The Peace of Christmas Yet to Come: Sweet Regency Romance (A Dickens of a Christmas Book 3)

by L G Rollins

  The floor was hard, but she’d still much rather be here than away from Tim, even if staying with him meant a harder bed. Lying next to him, she rested her arm across his chest.

  Tim stirred. “Martha?”

  “I’m here, dear boy.” She leaned forward, placing a kiss against his forehead. “You just rest and warm up.”

  “I’m glad I’m home.”

  That had to be an understatement. “Me too.”

  “I fell down.”

  She pulled him closer to her. “Doctor Lock said you hurt your ankle.”

  “Yeah, real bad. A man scared me and knocked me over.”

  “What?” Someone had done this to him?

  “He yelled at me. Said to go away. But when he knocked me over, my ankle got twisted so I couldn’t go at all.”

  Martha pushed up onto an elbow. “Didn’t the man help you after you fell?”

  “No, he just yelled and walked away.”

  How horrid. What kind of a brute just left a hurting boy in the snow? Surely only a monster.

  Martha settled in close to Tim once more. “Well, never you mind him. He is no doubt the most horrible man who ever walked the earth.”

  “Even worse than Mr. Scrooge?”

  Martha laughed softly. “It seems we were mistaken in our previous assumption. There is, indeed, someone out there even worse than Mr. Scrooge.”

  The early sunlight poured in through the front window, landing on Martha and waking her. She squinted her eyes shut tighter, wishing the night would hang on a bit longer.

  But no, she was already late. Again. She needed to get to the church before Mrs. Gale made good on her promise and fired her. Martha carefully pulled away from Tim, still sleeping soundly, and stood.

  At least her brother looked well enough. He was a healthy pink and he hadn’t been fitful while sleeping. She could only hope that Doctor Lock would find nothing alarming when he came to visit that evening.

  But how were they going to pay him? Martha quickly dressed and pulled her hair back. Now, more than ever, she needed to keep this job for the vicar. Who knew how many more visits Tim was going to need? The more she thought over it, the more her worry grew. Suppose they couldn’t afford the care Tim needed?

  Martha stopped by the front door, ready to leave. She looked down at her little sleeping brother. Gracious, but she hated the idea of leaving him this morning. He’d be awake soon, and he would need her to reassure him, to make him breakfast. Yes, there would be Grandfather and Peter, but he needed a mother. And, since he could not have that, at the very least, he should have a big sister.

  But he also needed a doctor. And for them to afford Doctor Lock, Martha had to go to work.

  She slipped out the door and forced herself down the road.

  Either Mrs. Gale hadn’t heard about last night’s near-tragedy, or, every bit as likely, she didn’t care. Either way, Martha didn’t bring it up and was soon hard at work removing all the curtains from every room in the church house. At least there were none on the towering windows to either side of the pews in the chapel. But there were ever so many everywhere else.

  Martha’s hands ached as she forced them into the warmed water and then stung as she scrubbed the fabric with soap.

  All the while, she couldn’t help but feel guilty at having left Tim that morning.

  If she hadn’t found him when she did, Martha knew full well that Tim wouldn’t have woken up that morning at all. After such a close run of it, where was his one sister? The person he depended upon the most?

  Gone. She’d left him behind and come to see to some easily replaceable draperies. What kind of a sister did such things?

  The fabric finally clean, she laid them out near the kitchen fire and saw to dusting before returning to rehang them all. She started in all the small rooms, where the windows were lower and easily reached with a stool. She then went to rehang the curtains by the side door. She didn’t know of anyone who used the door often; there was only a small path outside which seemed to head in the same direction as Stonewell Castle.

  The windows here, however, were a bit taller. No doubt it was done in an effort to better match the higher ceiling.

  Martha pushed her stool up close. She’d had a hard enough time taking the curtain down earlier that day. And that had been before she’d further irritated her hands in soapy water, and before the curtains had been made damp and, consequently, heavier. She reached above her head, going up on her tiptoes.

  The stool wobbled then jerked dangerously. Martha released her hold on the curtain—she dared not risk ripping them—as she fell.

  She got one foot onto the ground but couldn’t keep her balance and hit the floor sitting. The impact jarred her spine and rattled her brain. The stool collapsed beside her, the crash echoing.

  Her backside throbbed, and her left ankle ached. Bother and ruination.

  Martha didn’t get up right away. What was the point? She couldn’t be a maid to the vicar, and a sister to an ailing boy, and a granddaughter who brought dinner, and the one responsible for cooking and cleaning their own few rented rooms. It was too much.

  Martha’s vision blurred with tears. She rubbed the heel of her hand over her eyes, but it did little good. She knew the tears were in part a latent response to the terror she’d experienced when searching for Tim. But knowing that’s what caused the tears didn’t make them stop any easier.

  Something black and tall moved into her line of sight. Martha blinked a few times.

  Boots. And connected to them, tan breeches, a dark jacket, a well-tied crumbled cravat, and a man’s head. A scowling man’s head.

  Now she was in for it.

  Martha tried to push herself up off the floor. “Pardon me, Your Grace—”

  His hand dropped onto her shoulder, gently encouraging her to sit back down. Wordless, he knelt and stretched out his hand, a handkerchief held between his fingers.

  Relieved, she took the handkerchief and wiped at her eyes. It came away with not only tears but also streaks of dirt. Oh, gracious, she must have gotten herself dirtier while dusting than she’d realized. What must he think of her?

  “Thank you.” Regardless, she wouldn’t have him thinking she was ungrateful. Clumsy, incompetent, prone to crying? Perhaps. But not ungrateful. “I think I hurt my ankle.”

  His gaze flew to her leg, his brow dropping. This time, not in frustration but in what she could have sworn was concern.

  “Oh, no,” she hurried on. “I don’t think it’s broken or anything near that bad. I only think I need to sit for a bit.” Pushing with her hands, she inched her way toward the wall and rested her back against it.

  The Silent Duke watched her closely. His wordless response didn’t surprise her. Nor did she find it cause for alarm.

  He sat down beside her, suddenly, scooting back, as she had, to rest against the wall.

  Well . . . that was surprising.

  Martha schooled her features, resisting the urge to turn her head and stare at the man. Him giving her his handkerchief was considerate enough. But to take a moment and sit with her—she, a lady currently working as a maid, and he a duke—it was not anything like how she’d imagined the morning going when she’d first awoken.

  Wasn’t he worried about getting his breeches dirty? She couldn’t think of another gentleman who would have willingly sat beside her. Certainly not Comerford. She shuddered at the thought of him.

  “Do you need a doctor?” he asked.

  Heavens, but the morning was just full of surprises. First he offered his handkerchief, then he sat beside her, and now he even spoke. No one would believe her should she attempt to tell the tale.

  “No, I thank you.”

  “You were shaking.”

  He’d notice her shudder? “An unpleasant thought, is all.” Oh, dear, that was too easily misinterpreted. “Not about you. About another gentleman.”

  He lifted a single eyebrow. It was almost comical how high he managed to get it. Martha pressed
her lips tightly together to keep from giggling at the sight. She’d hate to appear daft. How did he get his face to do that, though? What he didn’t communicate in words he somehow managed to articulate clearly through expressions.

  “He is only an acquaintance.” Her mind carried her back to the past couple of times she and Comerford had spoken. Her nose wrinkled. “One I wish I could un-make.”

  He let out a grunt, though it sounded very nearly like a chuckle.

  Hugh could hardly believe he was sitting on the floor next to a lady he barely knew. Not only that but now he was finding himself almost laughing. The way her nose scrunched up . . . surely any man would be so inclined.

  He couldn’t deny it any longer—there was something about this woman which drew him in. Perhaps it was her determination, or her soft voice, or simply the way she didn’t seem to mind his prolonged silence. When he had heard the crash and found her on the floor, crying . . . well, he couldn’t exactly define what it was he’d felt. Only, he’d hurried over to her and now, here he sat, without any intention of getting up soon.

  “I suppose that sounds unkind,” she said.

  He didn’t see why; he knew plenty of gentlemen he wished he could refuse to acknowledge. Including most of the people who would be descending upon Stonewell Castle in the next few days for that dreaded Christmas house party he’d been conscripted into giving.

  “Only,” she continued, drawing herself up slightly, even while remaining on the floor, “he stole my glove—one from my good pair, too.”

  “I could chase him from Dunwell,” he offered.

  She laughed lightly at that. It was a most pleasant sound. “Tempting. Very tempting. But what excuse would you give?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t need one.”

  “I can see the newspapers now.” She held up her hands as though tracing the large type across a noteworthy article. “The Silent Duke chases earl while on horseback.”

  He made as though pointing at the same imagined newspaper. “With a whip.”

  “And a pack of hunting dogs.”

  “Society would expect nothing—” His words caught. Heat from embarrassment warmed his neck. He’d been doing so well. But it never mattered; he always struggled eventually. Hugh coughed into a fist. Hopefully, she’d just assume he had something caught in his throat. “Nothing less,” he finished.

  She eyed him for a moment, then turned back to the ‘newspaper’ in her hand. “I think I ought to cut this out. Save it in my book of notes so that I might read back on it whenever I am discouraged.”

  “It was the least I could do, Miss—”

  Blast. Again.

  The lady’s eyes went wide; moreover, they appeared to hold a bit of apprehension, perhaps even a tinge of fear.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, her words fumbling.

  Hugh ground his jaw. She’d set him at ease with her soft voice and wit. Now, he’d frightened her. When he’d been a child, more than one of his mother’s good friends had grown uneasy around him whenever his speaking turned to a struggle. He could still clearly see the frowns, the upturned noses. The clear disgust.

  “You must forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it before. “I had thought you would only think me a maid. I see you have guessed that I am not.”

  What?

  Oh, he’d called her “miss.”

  Is that what she was suddenly worried over?

  He pushed away from the wall and angled himself around so that he might look at her directly. He didn’t say anything—he was wary of speaking again—but he did his best to let her know he was willing to listen.

  She eyed him, her lips twisting to one side as she considered. Finally, she threw her hands up. “If anyone knows I’ve begun working, I’ll never be welcomed in good society again. I may not have many prospects now, but I’d have absolutely none should anyone else know.”

  Her confession fit with what he’d already puzzled out.

  “Finances have been tight,” she said. “What was I to do? Wait for some gentleman to show up on a white horse and throw money our way?”

  Hugh couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from him at that.

  “Oh!” She buried her face in her hands. “I must be even more tired than I realized. I hadn’t meant to sound so uncouth. Between Tim getting lost last night and these tiresome curtains”—she waved a hand over her head at the draperies, still hanging halfway on and halfway off—“I’m afraid I’m not very fit company at the moment.”

  “Tim?” he asked. A single word wasn’t too risky, and he was curious.

  Tears lined the bottom of her eyelids. “One of my brothers.” She continued on, a most disconcerting story spilling from her. It was clear from the way she spoke that she not only loved her brother deeply but also had not fully recovered from her fright.

  Should he pat her hand? Or perhaps her shoulder? He’d never once tried to comfort a young lady in distress. He searched his memories, but he couldn’t think of a time either his father or any of his friends had demonstrated what to do when a woman cried. Well, besides offer them his handkerchief, and he’d already done that.

  She was getting to him.

  And he shouldn’t be allowing it.

  He didn’t even know her name, for crying out loud.

  “Doctor Lock said he’d be by again this evening.” She shook herself and made to stand. “Which is why I need to be done here as quickly as possible and get myself back home.”

  She was up on her feet before he had the chance to stand and help her. Still, she didn’t let go of the wall.

  “Is your ankle . . . is it feeling better now?”

  She shot him a glance and Hugh got the distinct impression his small pause hadn’t slipped by her unnoticed.

  She tested her foot with a little weight then a bit more.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think it is all right.” She took a few steps away from the wall, then silently walked back. Her gait looked steady.

  “You know,” she looked up at him, her head listing to the side, “you don’t need to hide your stammer.”

  Hugh’s jaw tightened. Hang it all. He glanced around at the hallway they were in, anywhere except at her.

  This was why he chose to remain silent. He hated the way people responded when they knew. He hated the pity, the insincere consolation, the rejection. He could feel his face warming, and he knew his neck would be red. His jaw was so tight his temples pulsed with the pressure.

  Hugh glanced over at her. She watched him, something akin to fear in her eyes. At least it wasn’t pity. Still, the look she gave him wasn’t much better.

  He growled and strode past her, throwing open the door. He should have known better than to sit. He should have shoved the handkerchief in her face and walked away then and there. He strode out into the winter morning. She didn’t call after him, didn’t say anything at all.

  Which was just fine.

  Silence suited him.

  Chapter Nine

  Hugh slowly closed his eyes and prayed Lady Harriet would stop singing soon. Why in the blazes had he ever agreed to host his mother’s Christmas gathering this year? Lady Harriet’s mother, Lady Wilmington, sat beside him; a hungry grin seemed forever plastered on her face. At least, it was always there whenever she spotted him entering the room. The only time it seemed to falter was when he made to leave.

  Even now, she reached out and patted his arm in a familiar way he found most off-putting. “Is she not angelic?”

  He grunted and gave her a single nod. It wasn’t a grunt of agreement, but it wasn’t obviously a cut either. As he’d known it would, this seemed to satisfy her, and she sat back in the brocade chair she’d dragged next to his. There were benefits to refraining from speaking actual words—the recipient of his gestures and grunts could misinterpret all they wished, and Hugh could still have the satisfaction of knowing he’d fully disagreed, without the hassle of actually arguing with his guests.

  The
song ended—finally—and Lady Harriet stood, a clearly practiced smile of false modesty on her lips as she curtsied during the applause.

  Lady Wilmington stood and offered her daughter the seat nearest Hugh, giving some excuse or another. Hugh didn’t bother listening to it too closely.

  Lady Harriet sat beside him, and as soon as the next young lady, a Miss George, began playing, she leaned in close. “You must allow me to express my gratitude for inviting my dear mother and myself for Christmas this year.”

  Hugh gave her a slight bow of the head. The compliment sounded practiced. When he rehearsed words in his own mind, it was never with the intention of changing them so that they might be more pleasing, at the sacrifice of sincerity. It galled him that so many people, to whom speech came easily, used that gift in a most disingenuous way.

  “I truly have been most delighted to be here”—she batted her eyes—“among such interesting company.”

  Interesting? Ha, he hadn’t said a single word to her. If she were interested in him, it was either a morbid fascination at his constant refusal to speak which would, should he utter a sentence, dissipate immediately, or it was an interest in his wealth and title. If he were inclined to think it the first, he would speak now and allow her to take her leave. But since he was quite certain it was the latter, he remained silent.

  “Do you intend to visit London next year?” she asked. “I am determined I shall see the opera, Almack’s, and all the best sights.”

  He nodded slightly.

  “I am particularly excited to take a ride in Hyde Park,” she said, her tone turning petulant. “Do you not think such would be splendid?”

  He gave her a small wave of his hand. He’d heard from several people that a ride through Hyde Park was most agreeable. He did enjoy riding. However, the thought of doing so with dozens of people watching, in a veritable crush where one couldn’t gallop or feel the breeze rushing past one’s face . . . where was the enjoyment in that? He’d concluded that those who liked a ride through Hyde Park truly just liked being seen doing something more than sitting about a dinner table at a ball. It was as though the activity made people feel they were more interesting than they truly were.