and stone had been the only thing he’d taken with him. The reckless, passionate sister of his closest friend, a girl who’d fallen hard during their split-second kiss, hadn’t been a concern.
Thankfully, things changed. People changed.
Georgiana Whitcomb, Countess Winterbourne, was no longer reckless or passionate about anything. And with her brother’s death, the circle of three friends had been forever broken.
“Markham has returned from his travels.” Lady Pembroke saddled up beside Georgiana, prepared to unleash an anthology of intrusive observations.
“You’re stepping ahead, my lady. For now, he’s simply Westfield,” she said though she didn’t move away as she wished to. Lady Pembroke had a daughter, Lady Elizabeth, whom Georgiana quite liked. A review of Elizabeth’s membership in the Duchess Society was going before the committee next month. The committee consisted of Georgiana and her best friend, Hildegard Templeton. Georgiana had put her heart, soul, and the experience gained from a wretched marriage—in addition to a substantial amount of her deceased husband’s monies—into her organization for young ladies. Elizabeth was a prime example of a naïve girl needing tutelage on ways to navigate an aristocratic arrangement.
Ways tosurvivewould be closer to the truth.
If speaking to Elizabeth’s dragon of a mother was the price of admission, Georgiana was willing to pay.
Lady Pembroke tapped her fan on Georgiana’s wrist, three soft rebukes. “The duke is gravely ill, or so I’ve heard. Westfield wouldn’t have returned without a noose closing around his neck. The horrendous row he and his father had, why, it’s close to six years ago as I recollect. The scoundrel cares only for things long dead and set in granite. His father, once he’s dust, will finally be a person of interest.”
“Closer to seven years, actually,” she murmured, choosing to ignore the vulgar statement about the Duke of Markham’s health. The last time Georgiana had spoken to Dex was the night of the argument with his father, where he’d been furiously packing for an expedition that would take him far from his ancestral home, far from everything, exactly as he’d wanted. Exactly as he’d gotten.
Yet, as she invariably tended to, Georgiana defended the notorious marquess, a hard, hard habit to break. “I believe geology is his profession. He didn’t merely travel; the government funded his research. Surveys and such, hence the familial conflict.”
Lady Pembroke grasped the walnut railing, then snatched her hand back when an evergreen needle pricked her through her glove. Holly, ivy, English fir, and mistletoe adorned every surface, framed every window until Buxton Hall looked like the forest had been invited inside the manor. “Imagine thinking to turn a hobby into aprofession. Our set doesn’t have professions, my dear. Westfield must be half-mad, as they say. Making it worse, he taught a class at Oxford last year. What future duke needs to be an academic?” She lifted a perfectly-shaped brow and brought her wounded hand before her face as if the injury puzzled her. “Childhood friends, weren’t you?”
“My brother, Anthony,” Georgiana said, stepping onto the landing. Even whispering his name sent her heart to shatter on the marble beneath her feet. “The marquess was my brother’s closest friend.”
The grief in her voice was enough to cast Lady Pembroke off like a ship that had scraped a glacier. Georgiana smiled sadly and sipped her champagne. The Ice Countess. It’s what thetoncalled her, and the moniker fit. At least, it fit now that Georgiana no longer had to play a part. Play a game. She was free to do as she deemed fit.
Freedom she’d never relinquish. Not for anyone. Not for anything.
The hair on the nape of her neck lifted, cogent awareness sending goosebumps along her arms.