The Mistletoe Duke

by Sabrina York

  It wasn’t until very late that Meg stood, Susana with her, and said their good nights.

  Jonathan wanted, quite desperately, to follow. But he could hardly do that, so he stayed where he was and finished his hand. Christian and Hisdick wandered over to their table and co-opted some empty chairs, and the men—the only ones left in the room—gave up on cards and settled for a nice conversation. With whisky.

  Oh, it was all so pleasant.

  Until Mattingly said, “I say, Devon. Thank you for inviting me. I can’t tell you how taken I am with Miss Chalmers. Arsy yarsey, head over heels.”

  And something bitter shifted in Jonathan’s gut.

  “Oh, yes,” St. Clare said, with a glint in his eye. “She is lovely. Her brother was George Chalmers, yes? I remember him from Eton. Good sort.”

  His glass was empty. He cast around for a fresh bottle.

  “A shame what the new baron did to her,” Mattingly continued. “The least he could have done was see her settled.”

  St. Clare grinned. “Not that I’m complaining. She’s here for us now.”

  No. No, she wasn’t.

  “I plan to ask her for a waltz tomorrow night.” Mattingly was an annoying arse.

  “I will too.” Lovely. Now Hisdick was in the mix.

  Christian laughed. “It seems our Meg has some suitors,” he said, gouging Jonathan with an elbow. “No doubt she’ll be affianced by Christmas.”

  Where was the whisky? “Stafford! More whisky!”

  “I say, Devon, may I have your blessing?”

  He stilled and gaped at Mattingly. “What?”

  “Well, you’re her guardian, are you not?”

  He most definitely was not.

  “No, I want your blessing,” St. Clare insisted.

  “I’m not giving anyone my blessing,” he snapped. For Christ’s sake, what were they babbling about?

  “You have to. He has to, doesn’t he?” St. Clare asked plaintively.

  Christian shrugged. “Meg’s a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.”

  No, she couldn’t. Had they all gone stark raving mad? “Stafford!”

  To his surprise, it was not Stafford with a fresh bottle of whisky who appeared at his side. It was Rodgers, with no whisky in evidence. “Your Grace,” his valet said in a dour tone. But then, Rodgers was always dour.

  “Yes?”

  “May I speak with you?” He shot a glance around the table. “Privately?”

  “Of course.” And thank God. Jonathan had had about as much of this as he could take. If one more man asked him to proffer his blessings on a union with Meg, he might just snap.

  He nodded to his friends and rose, following Rodgers into the foyer. “What is it?”

  “There is, ahem, a problem with your chambers, sir.”

  Jonathan frowned. “A problem?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, inasmuch as they are not…empty, sir.”

  A little flare of excitement rose in his chest. “Is it Meg Chalmers?” Had she somehow gotten the brilliant idea to meet him in his rooms?

  Rodgers reared back. His eyes bugged out, making him look a touch like Mawbry. “Good God, no.”

  He had no idea why he asked. Clearly he had not been thinking.

  “It’s Miss Peck, sir.” A whisper.

  Miss Peck? Holy hell. “Well, what is she doing in there?”

  His valet looked discomfited. “Sleeping, sir?”

  “Sleeping? In my chambers?”

  “Apparently you took too long to come to bed and she nodded off. I went to turn down the bed and it was…occupied. I came to find you at once.”

  “Good man.” Jonathan clapped him on the shoulders and made a mental note to give his valet a raise. “But what do we do about this?” He had to ask. He had no earthly clue. One thing was for certain, he wasn’t going to that room tonight.

  “If I may make a suggestion, sir?”

  “Please do.”

  “Shall I inform the dowager?”

  “Oh. An excellent suggestion.” Let Mother deal with this. “And can you make up a room next to Christian’s for me?” It wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra protection.

  “At once, sir.”

  Rodgers melted away and Jonathan took a moment to massage the bridge of his nose. What had he been thinking, coming to a house party filled to the gills with predators?

  The answer was clear.

  He had not been. Thinking. Not at all.

  It seemed to be an ongoing condition of late.

  And it continued when, after a few more drinks with his friends, he trudged up the stairs and had the wild notion of going to Meg’s room to finish their conversation. Before he had a moment to reconsider such insanity, he turned left instead of right at the landing and made for the governess’s chambers.

  It was right next to his daughters’ room, poorly sited for a seduction, but it was his only intention to talk to her. Right?

  He scratched at the door, pulse trilling as he waited for her to answer. It seemed to take forever. Finally, he heard a rustling and soft feminine footsteps nearing the door. His heart thudded in his chest and—

  The door opened and a young woman peered out at him through the crack. She wore a mobcap and a lawn nightdress and her eyes widened at the sight of him. She was definitely not Meg.

  His mood deflated.

  “Your Grace?” she whispered. “Is something wrong?”

  “Ah… no. Miss…?”

  “Miss Ainsley.” Ah yes. Susana’s bloody governess. Why hadn’t he realized Meg would have changed rooms when a real nanny had arrived? But where would she have gone? Blast it all to hell that his house was so large. He could hardly go scratching at fifty doors looking for her.

  Blast and drat.

  But Miss Ainsley was staring at him. He had to say something. He certainly couldn’t ask where Meg was sleeping. That wouldn’t be proper in the slightest. “I…ah, was wondering how my daughters are doing.” All right. That would work.

  The tension in her face melted away and she smiled. He realized she was quite pretty when she wasn’t horror-struck to find a duke at her door in the middle of the night.

  “Oh, Your Grace. They are fine. We had our own little party in the nursery tonight. They dressed up and wore tiaras and everything. They do love their tiaras. It’s so nice to have girls for a bit,” she added shyly. “Not that I don’t love the boys, but it’s a whole different thing with girls, you know?”

  He nodded though he had no earthly clue. “Very good,” he said in his dukiest voice. “Please know we’d like the children to attend the musicale tomorrow at two.” A brilliant idea, because having his girls there would provide him the opportunity to shield himself from the predators.

  Miss Ainsley nodded. “Would you like them to perform?”

  A wicked smile curled on his lips. Subject his onerous guests to his daughters’ caterwauling? “Yes, please.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  He nodded to her and turned away, but then had another thought. “And Miss Ainsley?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Let’s have them wear those tiaras, shall we?”

  Chapter Eight

  Meg awoke well rested the next morning, which was a minor miracle, because she and Susana had stayed up half the night talking. She was also excited for the day. The dowager had asked her perform at the musicale that afternoon, but she hadn’t decided yet what she might sing. So she was thrilled when Vicca and Lizzie burst into her room and jumped on her bed, announcing they were to sing as well and could they please do a trio?

  The girls were followed by Susana, who had a wide smile on her face. “Good morning,” she said as she plopped down on the bed as well. “I suppose you’ve heard the news. The girls are to sing this afternoon.”

  “And we’re to wear our tiaras!” Vicca crowed.

  Lizzie bounced up and down, chanting, “Tiaras, tiaras, tiaras!”

  “How lovely.” Meg sat up and s
ettled against the pillows. “I would love to sing with you.” They did so many times in Devon, though usually not for an audience. “What would you like to sing?”

  “Ave Maria,” Lizzie suggested, but Vicca made a face.

  “That’s not Christmassy enough.”

  “Does it need to be Christmassy?” Susana asked.

  The girls stared at her as though she’d sprouted a second nose. Or a third.

  “Of course it does,” Vicca said. “But Ave Maria isn’t in English, and the guests might not understand the words.” Meg nodded, though she knew the truth. Vicca simply didn’t care for all the high notes. The minx scrunched up her adorable face and said, “I think we should sing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Yes. Both of them could hit all those notes.

  “I like that idea,” Meg said. “Because you two are angels.”

  “Mama is an angel,” Vicca corrected her. “We are girls.”

  “But we could sing it for Mama,” Lizzie suggested.

  Meg nodded, trying to ignore the tears prickling her eyes. “I think that is a wonderful sentiment.” Tessa would love it.

  “There we go. It’s decided.” Susana was nothing if not all business. “Now, let’s go practice.”

  “Aren’t the boys going to sing too?” Vicca asked, as Susana bundled them out so Meg could dress.

  “No one thinks that’s a good idea,” Susan said starchily, and both Vicca and Lizzie chortled. Because everyone knew boys couldn’t sing.

  * * *

  Jonathan searched for Meg all morning to no avail. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say to her—surely it wasn’t to ask where her room was—but he knew he needed to see her. His desperation was stoked by the fact that Mattingly, St. Clare, and Hisdick were apparently searching for her as well.

  They found him in the salon at breakfast and hounded him about how beautiful and charming she was, and how she would make a perfect society wife, until his hair wanted to stand on end.

  She was beautiful and charming and would make a perfect society wife. All that was true. What irked him was that he hadn’t been able to stake his claim and his soul howled to think one of them might get to her first and convince her he was the man for her.

  He wasn’t. He never would be.

  She was his.

  If only he could claim her.

  To his utter and complete consternation, he didn’t see her again until he wandered into the salon after lunch for the musicale. She stood at the piano, going over music with Susana, but the room was so crowded by then, it would be impossible to have a private conversation.

  To make matters worse, Cicely Peck found him and grasped his arm and insisted on sitting with him. Louisa Mountbatten took the seat at his other side.

  He felt somewhat like a reluctant kitten being petted by two overzealous girls.

  When Meg met his gaze and smiled, he sent her a help me look, but it only made her smile more. Clearly there was no help from that quarter.

  Nor was his mother willing to help, when he sent her the same look. Nor his sister.

  He was a duke, for Christ’s sake. How was he not in control of the situation?

  But he was not. He was forced to sit there in a wholly uncomfortable chair and listen to the musicale. And there was no whisky to be found.

  Whose idea had it been to serve nothing but lemonade? They should be shot.

  Also—he determined moments later when Charlotte Everton sat at the piano—whomever had selected the performers should be shot.

  Or perhaps he should be shot. It might save time and misery.

  There was one sure thing that could be said about Miss Everton’s playing. She definitely hit the keys. Pity she hit more than Bach had intended. Often, at the same time.

  It was an effort not to wince as she butchered one of his favorites.

  He clapped when she was done.

  Because she was done.

  But he shouldn’t have been so happy to see her exit the stage, because Glorianna Pickering was up next with a curious rendition of “When Daisies Pied”. For a girl who was not inclined to speak, she could certainly screech. Her cuckoos were excruciating.

  Fortunately, it was a shortish song and over soon.

  Which led to Louisa Mountbatten’s harp solo, some obscure baroque piece that, apparently, required an introduction longer than the actual song. When she returned to her seat, she gifted him with a beaming smile. “Quite lovely,” he assured her when she asked.

  It probably had been.

  At least she’d hit the notes.

  Cicely Peck was not to be outdone. After Miss Mountbatten’s apparent triumph—hitting all the notes and all—she sprang to her feet and pushed her way to the piano, where Susana was preparing to play. There was a hushed discussion between them—Jonathan only caught a few words—but the jist of it was Cicely wasn’t on the program, but she insisted on performing anyway. Naturally, Susana being the gentlewoman that she was, only snarled a little bit before giving over.

  After which, Miss Peck played the piano and sang a song about the joys of motherhood that Jonathan suspected she’d written herself.

  It was a relief when Susana reclaimed the piano when Miss Peck finished, playing a Beethoven sonata—and playing it flawlessly. Though everyone had clapped for everyone, the applause for his sister was infinitely more sincere.

  Thank God, it said. Someone who can actually play.

  The next act was also the finale. Or, as it was called in the halls of Whites, the Finally.

  Jonathan was surprised to see his daughters appear, in lovely dresses—and tiaras. He didn’t know why he was surprised. He’d asked for them to perform. But that had been hours ago. Weeks, if one accounted for the torment of the last few sets.

  The crowd oohed and awed and clapped as they took their places, and then Susana began to play. Ah. A Christmas song. How lovely. His girls sang the first verse of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” in a charming soprano, which was delightful.

  Granted, they were his daughters. He was supposed to find them delightful, but the audience seemed to agree.

  What they didn’t expect—what no one expected—what that they would be joined for the second verse by Meg.

  Jonathan had heard Meg sing before. She had a beautiful voice that was rich and full. She sang the second verse by herself and then, the three joined their voices for a three-part harmony that gave him chills.

  When the last note faded away, he leaped to his feet and applauded madly, barely aware that everyone else did the same—of course, Cicely Peck waited to see what everyone was doing before she joined in.

  “Encore! Encore” Someone shouted. Jonathan suspected it was Hisdick.

  Vicca grinned as she and Lizzie bowed. “That’s the only song we practiced,” she said with a cheeky smile.

  “But Meg knows more. Sing the Italian one, Meg,” she urged.

  Naturally, Meg flushed and shook her head, but the crowd would not let her off the hook.

  Silence settled, save Cicely’s snort, as Meg prepared.

  When she opened her mouth and began to sing—his favorite aria as it happened, Voi che sapete from Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro, each perfect note wafted through the room like a heavenly air. He sat, spellbound, with the others, as she created magic with her voice in a stunning soprano. As she finished, the room was hushed, then rocked with hurrahs and bravissimos. Everyone rushed her to congratulate her, which was annoying, because he couldn’t reach her.

  But his daughters, worming their way through the crowd, found him and hopped on his lap. Together. “Did you like our song, Papa?” Vicca asked.

  “It was exquisite,” he said, kissing them both on the forehead. They beamed and his heart warmed.

  “Oh,” Cicely said in a syrupy voice at his side. “Are these your daughters?”

  “Yes. This is Victoria, and this little darling is Elizabeth.”

  “We’re named for queens,” they informed her.

  “Isn’t that swee
t. How long did you have to practice?”

  Lizzie made a face. “All morning.”

  Ah. That must be where Meg had been. He should have known.

  “Well, your song was lovely,” Louisa put in from the other side of him. “How old are you?”

  The girls held up five fingers each.

  “That was quite impressive for five.” She was something of a chatterbox, but Jonathan had to admit, Louisa had a more natural way about her with the girls than Cicely, whose demeanor made him wonder if his daughters were sticky. “Shall we go celebrate with lemonade and cakes?” she asked.

  The girls looked to him and when he nodded, shouted hurrah!

  “Aren’t they darling?” Cicely asked as Louisa led the girls to the refreshment table in the corner.

  He shrugged, keeping his eye on the trio. “I’m partial. But isn’t Louisa wonderful with them?” He wasn’t sure why he said this, but was glad he had when Cicely gasped, leapt to her feet, and practically ran to catch up.

  Excellent.

  Time to escape.

  He could talk to Meg later, when she wasn’t surrounded by slavering dogs.

  Before anyone could intercept him, he slipped out of the salon and made his way to the library, and the waiting decanter of whisky.

  He’d definitely earned a drink.

  * * *

  The last thing Meg expected, after her performance, was to be surrounded by all the guests and be gushed over as she was. It took quite some time to thank them all. Long enough for her to recover from her embarrassment at the fuss they made. When it was over, she was exceedingly warm, thirsty, and tired. Certainly ready to escape, although Hisdick, Mattingly, and St. Clare seemed inclined to follow her wherever she went.

  Fortunately, there was one place they could not follow, so she headed to the water closet. She stayed there for a long time, until she was certain they were gone.

  When she peeped out to find herself alone, she breathed a sigh of relief and vowed never to sing before a crowd again.

  She knew that after the musicale, a tour of the conservatory was planned, so she didn’t head there. Rather she sneaked off to her favorite room in the house, the library.