Christmas in The Duke's Arms

by Grace Burrowes

  “She’s a very fashionable lady and doesn’t like the country ways of celebrating Christmas.”

  “I don’t know much about them. My grandfather is too much of a curmudgeon to go in for celebrations of any kind. Though my father never met an event he couldn’t celebrate, wholesome ancient customs were not his preferred form of amusement.”

  “Hard to believe such a different pair were father and son. You are more like your grandfather, I think.”

  “Lord, I hope not. I may not have my father’s charm of person, but I trust I am always rational. Hillforth has become…difficult in his old age.”

  “Did you ever find yourself in the middle of their quarrels?”

  He didn’t want to sully her mind with tales of the ferocious rows that he’d tried to referee from an early age and that made him dread their annual visits to Yorkshire. Visits during which calling on their neighbors the Westons and their daughter had been a welcome respite. “Let’s say it was good training for the practice of politics. I look forward to some quaint country Christmas customs, if Sybilla allows them.”

  “I do hope she will, for the boys are excited about snapdragon and wassail and hobby-horses. Like you, the poor things have spent most of their lives in London.”

  “Do you dislike London?” he asked.

  “How could I? I saw so much when staying with Mrs. Madsen. The theaters, the shops, the sites of so many critical events in our history. It’s like being in the center of the world.”

  It was how he felt too, and yet he detected a tension in her voice. Her fists clenched against her skirt, not the kind of thing he usually noticed. “Are you remembering your father’s death?” he asked gently.

  “Not just that,” she said quietly. “London held Papa in thrall and was the source of his downfall. I used to dread him leaving home for town.” He knew how hard she’d worked to keep the estate going, only to have the improvident Sir Richard fritter away the fruits of her efforts. He’d made it his business to know just how things stood.

  Lightly he touched one of her gloved hands, and for a moment she leaned toward him, as though she would accept his physical condolence, just as she had wept on his shoulder when he brought her news of Weston’s death. At the time, he’d been offering comfort as he had when she was a child, whether mourning her mother’s loss or crying at a scraped knee. There and then he’d decided to marry her, but it was only now that he truly comprehended that she was a grown woman and not his neighbor’s sweet and sometimes aggravating little daughter. If he embraced her now it would not be a child in his arms.

  She tossed her head, sniffed, and stepped away. “Let us not dwell on the past. The sight of holly berries and the scent of pine make me happy. I loved Christmas in Yorkshire. My mama used to adorn the house, and I continued to do so.”

  “I have a faint memory of playing at snapdragon before my mother died. After that I was always in London with my father. I don’t know anything about Christmas decorations.”

  “I’m quite talented at forming branches into garlands. I could teach you how.”

  “Better teach Sybilla. If I know her, she’ll take shameless advantage of you unless you stand up to her.”

  Robina pursed her lips in the same naughty way she always had, but with an adult quality that warmed his blood. “Didn’t you hear that I am the boys’ new tutor? Not for long. I hope I can catch the stage tonight or tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely not.” Now that he had her in his care, she could not be permitted to expose herself to bad roads, uncertain weather, and highway robbery. “If you persist in this madness of taking employment, I shall escort you to Lady Halston’s myself. I promised Sybilla I would stay for the village assembly tomorrow night, but after that I am at your service. Pray do not fight me on this.” Her mouth hardened into a stubborn look. “And do not even think about running off to the inn without my knowledge.”

  “Very well. I accept.” She smiled faintly. “How did you know what I was contemplating?”

  “Don’t you know that I am omniscient?”

  “It’s odd to hear you joke. If that was a joke.” Now she gave him a grin that was infectious and made him feel young and carefree. They stood for a moment, smiling into each other’s eyes, and something shifted in his chest.

  A long moment of harmony was interrupted by his youngest ward. “Cousin Wyatt,” George cried, tugging on his sleeve. “I’ve found a huge ball of mistletoe, bigger than the one Johnnie and Toby found, but it’s too high for me to reach.”

  “Show me!” Robina said. She took the boy by the hand, and they tripped off into the woods.

  Wyatt shook off his trance, said a few words to the gardener about getting the wheelbarrow back to the house, and followed them, guided by the sound of laughter and crackling bracken. He wondered how Robina would react if he put a sprig of mistletoe to its traditional use. The pleasant musing turned to apprehension when he discovered her climbing the giant oak, aiming for a mass of green leaves and white berries at a dangerous height.

  “Stop at once, Robina. You’ll fall.”

  “Never!” she cried. “You’re not getting me down from the tree this time.” He had no idea what she was talking about.

  His heart in his mouth, he watched her scramble up the broad trunk, out of his reach. A vision of Robina broken, even dead, on the woodland floor seared his brain. Suddenly, he couldn’t imagine life without her. She’d always been there, almost as long as he could remember.

  Even hampered by skirts and petticoats and a heavy cloak, she managed to reach her quest and started breaking off sprigs of mistletoe, tossing them to George on the ground, while holding on to the tree with her left hand in the most careless fashion. All he could do was plant himself at the foot of the tree, ready to catch her when she inevitably fell.

  “Is that enough?” she called.

  “Plenty,” Wyatt ground out. “Now come down. Very, very carefully. Better yet, wait, and I will come and fetch you.”

  “That’s a terrible idea. I’ve been climbing trees almost since I could walk, and I’ll wager I do it better than you. You’ve been wasting time in London while I practiced useful skills.” She leaned over and actually stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Don’t look down!”

  But she insisted on looking at him as she descended in admittedly tidy steps from branch to branch until she reached the smooth part of the trunk where there were no footholds. “I’m going to jump now,” she said, and she did.

  Her skirts betrayed her, catching a jagged stump where a low horizontal branch had broken away. She lurched to the ground, facing the tree, retaining her balance, and exposing an endless expanse of legs. The display of shapely stockinged calves, gartered just below the knee, sent a roar to his brain and blood to his breeches. He stared in a manner unbecoming of a gentleman at the wondrous sight. If he hadn’t already realized that Robina was a woman, he knew it now.

  She rearranged her skirts, veiling the glorious sight in layers of wool, and turned with a rueful twist of her mouth. He’d thought before he wouldn’t mind kissing her and wondered how he’d been such a fool not to notice then that she had luscious pink lips, easily the most kissable he’d ever laid eyes on in his life. Stepping forward without conscious thought, he would have acted on his impulse had blasted George not intruded again.

  “Well done, Miss Weston! What a splendid climber you are. Will you give me lessons?”

  “Of course I will, if you don’t mind taking instruction from a girl.”

  George bit his lip. “Let’s wait until the twins have gone up to the house, and they’ll never know.”

  What were they talking about? Was she mad? Of course she was.

  “You must never, ever do that again,” he blurted out.

  “Don’t be tedious, Wyatt. I shall climb the tallest tree on the estate, the tallest tree on the duke’s estate even, and you can’t stop me.”

  She called him Wyatt. She’d done so as a child, before he inherited his
father’s courtesy title, but now the name on her lips—her lips!—seemed delightfully intimate.

  He wanted to shake her until she saw sense then wrap her in his arms and kiss her senseless. For Robina Weston wasn’t just a beautiful woman, she was the woman he loved. The woman he wanted to marry so that he could possess her forever and make sure she never imperiled herself again.

  Given the stupendous nature of his discovery, he couldn’t believe she was unaware that she had just changed his life. She ought to know that they belonged together. Unfortunately, judging by the way she scowled at him, she didn’t share either his feelings or his rock-solid certainty that their destinies were entwined.

  When he tried to speak, his brain froze, and his mouth was full of chalk. He was back in Mrs. Madsen’s house without a thing to say. If he couldn’t speak, how the devil was he going to change her mind?

  Chapter Six

  ‡

  On their return from the greenery session, the family gathered for a nuncheon of cold meats, cakes, and hot chocolate, during which Wyatt confirmed that love had rendered him mute. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t as though he wanted to talk to Sybilla. He spent the meal staring at Robina, who carried on an animated discussion with the three younger boys about Christmas customs.

  Robina laughed heartily at jests that drew a raised eyebrow from their mama. She had a deft hand with youngsters, but then he had a feeling she could manage anyone. No wonder she was fearless about taking on the well-known Tartar Lady Halston. He’d even back her against the political intriguantes of Devonshire and Melbourne Houses.

  Wyatt caught himself mooning about celebrations at Bourton with their children and, better yet, dwelling on the conception of these offspring. He plotted how to get her to himself that afternoon. After such a strenuous morning, she would surely wish to rest. He certainly didn’t want her going out again and risking her health in the cold wind. Her eyes glowed almost green in a face flushed from healthy exercise. What he’d like was to get her alone in a room with a comfortable sofa and find out what it was like to kiss her. No conversation needed.

  “Wyatt!” Sybilla, rather sharply, demanded his attention.

  “I beg your pardon, Sybilla. Did you say something?”

  “I should like you to accompany me in the carriage this afternoon when I deliver baskets of food and wine to the estate workers and tenants.”

  “Surely Nolly should do that.” Then he’d dispose of the other boys, with bribery if necessary, leaving him in sole possession of the house and Robina.

  “Nolly isn’t here.” She cast him a reproachful look, and he realized he’d scarcely given a thought to the eldest Herbert, who was, after all, the reason for his presence. “It doesn’t matter. The tenants always have questions and complaints, and who better than Nolly’s trustee to answer them?”

  “Your land steward?”

  “I must insist, Wyatt.” She dropped her voice and placed her hand—mittened in pink lace this time—on his wrist. “I need you, and I would enjoy your company. I’ve hardly seen you today. There are so many matters on which I need your advice.” Her blue eyes were innocent, but he detected steel determination behind the apparent meekness.

  Sybilla, he realized, might claim to bow to his every wish, but she had a habit of getting her own way. He surrendered to his fate and climbed into the carriage beside her, casting a despairing glance at Robina and the boys, who were commencing a strenuous snowball fight. “Don’t climb any trees,” he yelled, but if she heard him, she didn’t acknowledge it by turning his way. She was too busy shaking snow out of her bonnet. He felt old and stuffy, one of the adults going off to do their duty, leaving the young people at play.

  “I do hope Miss Weston doesn’t let the boys get into trouble,” Sybilla said as they drove away.

  “I’m sure she’ll keep an eye on them, but it isn’t her responsibility.”

  “Since she is here, I asked her to stand in for the boys’ tutor.”

  “Good Lord, Sybilla. Robina isn’t a servant.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry if I misunderstood. She is on her way to become a lady’s companion, is she not? I thought she’d feel more comfortable if she had something to do.”

  “You are quite wrong.” He was about to scold her for treating his future bride so shabbily, but refrained. He’d been overconfident when he proposed before.

  “Later, we will call at the inn and see if the stagecoach is running tomorrow. Miss Weston must be anxious to be on her way.”

  “No need. I shall escort her to Yorkshire on Tuesday, after the assembly.”

  Sybilla tucked her hand into his arm. “Will you stand up with me? It will save me from melancholy thoughts of my poor dear Ernest, who was with me for last year’s ball. I know it’s less than a year, but I feel ready to dance again. It will raise my spirits, and I know Ernest would have wanted it.”

  Wyatt couldn’t argue with that. He’d never understood how Ernest, a cheerful and sensible fellow, had tied himself to such a clinging vine. Seduced by beauty, he supposed. Not like him, he thought smugly. Robina was lovely, but she was also bright, and he couldn’t imagine her clinging. Though under the right circumstances, clinging would be delectable. And rational too, when she wasn’t climbing trees and dashing off in stagecoaches. When they were married, he’d be able to curb those dangerous tendencies. “I will be honored to dance with you,” he said. “And with Miss Weston.”

  “Will Miss Weston come to the assembly?”

  “Why would she not?”

  “I wouldn’t think she’d have a suitable evening gown, and it is rumored that the duke is to attend. I mean it kindly, because I wouldn’t wish her to be uncomfortable.”

  Wyatt turned to look out at the snowy fields, shocked at Sibylla’s ill-nature. Her excuse was pure nonsense: A public country assembly was open to people of every station in life. Whatever did she have against Robina? A groom from The Duke’s Arms had delivered her bag that morning and collected the gig. Little used to paying attention to feminine garments, he worried that Robina wouldn’t be as finely gowned as she deserved. He noted Sibylla’s smart carriage dress, her sable tippet and matching muff, and thought of Robina in such an ensemble. He would enjoy lavishing such gifts on her. Jewels too. Those were calls on his precious time he wouldn’t begrudge. He made a mental list.

  1. Discover identity of best modiste in London.

  2. Buy betrothal ring.

  3. Inquire where women buy silk stockings…

  “Have I annoyed you?” Sybilla’s irritating little-girl voice broke into his vision of Robina’s legs.

  “I am sure that the daughter of Sir Richard Weston has a dress good enough for a country assembly, even if the Prince Regent himself was present.”

  And if she turned up in rags, it wouldn’t matter to him. For the first time in his life, he looked forward to a ball for the sheer pleasure of dancing.

  Chapter Seven

  ‡

  A fresh fall of wet snow overnight had the boys itching to go out. Robina wondered if Carbury would join them again. Their conversation yesterday had intrigued her. She’d never seen him so open. She’d teased him, and he hadn’t pokered up. Even the incident at the tree, infuriating because it epitomized his imperious pomposity, had pleased her a little, because he’d shown a care for her wellbeing. On the other hand, it had been over a silly matter, and she’d wanted to knock him over and make him roll in the snow until all his arrogance was washed away.

  “Why don’t you come with us, Lord Carbury?” she asked on impulse, when she and the three boys gathered in the hall, cloaked, gloved, and muffled to the tips of their ears.

  “Yesterday you called me Wyatt,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon. I reverted to childhood under the stress of the moment. The danger of being up a sturdy tree with an angry man yelling at me, you know.”

  “You’re not a child now.” He gave her a look she couldn’t read. Was he telling her she should continue to a
ddress him formally? Was this a snub at her impertinence, another scold? He glanced at Mrs. Herbert, who was having a word with her butler at the foot of the stairs. “I’ll fetch my coat.”

  The clouds had blown away, and cold sunlight glistened on the expanse of pristine snow covering a broad lawn that lay to the south of the house and the undulating valley beyond. Robina filled her lungs with clean air that seemed to sweep away a weight of care: grief for her father and anxiety about her future. Though nothing had changed, her spirits lightened with what felt like pure happiness. From the corner of her eye, she took in Wyatt, standing beside her, handsome and grave, surveying the same view. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “What could go wrong on a day like this?”

  Their eyes locked, and she felt something shimmer in the air between them, something frightening and wonderful.

  “It’ll be a clear night,” he said. “The almost full moon will make easy traveling for the assembly.” And she was left wondering if she had imagined the moment when the two of them were an island of warmth in a frozen landscape.

  The boys, with little regard for the majesty of untrodden snow, charged across the lawn, shouting and stumbling as they gathered snowballs and hurled them with varying degrees of accuracy. “Come on,” she said and ran after them, joining the fray. If Carbury wanted to be a stuffy old man, let him. She didn’t care a rap halfpenny if he thought her childish.

  A pitched battle formed, she and Johnnie side by side against Toby and George. The wet snow easily cohered into big missiles, and in short order all of them were thoroughly soaked. Leaning over to gather fresh ammunition, a fat one caught her in the back of the neck, seeping beneath her scarf. Her opponents were ahead of her, and her ally kept up his offensive barrage. She spun round to find Carbury, not six feet away, with a grin that made him look like a boy himself.

  “Who’s a child now?” she cried. Leaving nothing to chance, she ran at him and smashed her handful of snow right in his face. He lost his footing, fell backward, and she went with him, both laughing themselves into stitches.