“Ambrose.” Emmie set down Mr. Johnson’s Scottish travelogue with a thump. “My lord, rather. Welcome to West Bart’s Lending.” She bobbed a shallow curtsey, which earned her a stiff bow in response.
“Happy Christmas,” she added grudgingly. Happy Christmas Eve, more accurately, and to be absolutely punctilious, not all that happy, after all.
The older-sister part of Emmie assessed Ambrose’s health, mood, and attire, while another part of her resented him with unseemly intensity for intruding on her sanctuary now of all times. She had parted from her intended three days ago and had not heard from Dunfallon since. Nor had she sent him any cheery little note signaling a return to former good relations.
Her reticence was based on instinct rather than reason. Yes, a duke could be too busy running his duchy to write children’s stories, but before he’d been a duke, Dunfallon had been Christopher Dingle. Emmie knew what she owed the duke as a prospective spouse—respect, affection, loyalty. She was less clear about what she owed Mr. Dingle, or what a duke would owe her.
Ambrose did not look particularly pleased to grace West Bart’s Lending with his lordly presence, though he was the pattern card of masculine elegance.
And a small, unignorable part of Emmie rejoiced simply to see her only sibling looking so fine.
“Who’s he?” Mary asked, fists on her skinny hips in a manner that presaged forcible ejection of unwanted intruders.
“This is my brother,” Emmie said, slipping a hand through Ambrose’s arm. “Miss Mary Smith, may I make known to you Ambrose, Viscount Threadham, late of Kent. His lordship is in Town for the holidays. My lord, Miss Mary Smith.”
Mary popped a curtsey that would not have been out of place in the boxing ring. Chin barely tipped, hands still planted on her hips. “Now you bow,” she said. “Miss Emmie introduced you to me first, because I’m the lady and you be the gent. That’s the rule. Now you bow.”
Bevins and Petty had roused themselves from their early-midafternoon naps, and Ralph had paused after his seventh pass down the only banister not festooned with ribbons.
Ambrose, to Emmie’s shock, offered Mary a proper bow. “Threadham, at your service. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Smith.”
“You can call me Mary, but I’ll beat yer arse if you get fresh. Caspar showed me where to kick a fellow what gets fresh.”
Ambrose’s dark eyebrows rose to celestial heights. “You may be assured of my best behavior.”
Some of Mary’s pugnacity faded. “Will you read us a story? Mr. Dunn reads to us, and he’s better at that than even Miss Emmie, but he doesn’t come every day. Miss Emmie is very good at readin’ stories. I can read too—some.”
Drat the child for mentioning Dunfallon, whom Emmie had half hoped to see lugging the day’s usual buckets of coal.
“Mary, we’ve had our story for today. Perhaps you’d remind Ralph not to slide down the banister for me?”
“Ralph! Stop polishing the banister with your butt. Miss Emmie says.”
Aristotle, in the midst of his early-midafternoon contemplation session, opened his eyes and glowered at Mary.
“I weren’t polishin’ the banister,” Ralph yelled back.
“Cease squabblin’,” Petty barked. “Decorum in the li-bree so a fella can catch a few winks!”
A few months ago, even a few weeks ago, Emmie might have been embarrassed by these displays of informality, but recent days had shifted her perspective. West Bart’s Lending was her refuge, and also her castle, more than strong enough to endure raised voices and unruly children.
Ambrose appeared to study the portraits ringing the mezzanine or perhaps the mistletoe that hung beneath them.
“Are you preparing for a journey to Scotland?” he asked.
“Scotland?” Home to the Dukes of Dunfallon since antiquity had acquired its first mist?
Ambrose nodded at Mr. Johnson’s travelogue.
“No, of course not. I was just… reshelving the prodigals. Patrons browse, and the books end up wandering, or being wandered. What brings you here, Ambrose?”
“You do, or rather, Aunt’s suggestion that I would find you here does. Is there someplace we might talk, Emmie?”
She was in no mood for a lecture from her baby brother about her proper place being in Kent—for another lecture. She was also in no mood to be further harangued about the impropriety of her attachment to the library, and she was in no mood whatsoever to explain her situation with Dunfallon to his lordship.
“Emmie? Are you well?”
“In the very pink.” That had sounded mulish, and Ambrose, whatever his failings, had been a noticing sort of little brother.
“You look as if the dog chewed your copy of Cecilia again.”
Well, in a manner of speaking… “I enjoy roaring good health. I can offer you tea in my office.”
“Thank you.”
She’d expected a demurral, if not a protest, but in the past two years, Ambrose had apparently learned some true self-possession to go with his lordly pretensions—and his excellent taste in tailoring.
“The lady goes up the steps first,” Mary called, “so you can catch her if she falls on her bum.”
“Hush, child,” Petty rejoined, though he was smiling.
“That girl has a fixation,” Ambrose muttered.
“On manners,” Emmie said. “A fine subject for a young lady’s focus.”
Ambrose let her have the last word, which only increased Emmie’s sense of unease. As a boy, he’d battled fiercely—if for the most part fairly—for the final say on any topic.
He’s growing up. Emmie considered that complicated thought and revised her conclusion. He has grown up. While she’d been dusting biographies and buttering bread, Ambrose had become Lord Threadham in truth.
She could doubtless respect his lordship, but she missed the mischievous, affectionate little brother whom she’d actually liked. Not only was he lost forever, he’d grown a good six inches taller than she, though he wasn’t quite as tall as Dunfallon.
Why are the holidays always so hard, and when will I hear from my intended? “In here,” she said, pushing open the door to her office. The room bore the aroma of greenery, and that, too, made her think of Dunfallon.
Whom she also missed, drat him.
“Books,” Ambrose said, turning a slow circle. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because West Bart’s is a lending library?”
“If I say spinsterhood does not agree with you, you will figuratively kick me in a location Miss Smith would approve of, but, Emmie, I note the books because this is your office. Were your office in a shipping warehouse, a convent, or a gaming hell, you would fill the space with books.”
Emmie took the kettle from its stand and set it on the parlor stove. “Please have a seat, and I apologize for my shabby manners. You have ambushed me, Ambrose. I thought we might run into each other in the park or at some musicale. I did not expect you to brave West Bart’s Lending.”
He settled on the old sofa, arm resting along the back, legs crossed at the knee. That Ambrose was tall and well turned out came as a shock, but that he had become elegant… How had that happened without her being aware of it?
Without her playing any role in his transformation?
Though she knew how. “I was so angry with you,” Emmie said quietly. “So disappointed in you.” The word brought to mind Dunfallon’s assurance that spouses occasionally disappointed each other. But then, Dunfallon was never far from Emmie’s thoughts. She had the nagging sense that she’d wronged him by insisting on more stories and an equally nagging sense that for him to refuse to write them was also wrong.
“You are as direct as ever,” Ambrose said. “I’ve missed that. You never let me get away with being the indulged heir and only son.”
“Somebody had to prevent you from becoming an ogre.”
He smiled slightly, a ghost of his old boyish grin and even more charming. “Or a troll. You had very little patience with trolls. How are you, Emmie?”
The kettle whistled, so she gained a small respite preparing the tray and fetching milk from the window box. When Ambrose ought to have prattled on about the weather, the autumn house parties, or Aunt’s choral group, he remained silent.
“I am better,” Emmie said, setting the tray on the low table and taking a seat on the sofa. “I needed time, privacy, and some good books after my debacle with Lord Hercules. Aunt saw to it that I had all three, and now I am back on my mettle. Now tell me, how are you?”
“You relieve my mind. I am contrite.”
“Did you drop Papa’s prized Turkish lodestone down the wishing well again?”
“Old business, and you cannot fault my reasoning. If tuppence brought luck, then tossing in an item valued in antiquity should have brought an avalanche of good fortune. Besides, I apologized, and I retrieved Papa’s treasure.”
“After I told you to go fishing with an iron lure.”
“I retrieved the lodestone, and the next harvest was quite good.”
They shared a sibling smirk, and Emmie was abruptly pleased to see her brother. The situation with Dunfallon might be irreparable, but cordial relations with Ambrose would be no small holiday boon.
“You were not at Lady Bellefonte’s holiday open house,” Ambrose said, his expression becoming once again serious. “I had hoped to find you there.”
“I sent regrets.” Emmie checked the strength of the tea. She rearranged the linen table napkins stacked on the side of the tray. She set out two cups on saucers. “I don’t suppose you ran into His Grace of Dunfallon at Lady Bellefonte’s?”
“I did not. He was kept away by the press of business, apparently, but I did make the acquaintance of a Miss Peasegill. Interesting woman. She was the only one not making frequent passes beneath a kissing bough. We argued about the mistletoe tradition, and… Well, she put me in mind of you. I did not come here to talk about her or Scottish dukes or boyish pranks.”
Emmie poured out two cups of steaming tea and passed one to Ambrose. “What are we to discuss?”
He took a sip of his tea, then set down the cup and saucer, and rose. “I owe you an apology.”
Emmie had longed to hear those words, had written one letter after another—all unsent—explaining why Ambrose should offer them to her. His long-awaited apology was of curiously little comfort.
“Apology accepted. How long will you be in Town?”
He went to the window, which looked down on a humble alley made slightly less disreputable by the light snow dusting everything in white.
“Don’t be like that, Emmie. You are the most stubborn woman I know. Don’t accept an apology while holding on to your grudge. I was wrong. I behaved very badly, but…”
“But Hercules was so convincing,” Emmie said, “and he said enough true things about me—I am contrary, I am particular, my head is full of bookish notions—that you believed his falsehoods as well.”
Ambrose sent her a disgruntled glance over his shoulder. “And I did not believe you when you stated the situation plainly. Hercules painted himself as the wronged party, the gallant wooer treated cruelly. He even suggested I might try to change your mind.”
“A convincing touch, I’m sure, and you apparently declined to take on that challenge.”
Ambrose returned to the sofa. “There is no changing your mind, Emmie. Gibraltar is a trifling lump of wet putty compared to your determination once you’ve dug in your heels.”
“While you are the soul of amiable reason at all times?”
He took another sip of tea. “Valid point, but I am here now, and I apologize for my disloyalty. I served you an ill turn when you most needed a sibling’s support, and I am deeply sorry for that. I should have listened to you, should have believed that you were being honest with me.”
“What changed your mind? You and Hercules were thick as thieves at one point.”
“Your tea will get cold.”
“The better to dash it in your face when you attempt to prevaricate, Brose.”
“Never make empty threats,” Ambrose murmured. “You taught me that. Well, you use the word ‘thief,’ and as it happens, the term applies to dear Hercules. I’d heard rumors at the club, but clubs abound with rumors. Hercules married well, and other bachelors and younger sons found that vexing.”
“What sort of rumors?”
“That he cheats at cards.” Ambrose’s tone expressed profound distaste. “That one doesn’t trust him with the valuables at the odd house party. That his wife will hire only older, unattractive maids who prefer to work in pairs when his lordship is in residence. One whisper followed another, and still I thought it all so much idle talk, until he stole from me.”
“He stole from us both, Ambrose.” Emmie put the words gently, though she was entitled to remind her brother of the facts.
“I cannot call him out, Emmie, but I’ve considered issuing the challenge anyway.”
“Fortunately, you remembered that I would thrash you within an inch of your title for such foolishness. Tell me how he stole from you.”
“I invited him down to Kent between house parties, and when he left, I could not find your first edition of Christopher Dingle’s Stories for Young Children. I wanted to send some of your library to you, if you were determined to bide with Aunt. I found, instead, a second edition. The housekeeper had seen his lordship paging through your more valuable copy. Upon inspection, Hercules had also helped himself to two other first editions and a few curios.”
“Mrs. Burney’s Evelina and Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Female Advocate. I’d bragged to him about owning both, as well as the Dingle. Evelina is signed by the authoress.”
“I was aware of that. I got myself invited to the house party Hercules was attending after his stay with me in Kent. I wandered into his lordship’s rooms—purely by mistake, of course—and rifled his luggage, also by mistake. I traded the stolen books for the cheaper editions Hercules had left in Kent. I brought your first editions with me to Town and will convey them to you for safekeeping.”
Good heavens. Ambrose had become… calculating. Dashing, even.
“Hercules must be desperate if he’s stealing from a friend,” Emmie said, feeling an unwanted twinge of pity for such a creature, and for Ambrose, who’d been taken in by Hercules’s nonsense. “I truly, truly had a narrow escape.”
“Hercules and I are not speaking—ever again—and he was not my friend. I should have listened to you, Emmie. I can only blame youthful stupidity and an excess of masculine pride.”
“You were a dunderhead, Ambrose. I am not in the habit of serving falsehoods to those I love most dearly.” She offered this mild scold because Ambrose seemed to expect it.
Even if Emmie had been inclined to gloat, some inchoate insight dissuaded her from indulging in that pleasure. She had been taken in by Lord Hercules, too, of course, and to as great a degree as her brother had, if not greater.
“Am I forgiven?” Ambrose asked, rising.
Emmie got to her feet, as well because the sounds of some commotion were coming from beyond the door. Mary and Ralph getting into yet another holiday scrap, or maybe the extra order of gingerbread Emmie had put in at the chop shop had arrived.
“You are forgiven,” she said, “but I fear I must excuse myself. I don’t suppose you can be persuaded to butter some gingerbread?”
“Am I permitted to sample the gingerbread once I’ve buttered it?”
“Yes,” Emmie said, grabbing her brother in a hug. “You were good to come here, Brose. You are right that I am stubborn, though I prefer to think of myself as determined. Hercules made a fool of me, so don’t feel too badly that he did the same to you.”
Ambrose hugged her back, a good, solid squeeze. “I heard rumors at Bellefonte’s do that Hercules is removing to the Continent. Some peer or other has lit a fire under Hercules’s creditors and bought up some of his markers. Nobody will say who has performed this public service. Lady Hercules will not accompany her spouse. She’s with child and unequal to a winter crossing.”
“Good for her.” And Emmie was fairly certain she knew who had lit that fire under Hercules’s lenders. “I’ve missed you, Brose.” To say that felt very good indeed.
“Missed you too,” he said, stepping back as somebody let forth a whoop. “Ye gods and little fishes, what is going on in your library, Emmie?”
“A holiday riot, no doubt. Yuletide has put the younger patrons in high spirits, and we’re to have an extra serving of gingerbread in honor of the season.” She bustled out the door before those high spirits could turn destructive, just in time to catch Ralph and Mary each making a flying pass down the banister.
“Who the hell is that?” Ambrose muttered, joining Emmie at the top of the steps.
“That is…”
The Duke of Dunfallon, in a green cloak reminiscent of Father Christmas, was ordering a half-dozen footmen about as they set out parcels and boxes and placed a three-foot-high decorated fir tree on the central reading table. “That is an invading army intent on decking the halls. Though I haven’t a clue who the white cat is, but she looks very sweet perched on His Grace’s shoulder.”
The footmen brought in a punchbowl of steaming cider, the spicy scent filling the whole library. Parcels wrapped in red and green cloth were arranged by the tree, and as Aristotle came to attention on the mantel, a veritable feast was laid out between the biographies and the travelogues.
“Emmie,” Ambrose said quietly, “are you crying?”
“Of course not.” She blinked madly and waved to Dunfallon. “I am not crying, and that is not the Duke of Dunfallon. That is Christopher Dingle himself, and I really must go wish him Happy Christmas.”
Emmie stood at the top of the steps attired in the red and green Dunfallon had thought so fetching, a handsome fellow beside her. The real Mr. Dunn, perhaps, and Dunfallon detested him on sight. The man was too exquisitely attired to be a curate and standing entirely too close to the next Duchess of Dunfallon.
“Shall we bring in the rest of the parcels, Your Grace?” the head footman asked.
“You shall, and the corner pub has meat pies and rum punch for the lot of you, including John Coachman and the grooms.”
The footman bowed and scurried off, calling to his liveried brethren.
Emmie regarded Dunfallon solemnly, then said something to the handsome blighter and came down from the mezzanine. As she approached Dunfallon, he could see that her lovely green eyes were shiny.
“Did that overdressed popinjay make you cry?” Dunfallon asked, setting Jewel down a safe distance from the Christmas roast. “Something has upset you, Emmie. Tell me what it is, and I’ll—”
She launched herself at him and wrapped him in a hug. “You banished the troll. Thank you.”
She bore the same brisk, beguiling lemon verbena scent as always, no hint of holiday spirits about her person.
“Emmie, West Bart’s Lending would never allow a troll to pass through its doors. Do you refer to a fairy tale?” He held her gently, knowing only that she was upset, and he must restore her good spirits.
“I do, Your Grace. I refer to a fairy tale with a happy ending. We need to talk.”
“My love, we must do much more than merely—”
“Will you read us a story?” Mary’s strident question cut through the hubbub of chattering children, nattering elders, and Mrs. Oldbach—where had she come from?—arguing with two of her library committee members over the placement of the punchbowl.
MacAlpin and his lady arrived at that moment, Caspar swaggering before them like the library’s self-appointed majordomo.
“Mary,” Emmie said, easing from Dunfallon’s arms, “we’ve had our story for the day. You must stop pestering every passing gentleman to read us a story.”
“I pester ladies too,” Mary said, chin dipping. “Mr. Dunn said I was the best page turner he ever had. That is a pretty white cat.”
The white cat was having a sniff around the hearth while Aristotle watched from above.
“You could read for yerself,” Ralph bellowed, “if you’d ever study your letters. I can write me name, and Caspar is almost as good a reader as Miss Emmie. But you be too stubborn and contrary to learn your letters, Mary Smith.”
Mary’s chin began to quiver, and Dunfallon learned the true meaning of panic. He snatched the girl up and perched her on his hip.
“I have, as it happens, brought a story along with me today. It’s a holiday present for our Miss Armstrong from Mr. Christopher Dingle. I also brought the very Jewel herself who inspired Mr. Dingle’s stories.”
“Mr. Dingle wrote a new story?” Emmie asked. “For me?”
Oh, calamities and catastrophes, she looked ready to cry again. Dunfallon set Mary down within snitching range of a plate of buttered gingerbread.
“Wash your paws, children,” he said, doing his best to imitate Emmie’s sternest tones. “Then we will feast, and then we will—”
“Am I too late for gingerbread?” The Earl of Bellefonte sauntered in from the foyer, a small girl clinging to his back and a little boy holding his hand. “I heard a rumor stories and gingerbread were to be had for one and all at West Bart’s Lending. I can smell the gingerbread, so don’t try to hide it from me.”
His countess came after him, a little girl dragging her by the hand, a young blond woman at her elbow.
“Next,” said the countess, “his lordship will tell you he has been a very good boy. Don’t believe him. Miss Armstrong, Your Grace, good day. Children, those are the loveliest cloved oranges I have ever seen.”
Petty and Bevins stopped arguing long enough to push to their feet at her ladyship’s arrival, and Aristotle squinted at her sagaciously from the mantel.
The popinjay chose then to stroll down from the mezzanine, and Dunfallon was tempted to tell the lot of them that the library was closed for the next thirty minutes in order that he have time to mend his fences with Emmie. Also to read his story to her in private to learn what she thought of his rough draft.
Though thirty minutes wouldn’t be nearly long enough for the sort of fence mending he had in mind.
“We should eat before the food gets cold,” her ladyship said. “Lord Threadham, a pleasure to see you. Nicholas, do not set a bad example for the children, or I shall be wroth with you.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, lovey.”
Threadham? Dunfallon leaned close to Emmie. “Your brother is here?”
She nodded. “He apologized. We are in charity with one another, and I am dying to hear your new story, but we must also find some time to talk, Your Grace.”
Dunfallon certainly wanted to talk with Emmie—talk too. “I am dying to know what you think of Mr. Dingle’s latest tale. Caspar helped, but I’m out of practice, and penning years of business correspondence doesn’t exactly hone one’s talent for feline fables.”
“Are we planning to do justice to all this lovely food?” Lord Bellefonte asked. “Or shall we stand around goggling at one another and whispering beneath the mistletoe?”
Emmie swept over to the earl and smacked the giant paw holding a slice of gingerbread. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, my lord, and he who sets a bad example must say the blessing.”
Bellefonte smiled. “Lovey, I think Miss Emmie likes me. She speaks to me in the same adoring tones I used to hear from you, once upon a time.”
“Is he drunk?” Threadham muttered.
“He’s in love,” Dunfallon replied. “Let’s find seats, shall we?”
The meal was merry and loud. Bevins and Petty flirted outrageously with Mrs. Oldbach and her committee members, and Aristotle and Jewel patrolled beneath the table. Bellefonte’s brood started a game of hide-and-seek with Caspar, Ralph, Mary, and the other children, and a great quantity of food disappeared.
When the footmen came tottering back from their meal at the pub, Emmie gathered the children around the hearth, and Lord Threadham suggested they join in a song. He chose the ballad of Good King Wenceslas, which boasted at least seventeen verses, and Mrs. Oldbach and Petty knew them all.
As did the footmen, who were in very good voice.
Dunfallon enjoyed every verse, because each one gave him more moments to behold his beloved and to fashion the speech she was owed. She had been right—he suspected Emmie was usually right—and they would talk.
“Now we get a story,” Mary announced. “Mr. Dunn said.”
“He’s not really Mr. Dunn,” Caspar said. “That was just a nickname. He’s really Mr. Dingle, but we have to keep that a secret.”
MacAlpin stroked his beard, while Ralph looked confused.
“I have a lot of nicknames,” Dunfallon said. “His Grace of Dunfallon is another, Earl of Angelsmere is another. Viscount Dingle is in the pile somewhere, and there are a few baronies as well.”
“You’re a nob?” Ralph asked.
Emmie would expect him to deal honestly with her patrons. “’Fraid so.”
“So am I,” Bellefonte said, “but I can’t write stories like he can. I do have a lovely mare named Buttercup, though. The largest horse you will ever meet, and she can do tricks.”
“I’m a viscount,” Threadham added. “I hope you won’t hold that against me. Miss Emmie is my sister, and she used to read to me.”
“I’m just an old lady in the mood for a good story,” Mrs. Oldbach said. “Might we commence?”
Mary squirmed beside Mrs. MacAlpin. “Don’t you need a page turner?”
Oh, the hope in that question. “Very kind of you to offer, Mary, but this story is so new, it hasn’t been printed as part of a proper book. I have only the words on foolscap, and I haven’t yet done the sketches.”
“When you have this story as a book, I will turn your pages. You have to start with ‘once upon a time.’”
Mary enjoyed great confidence in her opinions, but she was sometimes in error. “I will start with the title and dedication. Under a Mousing Moon by Mr. Christopher Dingle, dedicated to Miss Emmie of West Bart’s Lending, guardian of truth and worker of miracles.”
The fidgeting and squirming subsided, and on the mantel, Jewel and Aristotle started up antiphonal purring.
“‘Once upon a time,’” Dunfallon began, “‘there were four mostly well-behaved kittens named Hammerhead, Mark, Luke, and Jewel…’”
The pages shook slightly in his hand, but by the time he’d reached the part about the kittens wandering the town in search of the merest morsel of food, and the children were calling out directions to the fictitious kittens, he’d hit his stride. Emmie’s eyes were shining again—in a good way—and when the kittens found their way home, as they always did, the library reverberated with applause.
The gathering broke up in phases, with the footmen disappearing first, carrying boxes of leftovers. Mrs. Oldbach’s contingent departed next, chattering like starlings about West Bart’s Lending being the brightest gem in the committee’s crown. The pensioners decamped with the ladies, providing escort and flirtation in equal measure.
Lord Bellefonte gathered up his family, though he did murmur something in Emmie’s ear before taking his leave of her.
MacAlpin collected his wife, Caspar, Ralph, and Mary, along with the older boys who were so inclined, amid talk of a Christmas Eve map game tournament.
Last to go was Lord Threadham, who looked like a man with a few fraternal warnings on his mind.
“Don’t disappoint her, Dunfallon,” Threadham said as Emmie moved around the library, blowing out sconces. “She was ill-used once, and I could not call the blighter out because he was a commoner. You are titled, when you bother to recall your nicknames, so watch your step.”
“I have already disappointed her,” Dunfallon said. “We appear to have weathered my blundering. If you will take your splendid, lordly self off, I will make a proper proposal to my prospective duchess and pay my addresses to Mr. Dingle’s intended.”
Emmie paused to reshelve a book here and to tidy up a stack of magazines there. She was all of a piece with this stately old library, and yet, she shone like a jewel in her own right too.
Threadham extended a hand. “Welcome to the family, Mr. Dingle.”
They shook. Threadham offered a farewell to his sister and promised to call upon her and their aunt Christmas morning.
Emmie waved and blew out the last sconce as Threadham took his leave. “Finally,” she said, coming around the biographies to wrap an arm about Dunfallon’s middle. “I would like to challenge you to a holiday sofa-measuring contest, sir, but first, I have a few things I need to say to you.”
“Let’s sit by the fire, shall we? Before you launch into the scolds I abundantly deserve, Emmie, allow me to explain.”
She leaned against him, the sweetest holiday gift imaginable. “What utter rot. I was wrong, and you will allow me to make my apologies. Ladies first, Your Grace, or must we have Mary remind you of your manners?”
“I like it better when you call me Mr. Dingle and best when you call me Dane.”
“I adore it when you tell me I’m your love. Let’s talk.”
She led him to the reading chairs before the hearth, while on the mantel, Jewel and Aristotle ever so delicately touched noses.
“Mary will learn her letters now,” Emmie said, which seemed a safe enough thing to say while falling in love all over again with a duke who hauled coal, managed Christmas feasts, and wrote gorgeous little stories. “The children—I mean, the kittens—found their way home safely because they knew the map of London, and because they could read the street signs and building markers.”
Clever of him, to weave that lesson into the adventure, but then, Mr. Dingle was a very clever fellow. “Mrs. MacAlpin,” Emmie went on, “allowed as how she could use a little helper around the house, and I saw Mr. MacAlpin making a bird out of paper for Ralph. Ralph is clever with his hands, and he’ll…”
Dunfallon smiled at her. “Yes, my love?”
“I can’t think when you do that.”
“Smile at you?”
“Call me your love in that purring tone. You are my love too.”
His smile faded. “That is the greatest gift I have ever been given, Emmie. You were right, you know, about the stories—about me.”
“No,” Emmie said, rising and pacing before the hearth. “You will not apologize first, Dunfallon. I will apologize to you. I did not listen to you. You said not only that you would not write more stories, but that you could not. I could not face Society for a time—could not—and nobody but my aunt believed me. You are not some mechanical marvel who can produce stories merely because I adore what you write. You are a busy man, a peer, and I had no business trampling your truth.”
One moment, Emmie was pacing with righteous determination. The next, she was perched in Dunfallon’s lap, his fingers circling her wrist.
“Is Miss quite through with her diatribe?”
“No. You might have asked me to sit in your lap.”
“You might have bestowed the privilege of your presence upon my person, and I hope in future you often will.” He kissed her cheek, and when Emmie ought to have scolded him—where did Lady Bellefonte get her fortitude?—she cuddled against his chest.
“My brother did not listen to me,” she said. “I explained to him exactly what had happened with Lord Hercules at the time of that scoundrel’s defection, and Ambrose could not credit my version of events. I could not make him listen, and I never want you to feel the misery that I did when my only sibling turned a deaf ear on my misfortune. I will tell you when you are wrong, Dunfallon, but I will also listen to you. Truly listen, not simply hoard up ammunition for my next volley in the argument. We can both be right, and we can both be wrong, all at the same time. You should write more stories—I was right about that—and I should have respected your demurral.”
Dunfallon’s fingers stroked Emmie’s hair from her temple to her nape, a deliciously soothing touch. “You propose a sound bargain. I promise you both honesty and kindness, and that means listening to each other even when we are disappointed or dismayed, but it also means we don’t lie to ourselves.”
“You could never—”
“I did, or I failed to see what you were trying to tell me. Caspar sorted me out. Caspar and MacAlpin. I was becoming my father, absorbed with the honors and duties of my station, and those honors and duties are important. The stories, as you so easily grasped, are important too. It’s not one or the other, I can do both, with proper inspiration and assistance. Do you know why Mary doesn’t learn her letters?”
“Because she’s a prodigy with numbers?”
“Because her mother cannot read. Mary has it in her stubborn little head that if she learns to read, she will make her mother feel stupid, and her mother—a streetwalker overly fond of gin, to hear Caspar tell it—is all she has. Mary also thinks that once she learns her letters, nobody will ever read her a story again.”
“But Caspar reads fairly well, and he’s…”
“He’s off to greater ventures. Nobody is reading to him, or so Mary thinks. Caspar explained it to me.”
Emmie wanted to catch up with the MacAlpins, take Mary by the hand, and explain to the child that nobody is too old to enjoy a story hour. Not too old, not too well-read, not too important.
She also wanted to close her eyes and snuggle closer to Dunfallon, so she did. “Dane?”
“Hmm?”
“When I am an old and crotchety duchess sitting on too many committees and fond of too many cats, will you still read to me?”
He kissed her cheek. “Of course, and you will read to me, and we will argue over our stories and over reform bills and gingerbread, but we will also listen to each other.”
“You may have all the gingerbread you please. What else did Caspar say?”
Dunfallon’s caresses weren’t putting Emmie to sleep so much as they were easing away all the worries she’d stored up over the past few days and past few years. She was pleasantly aware of him in a physical sense, but more significantly, she felt restored to emotional closeness with him.
Honesty could do that. Honesty and love.
“Caspar said a great deal. He reminded me that stories have the power to fortify us against temptation, against bad decisions, against loneliness. He explained to me—not in so many words—that Mr. Dingle had done more to protect him against turning to a life of crime than all the sermons or charitable committees in London have done.”
“Gingerbread and cider played a hand in keeping him safe thus far too, Dane.”
“As did the physical refuge of West Bart’s Lending and the friends he made here. I wrote those stories to fortify myself, Emmie. I had lost sight of what they might do for other people. I saw in myself only the duke my father intended me to become, and I had lost sight of Mr. Dingle entirely.”
“Are you quite through with your apology, sir?”
He hugged her. “Yes. Happy Christmas, Emmie. Did you know that emeralds are worth more than rubies?”
“What are you going on about?”
“I am expounding on my heart’s greatest treasure. Will you marry me?”
She kissed his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Dane. Yes, I will marry you. Have you more story ideas?”
“As it happens, I do, and I’m sure you do, too, but might we discuss them later?”
A lovely glow spread through her. “You are inclined to measure my office sofa with me?”
“Something like that.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
She led him between the bookshelves and up the steps, past all the kissing boughs and portraits, past the plays and periodicals, to her cozy office, where His Grace of Dunfallon found that—contrary to his earlier supposition—Miss Emmie’s office sofa was a perfect place to celebrate a holiday engagement.
And they lived happily—also noisily, lovingly, and honestly—ever after!