stop things before there is trouble.’ He demonstrated and the boy shrank back in alarm.
He smiled again. ‘Or you can just be a damned little nuisance. It works almost as well at breaking up liaisons, and you are very good at it.’
The boy smiled back, swinging the nut back and forth in a low arc, quite pleased with his own cleverness.
‘But if you were to see something as you just saw between myself and your mother?’ The duke gave a gentle smile. ‘That was somewhat more serious. As such, you had a right to ask what I was doing.’
‘I did that,’ the boy pointed out.
‘And I told you,’ the duke said. ‘But honour also requires me to tell you of the esteem in which I hold your mother. And to request your permission to court her.’
The boy stared at him in thoughtful silence. The conker swung back and forth like a pendulum.
For a moment, Montford wondered what he might do should the boy refuse. Clout the little beggar on the ear, perhaps. He was owed at least one good whack for the boot he’d delivered in the parlour.
‘You want to court my mother,’ the boy said, making a small face. ‘That is well and good for you. But what does that mean to me?’
It was a legitimate question. ‘I suppose, should we marry, I would be your stepfather.’
‘I can manage without one,’ Benjamin answered solemnly.
‘Right enough.’ The boy was a surprisingly hard bargainer. ‘But at least, with me, you are being consulted. At some point, your mother might choose one for you and give you no say in the matter.’
‘True, that,’ the boy agreed.
‘If you were to agree to me, I could take your troublesome sister off your hands, as well. I will find her a proper husband.’ He thought for a moment. ‘One that does not kick dogs.’
‘At least then she would stop crying over the last one,’ Ben agreed. ‘What else?’
What else? He could offer a large house, a proper education, a possible knighthood and a solid career in anything that might interest the child. But he doubted any of those would tempt. ‘I have a manor in Sussex with a very nice piece of land attached to it. There are woods with trees fit for climbing.’ He looked over at the boy. ‘I climbed them myself, when I was your age. Also a pond, with as many frogs as you might want, and a stream for fishing.’
‘I have never been fishing,’ the boy admitted. ‘When Papa was home, there was never time.’ Was that wistfulness he heard in the child’s tone?
‘Your father was the captain of a ship, was he not?’
The boy nodded.
‘He was a very busy man. I am but a duke and—’ other than running the country, and keeping my tenants housed and hundreds of servants fed and clothed ‘—I have more than enough time to fish. In summer, when the weather is good, we will live in the country and I will teach you.’
The boy brightened.
‘Do I have your blessing?’ the duke prompted.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You must call me Your Grace,’ he reminded the boy. ‘At least until we can settle on something more fitting that your mother will agree to.’
‘Yes, My Grace,’ the boy said with a slanted smile meant to annoy. Then he delivered a solid whack with his conker and split the duke’s nut in two.
‘Hot cockles,’ the duke said, and slapped him lightly on the back of the head. ‘Now I must go and try to mend the damage you did to your mother’s heart by making her think I loved your sister better than her. Keep your mouth shut on this for a day or two and you shall be gutting your own trout by May.’
The boy made a gesture of a key turning on his locked lips, grabbed the conkers and ran for the kitchen.
* * *
Christmas Eve dinner was less formal and more tense than the one on the previous evening. Mrs Marsh remained locked in her room, leaving Mrs Jordan to see to the children and the meal. It seemed the housekeeper had also been instructed to prevent further misbehaviour by Montford, for she was present in the dining room more than she was absent, adding and removing plates and sides as diligently as a footman.
She should, at least, have been appreciative of the meal he had provided for them. He had ordered a fully cooked goose from the village baker to make up for the roast that had been served to him the night before. She had smiled and thanked him when it had been delivered to the kitchen, along with a hamper that contained oranges, chestnuts and an iced Christmas cake.
But then Generva had announced her megrim and the whole house had turned against him. Not the whole house, perhaps. Gwendolyn and Mrs Jordan might look on him with suspicion. But Ben still seemed to enjoy his company, as did the spaniel.
After the meal, they retired to the parlour for cards and games. Mrs Jordan stationed herself in the corner with a bag of knitting like a tricoteuse beneath the guillotine, enjoying his suffering.
Was it not punishment enough that Generva refused to speak with him? He had delivered apologies and explanations through her bedroom door, well aware of the scene he was creating by lingering in the upper hallway. Her only response was to whisper that he was making things worse and demand that he please go away.
He suspected she meant to hide from him until he quit the house. He had no intention of doing so. If he remained until Christmas morning, she would have to come down for church. She would not permit her children to avoid the service, nor would she send Gwendolyn alone to face the gossips. When she opened the door, he would be there for her. All things would be settled at once.
It was almost a relief when he caught Ben yawning and Mrs Jordan announced that it was time for bed. Each hour passed meant an hour closer to the moment he might see her again. But that was before he remembered that the next eight hours would be spent in cold discomfort, sharing a narrow mattress with a boy and a dog.
* * *
After an hour’s tossing and turning, he rose, pulling his coat over his nightshirt, in lieu of a dressing gown.
‘Where are you going?’ Ben asked in a sleepy voice.
‘To the sofa, in the parlour,’ he replied. ‘You snore and your feet smell.’
‘Good riddance,’ the boy said, moving to the centre of his mattress.
Montford smiled, for he had expected no less. Then he shut the door and walked down the hall to the place he most wished to be. He put his hand to the knob and paused as his confidence faltered.
Was it normal, at this point in life, to be nervous about such a thing? He had kissed women before. When the kisses were pleasant enough, and the women willing, he sometimes took them to bed. It was sport and nothing more.
But tonight would likely be different. To find a woman that he desperately wanted to kiss was a novelty. To want more than just a night’s entertainment was a miracle. But never in his life had he feared rejection. He was the Duke of Montford, damn it all.
He smiled. His title amounted to nothing. There was nothing in his past to prepare him for Mrs Marsh. He did not bother to knock this time, for he did not want to make a single sound that was not necessary. Instead, he opened the door slowly, relieved that it did not squeak, and whispered into the darkness, ‘Generva, may I come in?’
The case clock in the hall was striking eleven. Generva tossed in bed and stuffed her pillow into her ears, but she could not manage to escape the fact that she was one hour closer to Christmas. Tomorrow morning would be awful, for they would be forced to face the disapproving stares and whispered innuendos from