Christmas in The Duke's Arms

by Grace Burrowes

  He was handsome, and this was a circumstance that had surprised her in London, and again in Tunbridge Wells, and yet again in The Duke’s Arms. Now, too. Handsome, yes, in an austere and condescending way, with a narrow face and sharp cheeks, and his shockingly intense eyes. Even with his thick, dark hair mussed by the wind, he was frightening to behold.

  She tried another smile and again—nothing in return. No doubt he thought of her as little more than a servant, for her cousin Clay had treated her as if she were nothing more than that—without the need to pay her wages. Her parents had been in such financial straits when she was a child that they had been obliged, and grateful, to send her to live with her father’s cousin.

  Having done her best to be polite to the man, she contented herself with staring at her lap or at his hat on the seat beside him. She imagined him wandering the corridors of Killhope with no friends to keep him company, no callers not there on business, no one but his staff in the lonely, empty, dreary rooms. Killhope Castle was aptly named, for she saw no hope of anyone there ever smiling.

  She stared out the window for some minutes then made the mistake of glancing out the other side. Her gaze collided with the duke’s. His eyes were a clear, pale green. Why was he staring so intently when there was hardly another woman less interesting than she?

  She smiled again.

  He did not.

  How awkward this was. Never had she met a man less careful of his impact on others. She frowned. Not that, not uncaring; oblivious. This puzzle distracted her from the dreadful silence. During her time in London, she had observed many a gentleman, more than a few of noble descent, and they had all been pleasant to her cousin, some more so than others, depending on their hopes for Louisa.

  The duke, while never directly offensive to her, had not been an easy man to be around. Even in company his silence soon went from unpleasant to oppressive. She knew she was not the only one to feel that way. She knew Louisa had overcome the man’s silence. With her own eyes, she had seen him be charming to Louisa.

  Once again, she caught his gaze without intending to. Thank goodness she had no reason to feel Louisa’s despair of him. “I expect there will be snow tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  During those interminable years in her cousin’s household, she had perfected a cheerful smile, and she gave him one now.

  The duke leaned forward, a palm propped on his knee. “What fool walks out on a day like this?”

  She’d spent so many years being agreeable because she must that she instinctively bent her head. But why, she thought as she did, ought she say nothing to such a statement? Why, when she was beholden to no one, ought she be silent? She lifted her chin. “It is a mile and a half from my home to The Duke’s Arms. A walk of thirty minutes if I dawdle.”

  “Uphill.”

  “On my return, yes.”

  “You should have driven into town.”

  She folded her hands on her lap and kept to herself the fact that she did not yet possess a carriage. A wagon, yes, but not a carriage. Any moment they would be at her home, and she would be quit of this unpleasant man. She did not say another word until they arrived at Hope Springs. Her good mood returned in force. This was her home. Hers alone. The deed had her name on it, and when she went inside, everything would be hers and arranged to her taste.

  The groom came around and opened the door. As she brought up the hood of her cloak again, the duke stepped out and stood beside the door, his hand extended to her. She let her maid out first and then descended herself, fingertips on his gloved hand.

  As she curtsied to him, a snowflake drifted between them. She hated that he was right about the weather, not that it would have killed her to walk home with a few snowflakes in her hair. “Thank you, Duke. You were kind to convey me home in this weather.”

  He nodded.

  Why wasn’t he getting back in his carriage? She curtsied to him again. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  His eyes were as cold as the snowflakes in his hair, for he’d left his hat in the carriage. “I will escort you to your door.”

  Every word he uttered was a command. Gruff, with no kind intent at all, and she, even with her new circumstances, had no choice but to endure. “Thank you.”

  Halfway to her door, the duke put out his elbow, and there was no remedy for this new awkwardness except for her to loop her hand through his arm. She was warmer at all the places where their bodies were close. Her front door was a mile away. Ten miles. A thousand. Could he not walk faster?

  “You put in slate.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He nodded at the paving stones. “Slate.”

  Her maid had already gone around to the back with their supper. “I did not wish to walk in the mud when the weather is damp.”

  “I approve.” What haughty words. Good heavens. What if he’d not approved? What if he believed slate was the very worst material for her to have installed? Would he have expected her to remove it and replace it with something more to his liking? Likely he would have. Likely, some of his neighbors would comply with such an expectation. Cousin Clay would have.

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Now he sounded as if he thought she’d hurry to her desk to write letters in which she informed her friends and acquaintances that the Duke of Oxthorpe had approved of her slate. She sneaked a look at him. He probably did think that.

  At last, they reached the top stair where she put a hand on the door and bent a knee to him. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  He gazed at her with his disconcerting eyes, and just as she was about to go inside without any resolution to their awkwardness, he said, “I never saw you wear that color before.”

  She glanced down at her blue dress. What a singular thing for him to notice. “It is a new frock.”

  Snowflakes melted in his hair. “Do you miss your cousin?”

  Well, then. This was a development. Was all this awkwardness between them because of Louisa? “Do you mean Louisa?”

  “I doubt you miss Mr. Clay.”

  “I do not.” For Louisa’s sake, she smiled. “I’d begun to wonder if you’d forgotten Louisa.”

  “No.”

  This was a most excellent development. He did feel something for Louisa. He did. “Louisa and my cousin Clay are memorable, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “What of you?”

  She cocked her head, wondering what he meant by the odd inflection of his question. “Me?” She waved a hand. “I am the least memorable woman you’ll ever meet.”

  “I disagree.” His eyes bored into her. “I have never forgotten you.”

  Chapter Three

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  At twenty past two, Edith knocked on the door of the Thomases’ home on the eastern side of Hopewell-on-Lyft. She’d not meant to be late for this meeting, for this was not a social call, but the walk to the other side of the town had taken longer than she’d anticipated.

  A wagon and two strong drays had been a necessary purchase for her move to Nottinghamshire. She had known at the time of her preparations for removal to Hope Springs that she would need a vehicle for her personal use. She’d continued to put off the purchase, because every time she reviewed her budget and expenses, the cost of a carriage and suitable horse paralyzed her. Her father had spent unwisely, and that had ended with her sent to live with her cousin Clay.

  The example of her father had taught her that while a single unwise purchase might cause no significant damage, a series of them would. Spendthrift choices multiplied. Her move to Hope Springs had come with unanticipated expenses. More furniture needed than she’d thought. Rooms that needed more than new paint. Fabric for curtains that she would not come to despise. A chimney to repair, a new hearth for the kitchen, half the buttery to be rebuilt once she’d bought cows and a bull. Chickens, too, and geese. There were gardens and lawns to manage. A flagstone path from the drive to the house. Servants to pay.

  A carriage an
d associated expenses seemed intolerable when she could walk. No decision meant no change in her present finances. Every penny spent outside her allotted budget brought the specter of ruin closer. And so, despite the inconvenience, despite knowing she ought to have a carriage of some sort, she did not decide what to buy and continued to walk. Next quarter, she would make the purchase. Or the one after.

  “Good day, miss.” The Thomases’ butler took her mantle, her muff, and her hat.

  “Good day to you, too.” She felt the difference between her being Miss Clay, dependent relative of Mr. Clay, and being Miss Edith Clay, a lady in possession of a fortune. She’d been invited for herself, and here she was, in pale pink muslin and silk, with a cashmere shawl around her shoulders.

  “This way, miss. They are waiting for you.”

  In the parlor, she was not received as the least significant of the Clays, nor expected to behave as if she were. These women were waiting for her, not her relations. She’d been invited to join the committee that organized and raised funds for the quarterly assemblies. She had been flattered and thrilled to accept. The Christmas assembly was the largest such affair of the year, with residents from all ranks included in the celebration. The women here would, she hoped, become lifelong friends. Already, she knew she liked Mrs. Thomas exceedingly.

  Mrs. Thomas met Edith halfway across the room. The older woman kissed her cheek. “Welcome, welcome. You know the others. Mrs. Anders, Mrs. Pembleton, Mrs. Herbert, and Mrs. Quinn. Mrs. Carrington was unable to attend today, but sends her regards.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” She curtsied. “I could not be more delighted to be here.”

  “My dear Miss Clay, do sit. We have an excellent tea.” Mrs. Thomas escorted her to the table where the others were gathered. Edith made a mental note of the food and drink and the setting. One day, their meeting would be hosted at Hope Springs. She intended to make a good impression when her turn came.

  “Thank you. So many delightful treats, Mrs. Thomas.” Cheese, bread, meats, an array of pastries, cakes, and biscuits. Mrs. Quinn, a woman of Edith’s age, poured her tea. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  Edith found herself presented with full privileges to choose whatever she preferred. Neither her cousin Clay nor his wife would later take her aside and tell her how impolite it was for a lady of her station to take anything but the smallest, least interesting selections.

  While Edith was busy serving herself, Mrs. Pembleton produced a slim notebook which she opened. “This last public assembly of the year is, as you know, to be held Monday, December the twenty-second at the parish hall in Hopewell-on-Lyft.” She looked around the table. “It is agreed we shall relocate to Carrington Close should there be a recurrence of last year’s incident with the roof.”

  “Have we written to Mrs. Carrington to express our gratitude?”

  “Yes. Done last week. Now, due to generous donations from His Grace and from Miss Clay—”

  Polite clapping followed that announcement, which Edith acknowledged with a nod. Her donation to the committee had been a good use of a portion of the monies she allotted for charity.

  “—our budget for the Christmas assembly is flush with funds. Extra decorations have been ordered and a wider selection of refreshments added to the menu.” She glanced around the table. “We do need additional servants. If each of you would lend two healthy footmen for the day before, the day of, and the day after, I daresay we shall be competently staffed.” She frowned. “Two footmen and two maids if we are at Carrington Close.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Thomas said.

  “His Grace has once again offered the use of his kitchen staff. I have written to thank him for that generosity.”

  Edith added to the clapping. When Mrs. Pembleton completed her report on the committee’s efforts so far, she lifted a hand.

  “You have the floor, Miss Clay.”

  “Hope Springs contains several acres of oak forest. May I offer to collect mistletoe from these trees? If there is a supply of ribbon, lace, or other notions from the decorations obtained for our purpose, I can provide all the bouquets of mistletoe we might wish to have at the assembly. After sending round a suitable sample for approval, of course.”

  “An excellent suggestion. Thank you, Miss Clay.” Mrs. Pembleton made a note. “I will send you such samples as might be useful for your exemplar.”

  Mrs. Pembleton folded her arms on the table and put her weight on them. “I am determined that this year we shall persuade His Grace to attend the Christmas assembly. All our hopes for a Christmas miracle rest upon you, Mrs. Thomas.”

  “I make no guarantees of a miracle.”

  Edith took in the various reactions to that. No one seemed astonished by the request. “Does he never make an appearance?”

  “Not since 1810,” said Mrs. Anders. “Before your time, Mrs. Quinn. And yours, Mrs. Thomas.”

  “Has he stayed away every year?” Edith kept her opinion of the duke’s deliberate absence to herself, but truly, this was not well done of him.

  “He prefers to stay locked away upon that hill,” Mrs. Anders replied.

  Edith’s admittedly unfounded notion that His Grace the duke lived in dungeon-like conditions cemented itself in her head. She imagined him treading lonely passageways, a candle barely able to penetrate the dark, and all about him a dank and dampish smell. “He is a man driven by duty,” Edith said. “Perhaps we might see success if we remind him of his responsibility to let the people of Hopewell-on-Lyft see him at our assembly.”

  “An excellent strategy, Miss Clay,” Mrs. Thomas said.

  She hid a pleased smile behind a sip of tea.

  “It’s never worked in the past.” Mrs. Herbert added more sugar to her tea. “Even my poor dear Ernest, who would have been heir to the Earl of Hillforth were it not for Carbury, could never persuade him. I do think he should emulate the condescension of his neighbors of the better sort.”

  Edith decided then and there that Mrs. Herbert, a recent widow, was not destined to be a friend.

  Mrs. Thomas let out a long sigh. “He ought to make an appearance, I agree. And Miss Clay is correct that one’s best hope of convincing him to do anything is an appeal to duty. However, Tuesday last, Mr. Thomas and I dined with the duke, and when I asked if he would attend this year, he replied that he would not be at Killhope.”

  “Such a pity,” Mrs. Anders said, “that he did not return here with a bride when he was in London last season. We had such high hopes for him.” She turned to Edith. “You do not know Oxthorpe—”

  “Oh, but—”

  “We were all of us convinced he would be married by now,” said Mrs. Quinn.

  “If only he’d found his duchess while he was away,” Mrs. Thomas said. “She would surely convince him that to appear at our Christmas assembly must take precedence over most any other duty.”

  Mrs. Pembleton made additional notes while she spoke. “At least there is yet hope for those of you with daughters.”

  Mrs. Thomas shook her head. “As delightful and beautiful as are the young ladies of Hopewell-on-Lyft, I think it doubtful Oxthorpe will marry locally. If he meant to, he would have done so by now.”

  “A duke,” said Mrs. Herbert with a delicate sniff, “must marry from the highest ranks of society. To marry for love would be a serious dereliction of duty, and as Miss Clay has been kind enough to remind us, our duke puts duty above all else. No, Oxthorpe must make a marriage of politics, or one that cements his fortune. There can be no other criteria. Do not imagine that he would marry for love.”

  “If we but knew what happened in London,” Mrs. Quinn said after a moment’s silence. “Did he meet any suitable young lady when he was there? Might he have fallen in love with a woman who spurned him?”

  “Good heavens,” said Mrs. Anders. “What young woman in her right mind would refuse a duke?”

  “It happens,” Edith said, “that I was introduced to him when he was i
n London.” She found she rather liked the astonishment this produced. She answered questions as they came at her. Where had they met? Who had introduced them? Had they spoken often? Had the duke singled out any young lady? “My cousin, Mr. Clay, is an acquaintance of a gentleman who is a relation of an uncle of the present Viscount deVere. The duke attended a fete given by Lord deVere, which we also attended.” She waved a hand. “Our introduction to him was made there.” She looked around the table. “The duke was quite taken with my young cousin, Miss Louisa Clay.”

  Mrs. Herbert reached for a cake and placed it daintily on her plate. “Did he frighten all the other suitable young ladies?”

  Edith glanced around the table. These were women she hoped would become friends, but she would not speak ill of the duke. “It’s true he is a man of few words, but when he was in London, he was as charming as any other gentleman of like reserve might be. I mean to say, more charming than one might expect of him. There were times, I vow, when I was glad he was silent, for some gentlemen are never quiet.”

  “Quite true,” Mrs. Thomas said. “For all his solitary ways, our duke is a man of parts.”

  “He is.” She laid a hand on the table. How odd. She felt protective of him. He had driven her home. Regardless of how awkward that had been, he’d not left her to walk home in the cold. “It was thought by many that he would offer for my cousin Louisa. She is accomplished and attractive, and as gracious as one can imagine. You never in your life met a more agreeable young lady than she.”

  “Did he distinguish her?” Mrs. Quinn asked.

  “He did.”

  “How often did he call on her? If he did.” Mrs. Quinn leaned toward her, eyes wide. “Did he?”

  “Three or four times at least in London. That many times in Tunbridge Wells and again when we were back in Town.” On every one of his calls, Edith had sat in the parlor with Louisa and the duke, or walked with them in the garden, doing her best to keep the conversation going when Louisa flagged in the face of his silence.