Christmas With The Duchess. Tamara Lejeune

was in danger of disappearing altogether amongst the folds of white flesh.

      For her part, Lady Harriet looked about the same. But then, she had no husband or children to make her fat or give her worry lines, Lady Susan reminded herself, seething with resentment. Harriet lived year-round in luxury at Warwick Palace with other people’s servants at her beck and call while Susan was forced to spend her own money on her own establishment. So unfair! The quizzing glass was withdrawn.

      “I trust the India Suite has been made ready for us,” Lady Susan said aloud, in a tone more suitable for addressing one’s housekeeper than one’s sister.

      “You do look very tired, Sister,” Lady Harriet said with sweet malice. “I know how you like to rest after a journey. However, I fear I cannot oblige you with regards to the India Suite. Her grace occupies it currently, as she always does when she is at home.”

      Lady Susan was taken aback.

      “The duchess is here?” she snarled. “That shameless hussy! That—that Jezebel!”

      “Where?” cried the general.

      Lady Susan ignored him as he barked at his own little joke. “How could you let this happen, Harriet? You should have sent the hounds after her.”

      “She has dower rights, Susan,” Lady Harriet calmly replied.

      “To be sure, she has dower rights,” replied Lady Susan. “But that doesn’t give her the right to descend upon us any time she pleases!”

      “Of course it does, you half-wit,” Lady Harriet said impatiently.

      “You should have informed me, Sister,” Lady Susan insisted. “I would have put a stop to her insolence. I would have sent the strumpet on her way.”

      Lady Harriet looked innocent. “You mean you didn’t get my letter? How strange!”

      Lady Susan glared at her, recognizing that her own favorite ploy had been used against her. “Very strange indeed, Sister!”

      “You women and your letters!” scoffed General Bellamy. “Will you never learn to address them properly? The postman is not a mind reader, you know.”

      “Carstairs will show you to your apartment,” Lady Harriet said smoothly, beckoning for the butler. “I’ve put you in Poland.”

      Lady Susan was incensed. “Poland? Poland! You will not put me in Poland, I promise you! Do you hear me, Harriet?” she roared, bustling after her sister as the latter quietly withdrew up the stairs. “I will not be treated like this.”

      Left to his own devices, General Bellamy scurried off to meet a certain wide-hipped brunette for a quick tryst in the linen cupboard.

      “If you won’t listen to my advice, Emma, there’s nothing I can do,” Otto was saying at that moment in Emma’s sitting room. “You refuse to make the slightest effort at civility?”

      “I do,” Emma said mulishly. “If I had milk for blood, I might do as you ask.”

      “So be it,” Otto said, climbing to his feet. “Well, I certainly don’t intend to sit here all day listening to you complain!” he added. “Send for me the instant Lord Hugh arrives.”

      “Why?” Emma said crossly. “I’m perfectly capable of dealing with him.”

      “You will do nothing of the sort,” he said sharply. “I will deal with him. Cecily, will you come and get me when Lord Hugh arrives? He is expected this afternoon by four o’clock.”

      “Don’t you trust me, Otto?” Emma taunted him.

      “No. Cecily?”

      “Yes, Otto,” Cecily said obediently. “I will come and get you directly he arrives.”

      When he had gone, Cecily tidied up his newspapers. “Poor Otto!” she said. “You must forgive him, Emma, if he seems a little impatient. He has not been to my bed since Amelia was born. I fear the deprivation has made him…irritable.”

      “Let him be irritable.”

      Cecily sank into her chair. “But, Emma! I feel so guilty.”

      “Cecily, it would be a great danger to your health to get pregnant again so soon. You must heed the physician’s advice.”

      “I’m afraid the Duke of Chilton does not care about my health,” Cecily said, her voice beginning to tremble.

      “My father is an ass,” Emma said stoutly.

      “If I don’t give him a grandson soon, he will force Otto to divorce me and marry someone else. Your father hates me,” she added, shivering.

      “But my brother loves you,” Emma told her firmly. “The days of my father forcing Otto to do anything are long gone, I can assure you.”

      “That is what Otto says,” Cecily answered, chewing nervously at her bottom lip. “Oh, why can I not have a boy? It’s not as though I mean to have daughters instead of sons. I don’t do it on purpose, as your father seems to think.”

      “My dear Cecily! You mustn’t let my stupid, antiquated father and his stupid, antiquated notions make you so anxious. The surgeons are all agreed that you must have a nice long rest before you try again.”

      Cecily’s round brown eyes filled with tears and the tip of her snub nose turned pink. “Otto has been so kind and patient with me. But, Emma, I fear he will seek the affection of other women.”

      “No, indeed,” Emma scoffed. “Otto is not like other men. He prides himself on being faithful to you. And he has steely self-control. Frightening amounts of self-control. You worry for nothing.”

      “I don’t know how you put up with Warwick’s philandering all those years,” said Cecily. “It would have destroyed me.”

      “Ah, but I didn’t put up with it,” Emma said, with a faint laugh. “I retaliated by taking lovers of my own. When he died, we had not slept in the same bed in years. We had become almost strangers. We had quite a typical Society marriage, in fact—until he fell out of Mary Bellingham’s window. That was singular, I admit. Can you imagine Otto falling out of a window? Believe me, Cecily, you have nothing to worry about. Otto Grey is a man without fault. I think he must have refused them all at birth, which explains, perhaps, why Colin and I have so many. All the seven deadlies, and a few of our own invention besides.”

      “He is without fault. Oh, I must sound so ungrateful,” Cecily fretted. “I know I am fortunate in my husband. If I could just have a son—! Then everything would be perfect.”

      “My dear Cecily—”

      “No more,” said Cecily, with a resolute smile. “I am done whining. Enough!”

      She picked up her knitting. Her needles clicked. The fire crackled. After a moment, Emma took up a book and settled back into the window seat. The cloisonné clock on the mantel began to strike ten, startling the two ladies. At almost the same time, there was a scratching at the door.

      “Enter,” Emma called out.

      “I nearly forgot,” said Cecily, setting aside her knitting. “I told Aleta she could play for you after her German lesson. That must be her now.” She froze suddenly. “Of, course, if you’d rather not—” she stammered. “If it will remind you too much of Harry and Grey—”

      “Nonsense,” said Emma. “Harry and Grey are not musical in the least. I should love to hear Aleta play.” Climbing to her feet, she closed her book as an austerely clad governess came into the room leading a tall, slender child with a mop of black hair and enormous, dark eyes.

      At a nod from her governess, Lady Aleta Grey curtsied. “Guten Morgen, Mama. Guten Morgen, Tante Emma.”

      Emma smiled at her warmly. “Guten Morgen, liebchen.”

      The child stared in agonized ignorance