I’ll take that winter from your lips, fair lady.
—William Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, IV, v
Bother! was Margaret’s unspoken thought as the train’s convulsive jerk flung her forward. Futilely, she thrust out her hands to arrest her fall, only to find herself caught and securely held against a solid masculine chest. The collision jarred the breath from her all the same, and she grasped Gervase’s upper arms, trying to steady them both. He regained his footing almost at once—not for nothing did he have reflexes like a cat—and glanced down at her.
Still too winded to speak, Margaret looked up at him, into the face she’d known since childhood... and saw someone who was almost a stranger looking back at her. The grey eyes had lost their habitual coolness, were alive with concern—and something that would have taken her breath away if she hadn’t already lost it. At that same moment, she became conscious of the strength of him, the hard contours of the torso against which her own body was pressed. And the scent of him, fresh linen, clean male skin, overlaid with a hint of some crisp cologne. Lemon—or perhaps, bergamot? Different from the bay rum Alex had used, but just as pleasant in its way. She found herself breathing it in, breathing him in, as they stood locked together in their unexpected embrace.
Afterwards, she could not have said who moved first, but between one breath and the next, his lips were warm on hers, their touch light and seeking. Closing her eyes, she leaned into the kiss, seeking something as well... though she could not have said what. Something was stirring deep inside of her, something she hadn’t felt in almost two years.
He pulled back, his eyes staring dazedly into hers, and then the curtain descended, leaving them cool and opaque once again. “For luck,” he explained, and was she imagining the trace of huskiness in his voice? “We’re about to spend Christmas with my family, after all.”
Margaret moistened her lips. “Gervase...” Her own voice was a mere thread.
A corner of that sardonic mouth hooked up. “Didn’t you tell me that spontaneity was not a sin?” he inquired lightly. “Bon courage, ma belle amie. The Lyons den awaits.”
She pulled a face and managed to rally. If, after all, he meant to make light of what had just happened, she could do no less. “Two puns in one utterance? For shame, sir!”
“Blame it on the circumstances, which are dire enough to warrant puns,” he retorted. “Now, as this infernal train appears to have stopped moving, shall we descend?”
The train might have stopped, but Margaret’s legs felt as unsteady as though it were still hurtling along the tracks at top speed. She took a breath and an extra moment to compose herself before replying. “Yes. Time we were off.”
Gervase dropped his arms, and she experienced a feeling almost of loss as he moved away from her and turned to tackle the carriage door. Surreptitiously, she moistened her lips again, recalling the taste and feel of that kiss. Not casual, more than friendly. Too affectionate to be resented, but too... intimate to be ignored—or dismissed. Or was she reading too much into it? All she knew for certain was that the kiss had shaken her to the core—and possibly Gervase as well.
The door opened, and the wind gusted in, cutting through the coach’s warmth like a blade of ice. Grimacing, Gervase stepped back. “The air bites shrewdly. It is very cold...”
“Nothing like stating the obvious,” Margaret observed tartly, shivering as she drew her cape around her. “Let’s go—before we both change our minds and run off to holiday in France or sunny Spain!”
“Too late,” he reported, peering out onto the platform. “Unless I’m much mistaken, there’s a man in Whitborough livery, waiting for us.”
Gervase’s eyes had not deceived him. No sooner had they left the train and reunited with their servants than a sturdy, middle-aged man wearing the dark-blue Whitborough livery strode up to them.
“Lord Gervase, Lady Bellamy.” His Yorkshire brogue sounded like home to Margaret’s ears. “If you’ll come this way, the carriage is waiting. And a wagon for your luggage.”
“Excellent,” Gervase said in that crisp, no-nonsense tone she remembered from London. “A large wagon, I hope? I’ve brought Christmas gifts for the family.”
The coachman assured him of the wagon’s size and escorted them to the carriage—a closed carriage, Margaret noted with relief. But she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Gervase insisted that she and her maid, Tilda, take the forward-facing seat, while he and Farnsworth occupied the back-facing one.
Margaret draped a thick woolen lap robe over her knees and Tilda’s, trying not to imagine Gervase sitting beside her and sharing the robe instead. Memories of his kiss, and how his body had felt against hers kept flooding her mind, warming her more than any blanket.
She stole a glance at him, but he was gazing out the window as the carriage ventured further into the Yorkshire countryside. In the dim, wintry light, his profile looked austere, almost unapproachable, and she could almost convince herself that the kiss had never happened.
Lowering her gaze, she idly pleated a fold of the lap robe between her fingers. Belle amie. A pun on her married name, of course, but, literally, the phrase meant “beautiful friend.” Had he ever called her that before? And how—exactly—did he mean it? Easy to dismiss it as affectionate teasing, a light-hearted play on words... if it hadn’t been for the heat in his eyes.
She swallowed, feeling an answering heat coiling low in her belly. For a moment, her thoughts sped back to that encounter by the fire, just a few evenings ago. When he’d been too near—and far too attractive.
On the other hand... as far too many people had reminded her at Cordelia’s wedding, she was still a young woman—just turned twenty-six—and a young widow who’d enjoyed all the pleasures of the marriage bed to which Alex had introduced her. Perhaps it was the wedding itself that had her thoughts turning in this direction, remembering what she’d once had.
But did she want that again? She’d told Gervase she couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but Alex. However, that did not necessarily mean she had to live like a nun for the rest of her days. There were other possibilities, especially for a widow.
Like taking a lover. Unbidden, the thought flashed into her mind, and she could just feel herself turning scarlet. Wishing that the brim of her bonnet provided more concealment, she sank a little lower in her seat. Much to her relief, her companions did not appear to notice her discomfiture. Tilda was dozing, lulled by the motion of the coach, while both men were studying the scenery through their respective windows.
Gradually, Margaret felt her flush subside. Really, the idea shouldn’t shock her that much—one couldn’t grow up in Society, as she had, and not know how the game was played, especially among couples who married for reasons other than affection. Except that her parents hadn’t had such a marriage, and neither had she and Alex. She’d found it no hardship to be a faithful and devoted wife, and Alex had been a fond and no less faithful husband—to her and to his first wife, who’d died when Charles was still an infant. There’d been no distractions, no temptations—and no mistresses, as there almost certainly would have been with Hal.
Hal. Her first love. Hers—because she had most decidedly never been his.
The thought had ceased to rankle years ago, but she could remember how his indifference had stung during the earliest years of their betrothal. At seventeen, she’d have given her hope of heaven for the slightest sign of affection—even interest—from her handsome, golden fiancé. Oh, he’d been fond of her in a careless sort of way, as one was of somebody who’d always been there, and he’d assured her that he’d be more than willing to do his duty when the time came.
Which should have told her something right there, Margaret reflected with a rueful shake of her head. But like most young girls, she’d hungered for passion and romance—perhaps because she’d been the practical, sensible child for so long. It had taken her two years to lose most of her illusions and face what her life with Hal was likely to hold. Their marriage would have been... perhaps not a disaster, but she doubted it would have been a great success either. Nonetheless, she’d been prepared to do her duty, just as he was—until the accident that had changed everything.
Golden girls and lads all must, / As chimney sweepers, come to dust.
She’d grieved for him, the handsome, feckless boy she’d known all her life, but in the midst of her sorrow... she’d felt a secret relief—of which she was almost ashamed—that she was no longer bound to him. And then there’d been Alex, with whom she had found—unexpectedly—some of the romance for which she’d longed. Alex, whose loss had devastated her and whom she still missed, even as she settled into life without him.
I have loved two men in my life—and they both died before their time.
Which left her somewhere she could never have predicted: in a carriage bound for the estate that housed so many of her childhood memories. And in the company of a man whose history with the place was even deeper and more complicated than hers.
She risked another glance at Gervase, wondering at the thoughts behind that composed countenance. Remorse rippled through her: how selfish she was being, to think only of her qualms and misgivings! He must have plenty of his own, and perhaps that stolen kiss—uncharacteristic as it had seemed—had indeed been for luck, as he’d claimed. Luck certainly wouldn’t come amiss, she conceded, and as for her reaction to that kiss... well, that concerned no one but herself.
Gervase turned his head then, and their eyes met. “It won’t be long now. We’ve almost reached the bridge.”
His voice was carefully neutral, but Margaret thought she heard an undercurrent of tension—and his posture was almost too perfect, his spine too straight for relaxation.
She looked out her own window, seeing a white-blanketed countryside under an overcast grey sky. Gervase could only mean Stamford Bridge, where King Harold had defeated the Vikings before falling to the Normans just a few weeks later. The Duke of Whitborough had been named for that ill-starred monarch, though he was considered to be far more fortunate—in most respects, anyway.
And once across the bridge and a little deeper into East Riding, within sight of the snow-topped Wolds rising in the distance. Denforth Castle formed something of a triangle with Castle Howard and Burton Agnes Hall, Harrowfield lying further west and to the north, closer to the actual Dales.
Margaret’s hands clenched in her lap, while her stomach attempted to tie itself in knots. Despite Gervase’s assurances that she’d been loved like a daughter by his parents, she could hardly help being nervous. She’d severed that tie through her own actions, and who knew how Their Graces had truly felt about her marriage, which some might have considered overhasty? Hal had been a great favorite in Society, as gregarious as he was charming, and generous to a fault. By contrast, Margaret had never achieved her fiancé’s level of popularity. She knew of the unkind rumors that had circulated about her and Alex. Perhaps Hal’s parents had wondered along with the rest of the world how she could have moved on so quickly from their glorious golden heir to a man so different from him in many ways.
No sense in borrowing trouble, Margaret told herself sternly. She’d been invited to Denforth, after all—why assume she would be treated coldly by a family that had known her almost since birth? And if there were any lingering awkwardness, a touch of mutual good will would surely dispel it.
Yes, that was the path to take. If her suspicions were correct, she had no other choice but to be pleasant and congenial for the entire fortnight: the perfect Christmas guest. Alicia’s future might depend on it. Her sweet, golden-haired little sister deserved a chance at true happiness, and Margaret was determined to see that she got one.
Despite her resolve, her pulse quickened and her mouth dried when the arched stone gateway came into sight. How many times had she passed beneath it? Denforth Castle—the estate she might have been mistress of.
Earlier in the century, a previous Duke of Whitborough had enlisted the services of Nash to restore his crumbling home to its former glory. The architect had designed the estate’s façade to resemble a Norman castle—not inappropriate, as in its earliest incarnation, Denforth had actually been a Norman castle. Its present form boasted round stone towers, crenellated walls, a broad courtyard with an outer and inner ward... one could easily imagine one had stepped back into the Middle Ages on entering its gates. Only a drawbridge and a moat were missing.
As a romantic schoolgirl, Margaret had sometimes envied the Lyons girls. What fun to live on an estate like this, to imagine oneself a princess or even a queen in a tower! To look down from the battlements upon the lands stretching away on all sides. Harrowfield, her own family seat, was a handsome Jacobean estate, mellow and gracious, but for sheer atmosphere it simply could not compete with Denforth—at least not on the outside.
Of course, every castle had a prince, and that had been Hal. She’d woven as many fantasies about him as she had about his home. And had been brought sharply down to earth on learning that her prince was all too human.
Now she saw Denforth through new eyes as well. Still impressive, still brimming with atmosphere... but not the home she’d hoped to find, not the home she had found—with Alex and the boys in Gloucestershire. Had she sensed that much, even when her girlish dreams about Hal and Denforth had seemed closest to fruition? Because she’d never been able to picture herself as the next Duchess of Whitborough. That title belonged to one woman alone—and it wasn’t her.
Troubled, Margaret looked away. Did Alicia cherish the same dreams she’d once had, only centered on Reg rather than Hal? If so, her little sister might be in for the same rude awakening.
The carriage slowed, stopped, and suddenly, footmen appeared, opening the carriage doors and helping them descend. More footmen began to unload the luggage from the wagon, while another led Tilda and Farnsworth off towards the servants’ entrance. Standing in the courtyard, its cobblestones dusted with snow, Margaret gazed up at the massive façade of Denforth and again felt her stomach descend into her neat ankle boots. No turning back now.
Then Gervase’s hand was on her arm, steady and reassuring. Yes, he could be kind...
“Screw your courage to the sticking place,” he quoted, one corner of his mouth crooking up in that familiar half-smile.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friend,” Margaret returned, managing to smile back. And together, they started towards the steps that led up to the front door.
She was nervous. Although Gervase thought she had little to fear. Less than he did, at any rate. He could tell himself that his life was in London now, that Denforth Castle hadn’t truly been his home since he left Oxford, but those assurances dissolved at the first sight of the place.
Easy to lose himself in memories, to let them overwhelm him... but Margaret needed his support—and his sang-froid. So he took her arm and guided her towards the front door. She leaned into him, perhaps unconsciously, as they walked, her earlier apprehension forgotten—or suspended. He was the childhood friend she trusted, not the man who’d unsettled her with a kiss.
It afforded him some comfort—to know that he’d unsettled her but she hadn’t pulled away. Indeed, for those brief moments he’d held her in his arms, she’d even seemed to return the kiss. It had been his own nerve that had faltered, he acknowledged ruefully. Faltered, but not failed... he would make another assay, when the time seemed right.
But for now, there was family to be dealt with: his and hers.
The front door opened, as if in answer to his thoughts, and a young woman emerged, her hair glowing even in the wintry light.
“Gerry!” And there was practically no one else from whom he’d tolerate that diminutive.
Memory struck him like a blow to the solar plexus—and rendered him almost as breathless as his youngest sister’s embrace, as she flung herself into his arms.
“Good Lord, brat, is that you?” He spun her around in a little circle before setting her on her feet to look at her more closely. “You’ve become quite presentable since I saw you last.”
Juliana wrinkled her nose at him. “Only a brother could say such a thing! And hope to get away with it!”
“Older brothers are privileged beings.” Gervase regarded her with the air of a connoisseur. “Very well—perhaps slightly better than presentable,” he conceded. Privately, he thought Juliana might just be the loveliest of his three lovely sisters, with her rose-gold hair and bright blue eyes. And that hint of fire and sparkle that was hers alone.
“High praise indeed.” Juliana kissed him on both cheeks in the French fashion, but her manner was direct and wholly English. “I am so glad you’ve come! And Margaret,” she went on, smiling as she welcomed her other guest. “It’s lovely to see you here again.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Margaret said, returning Juliana’s embrace.
“It’s to be like old times,” Juliana told her. “The very best of old times,” she qualified as Gervase raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You two are almost the last ones here.”
“Whom else are we waiting for?” Gervase asked.
“Reg is supposed to arrive soon. He’s spent the last week at Melton Mowbray, hunting with the Quorn. And Mother made the crossing two days ago, but she decided to break her journey at East Anglia so she can check on her property there. Still, her telegram said she’d be here this afternoon. We’re not expecting Augustus until this evening,” Juliana added to Margaret. “And Alicia’s not due until tomorrow. How was your journey, by the way?”
“Fairly comfortable, until the end.” Margaret drew her cape close around her with a shiver. “I’d forgotten how cold Yorkshire winters could be!”
Juliana slipped a companionable arm about her waist. “I tend to forget too, especially when I’m down at Oxford. Then, once I’m back here, I wonder how I ever could have forgotten! Let’s all go inside. We’ve a beautiful fire going, and there’s tea, coffee, and mulled cider if you’d like some.”
“Mulled cider sounds wonderful,” Margaret declared fervently.
They had just started for the door when Gervase heard an excited voice calling his name. Turning, he saw a boy—no, a young man—on horseback, riding towards them at a rapid clip, his mount’s hooves clip-clopping over the cobblestones.
“Why don’t you two go on ahead?” Gervase suggested to the women. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen Jason.”
Juliana nodded and swept Margaret inside with her, as Gervase watched his youngest brother approach. Less than ten feet away, Jason dismounted, tossing the reins to a groom, and strode up, grinning, to clap him on the shoulder. “Ger! I hoped you’d be the next to arrive!”
As opposed to his other older brother, Gervase translated without difficulty. Or the duchess—relations were still uneasy between her and her youngest child. “Pleased not to disappoint you,” he said diplomatically, returning Jason’s welcome. “Good God, whelp, you’ve grown! You must be two inches taller than the last time I saw you.”
“Two and a half,” Jason corrected proudly. “I’m to be measured for all new clothes before I go back to Oxford—Father says so.”
Gervase made a noncommittal sound, studying his brother more closely. Jason had indeed grown taller, though he hadn’t yet attained Hal’s or Reg’s height—or even Gervase’s. But the family features were beginning to pare their way through the puppyish softness, and his coloring was as striking as ever: the sable hair and bright hazel eyes of their mother, though the expression in them was entirely his. All in all, his younger brother was a good-looking boy with the potential to become a handsome man, even with the streak of dirt marring one cheek.
“I see Father’s letting you ride Kingmaker,” Gervase observed, glancing over at the bay gelding who’d been the duke’s mount for years, now being led off towards the stables. “He must be pleased with your progress as a horseman.”
“Oh, Kingmaker’s well enough,” Jason said, with a dismissive shrug. “But he’s getting old. Father’s promised me a real hunter for my birthday. And a proper celebration—not some paltry thing tacked on to the Christmas hols!”
“Heaven forbid the Savior’s birth should be permitted to overshadow yours,” Gervase said dryly, thinking with some regret that his little brother appeared to be as spoiled as ever. He supposed it was only to be expected—and the blame didn’t lie entirely with Jason himself. Between the duchess’s restraint and the duke’s overindulgence, it was little wonder that the boy had turned out this way; only a saint could have emerged unaffected.
His brother glanced at him sharply as though sensing the mockery, then stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of something that seemed to vex him even more. Following the direction of Jason’s gaze, Gervase identified the source of his displeasure at once.
Major Lord Reginald Lyons was cantering through the gate, some distance ahead of the baggage wagon. All the Lyons children rode well, having been introduced to the saddle at an early age, but Reg’s expertise was particularly noticeable, his movements almost impossible to separate from those of his horse. And such a horse... even at a distance, Gervase could tell that his older brother’s mount was of a superior quality, his conformation faultless, his coal-black hide glossy with health and good grooming. Jason was staring at that horse, his envy along with his hostility naked on his face.
Reg himself looked almost as robust, Gervase noted, as his older brother swung down from the saddle with easy grace, handing the reins to a groom before striding up to join them. He’d had a bad brush with fever during the regiment’s last tour of duty in India, but appeared to have made a full recovery since then. As always, he was the very model of a soldier: tall and broad-shouldered, with a neat blond mustache and piercing blue eyes. The military life fit him like a glove, and Gervase understood his reluctance to give it up. The duke might rage and thunder—he’d done both in Gervase’s hearing—but Reg’s commitment to the army remained unshaken, despite the recent threat to his health. He was only just thirty, after all, and considered a likely commander of the regiment one day.
“An eye like Mars, to threaten and command,” Gervase murmured. As often as Reg irritated him, he couldn’t deny his older brother’s presence or his military prowess. A grudging respect had developed between them as adults—possibly because they’d been the sons most determined to follow their chosen callings. As the ducal heir, Reg could have used Hal’s courtesy title of Earl of Denforth; instead, he’d opted to ignore it in favor of the rank he’d earned in the army. That merited respect, Gervase thought—far more than an ability to pound one’s opponent into the dust during a billiards game or a wrestling match.
“Good afternoon, brother.” Reg’s greeting sounded almost cordial, and his handshake was firm without being bruising. It was also—rather obviously—directed at Gervase rather than the still-glowering Jason. “Have you just got here, then?”
“Within the last five minutes,” Gervase confirmed. “I traveled up from London with Lady Bellamy—she’s gone inside with Juliana.”
Reg’s expression softened, just a fraction. “It will be good to see Margaret again.”
“And Alicia.” Gervase eyed his brother closely, trying to gauge his response.
“Just so.” Reg’s tone remained pleasant, but Gervase thought he sounded a touch guarded as well.
“Quite the family reunion Juliana has planned,” Gervase went on. “And she’s expected any minute now, or so I’ve heard.”
Reg raised inquiring brows. “Mother?”
“Who else?” Gervase folded his arms and cocked a brow at his older brother. “The whole family gathered under one roof for the holidays. Think we’ll survive it?”
Reg grunted. “Even odds if we do.”
“I don’t see why there’s such a fuss being made over her,” Jason remarked loudly, jutting out a truculent chin. “Anyone would think the Queen was coming for Christmas!”
Reg’s expression tautened, but he did not spare his youngest brother so much as a glance. “Unseasonable weather we’re having,” he remarked, examining his gloves instead. “I thought the frost had killed all the gnats, but I seem to hear them still buzzing.”
Jason flushed, his scowl deepening. Before he could say anything even ruder, Gervase fixed him with a stern gaze. “Mind your manners, whelp—unless you want coal in your stocking instead of a new hunter in your stable!”
“Stop treating me like a child!”
“Behave like one, and you’ll be treated like one.”
“And your face is dirty,” Reg observed, his voice coolly dispassionate.
“Oh, the devil take both of you!” Jason burst out, and flung away from them, stalking up the walk with outraged dignity. The front door banged shut behind him.
“Like old times indeed,” Gervase remarked with a wry smile. “Father’s favorite resenting Mother’s favorite. And vice versa.”
Reg stiffened, his bearing more military than ever, if possible. “I don’t resent Jason. I barely take any notice of him. You’re the one who calls him whelp.”
“And you’re the one who did everything but tell him to run up and see his nurse.”
Reg flushed in his turn. “Very well, then. It... irks me to see Father making so much of so very little. A scrubby schoolboy who has yet to prove himself in any way that counts.”
Gervase raised a brow. “And I suppose you were never a scrubby schoolboy yourself?”
“He didn’t make much of me then,” Reg said shortly. “Or any of us. Except Hal.”
And there it was. The shadow of a rivalry that had outlived his eldest brother—and now appeared to have transferred itself to his youngest. Not for the first time, Gervase reflected that there was a certain measure of peace in not being anyone’s favorite, despite its having galled him as a boy. “I suspect all of us may be reverting to the nursery stage before this fortnight is over. Shall we go inside?”
Reg gave a curt nod, and they went in together. Lydgate, the Whitborough butler, met them in the foyer and bade them both an austere welcome, as he relieved them of their overcoats and hats. The rest of the family, they were told, was assembled in the Great Hall.
The brothers set off down the passage, almost side by side, easily matching strides despite Reg’s greater height. The sounds of laughter and mingled conversation drifted out to them as they neared the doorway—so familiar that Gervase found himself almost smiling.
A covert glance at Reg revealed a similarly nostalgic expression on his brother’s face. So even the major wasn’t immune to the charms of home and family at Christmas. All yet seems well... so one might as well enjoy it while it lasted, Gervase mused as he stepped across the threshold—and into a scene that might have come straight from his childhood.
As always, the Great Hall was bright with lamplight, but today, a fire—a wood fire, no less, though there was coal aplenty—burned merrily in the fireplace. Baskets brimming with holly and ivy rested on a trestle table, as though waiting to be strewn about the place by knowledgeable hands. The Christmas tree, as yet unadorned, stood in its usual corner, towering over even Reg and perfuming the air with its evergreen sharpness. Other scents mingled with it: oranges, cloves, apples, and mulling spices. For a moment, Gervase felt as though no time at all had passed, and he was a boy again, back at Denforth for the holidays.
Not surprisingly, almost everyone was grouped about the fireplace. Even from a distance Gervase could see Margaret, a steaming cup cradled between her hands, sitting between Juliana and Elaine. As he and Reg approached, several faces turned in their direction, some breaking into smiles of welcome. Jason’s, Gervase noted, was not among them: the boy, his face now shining with cleanliness, regarded his brothers from beneath lowered brows and turned his back rather pointedly, stretching his hands towards the fire and making a show of warming himself.
But Juliana rose and came forward at once, her face radiant. “There you are! I was wondering when you’d join us! And Reg,” she flung her arms around him as she had around Gervase, “so glad you’re here! Did you have good hunting with the Quorn?”
“Passable, infant.” Reg returned her embrace, then held her a little away from him. “You, however, look decidedly better than passable.”
“‘Better than passable’?” Juliana echoed, her blue eyes widening with deceptive innocence. “Gervase told me I’m ‘quite presentable.’ Ma foi, between the two of you, my head will be hopelessly turned!”
Reg unbent enough to smile fondly at her. “We’re your older brothers. We have reputations to uphold.”
“Besides, it wouldn’t do to play favorites,” Gervase added. “Especially as all of you are a most welcome sight.”
“Very tactful,” Juliana approved as she took his arm and Reg’s, smiling impartially up at them both. “Come closer to the fire, and let’s have a proper reunion.”
So they did. Their other sisters had come with their husbands: Madeline with Hugo, Elaine with Alasdair. Gervase exchanged embraces with the women and handshakes with the men, and inquired after his various nieces and nephews, who were comfortably ensconced with their respective nannies up in the Denforth nursery.
Sipping mulled cider, Gervase let his gaze travel about the intimate family circle. Whether it was the softening effects of cider or sentiment, he found himself genuinely pleased to be where he was, with whom he was—at least for the moment. Surrounded by the warmth of his sisters, the camaraderie of his brothers—even Jason, beginning to emerge from his sullens to take part in the conversations going on around him. And Margaret, her face aglow in the firelight, fitting in with them as effortlessly as she had when they were all children together.
Then a familiar step was heard in the passage, and the Duke of Whitborough strode into the Hall. And everyone lounging about the fireplace immediately straightened up, as though galvanized by an electric current—even Reg.
When he was a boy, Gervase had thought his father “bestrode the world like a Colossus”—and even now, with nearly thirty years of living under his belt, he could not deny the sheer presence of the Duke of Whitborough. His Grace wore his usual country tweeds, and his strongly handsome face was flushed with cold. There were more creases about his eyes and Gervase thought he saw more glints of grey in the thick head of tawny hair, but at fifty-six, his father still cut an impressive figure. And knew it.
“The Golden Duke”—the sun around which they all revolved, willy-nilly—surveyed them with a smile Gervase knew well... and had long ago learned to distrust.
“My boys,” he greeted his two elder sons with a gleam of paternal pride—or was it calculation?—in his still-keen blue eyes. “It’s good to see you here.”
“Father,” Gervase intoned, while Reg merely inclined his head.
“And my girls,” the duke went on, his expression lightening further, but then he’d often found dealing with his daughters a good deal easier than dealing with his sons. “A bouquet of beauty on a cold winter’s day! And Lady Bellamy,” he greeted Margaret. “Delightful to have you with us again.”
Margaret colored slightly, but smiled back. “Thank you for inviting me, Duke.”
“My pleasure,” His Grace replied, and turned to welcome his daughters’ husbands.
Gervase bit back a sharp exhale, wondering how he could have been so obtuse. Until this moment, he’d believed the family gathering was Juliana’s idea, indulged by a doting father. He couldn’t have been more mistaken; whatever Juliana’s desires, she’d never have been permitted to carry out this scheme... unless it tallied with the duke’s own plans, whatever they were. Darting a sidelong glance at Reg, he saw by his older brother’s rigid expression that he’d come to the same conclusion.
The whole family gathered under one roof. Think we’ll survive it? His earlier words echoed mockingly in his ears. Reg had given them even odds. Fortifying himself with a swallow of cider, Gervase hoped grimly that his brother hadn’t been overstating the case.
“Your Grace,” Lydgate spoke from the doorway. “The duchess’s carriage is approaching the gates. She should be here momentarily.”
Now it was the duke’s turn to pause, his expression arrested... before disappearing under a mask of pleasant imperturbability. “Thank you, Lydgate,” he said, after a moment. “Please go and see that Her Grace is properly attended on her arrival.”
The tension in the Great Hall had thickened to a level commensurate with a London pea-souper, Gervase reflected. He glanced down at Margaret, who was fretting her lower lip, looking even more anxious than she had on seeing his father.
“You could plead fatigue from the journey and ask to be taken upstairs, you know,” he said, stooping to murmur the words into her ear.
Her chin tilted up at that in the challenging way he’d always loved, and her velvety eyes sparked. “And miss your mother’s grand entrance? Not for thy fairy kingdom! Only,” she ran a nervous hand over her skirt, “do I look fit to meet her?”
“More than fit,” Gervase assured her. She’d removed her cape and hat, but her dress looked mostly uncreased, and her hair—women always worried about their hair—was in order.
Margaret wasn’t the only woman concerned about her appearance, Gervase noted. His sisters were surreptitiously patting their own hair and smoothing wrinkles, real or imagined, from their skirts as well. Only the knowledge of how ridiculous he’d look prevented him from taking a similar inventory of himself. As far as he knew, his face and clothes were clean—Margaret would have informed him otherwise—and that would have to suffice.
It couldn’t have been more than five minutes before Lydgate officially announced the duchess’s arrival at Denforth. Remembering Jason’s earlier gibe about the Queen coming for Christmas, Gervase couldn’t help thinking that not even Her Majesty could have received a more ceremonious welcome than Her Grace of Whitborough, standing framed in the doorway like a particularly splendid portrait, with her family gathered in the Great Hall to welcome her. There might be more silver in her dark hair, more fine lines about her eyes and mouth when one looked more closely, but his mother’s bones would keep her beautiful until the day she died. And the rich burgundy cloak she wore only heightened that beauty.
The duke strode across the room to greet his wife. “Welcome, madam. Had you a peaceful crossing?”
She extended her hand, smiling. “I found nothing to complain of, Duke. The Channel appeared to be on its best behavior.” Her voice was the same as Gervase remembered: deep-toned and throaty, her pronunciation flawless. Helene de Sevigny-Lyons spoke perfect French and English, her accent pure in both languages.
The duke bowed over that elegant hand. “I’d expect nothing less for your passage, my lady. Come over to the fire—our children await.”
“So I see.” She took in all of them at a glance; the duchess never missed much. “What a welcome this is,” she remarked to her husband. “I’m amazed you didn’t have the whole staff gathered in the courtyard just for my arrival.”
“Say the word, madam, and it shall be done at once.”
The duchess shook her head. “In this barbarous winter, they’d freeze solid within minutes. I’d far rather dispense with the ceremony than the servants.” She turned to survey her children... and then swept up to them in a whirl of velvet and expensive, ineffable scent.
“Jason, is that you?” she greeted her youngest son first. “It seems only yesterday you were the merest schoolboy. My word, how you’ve grown! And you look so tidy too,” she added with evident approval. “Quite the young gentleman!”
Jason flushed, suddenly looking the schoolboy Her Grace had called him. His expression was half-sulky, half-wistful—almost as it had been when he’d seen Reg’s horse. Relations between him and their mother had never been easy, Gervase reflected, feeling a reluctant tug of sympathy. Then she was before him, her hazel-green eyes gazing up at him speculatively. He had a moment of being glad that he had, in fact, grown tall enough to look down upon her.
“Gervase.” One slender gloved hand reached up to touch his cheek, and he had to resist an unexpected urge to lean into that touch, however briefly. “You’re looking very prosperous. I hope you aren’t burning the midnight oil too intensely. No success is worth one’s health.
“And Reg,” the duchess continued, moving along. “Your new rank becomes you, Major, to say nothing of that uniform! And I trust the English climate has restored you as well.” Her brow creased in a faint frown as she regarded her favorite son. “Have you lost weight? We shall have to make sure you regain some of it during your leave.”
Reg was—almost—smiling. “Fattening me up like the Christmas goose, Mother?”
She laughed, a delicious rippling sound, and took his hands in a light clasp. “Never as corpulent as that, mon fils! Merely enough to fill out those splendid regimentals of yours.”
Her gaze alighted upon her daughters. “Darlings! How lovely you are, every one of you. Madeline, chérie,” she kissed her eldest daughter on both cheeks, “you look tired—you must make Hugo take you away for a holiday in the New Year,” she added, nodding towards her first son-in-law. “And Elaine—you’re positively glowing! Are you and Alasdair expecting again?”
Gervase shot a glance at his second sister, whose flush gave her away at once. And her husband, the Duke of Castlebrooke, looked almost as flummoxed.
“We—we hadn’t intended to announce it just yet, Maman,” Elaine faltered. “It’s still early, you see...”
“A mother can always tell, sweeting,” the duchess assured her before moving on to embrace her youngest daughter. “Juliana, I see you’re in looks as well! University life must agree with you, though you are doubtless leading your tutors a merry dance.”
Coming to Margaret, she smiled warmly. “How like your mother you’ve grown, my dear! And what a pleasure to see you here again, at Christmas.”
Margaret relaxed visibly. “Thank you, Duchess. It’s a pleasure to see you here as well.”
Her Grace laughed again. “‘Here,’ being the operative word, of course! My visits to Yorkshire have become as rare as a rose in winter—and for much the same reason,” she added, with a theatrical shudder. “To judge from my experience today, the climate is as ghastly as ever.”
“Then you should be pleased by the new steam radiators I’ve had installed in the bedchambers,” Whitborough said, coming to her side.
Her brows rose. “Improvements at Denforth? You astonish me, Duke.”
“Says the woman who insisted upon central heating in the main wing more than seven years ago,” he retorted. “But even that thin French blood of yours may find Denforth sufficiently warm this Christmas, my lady.”
The duchess lowered her eyes, her expression uncharacteristically demure. “I am all amazement... my lord. What other surprises do you have in store for us?”
What, indeed? Gervase wondered, watching his parents watch each other: a pair of fencers trying to anticipate their opponent’s next move.
Whitborough gave his wife a slow, almost lazy smile and took her hand in his. “You have more than a fortnight to find out, ma belle Helene.”
A long, searching look—the duke’s deceptively guileless blue eyes gazing into the tip-tilted hazel eyes of his duchess. He lifted their twined hands to his mouth, brushed his lips against her fingers, before turning to face the rest of his family. “My lady. My children. I promise all of you—a Christmas to remember.”
Grasping his cup more tightly at the words, Gervase wondered if it was too early for something much stiffer than cider.