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

by L G Rollins

  appeared a shining Throng

  Of Angels praising God, and thus

  address their joyful song:

  No. Tim needed her right now. Hugh set his jaw and forced himself to walk away. The last lines of the Christmas hymn pulled on him, but he ignored the urge to rush back.

  All Glory be to God on high,

  and to the Earth be Peace;

  Good will, henceforth, from Heaven to men,

  begin and never cease.

  Hugh reached his study and shut the door firmly. He needed separation—that was it. Separation from his guests, from their machinations and dismissive gestures. More than any of that, however, he needed separation from Martha.

  From her soft voice and gentle smile. From her willingness to listen, no matter how he stumbled through his words. Certainly, he needed separation from her angelic singing voice.

  Hugh sank heavily into his great chair behind the large desk. With his elbows planted against his legs, he pressed his forehead against fists. The guilt he’d been feeling since he’d realized who Martha’s brother was grew harder and pricklier in his chest. He was the one who’d scared the boy so badly as to cause him to slip and get hurt.

  Yet, he hadn’t said a word of it to Martha.

  He ought to. Hang him, but of course he had to tell her.

  What would she think of him once he did? Would she ever be willing to sit with him in the church house and talk after that? He doubted it. Nothing meant more to Martha than her family, and he had hurt them. He wouldn’t be surprised if she threw social etiquette to the wind and gave him the cut directly after finding out what he’d done.

  The thought of losing Martha—their conversations, her gentle laugh, the way she smiled—pulsed against him, leaving him feeling bruised on the inside.

  The door creaked as it opened. Hugh sat up quickly, his eyes struggling to refocus after being closed and pressed against his fists for so long.

  A footman announced Mr. Harris, and Hugh waved for him to allow the steward to enter.

  Never had Hugh’s usual scowl felt so easy to assume.

  Mr. Harris walked to the center of the room, caught sight of him, and seemed to hesitate. Apparently, Hugh’s look was darker than even he’d realized.

  Regardless, Hugh didn’t have time to indulge Mr. Harris’s need for assurance. He waved toward the seat in front of him.

  Mr. Harris hurried forward and sat. “Your Grace, I have heard from Sir Roberts.”

  It was about time. Hugh had personally penned him a letter several days ago. What had taken a knight so long to respond to a duke was a logic only an imbecile could understand.

  Mr. Harris sat up straighter. “He has requested to speak with you directly.”

  Hugh’s fist came down hard against the desk. Mr. Harris startled.

  The man wanted to meet with Hugh? To speak with Hugh? It was well known far past Dunwell that Hugh never conducted business in person. That was the whole point of employing the best steward and solicitor in this part of the country.

  Hugh’s fist relaxed. Then again, he did want that bit of land. If he met with Sir Roberts and had Mr. Harris there to do all the annoying talking bits . . . it might be manageable.

  Unbidden, his mind floated back to Martha. She worked so blasted hard for her family, to see them well and cared for. Could he truly shirk a small business meeting, uncomfortable though it would undoubtedly be? Uncomfortable in the extreme, at that. Still, he thought of Martha’s hands, cracked and bleeding. Of the way she had suppressed her own fears the night she had begged for his help in summoning Doctor Lock.

  Hugh drew in a breath. “Very well.”

  Mr. Harris’s jaw dropped. He blinked a few times, coming to himself. Shifting about, he leaned forward a bit. “You are agreeable to the meeting?”

  Hugh scowled; he wasn’t about to repeat himself.

  Mr. Harris swallowed, loudly, and then rushed on. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall set the meeting up immediately. Do you wish for me to be in attendance?”

  Hugh nodded once.

  “As you wish it, Your Grace.” Mr. Harris stood. “Will the day after tomorrow be satisfactory?”

  Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if Martha would still be in residence at Stonewell Castle then. Or, more likely, the truth of his involvement with Tim’s illness would have been learned by then and all the Cratchits would have surely removed themselves. The painful beating against his chest returned.

  Hugh forced his mind back to Mr. Harris. He gave a single nod once again.

  “Very well, Your Grace. I will inform Sir Roberts immediately.” With a bow, he left the room.

  Hugh sat back in his chair. Agreeing to meet with Sir Roberts was not at all in character, but he didn’t regret it. One or two good scowls from the Silent Duke would probably go further in convincing the man that not selling was more idiotic and foolish than any letter ever written.

  Martha would agree—she’d probably be quite pleased with his decision to meet with the man. Hugh made to rise but paused halfway up.

  That was, she would be happy if she hadn’t learned the truth yet. Hugh had been careful not to let Tim see him, so he doubted the boy had put two and two together and told Martha. But she was a smart woman, and he couldn’t help but fear she’d find out somehow eventually.

  Hugh dropped back into his chair. The room about him was quiet. There were books filled with information regarding history and farming and lots more, besides. There was a fine rug and a pleasant fire in the hearth. But there were also empty chairs and only enough candles in the room for one. There was no one about to smile at him or to listen to his thoughts or even to sit comfortably in silence with him.

  For the first time ever, Hugh didn’t like it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sound of Lady Harriet singing reached Hugh even from well down the corridor. She had a nice enough voice, he supposed. But it didn’t pull on him as Martha’s singing had. Lud, but he still could not forget the sound of her voice as she sung to her brother.

  The one who was sick—thanks to him.

  Hugh’s step slowed, and he paused in front of an ancestral coat of arms. Since when had his life become so complicated? He could have sworn, not two months ago, things were all very straight forward. He had arisen on his own schedule. He had eaten what he wished, when he wished it. No one had bothered him. He had been free to visit the church house whenever he had wanted to—and had done so alone. His evenings had been calm, and he had been at liberty to retire when it suited him.

  Now, between his house guests demanding his attention at all hours of the day and night, a sick young boy who weighed most heavily on his conscience, and a beautiful young woman who wouldn’t leave his mind . . . well, his life had become absolute madness.

  “Your Grace.”

  Hugh glanced over and found Lady Fitzroy walking out of the parlor. The strains of Lady Harriet’s singing grew momentarily louder, then softer again after the door shut.

  “I must say,” the matron hurried over to him, “we have seen hardly anything of our newest guest.”

  He almost laughed at the way she’d said “our guest.” As if she’d had anything to do with Martha being invited. Nonetheless, he remained customarily silent. He normally chose not to speak so as to avoid the strange stares and uncomfortable glances he received when people learned of his struggle to speak. Lady Fitzroy already knew. However, he still rarely said any more to her than anyone else—she may know of his condition, but she was one of many people who had never grown comfortable with him speaking. She was one of many who’d taught him the necessity of remaining silent.

  “She didn’t even stay for all of dinner last night.” Lady Fitzroy carried on, not expecting—not wanting—a response. “She said something about needing to see to her brother, I believe.”

  Yes, he’d noticed her slip out halfway through the main course as well. He’d very nearly followed her out, but as the host, that would have been inexcus
able since he’d heard nothing to make him think there was any kind of emergency. More the shame.

  “I haven’t seen her downstairs at all this morning. Surely she must know that only the finest maids are employed at Stonewell Castle. One would think she would be smart enough to entrust her brother to one of them. I’m not at all sure what she expects to accomplish by staying near the boy’s bedside—oh, Miss Cratchit, dear.”

  Hugh spun around. Martha stood not three strides away. He hadn’t even heard her approach. Gads, but she looked beautiful. She wore a simple, pale yellow dress. Her hair was pulled back and up, though several dark curls fell about her face. He couldn’t remember anyone ever looking so becoming. He’d seen many a more elegant dress, met many a more striking woman. But there was something about Martha, something that pulled him in. Despite the simplicity of her attire, Hugh could not deny that whenever she walked into the room, he instantly lost any desire to be anywhere other than near her side.

  He had done his best to keep his distance of late as a means of self-preservation, if nothing else, or perhaps a way to keep from having to tell her the difficult secret he still carried. But his efforts had done little good. Whether in his immediate presence or not, she remained in his mind, a constant distraction. Even now, he found himself sincerely wishing Lady Fitzroy would take herself off and leave them to speak in private.

  Lud, his madness must be increasing.

  “It is so good to see you today,” Lady Fitzroy said, taking hold of both Martha’s arms and kissing her cheek. Martha seemed a bit taken aback by the intimate gesture. But Lady Fitzroy was like that. Either you were little more than an acquaintance and hardly worth recognizing, or you were her dearest friend and one she could not live without.

  “It is good to see you as well,” Martha replied.

  “You look quite drawn out, my dear.” Lady Fitzroy tutted. “Did you not sleep well? If His Grace has set you up in an ill-suited bedchamber, you say the word, and I’ll see to it that the matter is fixed at once.”

  Hugh’s jaw tightened; of course he had set Martha up in a perfectly respectable and comfortable room.

  “Oh no, I slept quite well, thank you,” Martha said. Her gaze moved to him but only for a moment.

  In that moment, Hugh grew suddenly far more aware of himself. Of his feet inside well-polished boots, of the way his hands were clasped behind his back, of his cravat about his neck. Yet, it was much more than just feet and hands and a cravat. He was suddenly fully aware of how much he wanted to step toward her, take her arm, and loop it around his own. Of how much he wanted to speak with her, about anything, really—her day, his day, any of it.

  Instead, his feet remained still inside his boots, his hands wouldn’t unclasp, and his cravat only felt snug against his throat.

  Martha looked away, turning back to Lady Fitzroy. “You are good to be so concerned, and I must confess I am a bit worn out. I woke up rather early, and I think I shall go check on my brother and then lie down for a bit.”

  “Yes, that sounds like just the thing.”

  The parlor door opened. “Lady Fitzroy?”

  The three of them turned as Comerford strode toward them. If Hugh was not mistaken, Martha shrunk back slightly at the sight of him. Strange, that. Had she taken his likeness already? He wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had. Martha was quick as a whip, and Comerford was not at all shy about others finding out what kind of a man he truly was.

  “There you are,” Comerford said, his eyes only on Lady Fitzroy. “We were all at a loss as to where you’d gone. Lady Harriet is certain she saw the sheet music to I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In. Alas, none of us can find it now.”

  Lady Fitzroy beckoned him down the hall. “That is because Lady Wilmington and I were writing out a few more copies of it last night. Come, we will go fetch it from the library together.”

  Comerford inclined his head briefly toward first Martha and then Hugh. Martha was quite polite and returned a curtsy. Hugh didn’t feel like indulging the bacon-brained ninny and gave him nothing at all in parting.

  “It’s such a wonderful song, isn’t it?” Lady Fitzroy said to Comerford as they walked off.

  Once Comerford and Lady Fitzroy disappeared around the corner, Hugh felt Martha’s gaze land on him.

  Well, wasn’t this what he’d wanted? Some time alone to speak with her? Only now that they were alone together did he remember his pledge to keep his distance. Hugh’s own gaze turned toward her. She wasn’t frowning, per se. But neither was she smiling. Lady Fitzroy was right; she did look rather drawn out.

  Hugh’s logical, rational side warred against the pounding impulse to move close enough to Martha to reach for her hand. Neither side could fully trump the other, so he compromised and took a single step closer.

  “Are you well today?” he asked.

  Her lips pursed, and she lifted a single brow. “So you’re speaking to me now, is it?”

  Huh. So she had noticed he’d been keeping his distance.

  Still, he didn’t know what to do with her response. No one had ever questioned him in such a way. Never.

  Martha crossed her arms. “Since you have deigned to ask, I am tired.” Her voice dropped low, not that there was anyone around to hear her in the first place. “Getting up before sunrise to clean the church house is not easy.”

  Neither was staying up nearly the entire night to sit by a sick brother’s bed. Yet, he’d been informed only that morning by his valet that Martha had done no less every night since coming.

  “Why are you still doing that?” She had no need to pay for food while here at Stonewell Castle. He’d already settled with the doctor. Surely she understood that.

  “As much as I appreciate your generosity,” she said, “I know it won’t be for long and then we shall have to return home.”

  But . . . what if she didn’t return home? An unexpected yearning rose up in him. What if she never called anywhere but Stonewell Castle home? The thought buried itself deep in Hugh’s chest, anchoring itself within him with forceful certainty.

  What he was going to do with such a thought, he didn’t know. He certainly couldn’t tell her how he felt, though he knew, with near-painful certainty, he also couldn’t keep himself away from her.

  “Please do not think I am unappreciative,” Martha said. Even her words were dragging now. She must be quite exhausted.

  “No, of—”

  Lady Fitzroy and Comerford appeared once more. Hugh’s mouth shut, mid-sentence.

  Martha looked at him questioningly.

  Hugh nodded toward the two individuals moving their way. Martha turned, spotted them, and sighed.

  “You needn’t be silent all the time, must you?” she asked in a whisper.

  Yes, he did. If she’d heard half the things he had growing up, she’d understand.

  Lady Fitzroy took hold of Martha’s arm as she drew near. “I thought you were headed upstairs for a nap.”

  “Yes,” Martha said, “only His Grace and I were talking.”

  Comerford snickered.

  Martha didn’t say anything, but she stood up a bit straighter. “His Grace and I were discussing—”

  Hugh noticed the short pause. No doubt she was scrambling to come up with something for them to claim to have been discussing. She couldn’t exactly tell them they had been discussing her job.

  “—this fascinating suit of armor.” She motioned behind Hugh.

  “Is that so?” Comerford said, sotto voce.

  “Well,” Lady Fitzroy said to Martha, “if you’re wanting some conversation, why not join us in the parlor? We could use another voice.” She lifted several sheets of paper. “We have plenty of copies.”

  “Thank you,” Martha said, “but I think I will—”

  “What, stay and talk?” Lady Fitzroy laughed lightly. “Ah, my dear, you have much to learn about our Silent Duke.”

  For some reason, the statement seemed to make Martha upset. Her lips grew thin, and she looked
away and down the hall. Was she going to simply make an excuse, and go up to rest? She certainly deserved it.

  Instead, however, she turned toward him. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning. His Grace was right in the middle of telling me the history behind this suit. He never seems hesitant to converse with me.”

  Ah, blast.

  She looked at him expectantly. “You were saying, Your Grace?”

  Hugh looked from her to Lady Fitzroy and Comerford. She was asking him to cover for her, even while defending him.

  But doing so would require he speak. And not only a short word or two, but several sentences. A story, it seemed, about some deuced suit of armor.

  Hugh looked from Martha to the other two sets of eyes staring back at him. Years of practice were the only thing that kept his jaw shut. He was too shocked to think of words, let alone try to speak. No one had ever turned to him and expected him to speak. Everyone knew better.

  Still, Martha watched him, waited for him, demanded he rise to the occasion.

  Please say something, Martha silently pleaded.

  The duke only dropped his gaze, his jawline tight.

  Comerford shot her a triumphant smirk, then with a roll of his eyes, continued down the hall toward the parlor.

  Lady Fitzroy tugged on Martha’s arm. “Come along, dear; we wouldn’t want to upset His Grace.”

  No, heaven forbid they do that. Martha’s eyes burned, and she blinked several times. The last thing she needed now was for anyone to see her crying.

  Still, she could have sworn the duke’s eyes were still on her, boring into her back as she walked away from him.

  Was he watching her now because he felt bad he hadn’t done something so small for her? He’d opened his home, personally brought a sick boy and her whole family here. It seemed odd that after all that, a few words seemed too much.

  Perhaps he watched her because he was angry, as Lady Fitzroy had assumed.

  Or perhaps, worst of all, he watched her because he was simply curious.

  Had his friendship with her, if she could call it that, all been nothing more than a diversion for him?