Her Christmas Earl

He reached for Philippa’s hand. For one sweet moment, her fingers curled around his. Despite the chaos buffeting him from all sides, brief peace filled his soul. Then that peace disintegrated as she withdrew her hand to twist it in her skirts in an agony of guilty remorse.

“U-Uncle, I know how this looks—” she stammered, sounding completely unlike the forthright woman who had demanded her sister’s letter.

“Damned fishy is how it looks, Philippa my girl,” Sir Theodore snapped, an angry flush turning his cheeks as red as an overripe apple. “Just what in Hades are you doing in this reprobate’s room at this hour? And why are you half-dressed?”

Erskine winced. The uncle showed as little propriety as the mother, even if he spoke from temper rather than calculation. Behind Mrs. Sanders, the drunken idiots audibly sniggered.

“Half-dressed?” With shaking hands, Philippa tugged at her clothes, although her uncle had exaggerated. However tempted he’d been to take matters further, Erskine had made sure that she stayed buttoned to the neck.

“My lord, your niece is blameless,” Erskine said, knowing nobody would believe him. But he couldn’t bear to witness Philippa’s shame. Especially when all she’d done was enjoy a few kisses. She was hardly the Jezebel that gossip would paint her once this story got out.

As it inevitably would.

Again he cursed his damned arrogance in shutting that door, although nothing could make him regret kissing her. That had been an unforgettable experience, whatever its price.

His defense of Philippa attracted Sir Theodore’s wrath. “Look at her with her hair falling about her like bloody Delilah.” His voice lowered, but that only emphasized his outrage. “Erskine, I know the stories about you. Who doesn’t? But I never heard of you ruining a girl of good family. This is abominable behavior, even for you.”

Erskine hid another wince. Tonight he’d suffered an uncharacteristic impulse to do the right thing. Perhaps this was a lesson not to change his bad old ways.

“Your niece and I were trapped in the dressing room.” His chilly tone would have done his stiff-necked father credit. “I will not have Miss Sanders’s name sullied. She is respectably dressed. Her hair is untidy as a result of her struggle to open the door.”

“A likely story,” Sir Theodore sneered. “Even if it’s true, that doesn’t explain her presence in your bedamned bedroom.”

“Uncle, I had good reason for being here,” Philippa said shakily.

“Apart from brazen stupidity, I can’t think what,” her uncle retorted.

In silent pleading, Philippa’s eyes fastened on Amelia. Erskine wasn’t remotely surprised when Amelia failed to come to the rescue. Philippa, of course, was too honorable to tell tales. Odd how well he knew her, but he believed to his bones that she wouldn’t betray her sister.

Although, to give Amelia the little credit she deserved, what was the point of confessing to the letter? Her lapse would only compound the scandal of her sister caught in a rake’s bedroom.

Sir Theodore looked ready to explode. “I’m the closest thing that the brainless chit has to a father. I can’t let this insult go unchallenged.”

God above, could this get any worse? With every moment, Erskine found less room for maneuver. He had no intention of shooting Sir Theodore. The man was at least thirty years his senior. And if Erskine was any judge of men, the plump baronet had devoted most of those thirty years to drinking. The fellow couldn’t hit a bull elephant at five paces.

With a horror that this time looked genuine, Mrs. Sanders abruptly ceased bawling and stared aghast at her brother. “Theodore, don’t be a fool. In a duel, Erskine will make mincemeat of you.”

The wrong thing to say. Tact apparently didn’t run in Philippa’s family. Tact or good sense. Which was a sodding pity, considering Erskine’s likely future.

Sir Theodore puffed up. “This is all your fault. You’ve let these girls run wild, Barbara. Although I always thought Philippa had a scrap of sense, unlike that twit Amelia.”

“Uncle!” Amelia spluttered. “At least nobody’s ever found me in a man’s room after midnight.”

Only for want of opportunity, Erskine felt like saying, remembering her letter. The problem was that hardened, selfish little flirts like Amelia kept an eye to their own advantage and rarely faced the consequences of their behavior. It was innocents like Philippa who were always caught out.

This had gone far enough. He drew himself up to his full height and shot a speaking glance at Mills. “We’ve provided enough Yuletide entertainment for your guests, Sir Theodore.”

Erskine raised supercilious eyebrows at the louts in the doorway. He’d perfected the look years ago to squash the pretensions of social-climbing mushrooms. As usual, it succeeded. The boisterous young bucks shuffled back muttering.

At a nod from Erskine, Mills closed the door and stood at the entrance like a tall, thin gatekeeper.

That left Philippa, Amelia, Mrs. Sanders and Sir Theodore. A more manageable group, although Erskine wasn’t deceived about his cronies’ discretion. The events of this Christmas Eve would be general gossip in London before the day was out.

“Much better,” he said calmly. There had been quite enough theatricals. “Sir Theodore, may I get you a brandy?”

The older man nodded, then frowned as though disappointed that the high drama descended into something resembling a family meeting. Even Mrs. Sanders seemed less inclined to histrionics, although her eyes retained their beady, acquisitive light.

“Just what do you intend to do about my little girl?” she asked, her show of concern for Philippa too late to convince. “She’s ruined.”