A Duke for Christmas (9 page)

Sophie struggled free of her enveloping covers, sitting up. A neatly mobcapped maid had her arms up as she adjusted the hang of the curtains. Another stood by, a supervising light in her eye, her hands full of a tea tray with a most intriguing set of covers upon it.

“Good morning, madam,” this one said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a top,” Sophie replied. “I made up the fire.”

“Yes, madam. You should have rang.”

“Oh, but it was so early. At least, it felt early. I don’t think that clock is right,” she added, pointing to the wooden-case clock on the mantel between two Chinese vases. It said half-past ten.

“I’ll ask the butler to look at it, madam,” the maid said as she set the tray across Sophie’s knees. “Mr. Tremlow is a dab hand with a clock. Sets and winds them all himself.”

The other maid, satisfied at last with the curtains, turned about. Sophie glanced at her discreetly, then stared.
“Che bella giornata,
Lucia!” she said.

The girl’s large brown eyes flicked to the English maid. “Good...” she prompted.

“Good mor-ing, Signora Banner.”

“Morn-ing. Morning.”

Lucia gave one of those incredibly impressive shrugs by which a Roman says so much more than mere words can express. The English girl gave her own nation’s contribution to silent scorn—an exaggerated eye roll.

Sophie called her back just before she closed the door. “What’s your name?”

“Parker, madam,” she answered, looking slightly worried.

“Parker, I want something from you.”

“Madam?” Her vague worry solidified into an expression of considerable alarm, as if she were
examining her conscience and finding it foil of gaping
holes. 

“Could you imagine that you have just been dropped down in a strange country, where you hardly speak a word of the language and haven’t seen a friendly face yet?”

“Madam?”

“Would you be very kind to that young lady and her sister? They have a hard time ahead of them just in learning English, let alone discovering all their duties.”

“Yes, madam. Though that Angelina girl seems to understand more than this one does.”

“Does she? Well, be kind to them, if you please. Don’t laugh at them or make the mistake of thinking that because they speak no English that they must necessarily be fools. I’m sure that with your example, the other servants will follow along.”

“Yes, madam,” she said. Sophie was perfectly well aware that Parker couldn’t very well have said anything else. However, she felt confident that some of her meaning had reached the maid.

After half an hour, Sophie trotted down the stairs, adjusting her shawl about her shoulders. She didn’t see Dominic until she all but ran into him at the bottom of the staircase.

His hands came up to fend her off, winding up catching her against his chest instead. For one instant, breathing in sharply, Sophie flushed with a remembrance that was more of the body than of the mind. She had the impression that she stared up at him like a frightened doe for a long time. In reality, it couldn’t have been more than a second or two before he stepped away, his hands falling to his sides.

“You look, if I may say so, much more rested this morning.”

“Is it still morning?”

“Well then, this afternoon.” He offered his arm. Somewhat gingerly, Sophie took it, aware of the muscle beneath the sleeve. “I’m afraid you’ve missed church.”

“Did I? I’m sorry to hear it. I was hoping to go but I was so very tired.”

“So was I,” he said. “I always sleep better in the country. So much quieter than town.”

“Especially with the snowfall. What a delightful surprise for my first day here.”

“I’m so happy you are pleased with it.”

“Did you do it?” she asked with a smile. She remembered how she and Broderick used to joke like this, and her smile wavered like a flickering candle.

Dominic didn’t seem to notice. “Of course. I’m on the best of terms with the snow elves.”

“Snow elves?” Sophie almost laughed out loud.

“Absolutely. Didn’t you know they make the snow? My good girl, what sort of upbringing have you had? Never heard of the snow elves?”

Sophie saw that the curtains had been thrown open along the far wall, disclosing a striped cushion set in a bow window seat. She walked toward it at once, to sit with her feet tucked up and her back against the wall. A breath of cold air poured along the window but the view was so marvelous down the snow-covered lawn that she couldn’t resist sitting there. “I’m sadly ignorant of meteorology. It wasn’t considered a necessary study for females.”

“How unfair.” He seated himself to lean against the other wall, his long legs over the edge of the cushion.

“Yes. For instance, I never knew elves controlled the weather. How shockingly ignorant you must think me.”

“It’s not your fault. Shall I teach you all about them? Maybe you can learn to see them if you study very hard.”

“You must think me about ten years old, Your Grace.”

“I? I assure you, quite the contrary.” He had such bright eyes, with so penetrating a gaze that she could not meet it for very long. He made her very self-conscious. She could turn her head to gaze out the window whenever his gaze grew too concentrated for her to sustain.

“Let us speak seriously, if we can.”

“If you wish, though I’d rather talk piffle, just to see you smile again.”

“Oh, now that I’m home again, I’m sure I will smile a great deal. But what I wanted to ask you is this: Do you still have friends among writers?”

“Yes, quite a few. Some I even support with funds from time to time. Why? Are you thinking about your husband’s poems?”

“I’m determined to see them published. I have no doubt that these are poems that will speak to thousands of men and women all over this country.”

“You have such faith in your husband’s voice?”

“Yes,” she said, giving a short, decisive nod. “Any advice you can offer me will be most gratefully accepted. I
only know what Broderick himself told me about selling poems.”

“What did he say?”

“That compared with selling a poem, writing one is easy.”

Dominic chuckled. “He had a point.”

“Do you miss it?”

“The struggle? No. I could sell anything now. I receive offers by every post, pleading with the Duke of Saltaire to grant them the opportunity to publish whatever I choose to send them. But they wouldn’t look twice at the writings of Dominic Swift.”

“So you don’t write at all now?”

“Once in a while. When something strikes me as interesting or important.”

Sophie leaned forward, resting her chin on her fist. “What do you find interesting and important?”

“People, mostly. Sometimes an idea or, more often, a fragment of an idea.”

“Not poetry, though?”

“No, never poetry,” he said, raising one hand as if taking a vow. “Just between us, I can’t rhyme hat with cat.”

“Broderick used to say that rhyme was too easily devolved into mere doggerel. He felt the future of poetry was in rhythm, not rhyme. Though, I must confess, he still clung to rhyme. He wrote a very pretty one once to the ribbons in my hair.” Sophie tried to remember how it began.

Dominic cleared his throat rather stagily. “Of course, now is an excellent time to sell a collection of poems. Ever since Byron hit such a smite, all the publishers have been seeking the ‘next Byron.’“

“Broderick had no opinion of Byron. He thought most of his lordship’s popularity came from his appearance.”

“Quite,” Dominic said.

“It wasn’t entirely jealousy,” Sophie reassured him. “Broderick was handsome, but not in quite so showy a
way.”

“I suppose you must have thought him tolerably good-looking...”

“I admired him for his mind. I never thought of him in any physical way.” Sophie felt her face heat and leaned back into her corner. What on earth had she just said? That moment when Dominic had held her, however accidentally, must have confused her more than she’d realized. She had only enough sense not to fuddle the issue further by making explanations or excuses. Let what she had said stand.

“A marriage of minds can be the most satisfying,” he said sententiously.

Sophie tilted her head to study him. Did he believe that? “Would you settle for such a marriage?”

“We are not talking about me.”

“No, of course not. Do you think...”

“However, as you mention the matter, no. Such a marriage would not satisfy any man who truly loved a woman. When I marry, I will choose a woman whom I desire on every possible level. I will cherish her, mind, soul, and body.”

If she blushed before, it was no more than a tinge of pink on a white rose. She felt her face flame, yet managed a steady voice. “She will be a most fortunate woman. Do you think you will ever find such a one?”

“I live in hope.”

Until that moment, he’d been sitting in one of his usual postures of all but boneless relaxation. Now, he
straightened, a look of determination hardening his pleasant features. “My dear...”

Sophie turned her head to look out the window. A strange excitement began to flutter behind her breastbone. “Is that the carriage I hear returning?”

“I don’t know.” He reached across to take her hand in his own. Sophie had to look at him, perforce. “My dear, will you let me help you?”

“Help me? How?”

“As you have asked. And more. I will help you edit and sell those poems.”

“You will? I confess I am dreading making some horrible mistake with them. Mr. Knox asked if I would consider his aid, you know.”

“Mr. Knox,” Dominic repeated, releasing her hand. “That fellow who sailed home with you?”

“Yes. He was Broderick’s dear friend. He traveled with him, visited him so often that he knew his thoughts intimately.”

“He sounds ideal. But you refused his offer of assistance?”

“I felt it wiser not to encourage the acquaintance. You see... he claims that he wishes to marry me, and I simply cannot consider such a thing.”

“You’ve had enough of poets.”

“I’ve had enough of love.”

A noise and bustle in the hall heralded the return of the church party. Maris inquired of the butler where her sister might be. Naturally, the butler knew.

Maris, still swaddled in her fur-lined robes, came in and saw them sitting together in the window seat. “Here you are,” she caroled,

Sophie swung her feet to the floor and came to kiss her sister and take her wraps. “Good sermon?”

“Excellent. I wish you could have heard it.”

“So do I. Dr. Pike is always so inspiring.”

“Oh, didn’t Mother write you? The Pikes are no longer in residence.”

“Gone? I thought they were an institution.” Sophie looked toward her mother for an explanation.

“Once their oldest boy left to be a teacher and took Lucy with him as a housekeeper, the vicarage was too big for the remaining family. Then Dr. Pike’s health began to betray him. They are very happily settled on the Isle of Wight, of all places. For the sea air.”

“I see. Who is vicar now?”

“A very nice man, Mr. Ward.”

“Too charming to be a clergyman,” Maris added. “You’ll meet him this evening, if you feel up to it. I would have him here to dinner but I shouldn’t be much of a hostess at the moment.” She eased herself into the chair her husband had sat in the night before. “I don’t mind a family party, but not neighbors. Not until after I’m churched.”

Mrs. Lindel spent a moment making Maris more comfortable, then excused herself. From the doorway, out of Maris’s sight, she beckoned to Sophie.

“Yes, Mother?”

“I was happy to let you sleep in, Sophie, but many of our friends were asking after you. Would you consider accompanying me on some calls in the next few days?”

“Certainly. I should be very happy to.”

“Our friends have been most anxious about you since I told them of your husband’s unfortunate passing. Yet, though I hesitate to mention it...”

“What concerns you, Mother?”

“Don’t mention your troubles to anyone but me. Maris has done enough lately to shock the village.”

“Maris? What can she have done?” Sophie asked, following her mother up the stairs.

“She insists, despite all my advice, in appearing in church even though her condition is so obvious. It shocks our friends, and everyone talks about her behind her back.”

“Why? Don’t they know where babies come from?”

“Sophie,” her mother said with a laugh in her throat. “You mustn’t say such things. Though you’ve been married, there are still things one doesn’t discuss, especially when men are about. Maris will say things to dear Kenton that shock me, and I am not easily shocked. Not after your father.”

She opened her bedroom door and led the way in. Mrs. Lindel untied her bonnet with the purple roses and laid it carefully on the hat form on her dressing table. As usual, her movements were always tidy, and everything about her room was tidy as well. Sophie realized how far she’d departed from her mother’s standards, thinking guiltily of the clothes she’d left thrown on the bed and the clutter on her own dressing table. Mrs. Lindel had taught her daughters that while care could not replace fortune, neatness always made a young lady appear more desirable a friend.

“You would think, after Father’s escapades and Maris’s startling a larger world than Finchley with her marriage that our friends would have grown accustomed to the Lindels’ unconventional ways.”

“People are always willing to be shocked anew. If you could but suggest to Maris that she stay at home.”

“Why should she listen to me? I’m the younger sister.”

“I know she respects your mind and your wider experience of the world.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. My wider experience tells me nothing about being a mother. Not even an incipient mother.”

“Still, you must see why it’s so startling. She is very near her time. When I was in such condition, I stayed inside and quite out of sight.”

“Didn’t you feel confined?”

“That is why they call it a confinement, my dear.”

Sophie shook her head, more at her own folly than at her mother. “I’d forgotten. I will speak to her. However...”

“However?”

Sophie tried to think of a way to be subtle. “You do realize the problem will be solved in a week or so any way.”