Page 21 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter sixteen

Sweetmeats

“ W hat’s this, Bel?” demanded Aunt Lucy, the next day. “I saw Mrs. White at the butcher’s, and she let it drop quite slyly, that it was clever of a spinster to bag our friend the duke, when usually widows were preferred by that type .”

“How odious,” said Bel calmly, but inside her heart was beating a ragged march. “I haven’t ‘bagged’ anyone.”

It was true. The Duke of Warrenton wanted nothing more from her than a dance at the Boxing Day ball and a diversion from the dullness of his enforced exile from London. She had replayed their conversation in her head a hundred times over the past three days, and she had no illusions on that score.

“Well, I didn’t think you had, ” said Aunt Lucy, “or I would be the first to know of it. But the way she was insinuating things—it was almost as if she thought there was some sort of havey-cavey business going on between the two of you. ”

“No doubt that’s to be expected,” said Bel sharply, “given the duke’s reputation.” She wondered if Mr. Townsend was to be blamed for the gossip circulating in Upper Cross. Had the offended vicar offered Mrs. White that rumour on a platter?

“What do you mean by his ‘reputation’? I must say, he seemed like a very nice man when he was plain ‘Mr. Lymington.’ Can he really have changed so much now that we know he’s a duke?”

“Mr. Townsend seems to think that the Duke of Warrenton is a wastrel and a womaniser.”

Rather than showing any shock, Aunt Lucy’s wrinkled cheeks rounded in a smile. “Or perhaps Mr. Townsend is simply jealous. Perhaps he seeks to blacken the name of his rival—”

“His rival?” Bel gave a forced laugh. “On the contrary, Mr. Townsend finds my lack of prudence to be highly disturbing—particularly, my lack of prudence in conversing with the Duke of Warrenton.”

“Good heavens!” said Aunt Lucy. “The words of a jealous man if I’ve ever heard them! Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

Bel shrugged. “I didn’t think it important enough to mention. I daresay we have enough on our minds with Christmas, and the Boxing Day ball, and Charlie….” Her voice grew sombre. How easy it was—and how disloyal! —to forget about Charlie in all this hubbub over a rusticating aristocrat.

“I suppose so,” said Aunt Lucy doubtfully, the edges of her cap fluttering.

Nothing could take precedence in her own mind over the joys of matchmaking.

The fact that Mr. Lymington was now “his grace” was a matter as monumental as the Battle of Nile.

“We shall see who dances with you more than once at Mrs. Brownlee’s ball, and then all will be made clear. ”

“I am not sure that I will attend.”

Aunt Lucy’s eyes grew large. “But, my dear, if you do not attend, then there is no reason for me to go. I am your chaperone! And consider—I have already promised a dance to Mr. Ferris—”

Bel could not resist teasing her aunt. “I did not think Mr. Ferris was spry enough to dance a reel.”

“No, you goose, the younger Mr. Ferris. He is not so old, I think, as to be incapacitated by a set of dances.”

Bel saw two spots of colour form on her aunt’s cheeks and finally relented. “Very well, I shall attend. But I suspect it is you, my dear aunt, who will be fending off the bachelors, while I sit in the corner and lament the lack of male leadership in our home.”

It was an ironic allusion to the vicar’s diatribe from a few days ago, but as she spoke the words, Bel could not help but feel a pang.

Oh, Charlie! The sorrow of seven years’ absence would rise like the tide at the New Year.

She could already feel the saltwater surf of her grief gathering at the pronouncement the courts would indubitably make.

Was it right to set aside that heaviness of sorrow for the distraction that a brief dalliance with a duke would bring?

“And what about Christmas dinner?” asked Aunt Lucy.

Bel raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“I imagine that poor Mr. Lymington—er, his grace—will be eating it all alone in the Audeley House dining room.”

Bel’s voice took on a tone of admonishment. “Aunt Lucy—”

“I know, I know, my dear,” said Aunt Lucy, holding up her hands in a conciliatory fashion. Then she fled the room before Bel could forbid anything that she was already minded to do.

The day before Christmas Eve a box arrived addressed to “the Gentleman at Audeley House.” Nigel would have been grateful for the discretion of the direction if his ducal identity had not already been exposed.

Inside the box was a selection of wine, sweetmeats, and marzipan from none other than the owner of the house—the former Mrs. Audeley and the new Lady Kendall.

Along with the sweets came a letter, a far more welcome missive than the note from Lady Maltrousse which had arrived the week prior. But still, a letter from the lady of the house might be a kindly reminder that he had overstayed his welcome….

Your Grace,

My coachman John has informed me that you continue to reside at Audeley House. You are welcome to do so for as long as is needful. Lord Kendall and I have no intention of traveling to Derbyshire during the winter months, and I am happy that you can make use of an otherwise empty abode.

I hope you have found good company amidst my neighbours in Derbyshire.

The Brownlees are always forthcoming with invitations, and the Morrison ladies and Ferris brothers add charm to any gathering.

I daresay the neighbourhood will not let you spend Christmas alone, but I enclose some sweets to add to the cheer of the season.

You will be glad to learn that there has finally been word of Gyles and your niece Louisa.

A letter was forwarded to us whilst on our wedding trip.

They are in France! Whether they are married is unclear, but a mother’s heart always hopes for the best. Gyles will do right by Louisa, if she will let him—which may complicate your own prospects, as I know you have your own plans for her marriage.

Lord Kendall and I are currently in Cornwall, but by the time this letter reaches you, we shall have returned from our wedding trip to Kendall House in London.

If Gyles and Louisa reappear in England, I think it likely that they will come there first. But there is always a chance that Gyles will head straight for Upper Cross.

Do let me know immediately if there is any news of him.

Yours, etc.

Lady Kendall

P.S. Happy Christmas! You may want to open the bottle of ‘94 burgundy in honour of the occasion.

P.P.S. Please make a gift of some of the sweetmeats to John, Archie, and Mrs. Garrick for their Boxing Day treat.

When he started the letter, Nigel had been expecting to read an eviction notice.

Now, as he came to the end of it, he shook his head in grateful disbelief.

What had he ever done to deserve such kindness from the widow Audeley?

Perhaps in his younger years as an idle but well-meaning second son, such generosity toward him would have been understandable.

But now? After he had behaved so boorishly to his niece Louisa and like an utter profligate to Lady Kendall herself?

He certainly did not deserve the ‘94 burgundy, but he would accept it in the spirit it had been offered. And perhaps he could pass along his hostess’ generosity by sharing the sweetmeats with an even wider circle than the household retainers.

Surely, there must be some unfortunates in the neighbourhood who had even less reason to welcome Christmas than he did?

The Eve of Christmas fell on a Sunday. Nigel was tempted to avoid the eager eyes of the country folk by lying abed through the morning church services—it was no great sacrifice to forgo Mr. Townsend’s preaching—but the possibility of seeing Miss Morrison drew him there like a lodestone.

He bade Archie lay out his coat of brown superfine with his yellow waistcoat.

“No, not the dark pantaloons,” he admonished the spotty-faced lad.

“The tan ones with this coat. And my brown Hessians.” He was still out of charity with Simpson, but he managed to keep his humour with Archie despite the lad’s bumbling and even instructed him how to tie an Oriental before John brought round the carriage.

At the church door, he saw that the Morrisons had come in their open cart again, a fact of rustic life that Nigel still found appalling.

He had no time to speak with Miss Morrison before he was accosted by the tall, stooping form of Harold Brownlee.

“Ah, I hear you’ve been keeping secrets from us, your grace.

” The old man’s tone held mild recrimination over the secrecy.

“We didn’t know we had a duke to dine at Mullhill Manor a fortnight since, or we would have counted you the guest of honour. ”

Nigel demurred. “Surely, the new vicar deserved his day in the sun.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Mr. Brownlee, dismissing that topic with a wave of the hand. “I daresay you’ll be leaving us soon enough, eh?”

Nigel’s eyes flicked over to the Morrison pew. The gentlewoman farmer with the unmodish bonnet was not what had brought him to Derbyshire, but she was certainly the thing that made him reluctant to leave. “My departure date is yet to be determined.”

The service was about to commence, and Nigel accepted Mrs. Brownlee’s starry-eyed invitation to share their high-backed pew.

He did not accept her invitation to join them at Christmas dinner the following day, however, for he wanted to leave himself open to another invitation if it presented itself—as unlikely as that might be.

If the vicar’s brow was a little more thunderous than usual and his sermon against worldliness a little more pointed, Nigel did not regard it, for his eyes continued to stray toward the lady in the brown kersey gown.

Miss Morrison, however, seemed determined to keep her own eyes on the straight and narrow.

Throughout the service, they never met his. Not even once.

Following the dismissal, Nigel bolted from his seat to intercept the Morrison party, but the younger of the ladies had already hurried outside.

Aunt Lucy was more accommodating. She saw him coming and fidgeted with her gloves just long enough to let him come level with her elbow.

“Tomorrow is Christmas,” she said, her bright eyes dancing with excitement. “Have you anywhere to dine?”

“No, indeed,” replied Nigel, thanking fortune that he had not accepted Mrs. Brownlee’s offer to eat the Christmas goose at Mullhill Manor.

“Then you must sit down to table with us,” said Aunt Lucy brightly. “We cannot let you ‘Christmas’ alone.”

“I would be honoured,” said Nigel. It was quite true. He felt more honoured than if the Queen had invited him to tea or the prime minister had asked his opinion on the Regency question.

But whether the younger Miss Morrison would be pleased was not at all certain.

To be unsure of a woman’s opinion of him sent Nigel back to his younger years, when he was merely a second son and a second-rate student who had gained all his popularity second-hand from his older brother’s much showier personality.

He had spent the last two years coming out of his brother’s shadow, but in the process, he had entered much darker shadows himself.

If only there was a way to extricate himself that did not involve exiling himself to Lincolnshire.