Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  “Aye. Stopped by today for a case.”

  Strachney had stopped by and crowed to Forbes about the invitation.

  “Tell us about Strachney.” he said.

  “Made his wealth in the India trade. Came home last year and took the lease for Glenthistle. Eager to get his daughter well-married, so he keeps a good table and likes a good whisky.”

  Andrews raised an eyebrow. “One of your regular customers, is he?”

  Forbes chuckled. “Tried to hire me to set up a still for him.”

  “But you’d have none of it.”

  “That’s right. I’m a Kinmarty man.”

  “And he hasn’t set the King’s gaugers onto you yet?”

  “Nay. Not as yet.” He grinned. “And best he doesn’t. I’ve a duke on my side.”

  “A dinner party,” Mrs. Marlowe said. “Gentlemen, I must hurry on before the light fades altogether.”

  * * *

  Knowing his secret was still safe with Forbes, Andrew left the old butler and a fretting Marlowe sorting out the unloading and storage of the plate, and the arrangements for the party the next night.

  He found his so-called friend, George, ensconced in a wing chair in the study, his boots propped on the fireplace fender. George closed his book and set it aside, his weaselly smile infuriating.

  “You’ll thank me later,” George said.

  The cat stared up at him from his desk chair. “You again.” He shooed the creature away and flopped onto the seat. A new stack of missives awaited him.

  “How could you?” He gripped the pile, the urge to fling all of them into the fire almost overwhelming.

  Flipping through them, he saw letters from tradesmen, notes likely from more neighbors threatening to pay calls, and another official-looking envelope, a tax dun, he supposed.

  A second formal post, made his breath tighten. It was an express from his solicitor. What now?

  He broke the seal and unfolded a scripted letter with a piece of delicate paper that slipped out. He scanned the brief letter and then turned to the feminine handwriting on the thinner sheet.

  This note was dated one day after Evan’s death. In a hurry to get this post on a ship departing that day, Penelope MacDonal wrote that she would be leaving India as soon as Evan was buried, and upon her arrival in England, would travel directly to Castle Kinmarty with the children as Evan had requested in his previous letter.

  “There’s another tax bill in that stack,” George said.

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  The other man chuckled. “All the letters from the Exchequer look the same. When I saw the post come in, and then encountered your nabob in the yard, I had a stroke of inspiration. The daughter didn’t look awful, what I could see of her. You’ll enjoy having company to dinner. You were never one to brood in your rooms.”

  He’d brooded plenty, but that wasn’t his public face. Not even a good friend like George knew his private moods, but they hadn’t become acquainted until a few years ago.

  And George knew the duke couldn’t very well shirk his own party, not without a wife or sister or some other female relative to carry on hosting in his absence.

  If only Marlowe could join them at table.

  He shook off the thought. Dukes didn’t sit down to dinner with their housekeepers.

  Perhaps Penelope would arrive on the morrow and make herself useful managing the guests. She might even have met the nabob during her sojourn in India.

  England abounded with nabobs. Might Evan have also found riches there? Might he have left his widow a fortune? Not that he would ever consider marrying his late brother’s wife, even if it were legal in Scotland, but he might prefer her financial help to the nabob’s, if they could get over their feud.

  “There might be other well-dowered candidates, but you must at least meet this one.”

  George’s gaze narrowed. “Trust me, Andrew, you mustn’t encourage the housekeeper. She fancies you already. Once she learns you’re the real duke, she’ll appear at your bedchamber every night.”

  That image cheered him.

  “Stop grinning.”

  He laughed. “What say you, George? Must it be marrying a purse, or might there be hope of another way? I’m not one for extravagant living. Can I shut down part of this heap? Run hunting parties? Mine for ore? Might there be a way to make Castle Kinmarty solvent? I’m finding I rather like the old pile and the company.”

  George scoffed. “The company, as in Mrs. Marlowe? I’ve been thinking. What respectable Vicar’s widow takes a job as a housekeeper and then carries on with the factor? She’s well-spoken? What of it? I’ve met soiled doves who could pass for nobility.”

  “She’s not a lightskirt, George.”

  “I’ll commence trifling with her and we’ll see how quickly she turns her attentions away from the lowly factor and onto the duke.”

  His hands curled into fists. “You’ll leave Mrs. Marlowe alone.” If he couldn’t have her—and he couldn’t, everyone said he couldn’t—he wouldn’t have George importuning her.

  “You have no money and a grand title to save. Marrying an heiress is your easiest choice.” George stood. “I’m off to check those weapons again. We’ll have venison for Hogmanay, just you wait.”

  When the door closed, he buried his face in his hands. Marry to save a grand title he’d never wanted?

  He thought of his last near duel over a harmless bit of flirting with a cit’s daughter. The impoverished earl her dowry had saved fretted endlessly over his generations of family honor and his necessary marriage, dismissive of the pretty bride who had to tolerate all that pomposity.

  Kinmarty was an old title, as well. He’d fret also if after securing Strachney’s daughter’s dowry he spent forever being bullied by the old man. He wouldn’t do it. He’d rather marry the housekeeper, and let the ton laugh at him as they’d laughed at Old Horace. He’d at least be keeping the family tradition.

  He sighed and picked up the tax notice. Christmas was the day after next, and he had a dukedom that needed a duke who was supposed to be himself; a friend who wanted to play matchmaker; and a housekeeper frantic to make a home for children who no one had ever heard of, girls who would run wild and fall into the burn like the one he’d rescued so many years ago.

  He’d have children underfoot, perhaps for the next decade or two. Mrs. Marlowe had done much in two days to prepare for them. She’d done much to help him accommodate the notion of them. It was lovely of her.

  Filomena. He tapped the letter on the desktop. Perhaps if he hadn’t drunk himself silly for so many years, he’d have puzzled out the mystery of that name by now. What was the memory niggling at him?

  Chapter 12

  “To bed with you, Mr. Forbes.” Filomena climbed down from the ladder and rubbed her eyes. “We’ve done well here.” They’d tied ribbons, and hung boughs, and made the great hall and the parlor jolly for the Yuletide. The other servants had gone off to bed, and it was now the wee hours.

  Forbes set aside the stepladder. “This I’ll carry away. But first…” He pointed to the sprig of mistletoe she’d just hung in the doorway.

  She laughed and presented her cheek for the quick touch of his dry lips.

  “Now go on.”

  “Aye, and doan’t ye linger, either. It’s not many hours until daybreak.”

  “I’ll be right up.” She’d spend a last night in her grand bedchamber, and tomorrow, she’d move to the housekeeper’s room. “Let me just gather my things.”

  She was curling up the remaining ribbon when a whisper of air touched her neck.

  “What are you doing up so late?”

  Filomena jumped, her blood turning to ice and then heating in anger. She bit her tongue against asking the Duke of Kinmarty what he himself was doing wandering about the castle at this hour.

  His gaze traveled around the room. “You’ve decorated for Christmas.”

  There was no friendliness in his haughty tone.


  “Yes.” Yes your grace, she should say, but as tired as she was she feared saying more. Her tongue might get the best of her and deliver ten years of pent-up wrath.

  “Is all ready for tomorrow night’s dinner?”

  “It will be.” She took in a breath. “Though it was fearfully short notice.”

  “Oh? You seem quite efficient, Marlowe. Yet you’re not prepared for the unexpected?” He took a step closer and his lip curled as if a smile might form.

  She stepped into the doorway. “I should rather say you are not prepared, sir, since it is your household.” She pressed her lips together on even more insolent words. Don’t get yourself dismissed just yet, Filomena.

  He moved closer, his eyes brightening. “Mr. Andrews didn’t provide you with sufficient staff.”

  Drat and blast. She did not wish to see Andrews lose his position, or be sent away.

  The duke would leave soon, Andrews had said. If the duke went, and Andrews stayed, and herself…

  The possibilities made her heart thrum. She would like to explore another kiss, and more than that. She would like to feel where his hand had been wandering today, albeit in a warmer and dryer setting.

  The duke watched her. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Andrews has found an excellent butler in Mr. Forbes. Everything will go smoothly tomorrow night. We’ll make sure of it.” She curtsied and turned, trying not to flee.

  He touched her elbow, ever so softly, and dread snaked up to her shoulder. “Just a moment.”

  The press of his lips to her cheek was soft and disarmingly cold. She ducked, choking back a rising panic. He’d caught her out under the mistletoe.

  The blasted mistletoe had seemed like such a good idea when Forbes pulled it out of his pouch.

  “And a good night to you,” she muttered, hurrying off.

  The mistletoe. Both Mr. Forbes and the duke had kissed her under it.

  The man whose kissing she wanted more of hadn’t bothered to make an appearance.

  Andrew awoke with a quill in his hand.

  Ink blotted his cuff and his cheek ached from being pressed to the pile of letters.

  He pushed against the chair back and stretched. The clock said he had long ago missed breakfast, and a glance out of the window showed the day had turned dank and gray, threatening snow.

  The letter he’d been penning to his solicitor mocked him. It ought to be about the matter of Kinmarty’s taxes, or the impossible bills, or even about hiring a permanent butler.

  Instead, he was asking the man to make inquiries about Filomena Marlowe.

  He crumpled the paper and flung it into the grate. Last night, lured by the voices and laughter, he’d broken away from his business letters and wandered down to the great hall, knowing she’d be in the midst of the hubbub. He’d found her surrounded by their few servants stringing greenery and other decorations.

  The rich timbre of her laugh stuck with him. Her laugh and the trim set of her ankles on the stepladder, and the sparkle of candlelight in her uncovered hair still warmed him. She didn’t conduct herself like a housekeeper to the quality, but she wasn’t a mere commoner either. She was some gentleman’s daughter, one who ought to be stringing the holly and ribbons at her own hearth.

  Who was she? The letter had seemed like a good idea the previous night. He rubbed his jaw, bristly with overnight scruff.

  In the gray light of day, the shabby state of the room was apparent, and he remembered Forbes’s admonishment. For certain, Marlowe had secrets., but it was time to put his attention on Kinmarty and his duties as duke. Perhaps when he shared his secret, she would tell him hers. If not, there would be time to investigate later.

  The door squeaked open and George peered in. “Finally up? Strachney’s cattle have arrived. Care to ride out? Your servants are bustling about everywhere. Best to get out from underfoot of the new butler and our Mrs. Marlowe.”

  “Our Mrs. Marlowe?”

  “She and Forbes were up half the night decorating. I did, however, corner her under the mistletoe and managed to steal a kiss of my own.”

  Anger blazed in him. George had cornered her?

  He took a deep breath, recognizing the goading note in his friend’s voice. Tamping down his ire, he forced a yawn.

  “I hope she planted you a facer.”

  “Well, you’d be disappointed. As it was, I was next in line after Forbes.”

  His hand fisted reflexively, and he forced the fingers to open, to spread flat on the desk.

  What was wrong with him? Of course, Forbes and George would have a go at kissing a handsome woman like Marlowe. He himself had kissed plenty of ladies under the mistletoe. It was all innocent fun.

  He pushed himself up from the chair.

  “I’d best find a fresh shirt and some breakfast. Go on without me.”

  “You might wish to shave as well.”

  He rubbed his chin again. Would it be better to take the time to scrape off his beard and be freshly shaved when he confessed to Filomena Marlowe? Or was he only delaying the inevitable again?

  He strode out of the room. He would shave, and change his shirt, and be done with this.

  Distressed at the late hour of her rising, Filomena hastened to dress and hurried downstairs.

  In the kitchen, two new maids stood at the board chopping and kneading, while the cook barked orders. Mr. Forbes, they said, had sent for the extra help as well as the fish and the fowl needed for the dishes she and the cook had agreed on the night before. Cook insisted on feeding her breakfast while they went over each new dish the kitchen staff was attempting.

  Finally free, she looked for Forbes in the dining room, and found the two new footmen spreading a pressed tablecloth over the long cherrywood table. China plates sat stacked on a sideboard next to the polished silver, and on another, the candelabra stood ready, fitted with fresh tapers. Mr. Forbes had given instructions for these preparations as well.

  The duke’s ancestors gazed down from portraits hung round the room, men in kilts, and a lady in a panniered gown and powdered hair. She hadn’t toured this room in the light of day, and the largest of portraits made her pause. With his strong jaw and nose, and his burning gaze, there was a familiarity about the middle-aged man in the portrait.

  “’Tis a good likeness,” one of the young footmen said.

  Her new hires were locals. “Is that the last duke then?”

  “Aye. As he looked years a’fore I was born.”

  The white cloth floated over the table, and she left them straightening the corners. Forbes would inspect this work later, she was sure.

  In the entrance hall, Kyla perched on the staircase, cleaning and polishing the balusters, while Duff brushed the stair runner.

  “Mr. Forbes put us to cleaning here,” Kyla said. “After we readied the green bedchamber. Said the duke’s sister was coming.”

  Filomena had shared that news with Forbes just last night.

  Duff glanced at the length of still dusty stairs and groaned. “Is there aught else you’d have us do? There’s a carpet to brush in the nursery.”

  The poor lad. He’d happily get lost in the box of toys there.

  “I’m sorry, Duff. The duke won’t be entertaining his dinner guests in the nursery, so we must leave that carpet for another day. Thank you for staying late to help last night. Did you get enough rest?”

  “Oh, aye.” Kyla smiled. “And Mr. Forbes said it put him in mind of the old days, when the staff decorated the Castle for Yuletide.”

  “Where is Mr. Forbes?” Filomena asked.

  “In the dining room,” Kyla said.

  “No.” Duff shook his head. “He went to check on the wine.”

  Kyla nodded. “Mayhap in the cellar, then.”

  She’d found no wine in the cellar, but in her tour the day after her arrival, she’d seen a few bottles in the butler’s pantry.

  She promised the children an extra penny for their hard work and went to find Forbes.

  When a knock on t
he pantry door brought no answer, she tried the latch.

  “Mr. Forbes,” she called, peeking in.

  A lamp lit the room, shimmering off the silver tureen and dusty crystal stacked on the shelf. This lot would be cleaned before being stored, yet Forbes had performed miracles here also, transforming the cluttered space into a proper pantry as it must have been in the old days.

  If she were the duchess presiding here, she’d convince Forbes to stay on forever. Mrs. Marlowe the housekeeper could never match his efficiency.

  But of course, she’d never be any lord’s permanent housekeeper. She was only here to ease the way for the children, and Penelope of course.

  The duke’s kiss under the mistletoe was a portent of doom. He’d finally noticed her. Should he try to do more, to take more, she’d have to find a way to put him off. She was staying until Penelope and the children arrived. With any luck, she might even have a chance to discover what might be possible between her and Andrews.

  No, no, she must remember, nothing was possible where he and she were concerned.

  Sadness crept over her, a sense of loss greater than Mr. Marlowe’s passing. When the shock of his death had ebbed, when the will and her income had been resolved, she’d shed tears of relief. No more would she need to carry on as if she wasn’t half the time dead inside, and the other half itching with need for something she couldn’t fathom.

  She’d settled for far less with Marlowe because Mr. Swinton’s jilting had taught her to give up dreaming of more. Leaving Kinmarty, as she certainly must do once Penelope arrived and her identity was uncovered, meant giving up dreaming again, at least where romance was concerned.

  She wiped a tear from her cheek and traced the finger over the rim of a goblet, making it sing. She must remember the children. This was for them.

  But Mr. Andrews…oh, the man had given her a taste of…of what could be between a man and a woman. She wanted more, someday, somehow…