The Mistletoe Duke

by Sabrina York

  “So who is this party for?”

  “Whom.”

  “Whom.” Honestly, she was so irritating at times.

  “Meg Chalmers, of course.”

  “Meg?” He didn’t boggle, but just barely. “She’s on the shelf.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he felt a hot tide creep up his cheeks. He was genuinely fond of Meg, and she was younger than him. It was a shame that society marked her as too old for marriage.

  His mother pinned him with a reproving glare he was certain he deserved. “She’s not yet four and twenty. I was older than that when I gave birth to you.”

  “You’re throwing a party to find a husband for your companion?”

  His mother batted her lashes. “I feel bad about what happened to her.”

  So did he, in point of fact.

  “Promise you will help.”

  Dear God. “Help? How can I help?”

  Her eyes lit up and she leaned closer. “You must invite your friends of course.” Her forehead wrinkled. “The decent ones.”

  “That is quite a presumption.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That I have decent friends.”

  “Oh.” She laughed, and then she sobered. “What about Bentley?”

  “Bentley?” He gaped at her. “Bentley is an inveterate gambler.”

  “Well, that’s no good. How about Exeter?”

  “He’s a sot.”

  “Lud, Jonathan. What kind of friends do you have?” She tapped her chin. “How about Moncrieff?”

  Moncrieff had a serious proclivity for trollops. Hardly the marrying kind, but he couldn’t tell his mother that, or he might be in danger of proving her point. “Let me think on it.”

  “You do that. And remember, it’s Meg. She’s practically family. She deserves someone nice. It was beastly what Cyril did to her.”

  Jonathan murmured something and nodded, but he didn’t mention the fact that this was the way of the world. Though he would never have done so, many men ousted the families of the previous lord when they claimed the title. It was not looked highly upon by the ton, but that didn’t stop it happening. “I’m just glad she had you to take her in, Mother,” he said.

  She grunted and stared at the fire. “Cyril should be flogged.”

  “Perhaps you can arrange a party for that.”

  “Perhaps I shall.” The gleam in her eye was a trifle alarming, so he decided to change the topic.

  “Where are the girls?”

  His mother took another sip. “Upstairs in bed, of course. It’s the middle of the night.”

  Not hardly. It was just past eleven.

  “They might be in Meg’s room, though.”

  “Meg’s room? Why would my daughters be sleeping in Meg’s room?”

  “Oh dear.” She sent him a rueful glance. “They might have run off another nanny.”

  Another nanny? Jonathan raked back his hair. “Might have?”

  “There was some talk of setting her boot on fire.”

  “That would do it.” He had no idea why he had to fight back a smile. “How many nannies is that?”

  “I’ve lost count. But, Jonathan, it’s not their fault.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Those girls need a mother. Nannies just won’t do for such high-spirited creatures.”

  “They have a father.”

  “Hmm.” She finished off her glass and re-poured. “A father who prefers to flitter about in London.”

  “I hardly flitter. For the past two months, I’ve been working straight through.” The parliamentary session had been endless.

  “My point exactly. They need a mother.”

  Blast. She had won that point after all.

  “Even though this party is for Meg, it wouldn’t hurt for you to assess some of the young ladies who are coming. Say you will.”

  Blast.

  But her expression was so compelling, he had to say yes. If only to get her to stop talking about it.

  After that major concession, he decided it would be wise to escape before she managed to pry any more from him. It was a skill at which she excelled. “I think I shall pop in on the girls, and then retire.”

  “You do that.” She nodded. “I will see you in the morning. Have a list for me then.”

  His brow wrinkled. “A list?”

  His mother sighed heavily. “Were you even listening to me?”

  “Of course I was listening. You didn’t mention a list.”

  “I hate when people don’t listen.”

  “Which list, Mother?”

  “The list of suitors for Meg, of course.”

  Ah. That. “I will work on it.”

  “You do that. Have it for me first thing.”

  He rose, bent to kiss her cheek once more, and then headed up the stairs. It took a moment at the landing to remember the way to the nursery. That was the trouble with having a house one rarely used. After a false start or two, he found the correct hallway and strolled through the dim corridor toward his daughters’ room.

  The door was open, so he heard the soft strains of a Brahm’s lullaby as he approached and a grin picked up the corners of his lips. He’d always loved Meg’s singing. Because he didn’t want her to stop, he lingered at the door, taking in the serene scene. She sat in a rocking chair by the fire with her hair down, holding a bundle of his progeny. It was impossible to tell which one in the shadows, but it hardly mattered. After the day he’d had, such peace was a balm. His heart swelled.

  He must have made a noise, because Meg stopped singing and turned to him. Even in the darkness, he saw her eyes widen and glow. Her lips quirked and she whispered, “You’re here.”

  He wasn’t sure why, but he had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. As though he’d stood here before, a thousand times, watching her hold his sleeping child. He had no idea why it caused his chest to ping. Had no idea why he liked the feeling. None at all.

  Chapter Two

  Meg held Vicca closer as she stared at Jonathan. It was wrong for her heart to launch into such a mad patter at the sight of him. She’d known he was coming—eventually. This was hardly a surprise. But she couldn’t help her reaction to him. She never could.

  The best she could do was feign nonchalance.

  For her, it had become an art form.

  When he stepped into the room and tiptoed to the hearth, she had to look away. Had there ever been a man so perfectly formed? His shoulders were broad, his hips slender, his face pure perfection. Like a Greek statue.

  He knelt on the carpet beside her and twined a finger around one of Vicca’s curls, but all Meg could think of was the heat that surrounded him, the scent of his rising cologne. Her mouth watered and she swallowed. It took a moment for her to regain her senses. It took an effort to send him a casual glance.

  “How was your journey?” she asked softly.

  He grinned, and the sight nearly blinded her. And good heavens. The stubble of his day beard made her weak. She tightened her hold on Vicca, to keep herself from petting him, so strong was his allure. It captured her on a visceral level.

  “Cold,” he said.

  “Oh yes.” She nodded. “It’s quite cold this year.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Weather having been dispensed with, the conversation eased into silence. For wont of a sane subject, Meg stared at the fire, but eventually, she had to speak. “Well, I should get Vicca back in bed.”

  Jonathan stood. “Let me.” And then, to her horror, he bent down and took his daughter from her arms. Everywhere he touched her, it burned.

  Her face burned as well. Thank heaven for the shadows.

  She watched as he carried Vicca to her bed and tucked her under the covers. Then, after kissing both his daughters on their foreheads, he turned, took Meg’s arm, and guided her from the room.

  Though the hall was lit only by the occasional lamp, it seemed as bright as daylight as they emerged. So when Jonathan pulled the door closed and turned to smile a
t her, she saw everything. The crinkle of his eyes, the raft of dimples on his cheek, the slight twitch of his nostrils.

  Fortunately, he seemed oblivious to her rapt attention, which gave her time to look elsewhere before he noticed her drooling. Her wrinkled skirt was a perfect foil for her fascination.

  His voice, when he spoke, rumbled through her being. “I understand they ran another one off.”

  Thank God for the humor in his tone. It shattered any silly thoughts she might have been harboring in this oddly intimate scenario. She leaned against the wall and looked up at him and affected a starchy tone. “They set her on fire.”

  He chuckled. “So I heard. Whatever will we do with them?”

  We? She loved that he’d said we. But still, “They are your problem, Your Grace.” She never called him that when they were private, though he’d been a duke since he was a boy, so he knew she was jesting.

  Indeed, he laughed. “I know you better than that. You adore those girls as much as I do.”

  “True.” She forced a gamine grin. “But they are not my problem, and we both know it. Perhaps, while you are here, you can be their governess.” She batted her lashes. It was a cheeky thing to do to a duke, but the situation called for cheeky.

  He paled. “Surely Mother has sent for another?”

  “I believe she directed Mawbry to do so. But there is always the possibility that…”

  “What?” He always hated when she trailed off.

  “Well, the help does talk. There is always the possibility that no one will take the post.” Again with the lashes. It was a ridiculous prospect, because who wouldn’t want to work for a duke? But it was amusing to watch the dismay cross his features. She patted him on his fine coat. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. You’ll make a wonderful governess. And I daresay they will not set you on fire.” And with that, she turned to head down the hall to her room.

  “Meg!” The tenor of his voice stopped her. That and the fact he’d said her name. She loved when he called her Meg.

  She turned and shot him a curious glance. “Yes?”

  “You will help. Won’t you? Until someone comes?”

  “You’re their father.”

  He sighed and raked his hair. “I cannot parent. Not like Tessa. Tessa was…wonderful”

  “It’s so easy. All you need to do is two things. First, be there, and second, love them. They are so lovable.”

  “They are, but…”

  Something in his voice caught her attention. Tugged at her heart. “What is it?”

  He raked back his hair. “Sometimes I can’t help feeling… guilty when I’m with them. It’s… Blast it all. It’s my fault their mother died.”

  “What nonsense. It’s not your fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have demanded a son.”

  Meg shook her head. “We both know Tessa wanted more children—”

  “That changes nothing. Tessa is gone—”

  “She’s not, Jonathan.” Meg put her hand on his. “She’s alive in those little girls. And they need you. They need their father.”

  He frowned. “Please say you’ll help.”

  He seemed so distraught, she had to relent. “Of course, Jonathan.” She waggled a finger so he would remember she was hardly a pushover. “But it would do you a world of good to spend more time with them. And it would be good for them as well. They miss their father.”

  “I miss them too.”

  Because the mood had shifted, she felt she could add, “And they need a mother.”

  He stared at her with those dark brown eyes, enrobed in thick lashes. Though she knew him well, she could not discern his thoughts and curiosity raged.

  “That’s what Mother says.”

  Meg chuckled. “I know. She says it to me daily.”

  He looked down and dug his boot into the poor unfortunate carpet. “That’s what this party is all about, you know.”

  She had to laugh. “Are you divining this just now? For someone like your mother, having an unmarried son—much less a duke—is akin to heresy.”

  He scrubbed his face with a palm. “I know.”

  “And a house party is an excellent opportunity to see how any young lady you might be considering will get on with Lizzie and Vicca. That is very important, you know.”

  “Most important.”

  “Of course.”

  His expression firmed, though she could see the humor glinting in his eye. “Because we’re friends, I feel I must warn you, though.”

  She tipped her head to the side. “Warn me? About what?”

  “This party isn’t to find a wife for me. Well, it is, probably. But Mother intends to find a husband for you as well.”

  Oh. Good heavens. Meg’s stomach clenched into a tight fist. “What?”

  Jonathan’s laugh rang along the hall. “You should see your face.”

  “I’d rather not. Oh my. What a disconcerting prospect. I’d been hoping to avoid the party altogether.”

  “I’m certain that will not happen. She’s even asked me to come up with a list of prospects.”

  “For me?” Oh horrors. Imagine marrying one of Jonathan’s friends… Seeing him—and his young new bride—socially. It would be hell on earth. “Why ever would she do that?”

  He sobered and fixed her with an intense look. “She loves you, Meg. She wants the best for you. We all do. You’re far too competent to waste your life as a companion. Or a governess.” He winked, to signal a jest, but it was lost on her, because his words had crushed her so completely.

  She nodded and whispered good night, let herself into the governess’s room adjacent to the nursery, and then closed the door on him.

  The man she loved, with every fiber of her being, thought her competent.

  Competent.

  Ah, lud.

  * * *

  Bloody hell.

  This was exactly why Jonathan hated making promises to his mother. She fully expected him to follow through. It was highly annoying.

  This he thought as he sat at the table in his suite the next morning, laboring over the list of potential suitors for Meg that Mother had demanded. He didn’t dare emerge without something.

  The trouble was, though he had a lot of fine friends, as he thought of them, not a single one was right for Meg.

  Fortnum was a nice enough chap, but he had no sense of humor and wouldn’t appreciate Meg’s wit. Giles was far too stern. And Rockingham was a smug son of a bitch who would never appreciate her. Walters was a good man, but he’d been severely wounded on the Continent and there was talk he could no longer procreate.

  Jonathan couldn’t, in good conscience, match her with a man who couldn’t give her children.

  Meg was wonderful with children.

  She deserved to have children.

  His frustration mounted as he ran through the prospects. Surely there was someone.

  And then it hit him.

  Manning.

  Richard Manning was tall, strong, and virile. Some would call him handsome, Jonathan supposed. He was well bred, wealthy, charming, and intelligent. He wasn’t a gambler and he didn’t drink overmuch. And he had mentioned to Jonathan that he was thinking of taking a wife.

  He would be perfect for Meg.

  So why, when he scratched that name onto the parchment, did his stomach sink? Why did Meg’s piquant smile flash before his eyes?

  He thrust these thoughts away and focused, and then added Aiden St. Clare, who was also handsome and clever, although not as wealthy. Meg wouldn’t mind that, would she? No. She’d never been overly concerned with luxury. And St. Clare could keep her in comfort.

  And then, there was Richard Hisdick. Hisdick was something of an intellectual—at least in his own mind. He wasn’t as good looking as Manning or St. Clare—he had an odd-shaped head, wiry hair, and had a tendency to lean a little to the left, but he was a pleasant enough chap when he wasn’t spouting off about one thing or another in a one-eyed pedantic rant. Jonathan quite enjoyed joustin
g with him and it was possible Meg might as well. She did have blue-stocking sensibilities after all.

  Once he had those three, other like fellows came to mind and he added them to the list. When he had seven, he determined his work was done, and a wash of relief rushed through him. He hadn’t expected finding a mate for Meg would be such a chore.

  But he was happy to do it. He was. He owed it to her. And to her brother George, who had been his friend.

  He had no idea why the task had made him slightly ill.

  Probably because of her reaction. When he’d told her of his mother’s plans, she’d been downright horrified. Her face had gone pallid, she’d turned round with barely a word and plodded to her room. Could it be that Meg had accepted spinsterhood? That she was happy being alone? That thought made him slightly ill as well. He couldn’t countenance it. Not someone like her, so full of life and joy. She deserved love. Deserved to be cossetted and cared for. She deserved to have someone.

  It was just the someones he had in mind that irked him.

  He had no idea why.

  With a sigh, he sanded and folded the list and stood, calling for Rodgers to come dress him for the day.

  As he made his way down the curving staircase, he heard cries from the library and, recognizing those voices, changed course. He pushed open the door to see his girls nestled at Meg’s feet, staring in rapt attention as she read to them in whispered tones. Her voice rose as she came to some climax in the book and the girls squealed.

  He couldn’t help but laugh.

  The second they heard the sound, they sprang to their feet, shrieked in delight, and charged him like Huns on the battlefield. He barely braced himself before they hit.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  He picked them up, one by one, and swung them around, and then called them by each other’s names, because he knew it delighted them to think he couldn’t tell them apart in their mischief. Although he knew which was which. He could see it in their eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked with a smile at Meg.

  “We’re reading,” she said primly, holding up a copy of The Swiss Family Robinson by Wyss.

  “Ah,” he said. “Adventure.”

  “On a tropical island!” Lizzie cried.