A humorless laugh escaped him. "Not at first," he said and then turned back to her. "But when I was older, I took the advice of a ten-year-old bluestocking and studied chemistry and mathematics while at Oxford."
Mary laughed then asked, "And your father didn't try to stop you?"
"Ohhh, he tried," he said and then tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger, sending sparks to her toes. "But by then I had learned how to get what I wanted. I threatened to not marry and to allow my cousin to become the next Duke of Rollens."
Mary saw something dark pass over his face and wondered about it. His eyes shifted away, and then came back. She laughed uneasily as they fell into uncomfortable silence.
Finally, she asked, "Do you still pursue science, or have you given it up?"
His lips lifted slightly. "Oh, I still find the time to pursue my hobby, as my father put it. In fact, one of the reasons I'm in Northumberland is that a man by the name of James Smithson will be here. He has written a number of fascinating papers on chemistry that I want to talk with him about."
Mary had heard the name but only in passing, so she just smiled and nodded. His smile grew and she could swear she heard him snort under his breath.
"Which isn't the only reason I'm at Alnwick for the Christmastide. The Duke of Northumberland and I are cosponsoring a couple of bills in the House of Lords.” He glanced over at her. “Two of them you might find interesting. One is funding for scientific research. And another one is funding for a women’s college. Something a friend of mine’s wife is trying to get started. And of course, I am here to celebrate the holidays with the duke and his family."
Startled, Mary gasp softly. He was talking about the college Jenn had written her about. She wanted to ask him about the bill and funding, but didn’t want to seem too forward.
He leaned in closer and lowered his voice, causing her heart to miss a beat. "And I'm here to hide from my mother and grandmother. They are determined to leg-shackle me to a third wife, and I am just as determined to avoid it."
For reasons Mary didn't want to examine too closely, the idea of him marrying again unsettled her in a strange way. Someone like her, a short, overly plump bluestocking could never hope to marry someone like the man before her. Because Peter Hendricks was every schoolgirl's fantasy about a knight in shining armor. Or at least he had been her schoolgirl fantasy of a knight. He was devastatingly charming and well mannered, as evidenced by the way he had treated her this afternoon and this evening. But it wasn’t his charm and good looks that had enthralled her, it was his intellect that she admired. Something that had been missing in the two men that had asked for her hand in marriage over the years.
All she could hope for was that Peter’s next wife was nothing like his last one. Because she believed with all her heart that the boy she had known years ago deserved a happy ever after.
Chapter 3
The jubilant mood Peter had acquired last night was ruined the next morning when his mother ambushed him in the dining room during breakfast.
"Mother, what are you doing here?" he demanded as soon as he spotted her sitting regally on the other side of the formal dining table, a piece of toast and cup of chocolate in front of her.
She smiled back in her usual imperialistic way. "Celebrating the holidays with old friends of course."
The Duchess of Northumberland and his grandmother had been friends since childhood. His mother had been a frequent visitor at the Northumberlands’ London mansion for years. So he really shouldn't be surprised that she had followed him to the house party. But he was. He had purposefully not told anyone where he was going so he could escape his family's efforts to get him married by the New Year.
Peter had foolishly thought he had succeeded in his evasion of them. He had been so relieved that for the first time in years he had spent an enjoyable evening, willingly talking with a marriageable-aged woman. And more importantly he had not felt any fear of being pressured, tricked, or coerced into marrying the young lady. Now it all crashed as he stared at the knowing face of his mother.
"I was not aware you were attending the Northumberlands’ Christmastide house party," he bit out.
Lillian Hendricks' blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the only indication of her displeasure with him. "I have known the Northumberlands since I was a child, Rollens. So it should come as no surprised to you that I would accept an invitation to their house party."
It wasn't a surprise, per se. He did know of the close connection between their families. But he also knew that his mother had planned to spend the holidays in Surrey, at their family seat for Christmas.
"Mother, can't you call me by my name when we are alone?" he asked, instead of continuing to argue over why she was there. They both knew her real reason for following him to the far north of England. And it had nothing to do with the house party.
"Rollens is your name," she replied in her most haughty tone. "You need to accept that fact and get on with preserving the dynasty." With that his mother slipped a folded sheet of vellum from beneath her plate and began unfolding it.
A shiver of revulsion coursed through him as he eyed the hated piece of paper. Because he knew what it was. On it his mother, grandmother, sisters, and aunts had compiled a list of acceptable candidates for the next Duchess of Rollens. Each one knew just who would make him an excellent wife. Because all assumed that he was incapable of choosing a spouse because of the disaster he had made of his first two marriages. Never mind that his father had hand-picked his first wife, and his mother had brokered his second marriage.
Peter didn't blame them for the way those two marriages had turned out. After all, he had readily agreed to the first one, and willingly accepted the other without protest. His parents hadn't had to twist his arm or force him into those marriages. Just a bit of dynasty coercion was all that had been needed. That and a reminder of who would inherit the title if he didn't marry and produce the next heir.
"Rollens . . . Peter," his mother said, "you do not have the luxury of putting this off like so many of your contemporaries. Your father's illness and death should be a reminder of just how fragile life can be."
He did know how transitory life was. His father had supposedly been ill, and on his death bed, for nearly twenty years. Or so he had been assured by both his parents. And then Peter had spent a year and a half fighting Boney's forces, living with death on a regular basis. It was why he agreed that it was time to marry once again. Only he wanted it on his terms this time, and not his mother’s.
Peter exhaled and shook his head. "Can this not wait until after I have broken my fast?" he asked as he turned and headed to the sideboard and food that was still being laid by the servants.
"No, it cannot," his mother snapped. "Many of the ladies on your list arrived yesterday while you were out gallivanting about the country. And more will arrive today and tomorrow."
Which explained his mother's rising so early in the morning. Under normal circumstances she rarely, if ever, left her bedroom before noon. Knowing it was no use to argue with her, he filled his plate.
He said over his shoulder, "It is not my list, mother, it is yours and grandmother's. I have had no say, whatsoever, in who was put on it."
"Rollens, if you know of an acceptable lady, then feel free to add her to your list of possible brides." She said, emphasizing the last harshly.
He crossed to the table, and then sat opposite his mother as a servant rushed forward to fill his cup with hot coffee. Pensively, he thought of the dozen or so debutantes his family had thrown at him since September, and shuddered. Then the face of Mary Penrose flashed in his mind and the quiver ceased. Hers was a name he would gladly add to the insufferable list. But of course in his mother's view, she would never be acceptable as a prospective bride and future Duchess of Rollens.
"I do not know how you can abide that revolting stuff. It is vile," his mother said, breaking into his musings.
At one time Peter would have agreed. But after hi
s time in the army he had come to love the taste of coffee. "Then I suggest you not drink it," he replied, then took a long sip of the scalding hot liquid.
He could tell she wanted to argue, but she closed her mouth and glare back at him. So he grinned back and heard her make a very un-duchess like noise before tearing her eyes from his and finished unfolding the list.
Her displeasure was a small victory. But a victory nonetheless.
"Lady Thea and her mother arrived yesterday. So did Lady Olivia and Lady Priscilla," her mother said as she perused the blighted list. "Lady Gwendolyn and her family are scheduled to arrive tomorrow. I'm not sure when the others will be arriving."
Peter exhaled loudly and held out his hand for the demented list of candidates for his hand in marriage. She eyed him suspiciously before grudgingly handing it over.
"I have other copies. So does your grandmother and your sisters. Therefore, it will do you no good to destroy it," his mother warned.
"I wasn't going to destroy it. I just wanted to see who was still on it after you eliminated Lady Trina, Lady Jane, and Lady Helen."
They had fortunately been crossed off because of supposedly scandalous behavior, or marriage proposals from other lords. Peter still hadn't found out what Lady Trina had done to earn his grandmother's ire, but she had been summarily removed several weeks ago. Which had raised her in his esteem. But before he had had time to wonder about her, she had gone and gotten herself engaged.
Unfortunately, there were still ten names on the list, all of them daughters of powerful families with handsome dowries. And the ones he had met so far reminded him of Hortensia and Violet.
"What? No rich cits' or baronets' daughters?" he asked.
She scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Rollens. You are a duke. You must marry someone of your own station."
Her edict wasn't a new one. He’d heard it countless times. Until his marriage to Violet he had mindlessly accepted it as a reality of his life. But within days of his second marriage, his illusion about social rules and dictates began to crumble. Then he had spent a year and half huddling in trenches filled with human waste, blood, and filth. And most of the men in those hell-holes with him were not of his rank and privilege. But they were his comrades-in-arms and had become his friends. Consequently, Peter no longer accepted the stringent social code that kept him separated from those not born to his rank and privilege.
"There's a barmaid at the Crooked Inn I stayed at the other night that I thought would make an excellent duchess," Peter pondered out loud as he continued to peruse the list.
"Hmph. This is not a joking matter," she scolded in her haughtiest voice. "You will not marry someone who is not worthy of the Rollens name."
Years of resentment roiled through Peter as he glared down at the paper in his hands. Twice he had done as his parents had demanded and married women they had chosen for him. He would not be forced or coerced into another loveless marriage just because it was expected of him.
"Mother. . ." he began but was cut off by a flurry of movement behind him.
Simultaneously he noted a stiffening of his mother's posture and raised his eyes from the paper. Across the table his mother was scowling over his shoulder.
Peter turned just as a familiar voice brightened the room and air around him. "Oh my, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize any of the guests were up this early."
Coming to his feet, he turned to face the woman who had occupied his thoughts during the night. With his back to his mother he smiled at Mary. She was dressed in a reasonably stylish dress of gray with white lace. And although he wasn't an expert on women's fashions, he suspected the dress was a few years out of date.
Her gold wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the tip of her pert little nose, leaving her expressive blue eyes unobstructed. Which momentarily distracted him from the wreath of brown curls bouncing around her head as she looked from him to his mother.
"I suspect most of the other guests are still abed, Miss Penrose. However, after my time in the army, I fear I am unable to break the habit of rising early. And her Grace rose early to give me her list of. . ." He eyed the paper clutched in his fist and wasn't sure how to describe it to this woman. Peter settled for, "Names of people she would like me to greet this holiday."
"Rollens," he heard his mother screech behind him, "do you mean to tell me that you know this, this person?"
Peter cringed inwardly at his mother's disdain. Then Mary's smile faltered, and Peter burned with resentment over the way his mother was treating her.
With his eyes locked on Mary he said, "Mother, might I make known to you, Miss Mary Elizabeth Penrose, the daughter of the late Professor Rhyd Penrose. An Oxford professor who was a tutor of mine.”
A glimmer of gratitude flashed in Mary's eyes, and he bitterly resented the way his mother and others tried to make her feel. Then Mary plastered a deferential bland façade on her face, and dipped into a belated curtsy. Her submissiveness caused the pit in his stomach to roil.
"Your Grace, it is an honor to see you again. Please forgive my impertinence. I was taken with seeing one of father's old students again and forgot myself." Mary then turned to his mother and then curtsied once again. "Your Grace, it is an honor to meet you. His Grace was one of my father's best students and a frequent visitor at our home."
Peter swallowed the bile in his throat and turned back to his mother. She was eying Mary as if she were an insect that had crawled across the table. Instinctively, he wanted to defend Mary but knew it would do nothing but cause trouble for his old friend. So he held his tongue and waited.
Finally, his mother looked away from Mary and flicked her hand dismissively in her direction. "Think nothing of it, child," she said, and then focused on Peter once again. "I have arranged a luncheon this afternoon for the ladies and I. We will expect to see you there, Rollens. One o'clock in the small dining room."
With that, his mother rose gracefully and floated out of the room on a cloud of indifference. He remained rooted to his spot by the table as he watched her leave with the regal bearing of a queen. Or duchess. And out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Mary silently filled a plate of food. Then she poured herself a cup with coffee before walking to the end of the long formal dining table.
"I'm sorry," he said softly to her. Peter saw her flinch and then shrug.
"I truly didn't intend to interrupt your breakfast, your Grace." He hated that she was back to "your Gracing" him. But he knew he couldn't ask her to call him by his Christian name in public either, so he just nodded.
"Normally, I would eat with the other servants, or later, when the children wake up," she said. "But with the holiday, and so many other children in the nursery, they eat later than normal. And when we arrived, we were told that it would be alright if we slipped down before the guests came down to have a bite. So that is why I was trying to. . ."
He could tell she was nervous as her eyes keep flickering to the door his mother had just exited. "I understand, Miss Penrose," he said, trying to set her at ease. Peter was beginning to feel like an interloper, and a heel for having embarrassed her, so he took a breath and let it out slowly. "If you will excuse me, I was going to take a walk around the castle before the others came down for breakfast."
And with that insipid valediction, he walked out of the dining room as dignified as he could.
Chapter 4
Mary wasn't sure if she was being punished for the impertinence of talking to Peter—no, not Peter, the Duke of Rollens—when he arrived or speaking with him yesterday morning in the dining room. She wasn't even sure she was being punished at all. But last night she had been ordered to keep the children in the nursery today and not wonder about the castle or the grounds. The other governesses and nursemaids had been given the day off.
She really didn't mind though. Despite loving to be outside, especially this time a year, Mary simply couldn't afford another recurrence of what had now happened thrice already, talking to the Duke of Rollens as if they we
re social equals. From the look on the Duchess of Rollens’ face and the glare Lady Hurtle gave her last night, another encounter with the duke would cost her position. Which she couldn't afford. Not if she wanted a position with the new women’s college, assuming funding for it was approved by Parliament. And according to Lady Hurtle, was highly unlikely.
Mary did think it was horribly unfair to the children at Christmastide to be restricted to the nursery. Actually, it was unfair at any time of the year as far as she was concerned. Children needed time to play as much as they needed to study. But what could she do about it but make the best of it?
So with Christmas only a week away, she had decided they would all work on Christmas decorations for the castle and presents for their families. The older children had scoffed at the idea of handmade presents for their illustrious family members. But the younger ones had endorsed it wholeheartedly.
At three o'clock they put away their projects for the day and gathered in a circle, so Mary could read to them as she had promised. She had wanted to read an uplifting Christmas story. But the older children had insisted on a book by the Brothers Grimm that had been published a couple of years before.
Mary leafed through the book and settled on one that she like and knew ended well, "Our Lady's Child."
Once everyone was settled she began reading from the book. It was a familiar children’s fairytale theme, about a poor woodcutter and his wife that could not afford to feed their child. And then in the story the Virgin Mary came to them and offered to take their child for them. She had gotten no farther than the end of the first paragraph, and the woodcutter being asked by the Virgin Mary for his child, when she was interrupted by one of the other children.
"Did the man give the lady his little girl?" one of the Smithson children asked. Mary thought her name was Sara, and that she was around five years old.
"Of course he did, you silly twit," Samuel, one of the older boys said before Mary could reply. "Miss Penrose said he was poor, and that the woman is the mother of Jesus. So he didn't have a choice. He had to give her his little girl if she is the mother of Jesus."
The Christmas Promise (The Fallen Angels NOVELLA series Book 2) Page 3