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.

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