Christmas in The Duke's Arms

by Grace Burrowes

  He glanced up and indeed Miss Weston was standing directly beneath the mistletoe. They exchanged a look and, thank God, she was no more dazzled than Edith had ever been. Not in the least. He stepped toward her, took a berry from the bunch and kissed her. A short kiss. A kiss that was nothing but the good cheer of a Christmas assembly where people gathered to enjoy each other’s company and exchange wishes for the holidays.

  When he stepped back, amid much clapping, she gave him a curtsy and a warm smile, and there. Everyone would see he was not an ogre come to spoil their fete. “Your Grace.”

  “Miss Weston.” He stepped past her and accepted a cup of cider from the footman to give to her, and then another for himself. By the time he turned around, Miss Weston had gone.

  But there was Mr. Thomas with Goodman, too. He hurried to join them when he saw Miss Amanda Houston, a buxom brunette with a fine opinion of herself, heading toward him. Purple plumes in her hat bobbed as she walked. He found Miss Houston difficult to endure for long, for she had no appreciation for brevity and more than half a mind to one day be a duchess.

  Goodman and Mr. Thomas greeted him heartily and closed ranks. He did not see Edith anywhere. It did not matter. She was right. He was too much alone, he shared too little, he accepted too little of the goodwill of the denizens of Hopewell-on-Lyft.

  Mr. Amblewise and the blacksmith joined them. He listened while he ate two excellent pasties. Mr. Thomas told an amusing tale from his time in Anatolia, of the monkey that had escaped into his house in the section of Pera where foreign diplomats to the High Porte lived.

  Across the room, he caught a glimpse of his coachman with a cup of punch. He and Edith’s butler broke into an impromptu carol. One a tenor, one basso. Others joined in the song and someone tapped out the beat and as he dealt with the unwelcome emotion of the moment, Edith came in one of the side doors.

  Edith.

  To the background of the song, he walked across the ballroom floor, empty of dancers at the moment. “Edith.”

  She curtsied, and he took both her hands in his, and she broke into a grin that would have won his heart if she had not already had it. Her fingers tightened around his. She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. “Your Grace. I thought you’d gone to Holmrook after all.”

  “I told you more than once I would not go. That I would be in Nottingham.”

  “But you left, and my cousin Clay invited you, and who would go to Nottingham for so many days at Christmas?”

  “A fool.”

  “You’re no fool.” Her eyes were bright with tears, and she used the side of a gloved finger to wick away the damp. “Don’t say that you are.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “I thought you’d gone.”

  He drew her close to him, and if those nearby saw them, he did not care. “Never. I never would.” He brought her far too close for good manners. “Edith.”

  “What is it?”

  “Edith, you are standing under mistletoe.”

  “I am?”

  He pointed up.

  She looked, and she smiled slowly. “So I am.”

  He kept his arms around her waist. There was a time for words, and this was one. “Marry me, Edith. Marry me, and I will be the happiest man there ever was. Marry me, and I will spend my life making you happy. Marry me because I love you, and I do not want to imagine a life where I am not with you.”

  She blinked several times. “You love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you did not care for me. You made me love you, and I thought you did not care for me the way I do for you.”

  “You were wrong.”

  She threw herself at him, arms tight around his shoulders. “Do you mean it? Do you really?”

  “Darling,” he whispered. “Darling Edith.”

  She stepped back and touched his cheek. “While you were gone, I realized I love you. I fell in love with you, and I was never so miserable in all my life than while I thought you’d gone to offer for Louisa.”

  “Marry me, Edith. I’ll never be whole if you don’t.”

  “Nor will I,” she whispered.

  “That is no answer.”

  Her smile warmed his soul. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, a thousand times yes.”

  He drew her into his arms, and he kissed her. Not the polite kiss he’d given Miss Weston. This kiss was passion, and joy, and desire, and when he drew back, he looked into her eyes and she rested her head on his chest, and only then did he realize everyone was clapping. The entire room.

  With Edith at his side, he returned to Thomas and Goodman, and others whom he must make his friends. He lifted his cider to the room at large and raised his voice. “My deepest, most sincere wishes for a holiday where we are surrounded by those we love, by the remembrance of those whom we have loved, and that we resolve we shall be men and women worthy of love. Merry Christmas to all.”

  About Carolyn Jewel

  Carolyn Jewel was born on a moonless night. That darkness was seared into her soul and she became an award-winning author of historical and paranormal romance. She has a very dusty car and a Master’s degree in English that proves useful at the oddest times. An avid fan of fine chocolate, finer heroines, Bollywood films, and heroism in all forms, she has two cats and two dogs. Also a son. One of the cats is his.

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  Books By Carolyn

  The Sinclair Sisters Series

  Lord Ruin, Book 1

  A Notorious Ruin, Book 2

  Reforming the Scoundrels Series

  Not Wicked Enough, Book 1

  Not Proper Enough, Book 2

  Other Historical Romance

  In The Duke’s Arms, novella from Anthology Christmas In the Duke’s Arms

  Christmas In The Duke’s Arms, Anthology

  One Starlit Night, Novella From the Midnight Scandals Anthology

  Midnight Scandals, Anthology

  Scandal, RITA finalist, Best Regency Historical

  Indiscreet, Winner, Bookseller’s Best, Best Short Historical

  Moonlight A short story

  The Spare

  Stolen Love

  Passion’s Song

  Paranormal Romance

  My Immortals Series

  My Wicked Enemy, Book 1

  My Forbidden Desire, RITA finalist, Paranormal Romance, Book 2

  My Immortal Assassin, Book 3

  My Dangerous Pleasure, Book 4

  Free Fall, Novella 1

  My Darkest Passion, Book 5

  Dead Drop, Novella 2

  Other Paranormal Romance

  Alphas Unleashed, Anthology

  A Darker Crimson, Book 4 of the Crimson City series

  DX (A Crimson City Novella)

  Fantasy Romance

  The King’s Dragon A short story

  Erotic Romance

  Whispers, Collection No. 1

  Licensed to Wed

  By

  Miranda Neville

  Contents – Licensed to Wed

  About Licensed To Wed

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About Miranda Neville

  Books By Miranda

  About Licensed To Wed

  If Lord Carbury could learn to take no for an answer, his marriage proposal might earn him a yes!

  Wyatt, Viscount Carbury is much too busy to court a bride, but when his childhood neighbor, Robina Weston, is left orphaned and penniless, Wyatt dutifully adds marrying Robina to his list of responsibilities. Wyatt is dismayed to learn that for Robina, poverty and pride are preferable to
sharing life with an arrogant, infuriating man who always thinks he knows best.

  When Wyatt and Robina must endure Christmas in the country together, antipathy turns to interest, and then to unexpected attraction. Will they fight their feelings, or yield to the surprising gifts the holidays offer?

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Lord Carbury’s memoranda for August 1817

  1. See Brougham re. suspension of habeas corpus.

  2. Westfield farm tenancy.

  3. Confer with counsel re. Smithson dispute.

  4. Drainage etc. at Bourton Park.

  5. Candidates for Bourton Abbas living.

  6. The earl’s valet no longer capable of controlling his master?

  7. Inquire about commission in __th Regiment for Cousin Reginald Rogers.

  8. Coutts bank re. Mansfield settlement.

  9. Refuse appointment as Ernest Herbert trustee.

  10. Propose to Robina Weston.

  Wyatt Herbert, Viscount Carbury, Member of Parliament for Bourton, grandson and heir to the Earl of Hillforth, leading light of the Whig party, and pillar of his extensive family, liked to be organized. He had a secretary to assist him, an employee who sorted his correspondence, took dictation, answered invitations, and reminded him which ones he’d accepted. But Carbury had never forgotten the occasion when Trumble failed to pass along word that an important vote in the House of Commons had been moved up, and he missed the division.

  For this reason, and because his natural preference was to exert complete control over events, Carbury maintained the habit of making a monthly list of the most important goals and tasks ahead of him.

  Before making his list for September, he trimmed his pen, dipped it in ink, and ticked off each item that had been completed. August had been a light month on the political front (item one) since he’d spent most of it in Yorkshire with his grandfather. Much of his time had been spent on estate business (items two through five) and managing the aging and increasingly cantankerous earl (item six), who was handing more of the important decisions to his heir but couldn’t be relied upon not to argue about them. Carbury had answered every question with dispatch, avoided a lawsuit over a boundary, replaced an incompetent and crooked tenant with a man of stellar character, and even taken time to call on his more congenial neighbors.

  This last matter, which should have been a source of nothing but satisfaction, caused him to frown. It was the cause of his only failure. Well, there were two if one counted item nine, but he’d never taken that one seriously. He never really expected to turn down a request to act on behalf of his cousin Ernest Herbert’s widow and four sons; he never refused help to his relations, however distant and/or tiresome (items seven and eight).

  But item ten was his Waterloo. Though he had visited Weston Hall three times, he hadn’t managed to propose marriage to Miss Robina Weston.

  Not because he’d never had a chance. The present owner and his wife had been eager to throw them together. They didn’t want the daughter of the improvident former owner on their hands forever. Wyatt and Robina had found themselves seated together at dinner, partnered at whist, and even sent into the shrubbery on a spurious errand of retrieving a lost cricket ball. There was no cricket ball. As Robina had observed, her cousin Edwin abhorred any sports that didn’t require a horse or a gun, and his sons were in the nursery. She’d been quite amusing on the subject, and Carbury had enjoyed the expedition. He liked Robina, whom he’d known most of their lives—or her life, since she was eight years his junior. He was perfectly comfortable with her, and she would make an admirable wife. Yet he hadn’t been able to bring himself to utter the fateful words that would tie him to her for a lifetime.

  He was in London now and so, shortly, would she be. The minute she reached her godmother Mrs. Madsen’s house, he would call and make his offer. It was a priority for September. By George, when Wyatt Herbert was determined that nothing would sway him from his purpose, he remained unswayed. He never shirked his obligations, and if marriage was another duty, another responsibility, another call on his time, then he would have to find enough hours in his schedule to squeeze in the care and feeding of a wife. He took a fresh sheet of paper for a fresh list. Items one through four involved political matters that he needed to get out of the way.

  Memoranda for September 1817…

  5. Propose to Robina Weston…

  *

  Wyatt shuddered at the recollection of sitting in Mrs. Madsen’s drawing room, unable to summon the easy words that would have left him alone with Robina for a few minutes. Proposing shouldn’t even take very long. Instead, he’d gazed at her, unable to reconcile the little girl whom he’d rescued from dozens of scrapes with the self-possessed young woman who regarded him so coolly.

  Memoranda for October 1817…

  2. Propose to Robina Weston.

  *

  Memoranda for November 1817…

  1. Propose to Robina Weston.

  *

  December 1, 1817

  Carbury had a full day planned once he’d made his monthly list, the way he always did on the first of the month, to make sure he didn’t miss anything important. But first he must see that November’s tasks had been fulfilled. Lately, this moment of his monthly routine had been spoiled. Instead of anticipating satisfaction at the accomplishment of so much, the same vexing matter battered his conscience and threatened his self-esteem. His pen at the ready, he dreaded the moment when he must, for an unprecedented fourth month, ink a reproachful cross next to the first item on the list.

  Propose to Robina Weston.

  Carbury never did anything as unproductive as tear his hair out. Even running his fingers through his neat Caesar cut would require the attentions of his valet and waste precious moments he could ill afford. For the past three months, shortly after the first, he’d presented himself at Half Moon Street and asked if Miss Weston was at home. With a pit in his stomach, he was shown to Mrs. Madsen’s drawing room, where he would sit for fifteen excruciating minutes, feeling the weight of expectations squeeze all wit or even sense from his conversation while Robina and her hostess looked at him in astonishment. Could this be the future Prime Minster speaking? More like the future village idiot. He would scurry off in disgust, resolved to make an effort to spend some time with Robina, so that he wouldn’t be tongue-tied in her presence. A visit to the theater or an assembly would give them a chance to get back onto comfortable terms. The way they’d always been, before her father died. Before he had decided he must rescue the orphan from near poverty by marrying her.

  He was always too busy. Look at today. Though Parliament wasn’t in session, he had several meetings planned. Good Lord! If he didn’t leave now, he’d never make it to the City in time for an appointment with Lord Hillforth’s banker. He left the house with a sense of disquiet. Never had he set out on the first of the month without first making his list.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures. As he left the bank, he remembered that Doctors Commons was just around the corner. If he acquired a special license for his marriage to Robina, he would have to propose to her. To do otherwise would be a waste of time and effort. Carbury never wasted either commodity. They were too valuable.

  While waiting to speak to the archbishop’s registrar, he formed an excellent plan. He would escort his betrothed home for Christmas, and they would be married in the village church in the presence of his grandfather, her cousins, and numerous mutual friends. They would leave for a quick honeymoon before returning to London in plenty of time for the opening of Parliament in January. The whole business could be concluded with minimum fuss and disruption of his schedule.

  The next day, with the carefully folded parchment tucked into his pocket like a talisman, he knew he was in luck when the butler informed him that Mrs. Madsen was out and Miss Weston would receive him alone. If he had believed in omens, which he did not, he’d have said this chance was a guarantee of success.

  His future w
ife rose to greet him. She was a graceful little thing and very pretty, with a neat figure, golden-blond hair braided and curled to frame her oval face.

  “Lord Carbury,” she said, and her hazel eyes flashed as she curtsied. Her complexion was creamy and flawless, and her mouth set in a pout that he noticed far more than a conventional smile. Was it possible she was peeved at him, or was it a flirtatious pout? He supposed he would be expected to kiss her after she said yes, and, though it wasn’t something he’d thought about before, he quite looked forward to it.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  Three months earlier, Robina would have greeted the news that Lord Carbury had called with pleasure. This morning, she didn’t even bother to set aside her work and check her hair in the mirror over the mantelpiece. She was beginning to think Edwin Weston must have imagined that Carbury had said he would offer for her. Or, more likely, it was wishful thinking on his part, encouraged by his dreadful wife. Lucilla was even more anxious than her spouse to get her out from under their feet and their roof. Robina had been pleased too. She’d always liked Wyatt—as she’d called him as a child before his father died and he inherited the courtesy title of Carbury—and he was certainly eligible.

  Since Carbury wasn’t the sort of man given to whims, she blamed Edwin for her error and her humiliation. She’d come to London for the sole purpose of giving her and Carbury a chance to further their adult acquaintance. Far from taking advantage of the opportunity, he had virtually ignored her, except for a brief awkward call about once a month, when they didn’t even manage to converse with the ease of long acquaintances.

  After the last stilted fifteen minutes, she’d concluded that Edwin had made a hash of the matter, not for the first time. Her wretched cousin had probably managed to give Carbury the impression that Robina was setting her cap at him. He saw her as a desperate maiden and had been trying to brush off her advances by treating her with the minimum of politeness. As he followed the butler into the room, she cringed at the very idea that he had seen her efforts at spritely conversation as amorous advances.