Christmas in The Duke's Arms

by Grace Burrowes

  He stopped at the next door. “The saloon.” He refused to look at her. “The second level I added three years ago.” He pointed to the open second level with a walkway and walls lined with shelves of books. He could propose to her. She might accept because of his rank. Because he was Oxthorpe. She might. He thought, hoped, desired, that if she did, she would eventually come to love him. If she didn’t? If she never loved him? No fate could be worse than life without her regard. He’d rather live without hope of her love if her marriage to another man brought her happiness.

  “Do you entertain here often?”

  He wanted to put her back to the wall and take her mouth. He wanted to hold her tight and see where that led them. He knew how to kiss a woman. A lady. Even with the raw edge of lust there, he could kiss her. Wanted to, at any rate. “No.”

  They continued in silence. He stopped at the drawing room and stood by the door while she wandered a few feet inside. She turned in a slow circle, head up, for it was the frescoed ceiling that made this room a delight. “I am transported.”

  She spoke softly, in awe, and when she focused on him, he gave a brusque nod in return.

  “If I had such a ceiling as this, I would lie on the floor hours of every day.”

  “I might have done so.”

  She tipped her head to one side, plainly working out if he’d spoken in jest or was serious.

  “In my youth.”

  Somehow he had not bungled his response, for she appeared genuinely delighted with their exchange. “A well-spent youth.”

  “Yes.”

  Their last stop was a smaller drawing room, his favorite room to sit with the morning Times and a sporting paper or two. He’d placed his favorite chair where there was a glimpse of the Lyft wending its eventual way to the pond between their respective properties. The rest was obscured by the woods where some damned fool was playing at highway robbery and calling himself the New Sheriff of Nottingham.

  “How pleasant it must be to sit here with such a prospect to admire.” She looked over her shoulder at him, as ever, not in the least affected by him or his consequence. Not one whit. She was a lady, yes, but she would never believe herself the sort of woman who might marry a duke. “You aren’t the sentimental sort, are you?”

  “I’m told not.”

  She considered him, and he felt the curiosity behind her scrutiny of him. He had no idea what to make of that and so pushed off the wall he’d leaned against and headed for the door. She followed.

  By the time they reached the entry, Mycroft waited with her cloak and hat in hand. A footman held the roses, securely wrapped in paper and tied with string. A suitably large arrangement, he was pleased to see. The roses wouldn’t last much longer this time of year. Paling had worked a bloody miracle getting so many blooms out of season.

  Having assisted her in donning her cloak, Mycroft produced Oxthorpe’s greatcoat. While he shrugged into it, he heard his carriage arrive in the courtyard. He accepted his hat and pulled his gloves from his pocket. Mycroft glided forward and opened the door.

  The air was crisp and clear, though a breeze carried a few wisps of smoke into view. He handed Edith into the carriage, then entered himself and accepted the roses from the footman. He handed them to her.

  She laid them on her lap and put a hand on the strap to brace herself when the coachman snapped the reins. The interior now smelled of roses. They were half the distance to the road before either of them spoke.

  “We shall have more snow soon,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “This is my first winter in Nottinghamshire.” She smiled. “Is this weather unusual for the time of year?”

  “No.”

  She bent her head over the flowers. He knew she was not beautiful. He knew she did not see herself as the object of a man’s lust. He knew if he told her he found her desirable, she’d not understand his meaning. She’d think he meant something other than marriage. In that, she would be right, but a man could want both things from the same woman. “They’re lovely.”

  Silence descended. Her cloak was good wool. Thick and inky black. It would do for a Nottinghamshire winter. Her boots were sensible, too. Solid construction for walking. He approved of how she’d spent her money to outfit her wardrobe.

  “What did you feel when you understood you held the winning ticket?”

  Slowly, she lifted her head, and their gazes connected. This time he did not look away from her. He wanted this atom of truth from her. “I was shaking.” She held out a hand. “Trembling. Cold and hot all at the same time. I must have read the numbers a hundred times. I was lightheaded.”

  “You did not swoon.”

  “No, though I wonder I didn’t. I ought to have.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and fluttered her eyes. “If ever there was a time a woman should swoon, it’s when she’s won seventy-five thousand pounds in the lottery.”

  “Not you.”

  “No.” That was agreement with him. She held up a hand, palm down. Her fingers shook. “Look.” Her words were soft, so soft and, yes, that was a quiver. “I’m a-tremble at the recollection.”

  Reckless abandon washed over him, and he wrapped his fingers around hers. “As would anyone be.”

  “Not you.”

  He waited too long to reply, for she tugged on her fingers. But he did not release her hand. “Once,” he said, aware he was taking the conversation into dangerous waters, “I won ninety-seven thousand at Faro.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “Faro?”

  He released her hand. And there went any improvement in her opinion of him. Of all the fool things to confess, why that?

  “Recently?” She let go the strap.

  “I was seventeen, and it was the first time ever I set foot in a”—he almost said bawdy house—“gaming establishment.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks pinked up. She understood the sort of place he’d been.

  “And the last.”

  “You were seventeen. Oh, reckless youth.”

  “I was perfectly sober.”

  “Ninety-seven thousand pounds.”

  He nodded. The blacklegs and Mollies had done their utmost to keep him in the house—spirits, food, women, men, and promises of perversions involving all of those things. The women had got him in the door, but they could not prevent his leaving. “I collected my winnings.” Vowels, banknotes, and two deeds. “And I went home. Every day I send my thanks to the heavens that I made it home without being robbed.”

  Her eyes widened, and then the grin she’d been fighting broke out. “From a youth who gazed hours at such a marvelous ceiling to one who stood at a Faro table.”

  “An indiscretion of youth never to be repeated.”

  “Ninety-seven thousand pounds.” She whispered the numbers as she settled a hand around her throat. “Goodness. What if you’d lost?”

  “You may believe that I did not speak of it to anyone.”

  She bit her lower lip and looked at him from beneath her lashes. His stomach swooped to his toes. “I did not tell a soul. No one, until my winnings had been deposited in the bank. And even then, I visited my banker to be sure I would be allowed to withdraw funds.”

  “As you were.”

  “I was, and it was the most”—she closed her eyes, but opened them again immediately—“the most wonderful freedom. I stood in the Bank of England, five one-pound notes in my pocket. More money than I’d ever had in all my life, and it was mine.”

  Five pounds lost from his pocket would be nothing to him, though by nature he would both know and resent the misplaced funds. He could imagine, but never understand, a life where five pounds represented a vast fortune. The fact was, his last quarter’s income had approached thirty thousand pounds sterling. One of those damned deeds he’d won as a feckless seventeen-year-old had been to a lead mine that added a tidy sum to his balance sheets.

  Edith leaned toward him. There was a connection between them, true and real. “I will confess somethi
ng to you, but only if you promise never to breathe a word to another soul.”

  “Unless you confess a crime.” The rich blue of her bodice looked well on her. Very well. She’d a wardrobe of color now, instead of those plain and sober hues.

  “A failing of character that breaks no laws, though perhaps that’s worse.”

  He nodded. The carriage began the descent that would take them through the first of the woods before the bridge into Hopewell-on-Lyft.

  “My cousin Mr. Clay was cross with me when I came home that day. He felt I’d taken an unwarranted liberty being gone so long, and he took me to task. I’d taken one of the upstairs maids with me, you see, and she was wanted while we were out.” She touched her upper chest. “But I listened to him tell me how ungrateful I was for all that he’d done for me those many years, and I thought to myself, I have five pounds in my pocket that did not come from him. I am wealthy now. Wealthier than he. I said too pertly, I confess it, ‘Mr. Clay, cousin, I am removing from your house this day.’”

  “And?” What a moment that must have been for her. If he’d been there in witness, he’d have cheered her on.

  “And—” She sat back, quite satisfied with herself. “Well, sir, I hired away the maid and one of the footmen, and we three removed to the Pulteney Hotel where we stayed until I purchased Hope Springs. Mr. Clay called on me once to tell me again how ungrateful I was. In a pique, I sent him a hundred pounds in repayment for the cost of my upkeep.”

  Plainly, she expected disapproval from him, but he could not disapprove. Not ever. He’d disliked Clay from the moment he saw how little the man cared for Edith, and could not bear to think of her wondering why the man who stood in place of her father had no shred of kindness for her. “You did not deduct the cost of your labor?”

  “I ought to have.” She laughed, a sound of delight. His heart soared at the triumph of amusing her. “Louisa sent me a lovely note, though. She wished me all the best and hoped we would meet again one day. She is a well-bred young lady.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I love her for her generosity and friendship. Anyone would.”

  “I am glad you were not alone.” There went his heart and his hopes again. Killed dead. Did she think she could persuade him to offer for Miss Louisa Clay?

  She put a hand on his knee then snatched it away. “I’m sorry you were.”

  He said nothing to that because there was nothing for him to say that was not dangerous. The carriage crossed the bridge into Hopewell-on-Lyft. The Duke’s Arms would soon be on their left, then another wood and the hill to her home. The mail coach had just stopped at The Duke’s Arms and there was a deal of accompanying noise. When they were past, he lowered the glass.

  “Why Hope Springs?” he asked. They were in the woods now, and he could not help watching the road as much as he could given the trees and the coming turn. “Besides the legend of Robin Hood, that is.”

  “Who would not wish to live so near where Robin Hood and Maid Marian were lovers?”

  “Who indeed.”

  She lifted a hand and, with a shrug, let it fall to the seat. “I asked my solicitor to find me properties in Nottinghamshire and, behold, Hope Springs was on the list and well within my budget. And I thought—”

  The carriage shuddered to a stop. The coachman shouted, an inarticulate sound abruptly cut off.

  They were not yet at Hope Springs.

  “Stand and deliver.”

  Oxthorpe reached under the seat for his pistol.

  Chapter Ten

  ‡

  Edith put a hand to her mouth and told herself not to panic. Nothing would be gained by that. The fact that Oxthorpe was sanguine helped. His mouth thinned, and there was something dreadful about his focus. From nowhere, he’d produced a pistol. Now that she saw it in his hands, it was as if the weapon were the only living thing in the carriage.

  His coachman shouted, “Oi there, you poxy devil, do you know who you’ve stopped? The bloody duke himself.”

  Hope and denial both washed over her. A man must be desperate indeed to rob a duke.

  Oxthorpe checked his pistol and murmured, “Don’t be a fool, John Coachman.”

  Another voice replied, “A gentleman with a right deep pocket, I’ll warrant.”

  The duke slid closer to the left-side door. “Remove what jewelry you cannot bear to lose, Edith. Leave the rest, or they’ll know something is amiss and search the carriage.” She removed a bracelet and the ebony hair combs that had belonged to her mother as quickly as she could. Her necklace and earrings must be sacrificed.

  He tapped a panel at the far side of the carriage and exposed a hidey-hole. She handed him what she’d removed. He traded the wallet in his pocket for the much-thinner one he took from inside, then deposited her items and closed up the panel.

  The carriage door opened on the side nearest her, and her heart slammed against her chest. Had the robbers seen what the duke had done?

  Cold air rushed in. “My liege,” the robber called out in a sing-song voice. “Come stretch your legs and take the air.”

  Oxthorpe surged forward, blocking the doorway. From behind him, she caught a glimpse of a lanky figure dressed in ill-fitting black clothes. The highwayman trained a pistol on the doorway. The duke was out of the carriage now, his own pistol held behind his back.

  “Who have you got with you?” He waved the gun. “Let’s have him out. Non-compliance means a shot through the heart. Come on, lad. Out with you.”

  Edith descended, frightened, yet reassured by the duke’s calm demeanor. Still with his pistol concealed, Oxthorpe assisted her from the carriage.

  Two men had stopped them. One trained a pistol on the coachman, who’d been made to dismount from the top seat of the carriage. The second highwayman had a youth’s gangly, loose-limbed body, a boy primed to murder. An ill-fitting mask obscured his face. Early in his criminal apprenticeship, she thought.

  The other robber was a more solid man. “Madam Duchess,” this robber said. He did not waver in pointing his gun at the duke. “Your purse and your jewels. Empty your pockets, if you please.”

  One hard look from the duke stopped her from denying she was the Duchess of Oxthorpe. She did as she was told and divested herself of the jewelry she had retained. She also made a show of going through her pockets. “I haven’t a purse, sir.”

  “What? No pin money of your own?”

  She shook her head. How could the duke be calm at a time like this? Oxthorpe rested a hand on her shoulder. “My love,” he said. “My dearest.” She moved closer to the duke. “My wife is with child, sir. I beg you, allow her to return to the carriage.”

  She put her free hand on her stomach and willed herself to look as if that were so.

  “We’ll have your cloak and your slippers, too, ma’am.”

  “In this weather? This is an outrage.” Oxthorpe took a step forward.

  She did not have to pretend to be afraid. “No.” She clutched his coat, though she knew enough not to interfere with whatever might come to pass with his weapon. “No, you mustn’t.”

  “Duchess.” His gaze lanced through her. He ordered—commanded—with that look. “Return to the carriage this moment.”

  The older robber was implacable. “Leave the cloak, if you please.”

  She divested herself of the garment and dropped it to the ground beside the other items. The younger one scooped up the smaller items and shoved them into his pockets.

  “The carriage, my dear.” Nothing betrayed Oxthorpe as anything but serene.

  She complied, but her heart beat too fast, her hands shook, and her legs felt disconnected from her body. These ruffians had weapons, and even after they’d emptied their pockets, the duke had not been allowed to return to the carriage.

  Once she was inside, Oxthorpe slammed the door shut. Through the glass, she saw him move forward, a lunge toward the gangly young highwayman. She hadn’t expected him to be so fast. At the end of that motion, somehow, Oxthorpe ha
d two pistols. He pointed one at the youth and the other at the older man.

  Oxthorpe addressed the younger man. “Return my wife’s possessions if you please. Do not move, sir.” He adjusted his aim when the other highwayman shifted. “Do you think I don’t recognize your voices? The way you stand? You were brought before me at the quarter sessions eighteen months ago and plainly learned nothing from the experience.”

  The older man kept his hands lifted. “I’m the New Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  “The devil you are. Go home to your family and pray God you are never again so stupid as to try your hand at highway robbery, for I promise, I will have no mercy on you another time.” He shifted the positions of both guns. “I’ll see your backs or see you dead.”

  The gangly robber took off running.

  “You.” Oxthorpe sneered. He turned his full attention on the remaining man. “I don’t want to see you before me again. You and your brother will hang if you continue in this fashion.”

  The other highwayman dashed into the trees, too, and it seemed an eternity to her that Oxthorpe sighted along the barrel of the pistol, tracking the man’s progress through the trees. Any moment she expected him to fire.

  He didn’t. He lowered his hand and stood for some moments, staring into the woods. In this new silence, the coachman gathered the remaining items on the ground, but he staggered when he straightened, and everything scattered once again. The duke looked at him. “John?”

  “A mean knock on the head, Your Grace.”

  He nodded to the top of the carriage and handed one of the pistols to him. “Up then. I’ll drive.” He held up a hand and in clipped words said, “No argument.”

  Before Oxthorpe came to the door of the carriage, he retrieved all the items on the ground. He handed her their things and deposited his in a pile on the seat. He dropped the pistols into the pockets of his coat. “He’s in no condition to drive, Edith.”