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Table of Contents

The Christmas Duchess

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Russian Winter Nights

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

A Shocking Proposition

Dedication

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Epilogue

Extract

Endpage

Copyright

The Christmas Duchess

Christine Merrill

CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

Chapter One

Generva Marsh gave the kitchen a final sweep and sighed in resignation. It was not her job to be keeping her own house. Mrs Jordan, the housekeeper, would disapprove of her meddling. But Mrs Jordan was above stairs, transfixed by the wailing and lamentations coming from Gwendolyn’s bedroom. Generva had been more than happy to abdicate that role. The girl had cried nonstop since Sunday, and the sound preyed upon her nerves.

Perhaps it was unmotherly to admit such a lack of sympathy for one’s only daughter. Perhaps the ladylike response to the chaos surrounding them was to have a fit of vapours. She should shut herself up in a bedchamber, as Gwen was doing, and turn the whole house upside down. But it was still a damned nuisance. It might be mortifying when one’s gentleman proved himself to be no gentleman at all. But when it happened before the wedding and not after, it was cause for celebration and not tears. It would have been far worse had they married.

Perhaps it was her own, dear, John who had given Generva such an annoyingly sensible attitude. When one was the widow of a ship’s captain, one learned to sail on through adversity and live each day prepared for the worst. When she had lost him, she had cried for a day as if her heart would break. Then she had looked at her two children and dried her tears so she could wipe theirs.

Now she must do so again, for one child, at least. Little Benjamin did not need her help. When he had heard the news he had declared it good riddance, stolen one of the mince pies she’d set aside for the wedding breakfast and disappeared into the yard. Generva frowned. The boy was a terror, but at least he was out of the way. The girl could have one more day, at most, to sulk over the unexpected turn things had taken.

Then she would be ordered to pull herself together, wash her face and prepare to meet the village on Christmas morning. The congregation had been promised a wedding at the end of the service. Instead, the Marshes would be proving a veritable morality play on the dangers of pride and youthful folly. They would be forced to hold their heads high and accept the condolences of the town gossips who smiled behind their hands even as they announced that it was, ‘a terrible, terrible shame, that such a lovely girl was tainted by scandal’. The old women would cluck like chickens and the young men would look away from them in embarrassment, as though Gwen was something more than an innocent victim of another’s perfidy.

Generva’s hands tightened on the handle of the broom. If John were still alive, he’d have called the fellow out. Men were far more sensible in that way than women. They saw such problems and found a solution. But as the widowed mother of the wronged girl, there was little society would permit her to do, other than wring her hands and bear her share of the disgrace.

‘In dulci jubilo...’ From the road outside, she heard the sound of a deep voice raised in song.

For a moment, she paused to lean on the broom and listen. John would have declared the fellow to have ‘a fine set of lungs’ and thrown open the door to him and any friends who accompanied him. Then he’d have poured drinks from the hearth and matched them verse for verse with his own fine tenor voice. He’d told her that, for a sailor on land, a good, old-fashioned Christmas wassail was as near to grog and shanties as one could hope.

She smiled for a moment, then glanced at the empty pot beside the kitchen fire. It was a lost tradition in this household. If a widow did not want to incite gossip, she did not open the house to misrule and invite strangers to drink punch in the kitchen. She missed it all the same.

‘There was a pig went out to dig, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day...’ The singer had finished his first song and gone on to another. He sang alone, but the carol was suited to a troupe. It had been an age since she had seen mummers in the area, putting on skits and begging door to door. It harked back to an earlier time, when Christmas was little more than a chaotic revel. Right now, she could imagine nothing more pleasant than throwing off the conventions of society and running wild.

She forced the thought to the back of her mind. Someone must keep a cool head while they weathered the current disaster. It would be her, since she could not count on her daughter, her son or her servants to behave in a rational manner. She had no time or money to spare for seasonal beggars. Nor did she have the patience. The wedding feast she had been preparing for nearly a month would go to charity. Surely that was enough of a holiday offering. When the housekeeper came to get her, if that woman could tear herself away from the drama upstairs to answer the door, Generva would plead a megrim and tell her to send the caroller away.

She heard the distant sound of the knocker at the front of the house and waited for the inevitable. But then, the song began again, growing louder as the singer rounded the corner of the house. ‘There was a crow went out to sow...’ She saw the shadow of a large body passing the window and there was a pounding on the back door.

She turned away, so that he might not know she had seen him. Damn the man and his industrious animals. She began to sweep again with more vigour. Perhaps he would think her deaf and move on to the next house.

Behind her, she felt the rush of cold air at the opening of the kitchen door. ‘Hallo! Is anyone there? I knocked at the front, but there was no answer. Is there a drink for a humble traveller who bears good news?’

She sighed. Was no one in this house tending to their posts? Was everything to be left to her? She turned back to the short hall that led to the back door and found it full of man.

Perhaps there was a better way to describe it, but she could not think of one. The gentleman standing by the door was tall and broad shouldered, and seemed to occupy all of the available space. What was not full of his body was crowded with the sheer force of his personality. The voice that had called out had not simply spoken, it had boomed. It had not been particularly loud, but deep and resonant. There was none of the awkwardness in his step of a man uncomfortable in unfamiliar surroundings. He approached as if he owned the room.

And it appeared that he could afford to do so. She had expected some beggar in a tattered mask. But the cost of this man’s coat, with its perfect tailoring and shiny brass buttons, was probably near to the annual rent of her cottage. His boots were equal to a second year. Slowly, she raised her eyes to look into his.

They were the blue of moonlit snow, bright and clear, but not cold, or even cool. They sparkled like the first drop of water on thawing ice. Perhaps it was his smile that brought the beginning of spring. It was soft and warm, seeming to light his whole person, making him seem young for his years, as though the silver in his black hair would melt away like hoarfrost. His face was as well formed as his body: high cheeks, even planes, strong chin and a nose that was regally straight but without the disdainful flare of nostrils that some rich men had when entering a simple house such as hers.

She was gawping at him and embarrassing herself. At five and thirty, she should be past the point of noticing the finer points of the male physique. She had two children to tend to and no time to spend on daydreams. But she’d have to have been blind not to admire the fine-looking man who stood before her. Despite the fact that he had come, uninvited, into her home, at the sight of him she curtsied politely. And judging by the heat in her cheeks, she was blushing.

He noticed and responded with a knowing grin, stomping the ice from his boots and swinging his arms to force warmth to his hands. ‘My dear, you are a sight for travel-weary eyes.’ He spoke slowly and clearly, as though he suspected that she had not just ignored his knock, but truly could not hear. ‘The roads are nothing but ruts from here to Oxford. I abandoned my carriage, stuck in the mud, and rode the rest of the way myself. But by God, I am here on time.’ He reached into his pocket, withdrew a paper and slammed it down on the kitchen table. ‘Go find Mr Marsh and tell him that the day is saved! The special licence has arrived. The wedding will go on as planned. Then get me a cup of mulled wine, or whatever passes for a holiday drink in these parts. I am frozen to the bone.’ He dropped down into the best chair by the fire and removed his boots so that he might warm his feet.

For a moment, all about Generva seemed to freeze, as well. She could not decide what made her the most angry. Was it the demand for wine? To be mistaken for a servant in her own home? Or that the assumption came from this particularly attractive man? In the end, she decided it was the licence that most bothered her.

It was a pity. Until that moment, she had been managing to contain her emotions on the subject quite well. But to have the thing appear when she was holding a weapon...

Chapter Two

‘What the devil?’ It was all the Duke of Montford could manage to get out before the broom hit him a second time. He raised an arm to take the majority of the force, but the bristles still slapped sharply against the back of his head. The blow was surprisingly strong coming from such a petite woman.

‘Take your licence back to your master and tell him what he can do with it,’ she said, raising the broom again.

It was the last straw, a strangely appropriate metaphor given the instrument that struck him. ‘I have no master other than the Regent.’ He turned, stood and grabbed the broom handle on the next downswing. ‘Now find Mr Marsh. I must speak with him.’

‘I am Mrs Marsh,’ she said in a glacial tone, not releasing her hold on the other end of the broom. ‘State your business, sir.’

They stood for a moment, gazes locked. ‘And I am the Duke of Montford. I have come with the special licence for my nephew’s wedding.’ He did not add, ‘And put down the broom.’ With the mention of his title, it should not have been necessary.

‘You are not,’ she said, with such conviction that he almost doubted his own identity. She kept a firm grip on her end of the handle. ‘The duke is estranged from his nephew and was not expected here.’

Montford winced. It was perfectly true. But to hear it spoken as common knowledge was still painful. ‘What better time than at a Christmas wedding to mend the relationship between myself and my heir?’ It was one thing to maintain a cordial distance from young Tom and quite another to ignore his marriage. The boy was a blockhead for choosing to marry in the country at such an inappropriate time of year, of course. But when had he been anything but a blockhead? ‘He asked for help with the licence. I obliged. Now I have come to meet the girl who will be the next duchess and give my good wishes.’ If she was anything like her mother, she was comely enough. He must hope that she was better tempered.

‘The next duchess?’ Mrs Marsh smiled with incredulity. ‘Then you will not be looking in this house, Your Grace. There will be no wedding. Now put on your boots and be on your way.’ She released the broom and pointed a dire hand at the licence. ‘And throw that thing into the fire.’

‘I beg your pardon, madam.’ He tugged on the broom again and delivered the words with the faintest hint of warning to remind her that this was no way to treat a peer.

‘You heard me, unless you are as deaf as your nephew is dishonourable. Throw that thing into the fire and leave my house this instant.’

‘I most certainly will not.’ He grabbed the broom and threw it aside. ‘I went to some trouble procuring it to allow for the Christmas Day wedding your daughter desired.’

‘Well, you can unprocure it. It is not needed. Take it to London, or take it to the devil for all I care. But it and you are not welcome in this house.’

What had Tom done now? When he had realised that he was likely to die childless, Montford had informed the young man of his future and offered advice and guidance. In response, his heir had announced that he was of age and past the point where he need seek approval of his decisions. He would do just as he pleased, now, and at such time as the title fell to him.

It was just what Montford feared most. He calmed himself, for there was no reason to fan the flames. ‘Please, madam, enlighten me. Was there an estrangement of some kind that might still be mended?’

To this, she did nothing but laugh. ‘Estrangement? No, why should there be? Everything was as right as rain until the third reading of the banns. There was a disturbance in the church. An objection,’ she said with a dark look.

‘Who could possibly object, if I did not?’ he said, equally surprised.

‘You nephew’s wife seemed to think she had the right,’ Mrs Marsh replied, wiping her hands upon her apron as though she had touched something distasteful. ‘His Scottish wife. His pregnant Scottish wife. If you wish to meet your next duchess, I suggest you go to Aberdeen.’

The duke dropped the broom and sat down in the chair, for the moment as overwhelmed as the housewife.

She stood over him, clearly unwilling to give way. ‘We will have to return to that church on Christmas morning for services. There will be no wedding, of course. Just shame and embarrassment, and the gossip from the congregation. We are already the talk of the High Street. It is likely to get much worse as more people learn of it.’ She waved an arm around the house. ‘Here am I with the larders full of dainties, a wedding cake already baked and a daughter locked in her room who will not stop weeping.’

It was worse than he could have imagined. He would not reject a Scottish bride, or a child born barely to the right side of the blanket. But he could not allow the title to fall to a man who would flirt with bigamy as a solution to an awkward first marriage. ‘And I suppose your daughter is compromised,’ he said gloomily.

‘How dare you, Your Grace.’ Mrs Marsh grabbed for the broom again, and he snatched it out of her reach. ‘Perhaps things are different in London, where chaperones are easily duped. But I know better than to allow my only daughter to be alone in the company of a gentleman, no matter how august his family connections. I did not allow so much as a kiss to pass between them.’

He held up the hand that did not already hold a broom. ‘My apologies, my dear Mrs Marsh. My statement has more to do with my knowledge of my heir than your lovely daughter. The boy is a moron in most things, but can be sly when it is least convenient. I find it hard to believe that he did not at least attempt...’

‘Of course he attempted,’ she said with a frown. ‘But I am a very light sleeper.’ She looked significantly at the broom in his hand and smiled as though reliving a fond and violent memory.

‘Very well, then.’ He sighed with relief. ‘All is not lost.’

‘So you say,’ she said with a huff. ‘The truth will not matter, when all is said and done. Gentlemen of good family are unlikely to take my word for her virtue. What mother would not lie if she felt her daughter’s happiness was at stake? They will assume the worst. No man will want her now that she is notorious.’

She was right, of course. It was a disaster for the Marsh family and a black mark on his own. A greater calamity lay ahead. Since he would be dead when his nephew took the coronet, there would be no way he could clean up the future messes that were made, as he would with this.

It was not fair. He thought of the row of graves in the family cemetery, two large and two small. He had vowed that there would be no third attempt to get a son of his own.

Now it seemed there was no choice.

When he spoke, it was slowly and with some care. ‘I cannot mend a broken heart. But I think there is a solution that will solve all other problems to your satisfaction. If you would do me the honour of allowing me to pay court to your daughter, I will make an offer and marry her myself, assuming she is agreeable to it.’

Chapter Three

Generva sat on the bench opposite him and tried to catch her breath. His strange announcement took the air from her lungs as effectively as a blow from the broom. When she could gather her wits sufficiently to respond, she said, ‘You cannot be serious.’

The duke gave her another thoughtful look. ‘I do not see why not.’

‘You have not even met the girl, for one thing.’ While it would solve the problem of Gwen’s reputation, total strangers did not simply step in and offer, as if they were helping the girl over a stile on the walk to church.

‘But I am acquainted with her mother,’ he said, smiling reasonably. ‘A very limited acquaintance, perhaps.’

She shook her head, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Striking you with a broom is hardly a proper introduction.’

‘Then allow me.’ He stood and bowed to her. ‘I am Thomas Kanner, Duke of Montford.’ He smiled again. ‘There are other, lesser titles, of course. I’d have given one to young Tom on the occasion of his marriage. Your daughter would have been Lady Kanner.’ The smile tightened. ‘But under the circumstances, I think not.’

‘But if she marries you, she will be...’ Generva’s breath caught in her lungs again.

‘The Duchess of Montford.’ He was helping again. She imagined his arm at her elbow, lifting her over the stile.

‘Duchess of Montford,’ she repeated. It was a coup. Everything that a mother could wish for her daughter. Why was she not instantly happy at the thought?

‘Now that we are likely to be family, I see no reason that you might not call me Thomas, Mrs Marsh.’

There was one very obvious reason. She could not dare call him Thomas because he was the Duke of Montford. She was just getting used to the fact that she would call him His Grace. She had never met a duke, nor had she expected to. When Tom Kanner had begun to pay court on Gwen, he had made it clear that his most important relative was both distant and disapproving. They communicated in writing, if at all. When the Marshes finally saw the great man, it was likely to be at his funeral, after Tom had taken the title for himself.

Now here he was in her kitchen, with a broom straw still stuck in his hair from the assault she had waged on his person.

‘Mrs Marsh?’ he said, leaning a little closer to her. He waved a hand in front of her eyes, as though attempting to wake her from a trance.

‘You may call me Generva,’ she said weakly.

‘That is a lovely name,’ he replied. ‘As is—’ he shot a surreptitious glance at the special licence on the table ‘—Gwendolyn.’

She started. A licence. ‘You would need to go back to London for another licence. Or wait the three weeks to have the banns read...’

‘We could simply use this one.’ He pushed the paper towards her. ‘My nephew and I share a name.’ He glanced at the paper. ‘My title is not on the licence, of course. But there is some space left on the line. I will take up a quill, wedge it in the gap and sign properly at the bottom. Then the wedding can go on, just as planned.’

‘That could not be legal,’ Generva said with a frown.

‘If propriety concerns you, I will sleep at the inn until such a time as we can travel down to London and procure another licence. We will marry again, quietly, in the new year.’

‘At the Fox’s Tail? Oh, dear Lord, no, Your Grace. That would not do.’

He gave her a surprised look. ‘I assure you, madam, I am not so high and mighty that I cannot take a room there, with the rest of the common travellers.

‘Fleas,’ she said, in an embarrassed whisper. ‘We locals call the place the Dog’s Hind Leg. You can spot the guests in the street for the way they scratch.’

‘Thank you for your warning, Generva.’

Her given name was probably meant as a reminder that they were to be on friendly terms.

‘You’re welcome, Thomas.’ His name escaped her lips as a hoarse croak. ‘And you are welcome here. You will take the best bed in the house for the duration of your stay.’ That was her bed, she supposed. She could share with Gwendolyn, which was probably the best. She would be there as chaperone.

Not that a chaperone was likely needed when the potential groom had such good manners and the bride to be could not stop crying over another man.

‘Certainly not.’ The duke’s voice cut through the wool in her head. ‘You are thinking of displacing yourself, are you not? I will not hear of that. Any place will do. A rug by the fire, perhaps—’

The conversation was interrupted by the creaking of the pantry door and the appearance of a single grubby hand, fumbling for another of the pies on the table.

Generva was on her feet in a moment to seize the boy by the wrist to haul him into the room. ‘Your Grace, may I introduce my other child, Benjamin Marsh.’ She gave one quick glance to his face, relieved that there were not too many smudges upon it, and gave a half-hearted swipe with her fingers to straighten his hair, before turning him to face their guest. ‘Benjamin, offer your greetings to His Grace the Duke of Montford.’ When Benjamin seemed frozen in place, she pushed gently on his back to encourage the bow.

The duke gave him a sombre look. ‘I have been sent by the Regent to look into the local theft of mince pies.’

The boy shot a horrified look to the crumbling crust in his hand.

Then the duke laughed heartily and stepped forward to take the cleaner of the two small hands. ‘I am sorry, I could not resist.’ He glanced down at Benjamin. ‘I am Tom Kanner’s uncle, come for the wedding.’ He glanced at Generva. ‘I will happily displace this boy from his bed. I suspect he deserves a night on the floor for something he has done recently.’

‘Fair enough.’ Generva smiled back. ‘Benjamin, go prepare your room for a guest.’

When the boy had taken the back stairs to the first floor, they were alone again. She felt the room growing more sombre by the minute as the enormity of what was occurring came home to her. To hide her confusion, she prepared the drink that the duke had requested, setting a mug of brandy and hot water on the table beside his hand. ‘Now, about your kind offer...’

He gave her a sad smile. ‘That was almost delivered in a tone of refusal, Mrs Marsh.’

She thought for a moment and poured a drink for herself, returning to the bench opposite. ‘What kind of a mother would I be to accept for her with no thought at all?’ She would be a very sensible one. She could not think of a better answer to the dilemma. But somehow she could not manage the heartfelt thanks he deserved. Instead, she whispered, ‘You would do that for her? You would marry a girl you had never seen to save her from disgrace?’

‘It is not solely for her,’ the duke said with a sigh. ‘With each passing year, it grows more apparent that I cannot trust my title and holdings to the man who will inherit them. As much as it goes against my wishes to marry again, I must attempt it.’ At last, she noticed the little lines of strain around the smile and the creases at the corners of his eyes that had not all been caused by mirth.

‘You do not wish to marry, Your Grace?’ When speaking for her daughter, it would be easier to respect his title and not foster this closeness that seemed to grow so quickly between them. ‘Then why do it? And to a stranger?’ She was tempted to add that the girl he was planning to wed was much younger than he was and hardly old enough to know her own mind on the subject of love and matrimony. But she had been younger still when she had married John. He had been a good fifteen years her senior and she had been most happy in the union.

Her prospective son-in-law was nearly the same age as her husband had been and staring mournfully into his cup. ‘I have been married twice before, Generva. Each time I have taken the time to know my bride and her family. If the matches were not the love stories of an age, I can assure you that they were sweet enough to satisfy.’ He took a drink. ‘I did not plan to lose a wife to childbirth. It hurt even more the second time.’ He took another sip, his smile totally gone. ‘There is a limit to what the human heart can endure, Mrs Marsh. I had no desire to tempt fate a third time. But it seems, if only for the sake of Montford’s future tenants, I must do something.’

How had she not noticed what was hidden behind his earlier smiles? She knew that sorrow, for she carried it with her. It had been five years since the horrible letter arrived, explaining that she would never see her beloved again. It was like an old scar that still ached. She could not help herself, but reached out and covered the duke’s hand with her own.

The moment she touched him, she wished that she had not. If things went as they were planning, it would not be her place to comfort him, it would be Gwendolyn’s.

He did not seem to notice, clasping her hand in gratitude. There was a deep sigh, then his smile returned. ‘If something must be done, it is probably better that it is done quickly. And I would prefer a girl who is strong and healthy to one who is lovely but delicate. Perhaps mutual gratitude and respect will be a more enduring foundation than the tender emotions of my youth.’

She wanted to argue that his youth was not yet gone, any more than hers was. They were not children anymore, but she had seen first fatherhood come to older men than Montford. And there were several women her age in the village still carrying babes in their bellies or their arms.

There was a strange burning in her throat as she swallowed the words of comfort. It was probably deserved indigestion from taking brandy so early in the day. Anything else—jealousy or regret, for example—would be most unworthy of her. He might be old enough to start again. But in the years that she had been alone, no gentlemen had shown interest, nor did she expect a change in her circumstances. She must learn to accept that that part of her life was over.

But Gwen’s life was just beginning. Generva would not be upset. She was grateful, just as a good mother should be. Now she must tell him so. ‘That is very generous of you,’ she said, trying to look as happy as she should by the offer. ‘I cannot speak for Gwendolyn, of course. But I give you my permission to speak to her on the subject. Your room will be the one at the head of the stairs. Please, go and refresh yourself. I will tell my daughter the good news.’

Chapter Four

As he walked up the stairs, Montford whistled a few bars of ‘The Coventry Carol’, then thought the better of it. The song was beautiful, but melancholy. If he was serious about becoming a bridegroom, he would do well to put sad thoughts aside.

At the very least, he could learn to laugh at his own foolishness for suggesting such a thing. At his age, he should know better than to speak without thinking of the potential consequences. He had no proof that he would be able to stand the sight of the girl, much less bed her. Nor did he know if the girl would make a suitable duchess.

Of course, he had irrefutable proof that young Tom would make a terrible Montford. He must trust that Gwendolyn took after her mother both in looks and sensibility. If she did, all would be well. The mother had hair the colour of nutmeg without a strand of grey in it, and a piquant temper, as well. After two children, her figure was still trim. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, but their skin was smooth and unblemished. She’d have been prettier had she smiled, of course. But she’d had little reason to do so.

All in all, she was a most handsome woman. After dinner tonight, he would offer the as-yet-unseen Mr Marsh his congratulations on his own fortunate marriage.

But now he’d arrived at the door to his temporary chamber and was greeted by a probing look from the recalcitrant Benjamin. He dropped the small bag of clothing he had brought with him on a chair beside the bed and met the boy’s gaze. ‘We meet again, Master Marsh. I wish to wash before dinner.’ He glanced at the boy’s grimy hands. ‘You should, as well. Is there water to be had in this room, or must I go back to the kitchen?’

The boy pointed to the pitcher and basin in the corner.

Montford poured out a generous amount and began to splash the road dirt from his face and hands.

He could feel the gaze of the boy, heavy on the back of his neck. ‘So you are a duke.’ The boy spoke as if the fact was somehow in doubt.

Montford gave a slight bow of his head in acknowledgement, but did not turn around. ‘Indeed I am.’

‘You don’t look like a duke.’

‘And how is a duke supposed to appear?’

‘Well, you wouldn’t be in Reddington, for one thing. We see the squire in church sometimes. But no dukes.’ The boy said it with a finality that suggested he was unsure of the existence of the peerage as a species.

‘I came here for the wedding,’ Montford reminded him. ‘My nephew was to marry your sister. If you have seen him, you have seen the heir to a dukedom. It is very nearly the same thing.’

‘So he said,’ the boy replied. ‘But if that is any indication of what dukes are like, I’ve had enough of them, and good riddance.’

Montford dried his face and went to sit down on the bed beside him. ‘Unfortunately, he is not a very good example. His behaviour was most ignoble.’

The boy nodded. ‘She is better off without him. When he met me, he handed me the reins to his horse without so much as a please or thank-you.’ The eyes narrowed again. ‘And he patted my head.’

‘He did not dare,’ the duke said, trying to sound indignant.

‘But he did not pat Boney.’ When he saw the duke’s confusion, he added. ‘Our spaniel. He is the best dog in the world.’

‘I saw him at the door,’ the duke agreed. ‘He does appear to be a most devoted animal.’

‘Tom Kanner walked by him as though he was not even there,’ the boy said with a frown. ‘And when Boney got in the way, he kicked him.’

‘He did not,’ the duke said, actually indignant this time.

‘He moved him with his boot,’ the boy amended. ‘But if he will not treat a dog properly, it was no surprise that he was not right to my sister.’

‘That is a most wise assessment,’ the duke agreed. ‘I am afraid I must agree with you. Young Tom is a blight on the family tree. He paid no attention to his father when that man was alive. Now that he thinks he will have my coronet, he pays no attention to me, either.’ Montford tried not to frown as he said it. How wise was it, really, to tell his greatest worry to a ten-year-old boy? ‘In any case, I should not have mentioned him. He is nothing like a duke at all. You must not judge me based on your acquaintance with him.’

‘So long as you do not kick my dog, I shall not,’ the boy said, though he was clearly not impressed. Then he asked, with no preamble, ‘Have you met Lord Nelson?’

‘Unfortunately, I have not.’

Benjamin gave a disapproving shake of his head, and Montford could tell that he had fallen one notch further down the ladder of approval.

‘But I have met the king,’ he added, to save face. ‘The Regent, as well. And Wellington, of course,’ he added, for what little boy was not eager to hear of him?

Apparently this one. ‘My father was in the navy,’ he said, as though that settled the matter. ‘He was the captain of a ship. He is dead now.’

The news hit him with the force of a broom. Dead? It made sense, of course. The lovely Generva Marsh certainly behaved as though she was master as well as mistress of the house. Her husband must have been gone for some time. There was no sign of mourning in her clothing or behaviour.

Unless one counted the way she had taken his hand as he’d talked of his own troubles. Despite the fact that he had just offered for young Gwendolyn, he had been quite envious of Captain Marsh at that moment. But if Captain Marsh existed only in memory...

It was too late to have such thoughts. He had just asked permission to court her daughter. If only he’d known that the fearless creature who had taken a broom to him was widowed... One wondered what she might strike him with should he announce that he had mistakenly offered for the wrong woman.

‘Even if you have met King George, it does not mean that I need give you my bed, despite what my mother might think.’ Master Marsh was a sensible creature, more concerned with his own comfort than making nice to strangers for the sake of their titles.

‘I will play you for it,’ the duke said. ‘We could match coins.’

‘Do I get to keep the coin if I win?’ the boy asked.

‘Not if you wish to keep the bed, as well,’ the duke said.

‘Very well.’ The boy nodded. ‘Then give me the coin and you can have the bed. But do not tell my mother about it. She would not approve.’

* * *

With the arrival of the duke, dinner became another source of stress. When Generva had awoken, she’d planned for nothing more than a simple meal. It was still a day from Christmas Eve, not yet even part of the twelve-day celebration that the duke’s household probably made of Christmas. With the departure of Tom Kanner, her own house was practically in mourning.

Suddenly, she found herself entertaining the peerage. She had never played hostess to a man of such rank. Indeed, the most exciting invitation she had received was for a single dinner in the house of the local baron, and that had been as an honour to her husband. They had been seated nowhere near the head of the table. The food had been grand enough, though, and tonight she would have to struggle to emulate it.

With a sigh, she ordered Mrs Jordan to cook the roast that had been set aside for Christmas dinner, as many side dishes as could be found in the pantry, and for her to take more than usual care not to burn the potatoes. She could open the bottle of wine that she had been saving as a gift for the happy couple. Her favourite apple tart was really quite simple, but would look better if the crust was dressed with an arrangement of sugar leaves and apples. And there would be the last of her husband’s port for after.

With the supper menu settled, she went upstairs to the bedrooms to roust her erstwhile children so that they might know what was expected of them.

First she rapped sharply on Gwen’s door and informed her through the panel that there would be no more sulking or tears. If she did not open immediately, the door would be broken down and she would be hauled out by the hair. Once the girl had grudgingly given her permission to enter, Generva informed her of the events of the afternoon, the recent change of fortune and the duke’s generous offer.

Her daughter’s response was as she feared it would be. ‘Absolutely not!’

Generva took a deep breath, and proceeded with caution. ‘But, darling, you must at least come out of your room and thank the man for his kindness. Think of the honour he pays you in making this offer at all.’

‘I would rather not think of it,’ her daughter said, wiping at her tear-swollen eyes. ‘I do not want a thing from Tom Kanner or his family. I especially do not want to see anyone associated with him ever again.’

In that she could hardly be blamed. It still did not give her the right to be discourteous. ‘I understand you are hurt. But you must realise that the cancellation of the wedding will leave us both in a difficult position.’

‘Because I am now cast-off goods, known as a fool in front of the entire church?’ Gwen’s voice was growing shrill. ‘That is no fault of mine.’

‘Of course not, dear.’ Generva bit her lip to remember the need for patience. ‘But if you meet him, you will see that the Duke of Montford is quite different from Tom.’

‘Because he is old enough to be my father.’

Almost exactly old enough, which was something Generva preferred not to think about. ‘That does not mean he is ancient. If you meet him, you will find him kind and sensible in ways that a younger man is not. He has an excellent temper, and is very handsome for a man of his years.

She glanced past her daughter at her own reflection in the mirror above the dresser. What did it say about the state of her looks that the most handsome man she had seen in ages immediately assumed that she was a housekeeper? It did not matter, really. She was long past the point where vanity ruled her feelings. Nor was there any reason to put on airs in hopes of attracting a new husband.

All the same, it rankled. She tugged at the cap on her head, making an effort to tuck the curls around it in a more becoming way.

‘If you think he is such a prize, then perhaps you should be the one to marry him.’ Gwendolyn threw herself back on to the bed again, as though preparing for another bout of weeping.

‘He did not offer to marry me,’ Generva said, struggling and failing to hide the bitterness in her voice. ‘And I am not the one who needs a husband. I had one. Since no one is likely to appear at the back door with a proposal, I have learned to manage without.’ She immediately regretted the outburst. It had been a difficult week for all of them, but it had been worst for Gwen. She needed a mother who would be kind to her. Generva had failed, utterly.

But perhaps a little cruelty had been needed. The sharpness in her tone was as effective as a slap to her daughter’s face. The girl sat up, staring at her in alarm, and wiped the tears from her eyes as if to get a clearer view of her own mother.

Generva took another breath and was back in control again. ‘I have no intention of forcing you into a marriage you do not want. But you must come down to dinner and meet the man to thank him for his concern. Perhaps you will feel different at the end of the evening. Perhaps not. But you must not shed another tear over a man who has proved unworthy. Now wash your face and put on your best dress. Tonight you will dine with the Duke of Montford.’

From there, she went to Benjamin’s room, relieved to see that the duke was absent from it. But her son remained, and she dragged him to the basin and scrubbed the boy within an inch of his life before forcing him into his best suit.

‘I do not see why we must wash, Mama,’ he said. ‘The duke has seen me dirty already.’

She gritted her teeth and ran a comb through the boy’s tangle of straw-coloured hair. ‘And now he shall see you clean, for the sake of your mother’s pride, if for no other reason. The man is a peer, not a greengrocer. I cannot have your dirty neck spoiling his appetite for supper.’

‘He has said I may call him old Tom.’

Generva flinched. ‘Well, I say you may not. You will call him Your Grace, and bow when you meet him, just as you would when meeting the vicar.’

‘I do not like the vicar,’ Benjamin announced.

‘Well, do you like the duke?’

The boy thought for a moment. ‘I think so.’

‘Then bow,’ she said, giving another tug on his hair.

From outside the bedroom door, she was convinced she heard a deep, masculine chuckle.

* * *

A short time later, they were gathered round the table, the meat steaming on a platter in front of them. The scene was a perfect picture of domestic bliss. Or it would have been, had not Gwen been sagging in her chair like a drowned Ophelia, her face wan, her eyes red rimmed and her shoulders drooping.

It was all Generva could do to keep from kicking her under the table.

The duke seemed to take no notice of the girl’s unwelcoming posture and smiled from the head of the table. ‘May I offer the blessing?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she murmured, surprised that he seemed so eager.

After a moment’s thoughtful silence, he began to sing. ‘Come, let us join our cheerful songs with angels round the throne...’

She had known his singing voice was lovely, but nothing she had heard thus far compared to this. For the brief space of the hymn, even Benjamin was spellbound and Gwen’s frown replaced with awe.

Then, as though nothing unusual had happened, the duke reached for the platter and helped himself to a large slice of beef.

When Generva could find her breath again, she said with sincerity, ‘You have a beautiful voice, Your Grace.’ The compliment hardly did it justice. The hairs on the back of her neck were still standing in awareness of the rumbling basso.

He gave a shrug and a smile. ‘I had little choice in the matter. My mother was a Wesleyan, you see. She sang morning and night. My father was a different sort.’ His smile broadened at the memory. ‘There is a Christmas tradition, in our holdings, that the lord of the manor should be able to match mummers and wassailers verse for verse to make them earn the cup they are begging for.’ He was positively grinning. ‘I have upheld it, as well. They will miss me this week, I’m sure, for we have a fine time of it.’

‘I like the song about the dead boar better,’ Benjamin said with a firm nod. ‘The one you sang to me in my room.’

‘The boar’s head in hand bear I, bedecked with bay and rosemary.’ Montford thundered out the first line as though there were nothing unusual about singing during dinner. ‘I shall teach it to you later, if your mother allows it. I suspect you have a fine singing voice.’

He turned his attention to Gwen, trying to draw her into the conversation. ‘And you, my dear. Do you sing, as well?’

Generva leaned forward, all but crossing her fingers under the table.

Her daughter gave an indifferent shrug. ‘I have little reason to sing.’

Damn the girl for being such a wet hen. Desperate to keep the conversation going, Generva spoke for her. ‘She is simply being modest. Gwen has a lovely soprano tone and has, on occasion, sung solos in our church.’

The girl’s eyes rose to meet her, in shock at the bald-faced lie. Their vicar, the Reverend Mr Allcot, had strong opinions concerning Methodists and their desire to turn the church into what he deemed little better than a Covent Garden music hall. He preferred rites celebrated in respectful silence, or with a minimum of plain song. He’d have resigned his living before allowing a soprano soloist.

The duke nodded sagely as though he could think of nothing better. Then he turned to her. ‘I am sure it is a perfect match for your voice, which is deeper.’

‘How would you know?’ It was true, of course. But she’d had no idea that he had noticed anything about her, much less the timbre of her voice.

‘You were humming in the kitchen just a while ago. And as you combed your son’s hair.’ He smiled fondly at her. ‘You have a fine voice. I do not suppose you have a pianoforte or a spinet?’

‘I am sorry, Your Grace, but no.’ It was not precisely too dear for the budget, but she had not thought, since John had died, to spend on such an extravagance.

‘A pity. I suspect that we would sing quite nicely together, should we attempt it.’

He must mean the four of them. What else could he mean? But for a brief, irrational moment, she imagined a duet. What was it about the man that made her so foolish? There was nothing in his manner or his words that was provocative, but she could not seem to stop seeking a hidden meaning in them.

It was a good thing that he would be gone in a day or two. If Gwen rebuffed his offer, what reason would he have to remain? And if he did, what was she to feed him? He had demolished the better part of the roast and taken a second helping of the tart, as well. She was unused to a having a man with a hearty appetite under her roof.

Her thoughts strayed back to appetites of a different sort and she stifled them behind a tight, hospitable smile. ‘But tonight you are likely too tired after your long ride to visit us.’

He smiled back at her, in no way encumbered by dark thoughts. ‘Not so very tired that I would not enjoy the port I see on the sideboard and some conversation before the fire in the parlour,’ he said.

Here was another problem. ‘I am sorry, Your Grace. Of late, we’ve had to retire early because of the cold. We cannot seem to get the chimney in the parlour to draw. Until I can find a man from the village to see to it...’

He stood and spread his arms wide. ‘You have a man here, Mrs Marsh. Let us go and have a look.’

‘But, Your Grace...’ At moments like this, there was nothing genteel about the poverty they lived in. It was humiliating. And it made her fantasies about the duke all the more ridiculous.

But again, he did not seem bothered by their circumstances. ‘Please, I will hear no spurious arguments about my rank, my dear Mrs Marsh. What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not offer aid to a lady in distress? Lead me to the problem and I shall endeavour to fix it.’

As Mrs Jordan hurried ahead of them with a taper, the family retired to their best room, which was dark despite being in the centre of the house. Once lit, it was cheerful enough, but unwelcoming because of the cold. Thank the Lord and the housekeeper that the hearth was clean. The Duke of Montford was on his knees in an instant, strong body half inside the fireplace, his head disappearing up the chimney. A hand appeared, waving a vague gesture into the room. Then came his deep voice, amplified by the chimney. ‘Hold the candle close, boy. I can almost see the problem, but I need more light.’

For once, Benjamin did as he was told and stood like a loyal squire, holding the light and passing the poker that was requested as Montford mumbled about a stuck flue.

The women held their breath.

There was a screech of rusted metal, a satisfying thunk and a trickle of soot as the flue returned to its proper setting.

‘There.’ Montford backed out of the opening, replacing the poker in the rack and reaching for a handkerchief to wipe his hands and knees. ‘We will have a fire laid in no time and the room shall be warm as toast. It was a simple thing to remedy. It needed only a long arm and a moderate amount of muscle....’

And then, Benjamin’s good behaviour, which was a precarious thing at best, collapsed under a temptation too great to ignore. He kicked the kneeling peer in the seat of his breeches and shouted, ‘Hot cockles!’

The poor man started forward, banging his head into the brick. Another shower of soot fell from above, darkening his face and shoulders.

To compound Generva’s mortification, her beautiful daughter, who had been weeping steadily for a week, took one look at the situation and stifled a giggle. And then another. If she was not removed from the room immediately, they might grow from titters to laughs and sink them all.

‘Go,’ Generva said, in an angry whisper that seemed to fill the room. ‘Go! Both of you.’ She glared at Gwen. ‘Put him to bed and then go back to your room. Or I swear...’

From the floor behind her came a congenial call of, ‘Goodnight, Miss Marsh. And you as well, you snot-nosed ruffian. I will deal with you later.’

Chapter Five

In Montford’s opinion, there was nothing quite like a social disaster to guarantee a pleasant evening. In an effort to please him, the hostess’s nerves were usually strung as tightly as the wires on a pianoforte. Just as Generva Marsh had been when they’d been at table.

The food had been excellent. The children had been clean and polite. The lady of the house had taken extra care with her own toilette and donned a gown of burgundy satin, cut low enough to show the freckles on her shoulders and bosom and to leave her shivering in the chill air of the dining room. Was any room but the kitchen ever truly warm in December?

She had dressed her hair as well, with worked gold pins that were probably the pride of a limited jewellery box. Captain Marsh had been a loving husband, but unsuccessful in taking prizes, if this was all he could manage for those dark brown curls.

It was a joy to look at her. But it seemed that would be the only pleasure of the evening. The conversation was stilted and dull. Master Ben was presented with a heaping plate so that he might be too busy to speak wrong. And it was clear, from her wary eyes and stubborn chin, that Miss Marsh was not the least bit interested in his solution to her disgrace. Out of courtesy, he had done his best to engage her in conversation and she had resisted at every turn.

It was just as well. If she changed her mind tomorrow, he’d have to keep his word and marry her. But when he looked at her, he felt nothing more than polite curiosity. It did not bode well for a possible marriage between them.

Especially since he could not seem to stop staring at her mother. Generva was not a memorable beauty, as his first wife had been, but she was quite lovely. Nor was she as witty as his second wife, though she was more than clever enough to suit him. More important, she had suffered both pain and hardship and was still very much alive. Wit and beauty had been transient things when compared with the rigours of childbirth. But Generva had faced them twice already and survived. In fact, she seemed to have thrived.

And now that all hell had broken loose in the parlour, he would have her all to himself.

She shooed the children away, then handed him a blanket for his shoulders and insisted that he remove his coat so that the housekeeper could brush the coal dust from it before it was ruined.

He kept it long enough to lay a fire for them, then did as he was bidden. By the whispering of the two women, it was only propriety that kept them from demanding he surrender his breeches for cleaning, as well. They would likely disappear in the night and be clean in the morning, just as the coat had when the housekeeper left.

‘I am sorry.’ The words were out of Generva’s mouth before the door could latch.

Generva. It was a fine name. He looked forward to using it often, rolling it around in his mouth like a fine wine. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

‘My family behaved disgracefully.’ She was not wringing her hands, as some women might, but stood tall, like a young officer on the deck of her husband’s ship, waiting to be dressed down.

‘All families do, at one time or other. It is my nephew’s terrible behaviour that brought me to you.’ He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief.

‘At least he did not kick anyone in the ar—the bottom,’ she amended. ‘Here. Allow me.’ She pushed him towards a seat by the fire and took the handkerchief from him, dabbing carefully at his face.

He watched intently as she perched on the arm of the sofa and dipped the corner of it into her mouth, then wiped at the soot on his face. Did she mean to clean him like a cat with a kitten?

Because he would not mind that.

‘Ben grows worse each year,’ she admitted quietly as she worked.

‘He will grow worse until he grows better,’ the duke agreed. ‘All boys his age are monsters. The trick he played on me was but a child’s game. I played it myself, when at school. One boy must put on a blindfold. One of the others hits him and shouts, “Hot cockles”. Then the victim must guess the assailant.’

‘There was only one possible assailant,’ she said with a dark look towards the upper floor.

‘It did take the mystery from it,’ he agreed. ‘But my posture was all but asking for a kick. At that age, my mother would have needed to physically restrain me from taking action.’

‘It is proof of what idiots men can be when there are no women around to stop them from it.’ She switched the dirty linen in her hand for her own handkerchief and dipped it in the water from a drinking glass set beside his port. ‘Or perhaps it is that he needs a father. I worry, when he is old enough, he will run away to join the navy.’

Her hand stilled in her lap. Either he was clean to her satisfaction, or the thought of losing another man to the sea distressed her.

‘Do you mean to find him one?’

Her distant look turned to one of confusion.

‘A father,’ he said carefully. ‘Do you mean to find a husband? You are still young enough to remarry.’

But too old to blush over it, apparently. There was no pink in her cheek, other than what had been there from the first. He would not have compared her face to porcelain, unless it was to note the contrast of pale-pink rose petals painted on china. ‘A lady does not get herself a husband,’ she informed him. ‘A lady waits until a gentleman makes up his mind.’ She smiled. ‘And this lady has reconciled herself to the fact that none is coming.’

He took a sip of the port, which was excellent. It appeared that Captain Marsh had had excellent taste, all around. ‘Courting is not as I remember it. I thought I was the quarry, not the hunter.’

‘Because you are titled, Your Grace,’ she said with a smile that was much less sad. ‘I am a widow. Should I be the pursuer, society will think I am searching for something far different than a father for my children.’

Might she be longing for companionship? Did she miss a man in her bed? Or was that just what men wished to think, so that they need not worry about the reputation of the widows they claimed to be protecting? ‘I hope my presence here does not lead to more gossip,’ he said. ‘When I arrived, I assumed there was a man of the house. Now it is evening and we are unchaperoned.’

She laughed, and it was a sweet sound, as youthful as her daughter’s face. ‘If anyone talks, I will inform them that you are a duke and ask them if they thought you rode all the way from London because you had heard of my beauty. Then I will remind them of the fleas at the inn. If I could think of a house that was not already too full to hold you, I might have sent you there. But I could not.’

‘As long as I am no trouble,’ he said.

‘It is only for a few nights.’ Then she remembered their original plan. ‘And I wished for you to meet my daughter.’

Should he tell her now of the hopelessness of that particular plan? Better to wait until he could offer another. Though one was already forming in his mind, he had no evidence that she would approve of it. ‘Your daughter. Ah. Yes. Gwendolyn is a lovely girl. I suspect I will have a chance to talk to her again tomorrow. But tonight, I will retire early. If you will excuse me, Mrs Marsh?’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’ She hopped from her perch on the arm of the sofa and offered him a candle to light the way to his room.

Once there, he found the boy sound asleep on the far edge of the mattress. Boney, the spaniel, was monopolising the hot bricks that had been tucked under the sheets to warm their feet. He had a good mind to wake the boy and demand his penny back. He had bought the rights to the bed that afternoon.

But on feeling the cold of the floor through his stockinged feet as he undressed for bed, he could not find it in his heart to displace the child. Instead, he pulled back the covers, climbed into the space remaining and tried to sleep.

Chapter Six

It came as some relief that the duke was an early riser on Christmas Eve morning and willing to partake of the breakfast Generva had ordered for the rest of the family. Only Gwen was absent. No amount of prodding could convince the ungrateful girl to leave her bed and take another meal with the duke.

For some reason, Generva could not manage to be as disappointed as she ought to be at the utter failure of his suit. A match with a duke should have been an answer to a mother’s prayers. But she had not been looking forward to calling this particular man son-in-law. It would spoil some part of the friendship that had sprung up between them once she had set down the broom.

She smiled at the memory of their meeting.

The duke paused midbite to stare at her. ‘At last the sun has come up, for Mrs Marsh is smiling. What are you plotting? Some surprise for Christmas, perhaps?’

Christmas. In the fuss over the wedding, she had forgotten to treat it as a holiday in its own right. She would have to find some nuts and an orange for Ben, and perhaps a few pennies. He must think he had been forgotten in the rush to marry off his sister. ‘No surprise,’ she admitted. ‘It will not be as merry as some holidays we have shared. But we will manage.’

‘I noticed the lack in your decorating thus far, madam.’ He glanced at the bare mantel over the fireplace.

‘Perhaps it is because in the country we cannot afford the extravagances of a ducal manor, Your Grace.’ It was wrong to snap at him. It cost nothing to pull down some ivy from a nearby wood. She had been remiss.

‘No worries,’ he said with a smile. ‘Ben and I will handle it all. The weather is fine and I fancy a walk after breakfast. We will return to green the house. And if it is not too early to do so, we might hunt a wren for St Stephen’s Day.’

At this suggestion, her son’s eyes brightened and he began shovelling kippers into his mouth as though fearing the duke might leave without him, should he linger too long at table.

Generva gave him a worried look. ‘I shall only permit it if you promise me that no harm shall come to the bird. It is one thing to carry it alive from house to house. But to call it the king of all birds only to beg pennies for the burial of its poor little corpse, when it has done no harm to anyone...’

The duke laid a hand on her arm to calm her. ‘I promise we shall build him a little cage and let him go when we are done.’

‘Very well, then.’ She gave him an approving nod. ‘My son is quite bloodthirsty enough without encouragement.’ The duke was saying we as though he meant to be here for the twenty-sixth to take the boy house to house himself. She could not exactly send the man away. But if there was no hope for a match with Gwen, how long did he mean to stay?

‘Very well, then.’ The duke was staring at the little boy across the table from him. ‘Finish your breakfast. Then we will cut down some greens and harass the wildlife.’

It was only a moment more and Ben was pushing away from the table to search for a muffler and gloves. The duke took another sip of his coffee, then smiled at her and rose, bowing in her direction. ‘Madam, if you will excuse me? Duty calls.’

She managed to contain her amazement until he had cleared the doorway. Was it fair that the man should be gallant, good-looking and willing to escort her fractious son into the woods? Ben liked him, as well. Not enough to cease playing pranks on him, of course. But Montford’s amused response to them made him seem all the more attractive.

Thomas, she reminded herself. He had given her permission to use the name.

Then she remembered why she should not. A duke arriving at Christmas to marry her daughter was something straight out of a fairy tale. But in those stories, peers never appeared on the doorstep ready to set their titles aside so that they might be a father to young boys and rescue matrons from their lonely widowhood. Generva had never been fair, could hardly be called young and had not been a maiden for quite some time.

She must not forget, even for an instant, that her story had ended, unhappily, when John had died. In whatever plot continued, she was a minor character at best. Even the Duke of Montford was but a player in a single, short scene. She would force Gwen to meet with him this very day. If the girl did not want him, she must say so to his face. Then they might get him out of this house and on the road back to London. If not, she would be as foolish as her own daughter by Twelfth Night, weeping and mooning over a man she could not have.

* * *

‘Holly and his merry men, they dance and they sing.’ It was mid-afternoon before Montford’s voice rang out in the front hall. Generva could feel the blast of air that had entered with him all the way to the back of the house.

‘Ivy and her maidens, they weep and they wring.’ She answered with the next line of the song almost before she could help herself. How annoyingly appropriate for the state of the house lately. She straightened her skirts and went to meet him. ‘Close the door,’ she called. ‘You are letting in a draught.’ Then she bit her tongue. Had she forgotten so quickly her plan to treat him as an honoured guest and not a member of the family who could be scolded and ordered about?

Her words did not seem to bother him. As she entered the hall, he was dragging the door shut with his foot, since his hands were too busy to do the task. He was carrying the plants he sang about, and pine boughs and mistletoe, as well. Ben was a step ahead of him, carrying a wooden cage with a small, unhappy bird hopping about inside.

‘Have you cut down the whole forest and brought it into my house?’ She had decorated in the past. But she had never needed such a profusion of greenery.

The duke responded to her frown with an innocent, almost boyish look. ‘They will grow back, you know. Your mantel has no garland. Nor does your banister. If I mean to remedy the fact, I decided it was better to have too much than too little. I would not want to make a second trip.

‘True,’ she said, and took a deep breath. He had brought the scent of pine and fresh air into the house when he’d returned to it. Surely that explained the sudden buoyancy of her spirit.

‘If you give me some twine, or perhaps a bit of wire, I shall set it all to rights.’

Would that you could. For a moment, the solid maleness of his voice washed her worries away. She did so miss having a helpmate. Not that John had been that much help, if she was honest. He was away far too often. She shook her head, as though trying to clear it, and said, ‘It is my duty. You are a guest.’

‘And I owe you much,’ he said softly. ‘It is better, staying here, than at the inn I would have chosen. But I have placed an unexpected burden of hospitality upon you.’ He smiled in a way that was far too open and friendly for so important a man. ‘It would be my pleasure to help you in this.’

She gave a little flutter of her hands, trying not to look as foolish as his words made her feel. ‘Very well, then. I shall get the twine.’ She was back in a moment with a work basket that held wire, hammer and nails, as well. At the last minute, she’d added a handful of bright red ribbons that she’d meant to save for trimming her wedding bonnet.

He nodded in approval and set to work. For a gentleman, he was surprisingly adept at it, twining the branches together and threading sprigs of holly through the wires. Ben had disappeared into the kitchen to find crumbs for his feathered prisoner, which left Generva to steady the branches and snip the wires that he tied. In no time at all, he’d fashioned a creditable swag and draped the banister with it.

He stood back satisfied. She had to admit, the results were impressive and the time expended had been minimal. They moved on to the parlour, piling the mantel with holly and ivy.

He glanced down at her. ‘You are smiling again, Mrs Marsh. Twice in one day. It must truly be Christmas.’

Was it really so rare a thing to see her smile? She hoped not. But now that he had commented on it, she could not manage to raise the corners of her lips to prove him wrong.

The duke sighed. ‘And now it is gone again. Do you think, if we put up a kissing bough, it will come back?’

‘Certainly not.’ At least he had given her a reason to frown. All the kindness in the world did not give him the right to tease her.

‘You have several fine arches and a hook in the centre of the parlour where you might hang it.’ He glanced up in mock sadness at the empty door frames. ‘And yet, I see none there.’

‘That is because there is no point in hanging something of that kind in this house,’ she said firmly, as though the matter was settled. ‘There is no one here that wants or needs kissing.’

‘Really,’ he said, surprised.

‘My son is too young to care. If I allow my daughter to run riot at the holidays I will have even more trouble than I do already. The servants have no right to be distracted with it for half the month of December.’

‘And you?’ he prompted.

‘I?’ She did her best to pretend that the thought had not occurred to her. She turned away. ‘It is foolishness, and I have no time for that, either.’

‘Perhaps it is time to make the time,’ he said, stepping forward, holding the branch above her head and kissing her on the lips before she could object.

It was as if the world had been spinning at a mad rate and suddenly stopped, leaving her vision unnaturally clear. She was not a minor character waiting in the wings of her own life. She was standing in the centre of the stage, alone except for the duke.

And then it was over. A strange, adolescent awkwardness fell over them. He cleared his throat. She straightened her skirt. They both glanced at the door and then back to each other. ‘I trust I have demonstrated the need for further decoration?’ he said.

She touched her lips. And against her better judgement, she nodded.

‘Shall I get a bit of ribbon? I am nearly tall enough to reach that hook without a ladder. Or I could steady you while you place it on the hook,’ he offered.

She imagined how easy it would be for him to lift her, and her slow slide down his body once the job was done, leaving them standing close again, under the white berries. ‘I will get you a ladder.’

Chapter Seven

She had tasted of iced cakes and ginger and smelled of woodsmoke and brandy. Montford turned the branch in his hands, staring at it. How long had it been since he had kissed a pretty girl under the mistletoe, just for the fun of it?

He had done it last Christmas, of course. His own house had mistletoe boughs in several doorways. It was pleasant for both parties to catch a young lady under the berries, to swing her briefly off her feet and buss her on the cheek.

If the girl was not willing and wandered beneath the bough in mistake, he would make a playful start for her and send her scampering in fright before she realised that it was naught but a game. Then they would both laugh. And sometimes he would get his kiss after all, if she came back to award him for his good humour.

But had any of those previous kisses been as this one? It was sweet and sad at the same time, tasting of lost youth and aged like wine on his tongue. But there was hope in it as well, reminding him that while he might never be a boy again, there was much to enjoy in the present. The clock had not precisely stopped when he’d kissed Generva Marsh. But the passage of time had not felt quite so loud and insistent.

When he had pulled away from her he’d seen the same thing mirrored in her eyes. Her needs might have changed over the years. But the desire to be loved, and to love in return, had not diminished.

He had kissed her. For a moment, the title had fallen away and he’d felt like nothing more than a man. But he was a man without a wife. And for the first time in a long time, he felt incomplete. Both of his courtships, while not devoid of romance, had been foregone conclusions. He had shown interest and they had been flattered. He had proposed and they had accepted. It had all been very simple.

But that was the past. He had consoled himself that he was too old to start again. It had been a lie. But to open his heart when the answer was not guaranteed...

There was a shifting from behind him and a whispered, ‘Your Grace?’

He turned, surprised that he was not alone in the room.

It was Gwendolyn, holding a step stool in front of her. ‘Mama said you needed a ladder.’

So Mrs Marsh had lost her nerve and sent the girl to deal with him. Perhaps she still hoped that there would be a match between them and that a moment alone in the presence of mistletoe would be the answer. She was wrong.

But that was no fault of Generva’s. ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling. He took the stool from her and climbed it to hang the branch on a nail above the door. Then he stepped down again, standing well clear of the thing so that he might talk to the girl in peace. ‘And while I have you alone, I wish to speak with you for a moment.’ He gestured to the chairs by the window and they sat.

He resisted the urge to clear his throat, fearing that it would make him seem even more old and pompous than he already felt. ‘I wanted to apologise personally for the actions of my nephew.’

He could see, in the bright afternoon light, that her eyes were still red from crying. But for the moment, at least, they remained dry.

‘That is not necessary. They were not your fault after all.’

‘He is my heir and it reflects poorly upon my family that he used you, in such a way. I wish to make it right, if that is possible.’

‘I fail to see how you can,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘The man is already married. Even if he were not, I doubt I would take him back after how he has treated me.’

‘I understand that,’ he said as gently as possible. ‘Nor would I wish you to. It disappoints me to say so, but had I known of his courtship from the beginning, I would have warned you away from him.’

‘Because you did not think me worthy?’ She seemed ready to take offence.

He hurried to put her at her ease. ‘On the contrary. It is he who is not worthy. I had hoped on hearing that he meant to marry that it would be otherwise. But he has proved my worst fears and toyed with your affections. I must do what I can to make reparation.’

She gave him another sad smile that made her seem older than her years. ‘That is very kind of you, Your Grace. Mama said something on the subject to me already. If you mean to propose, I beg that you do not. It will save us both the embarrassment when I refuse.’

He hoped the relief he felt was not as obvious as it seemed. ‘You would not accept such an offer? You would be a duchess, you know. It is what Tom would have made you on my death.’

She shuddered. ‘Let us not talk of that, either. You are in good health at the moment, are you not?’

‘And I hope to be so, for some time,’ he said. ‘All the same, you would have been the duchess eventually.’

‘I hope you do not think that was an enticement when I accepted your nephew. I saw nothing further than the man in front of me.’ She smiled again. ‘I proved myself a very poor judge of character.’

‘If gentlemen behaved as they ought, it would not be necessary for ladies to be on guard,’ he reminded her. ‘And it is unfair that your reputation should suffer from his cavalier treatment of you.’

She gave a slight nod to say that he was too kind.

‘There will be a settlement,’ he said, stopping her before she could speak. ‘I will not accept a refusal of that, after the mortal blow you have dealt me by refusing my hand. You wound me to the quick, miss, for though I am old enough to be your father, I do not like to be reminded of the fact.’

She hurried to deny the fact, then noticed his smile and relaxed at the shared joke. ‘Very well, Your Grace. I thank you for your concern.’

‘I have another plan that might suit you better,’ he said, trying not to sound as cryptic as he felt. ‘I do not wish to speak of it as yet. But if I could repair your reputation in some other way, one that would give your broken heart time to heal and not trap you in a marriage not of your choosing, would you accept my help?’

Her shoulders sagged as well-disguised tension was released from them. ‘If such a thing was possible, I would accept it gladly, Your Grace.’

He rose and offered her his hand. She rose as well, and he escorted her to the door. ‘Then I shall endeavour to do my best for you.’ He glanced up to see the mistletoe that he had hung only a few minutes ago. ‘And now, you must indulge an old man, if only for luck.’ He laid a finger to direct her and she went up on tiptoe to kiss him, a brief, daughterly peck on the cheek.

He responded with a fatherly kiss on the top of her head. ‘Merry Christmas, my dear. Do not worry, I will make all right.’

She all but scampered as she left him, and he reached thoughtfully up to pluck one of the berries and toss it into the fire.

* * *

Seven, eight, nine...

Generva stared suspiciously up at the mistletoe, counting the berries there. She was sure there had been ten when she had left the room earlier in the day. She held her breath as she peered around at her feet to make sure the berry had not dropped off and rolled away. There was no sign of it on the floor.

She resisted the urge to move the furniture just to make sure. It was a roundabout solution to a perfectly simple problem. If she wished to know if a kiss had occurred after the meeting between the duke and her daughter, she had but to go and ask Gwen.

Strangely, she did not want to. She had left them alone together so that the matter of the proposal could be properly settled. But she had trusted that he would behave as a gentleman, especially if the answer was no. If he had pressed his advantage, as he had when Generva had been alone with him, she could not ignore it. She would explain to her daughter that what might have been a simple Christmas game last season might now be seen as permission to take even greater liberties. If she had agreed to a marriage, then it must occur tomorrow as scheduled.

If not? Then Generva would inform the duke that he must offer again and allow no second refusal. The girl would likely pout and sulk. But in the end she would have a husband who was both rich and powerful, and good-humoured, as well. He had a friendly, almost playful nature, and an excellent singing voice. Smiles came easily to her when he was around, and she was not normally given to such frivolity.

She was waxing on his virtues again. It netted her nothing. If she must speak of them at all, it would be to Gwen. After his marriage to her daughter, she could brag of the match to the jealous mothers of less-fortunate girls.

Perhaps Gwen would not have the grand passion she hoped for. But it was well past the time for romance. If she married the duke, she would have kindness and security, and never feel the desolation of the soul that came with knowing one was alone. The women of the Marsh household, both of them, must stop behaving like silly, love-struck maidens and face facts.

‘Are you looking for something?’

She jumped at the sound of his voice, placing her hand over her suddenly heaving bosom.

The duke was glancing down at the floor, just as she had as she searched for the berry. ‘I am sorry to startle you. But it seemed, just now, that you were searching for something. May I be of assistance?’

Darling, it has been a long time...

A sudden image flashed into her head of John, returned from sea. He would smile and coax her to the bedroom, claiming he needed help removing his boots. She would smile and follow, and they would close the door, even if it was the middle of the afternoon....

Why, of all times, must she think of such a thing? And why, in the presence of this particular man? The answer was obvious. But she was sure, somewhere on the other side of the veil, her husband was laughing at her.

She caught her breath and swallowed. ‘The room needs sweeping. It was foolish to decorate before giving it a good cleaning.’ She looked up into his face, which was very near hers, and leaned back into the door frame to keep from falling.

‘I shall bring the broom from the kitchen, if you promise not to strike me again.’ He was smiling, as though they shared a secret joke.

Her heart was beating so loud and fast she feared he must hear it from where he stood. She braced her shoulders against the woodwork, leaning back into the solidness of the house. ‘That will not be necessary. It has been a most confusing week,’ she added, hoping this would explain her behaviour.

‘It has indeed,’ he replied. ‘And I suppose you are wondering the results of my conversation with your daughter just now.’

‘I...’ What was the answer to this? Courtesy suggested that she deny curiosity, but her duty as a mother was just the opposite. She swallowed and attempted another breath. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘While she is a lovely girl, I fear our first hope was in vain. She has little interest in wedding me and I would not persuade her against her will. She is still quite young, and full of romantic illusions, as we all were at that age.’

‘She will outgrow them in time,’ Generva said firmly, thinking of how far her own life had veered from young romance.

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps not. She deserves a chance at a love match, does she not? And a man who can prove that all of us are not such bounders as my nephew proved to be.’

‘But how will that be possible? Tomorrow people will be talking of nothing else but her jilting.’

His finger was on her lips now, resting gently to silence them. ‘I will make sure the blame falls where it belongs, with my erstwhile heir. And—’ he gave her a smile that was both reassuring and secretive ‘—I have another plan in mind. Something that will occupy the gossips for weeks to come.’

‘But...’ If she had forgotten the finger resting against her lips, this attempt at speech made her immediately aware of it. The movement of her mouth dragged across the skin of it, and she had a sudden, totally irrational desire to touch it with her tongue, to take it into her mouth and suck.

Perhaps he had a similar thought. For though his smile did not falter, his already dark eyes seemed to grow darker. ‘Do you trust me?’

She should not. She should ask him about the missing berry. But she gave the barest of nods. And again, the friction of her lips on his hand made her mind wander.

‘Then you must not fear,’ he said. His hand dropped away from her face to rest upon her shoulder. ‘And you must not take everything upon yourself.’

‘Who else has there been to help me?’ she said, unable not to rail, just a little, at the unfairness of widowhood.

‘No one yesterday,’ he agreed. ‘But today you must remember that you are no longer alone.’

She wanted to argue that of course she was still alone. John had been captain at sea, but she had always been the captain of her own little ship right here in Reddington. While it might seem that she deferred to him, he would soon be gone. Today or tomorrow, St Stephen’s Day at the latest, he would be on his horse, riding south, and she would be alone again.

His hand tightened upon her shoulder ever so gently, the thumb settling in the hollow of her collarbone and stroking. ‘You knew the old song I was singing before, did you not?’

She nodded again, barely able to breathe.

‘It was a man’s song. The man is the holly. The woman is the ivy, who clings to him for support.’

She did not need to, she reminded herself. But it would be pleasant, for a time, to cling to anyone.

‘That song is rather unfair to poor ivy, for she is standing outside the door with cold fingers. But do you know the chorus?’ he asked softly.

At the moment, she was not sure she knew anything, other than that the duke had the beginning of a beard shadow, just under the curve of his full lower lip. Her eyes dropped to the ground again, so she would not have to stare at his mouth.

‘“Let Holly have the mastery, as the manner is.”’ The words were barely a breath against her hair. ‘That is what you must do for me, Generva. Let me help you.’ His thumb travelled up her shoulder until it rested under her chin, and tipped her face towards his.

She should not be doing this.

She allowed herself one token protest before putting it aside and closing the last inch between them to accept his kiss. His mouth was warm and wonderful, and the nearness of his body as comforting as a blanket on a winter night. She leaned into him and felt his hand on the small of her back, supporting her as he opened her mouth, capturing her tongue with a lazy possessiveness, drawing it back into him so that she might kiss him as he was kissing her.

He tasted of mulled wine and mischief, and she gave herself over to it, wrapping her arms around his neck so that their hips touched. She felt his body stir against her belly, growing hard. He wanted her in that way?

Her heart and mind warred for a moment, trying to decide whether to be offended or flattered. If she was not careful, she would have a reputation more damaged than her daughter’s. The world would think she was one of those too-gracious widows, willing to let a man warm her bed for favours.

In the end, her body won out over reason. Her knees weakened, pressing her hips ever so slightly in welcome towards the budding erection.

‘What are you doing?’ Ben was sitting on the stairs in the hall, watching the whole scandalous moment.

She broke quickly from his kiss, straightening her skirts and touching her hair. Then she cursed herself for the fussiness. It made her look even more guilty than she felt.

The duke was given to no such sudden movements. He was still staring down at her, eyes pools of blackness, a slight satisfied smile upon his lips. ‘I am kissing your mother,’ he said to the boy, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be caught in an embrace in the middle of the day.

‘Oh,’ Ben responded. Perhaps that was just the way to handle such a thing, for her son did not seem the least bit surprised. His tone said that such carrying on was not nearly as interesting as catching wrens in the woods.

‘Like you kissed my sister before?’

Generva pushed away so fast that her head hit the door frame. ‘Your Grace.’ There was much more that she wanted to say, and none of it was appropriate for little ears. For now, two words would have to be enough to tell him what she truly thought of the sort of man that would do such a terrible thing. Then she gave him another push for good measure and fled past her son, up the stairs to her room.

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