"Samuel, that is not gentlemanly. You should not call people names. And Sara has asked a very good question. Just because someone is poor does not mean they have to give up their children," Mary told the boy.
"Then he didn't give her his little girl?" Penelope, another one of the Smithson girls, asked.
"Oh for goodness sake, Penny, let Miss Penrose finish the story and we'll find out if he gave her his little girl or not," Little Lord Charles Martin said. He was the oldest of the children in the nursery and would one day inherit his father's title. At ten years old he had already acquired the haughty arrogance of an adult peer.
"Thank you, Lord Charles," Mary said. She softened his rebuke of his five-year-old cousin by winking at the little girl.
Mary picked up where she had left off.
The woodcutter obeyed, brought his child, and gave her to the Virgin Mary. . .
Samuel crowed, "See, I told you he would have to obey."
Mary glared at the eight-year-old. "Samuel, it is not gentlemanly to interrupt people when they are speaking. Nor when they are reading. And you are wrong." All the children gasped because of Mary's faux pas. Servant simply did not correct their betters, it just wasn’t done. She ignored the looks of dismay on the children's faces and continued.
"The man did not have to obey the Mother of Christ, he simply chose to do so for the good of his daughter."
Charles piped in, "But he did obey, Miss Penrose. As was proper. The lower classes should always obey their betters. It is what is expected."
"Not always, Lord Charles," a now familiar deep, mellifluous voice boomed from the nursery doorway.
This time Mary's own gasp joined the chorus of shock from the children. But she was sure hers was motivated by a different reason than theirs. The Duke of Rollens filled the doorway. The children were delighted. Mary, on the other hand, was terrified. Or something close to it. She could ill afford another slip on her part where he was concerned.
She rose to her feet and dipped into a respectful curtsy. "Your Grace, you honor us by your presence." She then turned to her charges and instructed, “Please make your bows to his Grace."
All of the children scrambled to their feet, including three-year-old Agatha. Charles and Samuel made passable bows while the others dipped or bowed as best they could. Agatha doing it three times while giggling the whole time.
For nearly fourteen years, proper decorum and genteel manners had been drilled into Mary. Most of those lessons were prefaced with the reminder that at the age of six and ten it was probably too late for her to learn those instructions. A failing of her father before he died. But she had learned them in order to survive.
Unfortunately, every one of those lessons flew out the window with the Duke of Rollens standing so devastatingly handsome in the door of the nursery. Her heart fluttered as her stomach did somersaults. And every rational, reasonable thought vanished on the wings of the butterflies in her chest.
Then she turned and saw the suspicious consternation on the faces of the older children. It wasn't unheard of for a parent or close relative to come visit the children in the nursery. Nor for a guest to accompany one of the parents to the schoolroom. But for a non-relative to do so on their own was highly unusual. And the older children knew it.
"I hope you don't mind the intrusion, Miss Penrose. But my sister, Lady Leet, will give me another nephew, or niece, early this spring and I would like to make her stays at Kirkmore easier by seeing if there are any improvements I could make in my own nursery for her visitations."
"Improvements?" Mary asked.
"Why yes, Miss Penrose. I've been out of the nursery for so long that I wanted to make sure nothing was amiss. And knowing his Grace as I do, I knew I would find an impeccable nursery at Alnwick Castle."
Swallowing the retort in her throat, Mary glanced around at her charges and saw varying degrees of awe and approval on their young faces. Apparently, the duke's flowery praise for their host had quelled their suspicions. But then children were easily fooled. Mary on the other hand knew that the duke had three sisters. The youngest being either five and ten or six and ten now. So if she wasn't still in the Rollens' schoolroom then she had only left it recently. And from what she remembered about the Duchess of Rollens from years ago, their nursery and school room would be as excellent as the Northumberlands’.
Knowing that he was once again attempting to avert suspicion from why he was talking to a servant didn't help her anxiety over encountering him again. But she couldn't ignore him, nor order him from the nursery.
"You are quite welcome, your Grace. I was just reading a story to the children."
He waved his hand dismissively and began looking around the room. "Yes, yes, Miss Penrose, please do continue. I don't wish to interrupt or deprive the children of the rest of the story. If I am not mistaken, I believe you are reading one of the Brothers Grimm tales, 'Our Lady's Child'. A particular favorite of mine. So, please, do continue. Pay no attention to me whatsoever."
"Yes, your Grace," Mary replied. As if she could ignore him, which was not bloody likely.
She settled back in her chair and covertly watched him as he began wandering about the room, looking at various things as if he was in deep study of them. Nervously, she leafed through the book until she once again found her place. She glanced up to watch him and then cleared her throat and picked up where she had left off.
Surreptitiously, she watched both the duke as he strolled aimlessly about the nursery, and the children's faces as they, too, followed his progress. Fortunately, it was a short story, and she got to the end fairly quickly. Although, when she closed the book, Mary had no idea whatsoever what she had just read. But judging by the children's faces, they hadn't cared one way or the other. All of them were now openly watching the duke intently as he perused the Christmas decorations they had made earlier.
He glanced in their direction and said, "These are quite good, Miss Penrose. Did you do them, or did your charges do them?"
A chorus of, "We did them," rose from the younger children as they jumped up and rushed across the room to point out their individual artworks. Distracted, Mary got up and put away the book as she continued to watch the duke and the children. A pang of envy swept her as she watched them. Dreams of one day having her own children assailed her.
Mary had not quite given up on her dreams of one day having her own family. Even at the advanced age of thirty, she still hoped to one day find the husband of her dreams and have at least one child of her own. It was another one of the hopes she had surreptitiously hung on her dreams of becoming a teacher at the new women’s college.
Her desire to have her own family had nearly led her into two disaster marriages of her own, just like the Duke of Rollens. Or maybe not as disastrous as his. But the butcher’s son who had asked for her hand in marriage ten years ago was a very nice young man that had the intellectual equivalent of a ten-year-old boy. And the footman that had asked for her hand five years ago had been handsome, witty, and fun to talk to, but he was illiterate, as many of the servants were, and had no desire whatsoever to improve his lot in life. And that was just something Mary could not abide, especially in the man she hoped to father her children.
However, the man patiently listening to the children expound about their artwork, now that man would make a wonderful father. Not because he was probably the most handsome and charming man she had ever met, but because he was also likely the most intelligent man she had ever known. Or at least he had been the most intelligent eight-year-old boy she had ever known.
Suddenly, the duke dropped down to his haunches to listen to three-year-old Agatha explain her artwork, and a little bit of Mary’s heart was lost to the man that the boy she had known had become. He was nothing like the man who had sired him, and everything like the knight in shining armor she had once dreamed about coming to her rescue.
Just then three maids came into the room bearing the children's afternoon snacks of lemonade and biscuits
which took precedence over everything, including lofty dukes. The children abandoned their appreciative audience and rushed to the table where the maids were laying out the food and drinks. Sara Smithson grabbed the duke's hand and tried to pull him toward the refreshments, but Mary heard him politely decline the offer before sending her off to join the others.
Mary stood frozen by the bookshelves as the children settled themselves around the table and the duke nonchalantly wandered her way. With every step he took her heart pounded faster and faster, whether from trepidation or exhilaration she wasn't sure. She loved talking to him. But doing so was dangerous, both to her job and aspirations to be a college professor. And to her heart.
Her restless night came back to her as his enchanting green eyes fell on her from half way across the room. They were the eyes she had dreamt about last night. Visions of his handsome face had awakened her twice from impossible dreams.
"Miss Penrose," he said when he reached her.
A thousand questions flooded her mind as she stared up at him, none of them appropriate for a servant to ask a peer. But try as she might, Mary couldn't stop the one that was foremost on her mind.
"Why are you here?" she asked, then glanced toward the children and maids and remembered to add, "your Grace."
His eyes seemed to devour her before he withdrew behind some aristocratic wall of indifference. He turned to stand beside her as he gazed across the room at the children.
After several heartbeats she heard him exhale. "If you want to know the truth, Mary, I'm hiding from my mother. Much as I was doing twenty years ago when I first met you. Only this time it is not from my father and his lessons on how to be a proper peer and gentleman, but from my mother and her matchmaking machinations."
She smothered a giggle as she glanced up at the foreboding façade he had erected. Only she had known him as a boy and saw the same mischievous twinkle in his eye she had seen twenty years ago.
"You don't wish to marry?" she asked him.
He hesitated, then lowered his head ever so slightly towards hers, as if he were imparting a great secret. "I have no objections to getting married. I just don't wish to marry any of the ladies my family has been throwing at me."
Mary gazed up at him as she thought how incredibly handsome and debonair he was. His good looks probably made him the ideal fairytale prince to most young girls. But Mary had always suspected that most of the debutantes she had met viewed future husbands in two ways: by their wealth, and by their looks. And Peter was both wealthy and exceedingly handsome.
Mary had never cared much for either of those things. She had always hoped to find a husband who was as passionate about learning as she was. And as her father and mother had been. And Peter was that as well. Unfortunately, the requirements of his wealth and station would never allow him to consider marrying a woman like Mary. The realization engendered a sense of resentment she had never felt before.
She lashed out in a soft voice. "Then choose a woman you do want to marry, your Grace. You're a grown man now, and not beholding to anyone but yourself." She turned to face him more fully. "Not all of us have that luxury. But you are a duke and can do anything you want, and there is no one to gainsay you. So if you don't want to marry one of the women your mother has chosen, then simply don't marry them. Choose someone you want and marry her." She shook her head in disgust. "You are not that little boy anymore, your Grace. You are a grown man, so follow your own heart."
Chapter 5
Peter had learned early on that there was nothing that moved as fast as London gossip amongst the haut ton. He now knew that gossip at a house party circulated even faster. Reports of his venture to the nursery reached his mother by the time he left it. He knew this because she waylaid him as he descended Alnwick's grand staircase.
"Rollens," his mother snapped as he turned the corner and came face-to-face with her. Her voice echoed off the marble floors and staircase, despite her hushed tones. "I need to speak to you at once." She passed him on the stairs and headed to the upper gallery.
"Mother, I was on my way to. . ."
She paused on one of the landings and skewed him with her eyes. "Now, Rollens," she bit out, barely civil.
Exasperated, he said, "If you have something to say to me, Mother, then just say it and be done with it."
The duchess glanced around, making Peter aware of the hum of activity going on below them. The echo of footsteps bounced off the gray marble stairs and vaulted ceilings. Murmuring voices carried up the stairs were only slightly muffled by the red-carpeted runners.
A shiver a trepidation wafted through him. He didn't know how, but Peter knew instinctively that his mother wanted to talk about his visit with Mary a few minutes ago. And although he didn't want to have that conversation with her, he knew he couldn’t avoid it either.
The real problem was, he wasn’t sure why he couldn’t stay away from Mary Penrose. Consequently, he had no idea what he was going to say to his mother when she eventually asked about his interest in the Hurtles’ governess. But Peter knew his mother. And he knew she wouldn’t be put off. So whether he wanted to or not, they were going to have the discussion. And he also knew that if he didn't follow his mother now, she would pick an even more inconvenient time and place to have the conversation.
"Not here, Rollens. In my room," she said. She then turned, floated up the remaining steps, then turned toward the guest rooms.
Tamping down the feeling of doom and being treated like a child, he trudged up the steps and followed in her wake. She sailed through her bedroom door then waited in the middle of the room until he closed the door behind him.
As soon as it clicked she whipped around and pinned him with fire in her eyes. "What were you doing in the nursery talking to that, that person?"
It was as he had suspected, as nothing of interest ever got past his mother. Especially juicy gossip, like the Duke of Rollens visiting the nursery and spending time talking to the governess. Pretending ignorance, he widened his eyes and peered down at her.
"I just spoke to a number of persons while in the nursery, mother. To whom are you referring? Lady Agatha? Or Lady Sara? Or maybe you are referring to the conversation I had with Lord Charles Martin."
She made a loud, un-duchess like humph. "You know very well as to whom I am referring. That, that serving girl you keep consorting with. It is unseemly, Rollens. And you know it. You are here to find a bride. And rumors are starting to spread of your scandalous flirtations with that common servant. It will not be tolerated by a well-bred lady, or by their families."
A white-hot rage washed over Peter. Gossip like this would not harm him. He was a dammed duke after all. And gossip of this nature never truly harmed the men involved in the scandal. But they could, and often did, destroy the woman's reputation.
He enunciated very carefully each of his words as a clear warning. "Miss Penrose is an old friend of mine. She is also the daughter of one of my professors, who was also a good friend. And I will not tolerate her name being bandied about in such a manner. Is. That. Clear. Mother?"
His mother's eyes widened for a fraction and then narrowed. "Rollens, she is a governess. A common servant. Her mother was the daughter of a Methodist minister in Wales. Her father was an Oxford professor who resigned to marry a low-born Welsh woman. You can't possibly have any feelings for this, this creature."
Once again Peter was not surprised by the level of knowledge his mother possessed about Mary and her family. He even suspected he knew where she had gathered the dossier on the Penroses—Lady Hurtle.
He took a step toward his mother and then checked himself. He did not want to get too close to her right then. He reiterated, "Miss Penrose is a friend, and nothing more. And I will not tolerate rumors of any kind being spread about her, or my connection to her. Is that clear?"
Her back snapped straighter and she glared back at him. "And just what do you suggest I do about it? The rumors are already circulating, Rollens. By all accounts you have s
pent more time talking to her than anyone else in the last two days. So if you want to put a stop to the rumors, then I suggest you stay as far away from the woman as possible for the duration of the house party."
He wanted to tell her what she could do with her suggestion, and that it was none of her, or anyone else's business whom he spoke with. But Peter knew the ton lived for just such scintillating gossip. So he opted for what he knew he could control.
"Mother, you are the Duchess of Rollens," he bit out. "You are also a prolific gossip, and one of the leading dragons in the haut ton. I have seen you spread a rumor quicker than a wildfire. And I have seen you squelch one just as fast. Especially, those that are connected to our family." He took a step toward her and lowered his voice. "So you will put a stop to any and all rumors about Miss Penrose. Is that understood?"
Her chin notched up another inch. "And if I am unable to, as you say, squelch these rumors?"
"Then I will not marry. And I will leave for the continent, or India, or maybe the American colonies, and you will never see me again. And I will endeavor to get done what Napoleon was unable to do during my time in the army-Get. Myself. Killed. Then Aunt Carolinna will get her fondest wish, and her worthless son, Lonell, and his progenies, will be the next Dukes of Rollens."
They stared at each other mutinously, and then something entered his mother's eyes that scared the hell out of him. Unfortunately, she didn't keep him in suspense.
"Fine, Rollens. I will put a stop to the rumors about your Miss Penrose. But I want something in return."
He looked down his nose at her as a quiver of dread coursed through him. "I already know what you want, Mother. For me to marry and produce the next generation of Rollens."
She took a step toward him and glared. "Yes. And I'm tired of your procrastinations. If I stop the rumors about your Miss Penrose, then I want your promise-your solemn oath-to marry one of the ladies on your list by the end of this house party."
The Christmas Promise (The Fallen Angels NOVELLA series Book 2) Page 4