Unlaced At Christmas. Elizabeth Rolls

      ‘You were humming in the kitchen just a while ago. And as you combed your son’s hair.’ He smiled fondly at her. ‘You have a fine voice. I do not suppose you have a pianoforte or a spinet?’

      ‘I am sorry, Your Grace, but no.’ It was not precisely too dear for the budget, but she had not thought, since John had died, to spend on such an extravagance.

      ‘A pity. I suspect that we would sing quite nicely together, should we attempt it.’

      He must mean the four of them. What else could he mean? But for a brief, irrational moment, she imagined a duet. What was it about the man that made her so foolish? There was nothing in his manner or his words that was provocative, but she could not seem to stop seeking a hidden meaning in them.

      It was a good thing that he would be gone in a day or two. If Gwen rebuffed his offer, what reason would he have to remain? And if he did, what was she to feed him? He had demolished the better part of the roast and taken a second helping of the tart, as well. She was unused to a having a man with a hearty appetite under her roof.

      Her thoughts strayed back to appetites of a different sort and she stifled them behind a tight, hospitable smile. ‘But tonight you are likely too tired after your long ride to visit us.’

      He smiled back at her, in no way encumbered by dark thoughts. ‘Not so very tired that I would not enjoy the port I see on the sideboard and some conversation before the fire in the parlour,’ he said.

      Here was another problem. ‘I am sorry, Your Grace. Of late, we’ve had to retire early because of the cold. We cannot seem to get the chimney in the parlour to draw. Until I can find a man from the village to see to it...’

      He stood and spread his arms wide. ‘You have a man here, Mrs Marsh. Let us go and have a look.’

      ‘But, Your Grace...’ At moments like this, there was nothing genteel about the poverty they lived in. It was humiliating. And it made her fantasies about the duke all the more ridiculous.

      But again, he did not seem bothered by their circumstances. ‘Please, I will hear no spurious arguments about my rank, my dear Mrs Marsh. What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not offer aid to a lady in distress? Lead me to the problem and I shall endeavour to fix it.’

      As Mrs Jordan hurried ahead of them with a taper, the family retired to their best room, which was dark despite being in the centre of the house. Once lit, it was cheerful enough, but unwelcoming because of the cold. Thank the Lord and the housekeeper that the hearth was clean. The Duke of Montford was on his knees in an instant, strong body half inside the fireplace, his head disappearing up the chimney. A hand appeared, waving a vague gesture into the room. Then came his deep voice, amplified by the chimney. ‘Hold the candle close, boy. I can almost see the problem, but I need more light.’

      For once, Benjamin did as he was told and stood like a loyal squire, holding the light and passing the poker that was requested as Montford mumbled about a stuck flue.

      The women held their breath.

      There was a screech of rusted metal, a satisfying thunk and a trickle of soot as the flue returned to its proper setting.

      ‘There.’ Montford backed out of the opening, replacing the poker in the rack and reaching for a handkerchief to wipe his hands and knees. ‘We will have a fire laid in no time and the room shall be warm as toast. It was a simple thing to remedy. It needed only a long arm and a moderate amount of muscle....’

      And then, Benjamin’s good behaviour, which was a precarious thing at best, collapsed under a temptation too great to ignore. He kicked the kneeling peer in the seat of his breeches and shouted, ‘Hot cockles!’

      The poor man started forward, banging his head into the brick. Another shower of soot fell from above, darkening his face and shoulders.

      To compound Generva’s mortification, her beautiful daughter, who had been weeping steadily for a week, took one look at the situation and stifled a giggle. And then another. If she was not removed from the room immediately, they might grow from titters to laughs and sink them all.

      ‘Go,’ Generva said, in an angry whisper that seemed to fill the room. ‘Go! Both of you.’ She glared at Gwen. ‘Put him to bed and then go back to your room. Or I swear...’

      From the floor behind her came a congenial call of, ‘Goodnight, Miss Marsh. And you as well, you snot-nosed ruffian. I will deal with you later.’

       Chapter Five

      In Montford’s opinion, there was nothing quite like a social disaster to guarantee a pleasant evening. In an effort to please him, the hostess’s nerves were usually strung as tightly as the wires on a pianoforte. Just as Generva Marsh had been when they’d been at table.

      The food had been excellent. The children had been clean and polite. The lady of the house had taken extra care with her own toilette and donned a gown of burgundy satin, cut low enough to show the freckles on her shoulders and bosom and to leave her shivering in the chill air of the dining room. Was any room but the kitchen ever truly warm in December?

      She had dressed her hair as well, with worked gold pins that were probably the pride of a limited jewellery box. Captain Marsh had been a loving husband, but unsuccessful in taking prizes, if this was all he could manage for those dark brown curls.

      It was a joy to look at her. But it seemed that would be the only pleasure of the evening. The conversation was stilted and dull. Master Ben was presented with a heaping plate so that he might be too busy to speak wrong. And it was clear, from her wary eyes and stubborn chin, that Miss Marsh was not the least bit interested in his solution to her disgrace. Out of courtesy, he had done his best to engage her in conversation and she had resisted at every turn.

      It was just as well. If she changed her mind tomorrow, he’d have to keep his word and marry her. But when he looked at her, he felt nothing more than polite curiosity. It did not bode well for a possible marriage between them.

      Especially since he could not seem to stop staring at her mother. Generva was not a memorable beauty, as his first wife had been, but she was quite lovely. Nor was she as witty as his second wife, though she was more than clever enough to suit him. More important, she had suffered both pain and hardship and was still very much alive. Wit and beauty had been transient things when compared with the rigours of childbirth. But Generva had faced them twice already and survived. In fact, she seemed to have thrived.

      And now that all hell had broken loose in the parlour, he would have her all to himself.

      She shooed the children away, then handed him a blanket for his shoulders and insisted that he remove his coat so that the housekeeper could brush the coal dust from it before it was ruined.

      He kept it long enough to lay a fire for them, then did as he was bidden. By the whispering of the two women, it was only propriety that kept them from demanding he surrender his breeches for cleaning, as well. They would likely disappear in the night and be clean in the morning, just as the coat had when the housekeeper left.

      ‘I am sorry.’ The words were out of Generva’s mouth before the door could latch.

      Generva. It was a fine name. He looked forward to using it often, rolling it around in his mouth like a fine wine. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

      ‘My family behaved disgracefully.’ She was not wringing her hands, as some women might, but stood tall, like a young officer on the deck of her husband’s ship, waiting to be dressed down.

      ‘All families do, at one time or other. It is my nephew’s terrible behaviour that brought me to you.’ He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief.

      ‘At least he did not kick anyone in the ar—the bottom,’ she amended. ‘Here. Allow me.’ She pushed him towards a seat by the fire and took the handkerchief from him, dabbing carefully at his face.

      He