Elizabeth Rolls - Unlaced At Christmas

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.