All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  Adrian looked up at the tree, which was at least nine feet tall and three and a half feet wide. Modest only in the sense that it didn’t fill this room like the Christmas trees had when they were children.

  Adrian plucked a smaller angel from the crate. The painted porcelain face had a small chip on the cheek, and the lace hem of her dress was pulled loose at the back. “Do you remember this one?”

  Sophie set down the paper wreath she’d been wrapping around the tree. She reached for the angel, taking it from his hands to hold it up and run her finger over its face. “Do you remember how she got that chip?”

  He smiled. Of course he remembered, that was why he’d pulled it out of the box.

  “You tossed her to me, expecting me to catch her. We couldn’t have been more than ten at the time.”

  “And you dropped it,” he said.

  Sophie’s mouth opened on a breath. “I did no such thing. You called my name after you threw her in my direction.”

  “Would I dare?” Adrian winked. He’d loved teasing Sophie when they were young. He enjoyed it just as much now.

  “My young mind thought you’d cursed Christmas,” she said.

  “I made you cry. I felt terrible and vowed that would be the last time I made you sad.”

  “I don’t remember that part.”

  “You were distraught. To turn your mood around, I kept pulling on your braids until you swatted at me. That was the last Christmas she adorned the top of the tree.”

  “I think for sentimental reasons she should hold that place going forward.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Sophie leaned in and kissed him on the lips. Somehow they ended up in each other’s arms again, the angel held between their bodies crushed together.

  Sophie pushed him to arm’s length, and held the angel out to him, which he took.

  “You make a wonderful distraction.”

  “As do you, dearest husband.” Sophie walked back over to the tree. “If we don’t set this up before our guests arrive, I fear we will make a bad impression.”

  “I think they’ll believe I’ve kept you in bed for the past week. It is what married ­couples do.”

  Sophie blushed a fierce shade of red. “When we take the tree down in the New Year, I’ll make her look new again, and she’ll be perfect for next year.”

  “She is perfect now,” he said, staring at his wife. He could still hardly believe they were married. He walked over to her with the angel in one hand and a chair in another.

  Setting the chair down, he stepped up onto it. The chair gave him just enough height that he didn’t have to stretch as he settled the angel over the top of the tree.

  “Now we are officially almost done,” he said, admiring his handiwork with the angel placement.

  “I can hardly believe we pulled the tree together in two hours. All we have left is a few more glass balls and the candles to light.”

  “We will light the candles when our guests arrive.” When he came off the chair, he asked, “Are you nervous to see your stepmother?” he asked.

  “I wish I weren’t.” Sophie worried her bottom lip. “She has had so much control over my life that it feels strange to stand defiant against her.”

  Adrian lifted both her hands and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “I regret that we do not have time to arrange for a proper wedding ceremony.”

  “We can have another celebration and wedding in the summer when the weather is more agreeable.”

  “A fantastic idea.” Adrian leaned forward and kissed her again.

  Sophie was smiling as she turned her head away. A blush stole up her neck and across her cheeks. He was desperate to be alone with her again, but they couldn’t lock themselves in their room just yet.

  He looked at his lovely wife. She wore a simple morning dress that was a pretty shade of pink, trimmed with lace at the shoulders and at the vee over her breasts. Simple yet perfectly Sophie.

  He could hardly believe his luck in marrying his best friend. She was still his best friend. When they talked, it was as if no time had passed since their last round of troublemaking as youngsters.

  He took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth to press a kiss against her hands. “It feels like no time has passed, like we are the same ­people we were as children.”

  “Only it is different,” she said. “While I cared for you deeply when we were younger, I don’t think I felt this kind of love.”

  That made him smile. He felt much the same way.

  “Our friendship has only grown deeper in our years apart. My fondness for you is like nothing I have ever felt for another. Is it possible to love someone from afar? Without realizing it?” he asked, though he knew the answer to that.

  “I think we are living proof that love only grows stronger the older you grow.”

  Adrian kissed her hard on the mouth, wishing he could sweep her off her feet and escape to a private place. Their breathing was erratic as they broke apart. He was going in for another kiss when his uncle Albert entered the room.

  “Uncle Albert,” Adrian said, taking Sophie’s hand to bring her toward the entrance of the parlor. “We are delighted to see you on this fine Christmas day.”

  His uncle eyed him up and down. “Marriage agrees with you, nephew. Duchess,” he said, taking Sophie’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  His uncle had been a witness at the wedding. Adrian and Sophie had headed straight back to Kent after the ceremony and hadn’t seen anyone since.

  “I’m the first to arrive,” his uncle noted.

  “We thought you could help smooth out the meeting with Sophie’s stepmother and stepsister, so we asked you here a little early.” Before he could say that Sophie’s relatives would arrive any moment, the butler gave entrance to two women wearing gaudy dresses better suited to a carnival. Adrian was glad they’d arrived at the same time as his uncle, as their tightly screwed-­up shrew faces looked anything but pleasant.

  Without releasing Sophie’s hand, Adrian stepped forward when she hesitated. “We are happy to welcome you into our home on this special day.”

  “Your Grace,” they said in unison as they both curtsied.

  They both turned to Sophie, hatred clear in the stepsister’s eyes.

  Sophie released his hand and walked forward.

  “We are so glad you could join us. I feared we parted in bad blood and was not sure how our first meeting since I have married would be.” He could tell by the waver in Sophie’s voice that she was nervous.

  Adrian offered her a steady hand at her back. He felt the slight tremble that wracked her body, and he rubbed his hand in small circles over her lower back. Sophie’s stepmother shot him a murderous glare.

  “You stepped out of line, Sophie. Your father is surely rolling over in his grave, disappointed that you went about marrying the way you did. He expected obedience from you,” her stepmother said.

  Adrian cut in before Sophie could respond. “I don’t agree. I remember Sophie’s father well, and the last thing he would feel is disappointment toward his daughter.”

  “Your Grace, while I was not married long, I knew my husband well,” Mrs. Kinsley said.

  “Did you know Sophie and I played together as children? We have known each other for so long that marriage seemed . . . natural when we were reacquainted. So natural we could not wait to wed, and while we did not have a long engagement, we do hope to have a repeat of the ceremony in the warmer months. I’m sure Sophie will require assistance.” He doubted she would want assistance from these two women, but his only purpose was to calm the bad waters stirring up between them, which was visibly causing Sophie great distress. “Mrs. Kinsley, Miss Kinsley, may I introduce my uncle, the Earl of Trawley.”

  Adrian’s uncle stepped forwar
d, bowing to both women with a sidelong look at his nephew.

  Their firm expressions of reproof toward Sophie melted away the second Uncle Albert took Mrs. Kinsley’s hand and kissed the back of it like he had with Sophie’s.

  “I believe the pleasure is all mine,” Albert said.

  Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and slipped her arm behind Adrian’s back. She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed his ear before whispering, “Thank you.”

  “I would do anything for you, Sophie, surely you know that.” He pulled his wife in front of him and kissed her full on the mouth.

  Mrs. Kinsley said something reproving and covered her daughter’s eyes.

  But Adrian didn’t care, because the only thing that mattered was that Sophie was now his duchess. And Christmas was a whole lot brighter with her by his side.

  “I love you, Adrian. May we fill this house with the laughter of children conspiring against the adults once again.”

  Holding her in his arms, he said, “I have loved you my whole life, Sophie. And you in my arms is the greatest Christmas present I could ever have hoped for.”

  About the Author

  Deciding that life had far more to offer than a nine-­to-­five job, bickering children, and housework of any kind (unless she’s on a deadline, when everything is magically spotless), TIFFANY CLARE opened up her laptop to write stories she could get lost in. Tiffany writes sexy historical romances set in the Victorian era. She lives in Toronto with her husband, two kids, and two dogs, and you can find out more about her and her books at www.tiffanyclare.com.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  The Duke’s Christmas Wish

  By Vivienne Lorret

  Dedication

  For Heather

  Chapter One

  IVY SUTHERLAND GRIMACED at the sight of another long, winding corridor inside Castle Vale. She might never reach her room. Worse, she might never stop regretting the second cup of tea she’d drunk before leaving the inn this morning. “Do you suppose we’re still in Hertfordshire?”

  From beside her, Lilah Appleton lifted a gloved finger to her pursed lips. Silently, she shook her head and gestured to the imperious Lady Cosgrove, who walked ahead of them. It was a well-­known fact that Lilah’s aunt Zinnia did not possess a single shred of humor.

  Of course, Lilah’s disapproval might have been more believable if not for the subtle lift of her cheeks. Amusement brightened her brown eyes and caused her dark lashes to tangle at the corners. “I’m certain the view from our windows will be of the incomparable grounds of this estate.”

  That notion still did not appease Ivy. The Duke of Vale’s estate reached as far as Bedfordshire. Upon their arrival, they’d been given ample time to admire the vast grounds with the queue of carriages extending nearly a mile. At the time, a light dusting of snow had begun to settle upon the rolling hills and stands of evergreens, creating a portrait backdrop for the duke’s party, leading up to a Christmas Eve Ball. Even so, while Christmas was only a sennight away, Ivy wasn’t entirely sure they would reach their rooms by then.

  As it was, she and her friend, along with Lady Cosgrove and a pair of footmen, followed a maid down another corridor within this stone fortress. Truly, the place was immense. Ivy wished there were benches lining the arched walls instead of battle scene tapestries and empty suits of armor. Then again, stopping for a rest wasn’t the best idea. The sooner she reached her room, the sooner she could stop regretting that second cup of tea.

  “I wonder if His Grace hired extra servants to find guests who might become lost,” Ivy said, only partly in jest. “They might call themselves The Rescue Brigade, equipped with food rations and blankets for the long journey.”

  The comment earned Ivy a snicker from one of the footmen and a laugh from Lilah. Her friend covered the amused outburst with a cough, but not quickly enough. Lilah’s aunt Zinnia turned her head, snapped her fingers, and glared—­all without missing a step or altering her clipped stride. While Lady Cosgrove was a handsome woman in her middle years, she was also a master of quick, censorious glances.

  When that look was turned on her, Ivy imagined that a sense of discomfiture might make most young women blush. She, however, had been told by several ­people that a blush turned her milky complexion to an unbecoming shade of scarlet and made her pale blue eyes rather dull. Because of that, she refused to be embarrassed whenever possible. Therefore, Ivy answered the look with an innocent lift of her brows. To which Lady Cosgrove responded with a smile . . . of sorts. Not many women could affect such a formidable countenance when dressed in a cheerful cerulean traveling costume. An unexpected shudder coursed through Ivy at the skilled display of such a severe smile. It must have taken years of practice.

  When Lady Cosgrove faced forward again, Lilah composed herself, brushing wisps of brown hair away from a sloped brow, then silently mouthed to Ivy, “You are incorrigible.”

  Ivy grinned, tucking a limp lock of her own, whitish-­blond hair behind her ear. She’d rather be incorrigible than spend any more of her life trying to be perfect. Those years had been fruitless and exhausting. Even when Jasper—­Lilah’s brother—­had been alive, Ivy still hadn’t been enough for him.

  More than two years had passed since then, and now, at five and twenty, Ivy was firmly on the shelf and not interested in marriage in the least. Well, not her own. She was, however, interested in helping her friend find the perfect match. While Lilah might be willing to marry any man who could satisfy the stipulations of her father’s will, Ivy wanted her friend to find a man who loved her, as well. And their bachelor host might be that man. After all, there was rampant speculation about the reason the duke was hosting the party. Many wondered if he might be in search of a bride. That was the sole reason Ivy was here at Castle Vale.

  That, and to find the nearest chamber pot. For mercy’s sake, they’d been walking corridors for an age!

  Ivy shortened her stride to quick, small steps. She also curled her fingers into her palms and squeezed, hoping to send the signal to the rest of her body. Stay clenched, she begged, and do not think about tea.

  “Here we are, my lady,” the mobcapped maid said as she turned the key in the door. Bobbing a curtsy, she gestured them inside the elegant room furnished with rose-­colored silk wallpaper, bedding, draperies, and accented in peridot-­green pillows and upholstered chairs. “Your ladyship’s suite is the larger chamber. Miss Appleton and Miss Sutherland share the smaller one on the other side of the dressing room.”

  The maid led the way past the white stone hearth in the corner, then through a shorter, arched doorway. The dressing chamber was more like a parlor, large and elegant, equipped with velvet-­cushioned chairs, a low table for tea, and a vanity table near a slender window. The view overlooked an inviting garden path lined with snow-­speckled topiaries. Further inward, the doorway to the smaller bedchamber waited. But in between the vanity and the door, a slender, square stone outcropping stood. Ivy imagined it must have been a garderobe at one time.

  In her youth, Ivy had toured a few older castles and found similar structures built against outer walls. Typically, the inside would hold a stone bench with a hole cut out of the center, nothing more than a festering pit beneath it. Although it seemed primitive to her, years ago, ­people would hang their clothes in such rooms, believing that the stench would ward off insects and whatnot. The stench on the clothes likely warded off ­people as well, she thought.

  Thankfully, that practice had been abandoned. From what she’d witnessed, the old garderobes were sealed off or transformed into closets, sans festering pits, of course.

  When the maid opened the door to the small stone room, Lady Cosgrove let out a gasp. “What is this—­this thing in the closet? Where are the chamber pot and the washbasin?”

  Blocked by the maid and Lady Cosgrove, Ivy could not see the thing that had earned such cens
ure. She shuffled to the side in order to peer between the pair. First she saw only sprigs of lavender hanging from the ceiling in front of a window slit. Then, following the line of Lady Cosgrove’s shoulder down to the hand she had pointed at the offending object, Ivy saw what resembled a large copper cauldron, fixed to the floor.

  “It is a plunger toilet, my lady,” the maid said with obvious pride, standing straighter. “His Grace has installed these in three of the castle’s former garderobes. The Dowager Duchess wishes for your ladyship to have every luxury and convenience. Her Grace placed you in the finest chamber.”

  With the mention of the dowager duchess, a friend of Lady Cosgrove’s, her ladyship’s visible disdain gradually dissipated. She lowered her arm and cleared her throat. “You may inform Her Grace that it is a fine room, indeed—­though to my mind, a chamber pot is far simpler and less offensive. Nevertheless, I’m certain we can all adapt to this modern . . . contraption.”

  Ivy knew that these plunger toilets had been around for decades, but they had not yet gained in popularity. Only the most affluent houses had them, and sometimes not even then. While she’d heard of them, this was Ivy’s first time seeing one in person.

  Rumor stated that the duke was a modern-­thinking man and something of a scientist, naturalist, and mathematician. In fact, his latest Marriage Formula—­it had been said—­was designed to obliterate the need for courtship before marriage. His proposal had both intrigued the gentlemen of the ton and earned the disdain of the women.

  Ivy didn’t care a whit either way. Because, with all of Lady Cosgrove’s talk about chamber pots, Ivy was all too aware of her current state of discomfort. She shifted from one foot to the other and tried not to think of chamber pots. Of course, not thinking about chamber pots made her really think about chamber pots.

  “It would, however,” Lady Cosgrove continued, unwittingly and mercifully interrupting Ivy’s train of thought, “ease my mind somewhat to know where the washbasin was located.” Turning her back on the toilet, she gave it one last cursory flip of her fingers before stepping aside.