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Prologue

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A black and white photo of a string of lights

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December 26, 1818

Ivy Castle

Warwickshire County, near Bedworth, England

T

he Duke of Whittington attempted to focus one last time on his outdated copy of The Times newspaper, but after reading the same sentence again, he gave it up as a lost cause. With a sigh, he folded the paper and tossed it to the morning room table amidst the detritus of breakfast dishes.

It was the morning of his 39th wedding anniversary, and though it was also Boxing Day and there were numerous events he and his duchess needed to attend, they would host a ball that evening to celebrate. However, none of that could sweep away the brown study that crept upon him or the worry that accompanied it.

“What ails you, my love?” his duchess asked as she read through yet another letter from the stack at the side of her plate. “This should be a happy day.”

“Oh, quite.” He drained the remainder of tepid tea from his cup. “It’s Boxing Day.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of what the calendar says, Whittington,” she replied with a twinkle in her eyes that were only starting to fade from age.

“It’s also our anniversary,” he managed with a grin.

“I’m well aware of that too, and I can’t wait to celebrate.”

“As am I.” He snorted even as heat went down his spine. After so many years of marriage, he couldn’t have done it without her wit or humor. “What I mean to say is that Graham has yet to find a romantic match.” Another sigh escaped. “It’s entirely possible there isn’t a worthy young lady in all of Warrick County for him to wed.”

His wife, apparently not possessed of the same level of fretting he was, continued to calmly nibble at her toast smeared with marmalade. “Perhaps there will come an answer soon. After all, Twelfth Night is far off. There is still time for the boy to find someone before your personal deadline passes.”

“I suppose.” But that didn’t mollify him.

His wife glanced at him. “You worried over the fate of our first three children and look how that turned out. They’re all marvelously happy, thanks to the house party and our interference. There’s no reason to suspect Graham won’t also be so.”

“That is also correct,” he said around a grumble, for all he wished to do at the moment was grouse about the problem.

“There are times, darling, when fate needs to take a hand and do what we cannot.”

The duke didn’t deign to answer. He merely poured out another cup of tea and then spent a few moments peering into the amber liquid as if that would provide the answers he sought. Finally, he cleared his throat. “It’s also raining.”

“Yes, and there is nothing wrong with that.”

He huffed. “It’s not snow.”

“No, it’s not.” A tiny sigh of frustration eased from between his wife’s lips as she gave him her full attention. “This is England. It rains more than anything else. Does it matter?”

“Yes, of course it does!” He banged a fist upon the tabletop, which rattled silverware and crystal. “There should be snow for the whole of the Christmastide holidays.”

“Ah, you’re determined to come the crab.” But her chuckle took the sting from the words. “It’s still a holiday regardless of what the weather does.” She patted his arm. The touch provided a modicum of comfort. “Give it a few days, Whittington. Rain can easily become snow on a whim. Which is exactly how romance acts.”

Well, that was something at least. “Oh? Do you have someone in mind for our Graham?” The problem with their youngest son was that he’d spent too many years in London doing whatever he pleased, and that had landed him the reputation of a rogue. Of the duke’s four children, he was the least likely to settle down and marry.

“No, but I have faith, and that’s enough.” Her blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “Now, enough of this discussion. Nothing good comes of worry. I’d like to enlist your assistance in helping me choose jewelry to wear with my gown tonight.” She stood and held out a hand to him. “I’m undecided on a necklace and earbobs, or should I just wear your mother’s tiara? I do want to look my best.”

“You always do.” As the duke rose, he clasped her hand. After so many years of marriage, she was still the person he sought out for conversation and comfort.

“How sweet of you to say, Whittington.” She led him from the room with a wink. “Perhaps before we need indulge in Boxing Day activities with your tenants, you and I can stroll the portrait gallery for a few private moments?”

Was there any wonder why he loved her? “What a wonderful idea.”

“Oh, by the by,” she said in a hushed voice. “Do remember the part you’re supposed to play and the reason you’ve summoned our children to Ivy Castle to begin with. You appear too hale and hearty for a man with supposed heart ailments.”

The humor of the situation assailed him, and he gave into a bout of genuine laughter. “Thank you for the reminder. I do tend to forget.” He’d invented the heart issues and the bit of fiction he’d bandied about that it might be his last Christmas to ensure that his offspring would attend him this holiday season.

“Indeed.” But she tightened her fingers upon his. “I’ve grown rather fond of you and haven’t had nearly enough time together, so be mindful you don’t accidentally tempt fate.”

“I won’t, sweeting. You have my promise.” Now, why couldn’t Graham figure out that finding himself in the married state was the greatest pinnacle of success?

I’ll never understand the younger set.