Unlaced At Christmas: The Christmas Duchess / Russian Winter Nights / A Shocking Proposition. Elizabeth Rolls
aside. ‘I went to some trouble procuring it to allow for the Christmas Day wedding your daughter desired.’
‘Well, you can unprocure it. It is not needed. Take it to London, or take it to the devil for all I care. But it and you are not welcome in this house.’
What had Tom done now? When he had realised that he was likely to die childless, Montford had informed the young man of his future and offered advice and guidance. In response, his heir had announced that he was of age and past the point where he need seek approval of his decisions. He would do just as he pleased, now, and at such time as the title fell to him.
It was just what Montford feared most. He calmed himself, for there was no reason to fan the flames. ‘Please, madam, enlighten me. Was there an estrangement of some kind that might still be mended?’
To this, she did nothing but laugh. ‘Estrangement? No, why should there be? Everything was as right as rain until the third reading of the banns. There was a disturbance in the church. An objection,’ she said with a dark look.
‘Who could possibly object, if I did not?’ he said, equally surprised.
‘You nephew’s wife seemed to think she had the right,’ Mrs Marsh replied, wiping her hands upon her apron as though she had touched something distasteful. ‘His Scottish wife. His pregnant Scottish wife. If you wish to meet your next duchess, I suggest you go to Aberdeen.’
The duke dropped the broom and sat down in the chair, for the moment as overwhelmed as the housewife.
She stood over him, clearly unwilling to give way. ‘We will have to return to that church on Christmas morning for services. There will be no wedding, of course. Just shame and embarrassment, and the gossip from the congregation. We are already the talk of the High Street. It is likely to get much worse as more people learn of it.’ She waved an arm around the house. ‘Here am I with the larders full of dainties, a wedding cake already baked and a daughter locked in her room who will not stop weeping.’
It was worse than he could have imagined. He would not reject a Scottish bride, or a child born barely to the right side of the blanket. But he could not allow the title to fall to a man who would flirt with bigamy as a solution to an awkward first marriage. ‘And I suppose your daughter is compromised,’ he said gloomily.
‘How dare you, Your Grace.’ Mrs Marsh grabbed for the broom again, and he snatched it out of her reach. ‘Perhaps things are different in London, where chaperones are easily duped. But I know better than to allow my only daughter to be alone in the company of a gentleman, no matter how august his family connections. I did not allow so much as a kiss to pass between them.’
He held up the hand that did not already hold a broom. ‘My apologies, my dear Mrs Marsh. My statement has more to do with my knowledge of my heir than your lovely daughter. The boy is a moron in most things, but can be sly when it is least convenient. I find it hard to believe that he did not at least attempt...’
‘Of course he attempted,’ she said with a frown. ‘But I am a very light sleeper.’ She looked significantly at the broom in his hand and smiled as though reliving a fond and violent memory.
‘Very well, then.’ He sighed with relief. ‘All is not lost.’
‘So you say,’ she said with a huff. ‘The truth will not matter, when all is said and done. Gentlemen of good family are unlikely to take my word for her virtue. What mother would not lie if she felt her daughter’s happiness was at stake? They will assume the worst. No man will want her now that she is notorious.’
She was right, of course. It was a disaster for the Marsh family and a black mark on his own. A greater calamity lay ahead. Since he would be dead when his nephew took the coronet, there would be no way he could clean up the future messes that were made, as he would with this.
It was not fair. He thought of the row of graves in the family cemetery, two large and two small. He had vowed that there would be no third attempt to get a son of his own.
Now it seemed there was no choice.
When he spoke, it was slowly and with some care. ‘I cannot mend a broken heart. But I think there is a solution that will solve all other problems to your satisfaction. If you would do me the honour of allowing me to pay court to your daughter, I will make an offer and marry her myself, assuming she is agreeable to it.’
Generva sat on the bench opposite him and tried to catch her breath. His strange announcement took the air from her lungs as effectively as a blow from the broom. When she could gather her wits sufficiently to respond, she said, ‘You cannot be serious.’
The duke gave her another thoughtful look. ‘I do not see why not.’
‘You have not even met the girl, for one thing.’ While it would solve the problem of Gwen’s reputation, total strangers did not simply step in and offer, as if they were helping the girl over a stile on the walk to church.
‘But I am acquainted with her mother,’ he said, smiling reasonably. ‘A very limited acquaintance, perhaps.’
She shook her head, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Striking you with a broom is hardly a proper introduction.’
‘Then allow me.’ He stood and bowed to her. ‘I am Thomas Kanner, Duke of Montford.’ He smiled again. ‘There are other, lesser titles, of course. I’d have given one to young Tom on the occasion of his marriage. Your daughter would have been Lady Kanner.’ The smile tightened. ‘But under the circumstances, I think not.’
‘But if she marries you, she will be...’ Generva’s breath caught in her lungs again.
‘The Duchess of Montford.’ He was helping again. She imagined his arm at her elbow, lifting her over the stile.
‘Duchess of Montford,’ she repeated. It was a coup. Everything that a mother could wish for her daughter. Why was she not instantly happy at the thought?
‘Now that we are likely to be family, I see no reason that you might not call me Thomas, Mrs Marsh.’
There was one very obvious reason. She could not dare call him Thomas because he was the Duke of Montford. She was just getting used to the fact that she would call him His Grace. She had never met a duke, nor had she expected to. When Tom Kanner had begun to pay court on Gwen, he had made it clear that his most important relative was both distant and disapproving. They communicated in writing, if at all. When the Marshes finally saw the great man, it was likely to be at his funeral, after Tom had taken the title for himself.
Now here he was in her kitchen, with a broom straw still stuck in his hair from the assault she had waged on his person.
‘Mrs Marsh?’ he said, leaning a little closer to her. He waved a hand in front of her eyes, as though attempting to wake her from a trance.
‘You may call me Generva,’ she said weakly.
‘That is a lovely name,’ he replied. ‘As is—’ he shot a surreptitious glance at the special licence on the table ‘—Gwendolyn.’
She started. A licence. ‘You would need to go back to London for another licence. Or wait the three weeks to have the banns read...’
‘We could simply use this one.’ He pushed the paper towards her. ‘My nephew and I share a name.’ He glanced at the paper. ‘My title is not on the licence, of course. But there is some space left on the line. I will take up a quill, wedge it in the gap and sign properly at the bottom. Then the wedding can go on, just as planned.’
‘That could not be legal,’ Generva said with a frown.
‘If propriety concerns you, I will sleep at the inn until such a time as we can travel down to London and procure another licence. We will marry again, quietly, in the new year.’
‘At the Fox’s Tail?