Elizabeth Rolls - Unlaced At Christmas - The Christmas Duchess / Russian Winter Nights / A Shocking Proposition

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.’