All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke (3 page)

His breath hitched in disbelief. By God. Jane. His Jane remembered him. Him. Martin. “I always insisted she call me Martin. She and I were friends. In my younger years.” When he was a mere fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen and his father was still alive. How he achingly remembered a regal, striking blonde with soulful green eyes. She had captured more than his heart. She had captured his soul. She was everything he wasn’t. Bold, outspoken, concise, and to the point. Jane was the first woman that he as a man—or, rather, a boy—had ever truly noticed. And wanted. And loved. “How is she? I haven’t seen her in years.”

“She was snubbed by her circle and disowned by the earl when she took off to Drury Lane to sing.”

“I know. I, uh…I snuck out of Eton and traveled into London just to see her onstage. I can still remember when I first heard her sing. It was incredible. There was this one song she sang, ‘Ah, Mio Prence,’ that devoured the last of me. She was—” His throat tightened. Even though she had been singing to a crowd of more than a hundred that night in the opera house, he felt like she was singing for him and only him. Mio prence, after all, was Italian for My prince. And that was what she had always made him feel like. A prince. “My father caned me for attending that performance, citing I disrespected Lord Chadwick for acknowledging her scandal and defiance. He then ensured I wasn’t given access to another carriage until I was eighteen.”

He bit back a smile. “It was well worth it. I got around not seeing her by writing her countless letters.” Letters she never knew were from him. His smile faded. “And then she was engaged.” Which had crushed all of his hopes of having her for himself, though he knew, at seventeen, he had been far too young for her. “I lost sight of her after that. I did a six-year tour across Europe. I’m assuming she has children by now?” It hurt even asking it. For they should have been his children.

“No. Sadly, her husband died before they had a chance to have any. They were only married two weeks.”

His pulse almost choked him. Two weeks? So she wasn’t married anymore? “I didn’t know.”

“It’s been many years now, but it affected her greatly. She retired from singing and hasn’t been onstage since. Apparently, she thinks herself cursed. I will have you know she never leaves the house on Twelfth Night. Her husband died on Twelfth Night. It was rather strange. He was talking one moment and dropped without a breath in the next.”

Martin swallowed. The fact that Jane believed in curses and tales of Twelfth Night bespoke of the romantic soul he remembered all too well. The first time he had met her, when he was all but fifteen and she was a glorious twenty, Jane had been exquisitely dressed in debutante white and had been staring up at a painting in his father’s drawing room. It was an ordinary painting of a garden at sunset but the fact that she had been staring at it so intently made it extraordinary.

After pacing the corridor several times and drumming up enough courage to approach her, seeing they were alone, he had veered back into the drawing room and quietly asked her what she thought of the painting. She turned and with vivid green eyes filled with endless expression confided in a conspiratorial tone, “It lacks the breath of mist and magic. There should be faeries painted into it. Though not ones you can easily see. They should be hidden within the blades of grass and the glint of the sun so that only those who take the time to truly look are rewarded into seeing something one ordinarily wouldn’t see. Don’t you think?”

He’d never looked at her or that painting the same after that and had it removed from the wall with his father’s permission so he could get a painter to work on getting some faeries into it. His father and his brother thought he had turned into a Molly. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t care that he was being insulted. All he cared about was touching a finger to Jane’s soul.

That painting now hung not in the parlor, where it used to be, but in his own study, where he spent most of his time fussing over ledgers and the estate. There were times he would pause from his work and it would startle him into thinking of her, even when he didn’t want to. Though he had tried getting rid of that painting, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would have been like getting rid of her.

Martin eyed his aunt. “So how do you know her? How do you know Jane?”

“She and I are neighbors.”

He almost choked. “She lives here?” he echoed. “In the same building as you?” He refused to believe it.

“Yes. A mutual friend introduced us years ago, when I was still walking about town, and Mr. Fink and I arranged a respectable price she could afford. She didn’t want to live near the same social circle she was in, due to her popularity, and moved here. She sold her old life, all of her fine gowns and jewelry, and took to Foley Street as if she were one of us.”

“I don’t understand. Why would she do that? Why would she—”

“Moving into a neighborhood such as this gave her the peace she was looking for, both financially and socially. After Mr. Robinson died, it was discovered he hadn’t taken the time to change his will. After all, they had only been married two weeks. Everything went to his brother and she was left with nothing. Whilst his brother tried to contest it and even extended assistance, she refused both. Tragically, she couldn’t even return to singing for she couldn’t compose herself long enough to do it. I suspect it had to do with her being incapable of trusting anyone after what this husband of hers did. Everyone only ever tried to use that poor child after her endorsement from the queen and prince. A sad story, that. I worry about her. She needs us, Martin.”

He wavered, trying to comprehend that Jane was but a door away. All those countless days and nights and years spent thinking about her had accumulated toward this moment. “Is she involved with anyone?” he prodded. He had to know.

She smiled. “No. The men here try. Believe me, they do, but she is a chestnut unwilling to crack.” Picking up her wood cane from beside her chair, she pointed toward the wall not once but twice. “She lives a flight down. It’s the door with the holly branch. Go. Talk to her. I have no doubt she would be very pleased to see you. She spoke so warmly of you.”

“Did she?” His palms grew moist. God save him. He felt like he was seventeen again and about to see the woman who had featured in his first inappropriate sexual fantasy.

When her father had disowned her and he’d been unable to share his feelings for her without displeasing his own father, he commenced writing her letters and signed them all with a mere X. He had hoped to change everything between them through those letters and defy not only his age but his father and all of society. Her response to his written passion had more than astounded him. Her letters gave him hope that they were meant to be together. Forever. He had promised himself that when he turned eighteen, regardless of what his father or society thought, he would reveal himself to her and, if God willed it, they would marry.

That was when he discovered she had accepted the attentions from another who claimed to be Mister X. As writhingly furious as he was with her, for he thought she would have surely known the real Mister X from a fraud, when he had called on her, intent on revealing himself and falling upon a knee despite still being only seventeen, it became rather obvious he was too late. She had found genuine happiness in another. He had never seen her eyes so bright. It went beyond the grasp of what he had been able to do as Mister X. For it was “Philip this” and “Philip that” and how incredibly funny and romantic and wonderful he was and that even if he hadn’t been Mister X, it would have been the same.

So he, Martin, buried Mister X and walked away. For his father would never have approved of their union nor would she have approved of the seventeen-year-old joke that he had been. Not when she had found Mr. Dashing Thirty-year-old Nouveau Riche Robinson.

Only…he wasn’t seventeen anymore. And his father, God rest his soul, was dead. He, Martin, was duke now. He, Martin, decided his fate and his life and his will now.

And he damn well would.

Maybe this was what he had been waiting for. Maybe this was why he had never been able to pursue a woman for anything more than sex. Because of her. Because none of them had ever been her.

Chapter Two

When I am ready to unveil myself, we will meet in the most unlikely of places and commence a most ordinary conversation as two old friends might ever know.

—Mister X

December 16, 1858

Early evening

Regent Street

It was that time of year again when being charitable was fashionable. To many, it was a matter of moral duty to extend a hand to those less fortunate than one’s self, especially during the Christmas season. To Jane, it was a beautiful sentiment she celebrated throughout the year and beyond.

Her giving nature had dwindled her finances to a miserable state, but she honestly didn’t care. Since retiring from the opulent life of the opera house and escaping the outstretched hands of people she could no longer trust, she had become a Samaritan of sorts and spent her days teaching children how to sing whilst finding ways to put smiles on the faces of everyone and anyone who needed it.

In fact, she was on a covert mission to purchase a Barnum & Park spice cake for her elderly friend and neighbor, Mrs. Granger. Apparently, Barnum & Park spice cakes were very popular with the upper crust. Which meant it was going to cost her more than she had to spend. But Mrs. Granger had expressed a particular fondness for this cake. She had to get it. Especially after the woman paid for a full year of her rent.

’Twas the season.

Jane drew in a determined breath and let it out as acrid coal smoke drifted down with the wind from the surrounding brick chimneys and permeated her nostrils and tongue. Endless flakes of snow danced and whirled all around, puncturing the crisp, sooty night air with virginal white.

Switching her reticule from one gloved hand to the other, she stepped beneath the stone colonnade, away from the crush of horses and snow-covered lacquered carriages that loitered on the gas-lit cobblestone street.

She rarely wandered into these parts. It represented her old life. One she didn’t care to remember.

Tugging her wool shawl tighter around her cloak to squeeze out the biting cold, she hurried through well-bundled men and women who swept past with stacks of parcels and woven baskets. Rows of plate-glass windows were illuminated by frosted lanterns that revealed a Paris-green confectionary shop with a brown wooden plaque painted with golden letters that read: BARNUM & PARK .

Edging closer to the window, she tucked herself against the display until the tips of her ankle boots and full skirts touched the wood base of the shop. The brightly lit windows before her were festively trimmed with thick garlands of holly and ivy that displayed a grand tiered variety of honey-glazed spice cakes, marzipan, éclairs, and dried candied fruit towers delicately kissed by sprinkled sugar.

She peered through the window, past the display, to the patrons within and bit back a smile. Boys in dapper caps and girls in fur-trimmed bonnets and muffs gathered inside the confectionary shop, pointing excitedly to everything they wanted as their mothers and fathers obligingly counted out coins from their purses. A large wooden tray of toffee sat on the corner of the mahogany counter where a man in a white apron was breaking the sweet apart with a small hammer before wrapping pieces of it in brown paper and string.

A breath escaped Jane, whitening the air and the glass before her. Realizing she couldn’t see the cake she had come to pay respects to, she used her glove to swipe away the fog her breath had created.

Through the smeared glass, she eyed the four-tiered spice cake. It represented everything a cake ought to be: glorious and bountiful. Though she doubted she could afford it. Leaning over to the side and peering through all the other pastries, Jane wondered if there was anything else she could buy for Mrs. Granger for ten shillings or less.

The heavy scuffing of boots in the snow beside her drew her attention.

A dashingly tall gentleman in an expensive horsehair top hat and heavy greatcoat stepped in beside her. His muscled frame widened as he tucked large gloved hands behind his broad back and scanned the lavish display of cakes and pastries. A footman bundled in a thick winter cloak dutifully lined up behind them, making her pause.

Tightening her hold on her reticule, she glanced back at the footman in red livery who stoically observed her from beneath a hat as the snow whirled down.

The gentleman, whom the footman was servicing, turned toward her as if he’d been meaning to all along. Intently searching her face with obsidian eyes that made her swallow, he inclined his head.

The unexpected crisp scent of mint wafted from the heat of his greatcoat, caressed the cold air between them.

She awkwardly fingered her reticule and edged away.

He waved off the footman, who promptly returned to a crest-emblazoned carriage waiting at the curb.

She paused. She knew that crest. Dearest heaven. It had been years since she had seen it. She jerked her gaze to the man before her.

That rugged, shaven face softened. “Jane.” He leaned in, scattering a dusting of snow that had gathered atop the rim of his hat into the wind. “Do you remember me?” His baritone voice was not only incredibly husky but also incredibly posh.

How could she ever forget what had once been her dearest and closest friend? The quiet adolescent lord who always carried a book in his hand and never looked anyone in the eye despite his impending future as a duke. So much of him had changed. All except those eyes. Those soulful, beautiful eyes had remained the same. “Martin?” she whispered in disbelief. “Is it really you?”

Dark eyes, highlighted by the lanterns from the shop window, captured her gaze again and held it. “Yes. It’s me.”

Her eyes widened as she fought the urge to rake her gaze down the length of his broad, muscled frame. He was lanky no more. A greatcoat had been meticulously pulled over an exquisite grey silk waistcoat, which was paired with well-fitted black trousers and knee-high riding boots for the snow. One thing hadn’t changed. He still had great taste in clothing. “I hardly recognized you. My goodness have you grown! You are twice the size of me now.”

He inclined his head and smiled. “I was getting rather tired of having to look up.”

It was so eerie to blink and know that the lanky boy whom she had genuinely loved and adored for his quiet, humble ways was now a well-muscled man. And he didn’t appear shy or quiet anymore. He had clearly outgrown it. “I’m sorry about your father passing. I only learned of it through Mrs. Granger a few days ago. I didn’t know.”

He shrugged, his smile fading. “It’s been two years now. And as you well know, he and I weren’t particularly close.”

Sadly, she did remember that. Most of the time his overly staunch father was smacking books out of Martin’s hands and demanding the boy speak up lest he take a cane to his back. She had stepped before the old duke many times in Martin’s defense, not being able to understand why Martin only ever swallowed it. As if he deserved it. Trying to change the subject, she offered, “Your aunt speaks very highly of you.”

“Hopefully not too highly, or I am set to disappoint.” He continued to hold her gaze.

This was clearly no longer an adorable boy but a breathtaking man. She tried to keep her features deceptively composed, even though those smoky eyes made her want to melt like ice on hot coal. “Might I inquire as to why you are calling on me here on the street as opposed to my home?”

He lowered his chin. “You were never at home when I called. Not even at night. My aunt was getting worried. As was I. So I…” He shrugged. “I volunteered to hunt you down. One of your neighbors was kind enough to inform me of your whereabouts.”

“Oh. I apologize. I lead a very busy life, teaching music to as many as four children a day, all of who live in different parts of London. I come home very late sometimes.” She eyed him. “Does Mrs. Granger need me? Is she not feeling well?”

He adjusted his coat. “No. She is well enough, thank you and thank God.”

She waited for him to say something more, only he didn’t. “I see. And so you are here because…?”

He wouldn’t look at her. Nor did he answer.

She stared. “Your Grace?”

He snapped his gaze back toward her. “Call me Martin. Like you used to.” He shifted from boot to boot and glanced toward the display before glancing back toward her. “Do you come here often?”

Sensing he wanted to converse outside of the reasons that had brought him, she obliged, “No. I only came here tonight to shop for your aunt.”

“Ah.” He lingered.

She couldn’t help but feel disappointed in the lack of genuine conversation. They used to be so close. They used to be such good friends. It was so sad to know they were now nothing more than strangers. She had often wondered what had become of him. “Are you well?”

He nodded. “Yes. Very.”

Again, she waited for him to take the conversation in hand, but he didn’t.

The wind whipped through them, pelting flakes of cold snow at her cold face and making her squint against it.

His brows came together. “I shouldn’t keep you standing in the snow.”

She crossed her arms in an effort to keep warm, while trying to understand why he hadn’t appeared in Mrs. Granger’s life until recently. “Where have you been all these years? As a nephew? Do you have any idea how lonely that poor woman is? After she lost her husband four years ago, she ceased leaving her flat.”

Well-tamped emotion wavered across those features. “I didn’t know about her until two months ago.”

“And why is that?”

His mouth tightened. “No one in my family had ever spoken of her. Nor was there any evidence of her existence until I found a portrait hidden in the attic of a young woman I didn’t recognize. After digging through some church registrars, it turned out to be my grandfather’s youngest sister. She was ostracized for marrying her father’s valet, Mr. Granger. I was fortunate to have acquired an address.”

Jane felt like she was listening to her own story. Only, instead of taking off to marry a valet, she took off to the opera. “How fortuitous.”

Martin nodded, sending gathering snow from his hat wisping into the wind. “It turned my gut knowing she was still alive and that no one in the family had ever reached out to her. Old as she was. So I did.”

“I’m glad you did. She desperately needs a family. She has no one. Do you plan on relocating her into better circumstance?” she prodded. “She deserves better. Especially given her age.”

He nodded. “I know. But nothing I say seems to make a difference. She digs her cane into the floor every time the subject comes up and I hardly want to take an old woman by force.” His expressive face changed and became more somber. “I rather loathe knowing that your living conditions are similar to hers. I haven’t been able to sleep knowing it.”

She shrugged. “I’m more than used to it. In fact, it’s been quite liberating. I set my own hours and lead my own life. One room and enough to eat and clothe myself with is all I need.”

He leaned in. “I’m here to help you, Jane. And I ask that you let me. Much like my aunt, you shouldn’t be living the way you are.”

His words made her fingers tighten around her reticule. “You needn’t worry about me, Martin, I—”

A freckled boy nudged in between them, making them both pause. The boy grinned crookedly up at them from beneath a lopsided wool cap that was gathering snow. “Evening. I hope you don’t mind, but I have a duty to perform.”

She blinked down at the boy. “Duty? What duty?”

“This duty.” With the quick swing of a hammer, the youth nailed her skirts against the shop with a long nail. “In honor of Twelfth Night, miss, I thee bless.”

A gasp escaped her as she tried to turn but her gown near the base of her thigh was firmly nailed into place against the wood façade of the shop. Of all the— “Twelfth Night? It isn’t even January yet!” she exclaimed in exasperation.

Martin jumped to grab the youth by the collar, but the boy scrambled out of reach with a gargled laugh and yelled back at them at the top of his voice, “Don’t get buried in the snow!”

Triumphantly waving his hammer about in the air, the boy disappeared down the pavement of heavily gathering snow, skidding and sliding along a trail with his boots.

Jane huffed out a breath. The nailing of unsuspecting victims against shop windows had officially begun. And it wasn’t even Twelfth Night yet. Thank God. Every year, when Twelfth Night made its appearance, she stayed at home and bolted the door lest something like this happen or someone die. “Do you boys ever grow up?” she grouched.

Martin turned and quirked a dark brow from beneath his top hat. “Consider it a compliment. He didn’t bother to nail my coattails. I feel rather left out.”

Jane rolled her eyes and leaned down toward the nail, trying to tug it loose from her bundled gown. Only it wouldn’t budge. The nail had been struck all the way through her petticoats. She tugged on her skirts harder and even tried to step away, but the nail held her stubbornly in place. “Lovely. Absolutely lovely. It appears I’m now part of the confectionary display. All I need is sprinkled sugar and a bit of marzipan. And who knows, maybe I’ll sell for fifteen shillings.”

He coughed out a rough laugh. “Surely you’re worth at least twenty.”

“Funny, that.” She gestured toward her skirts. “Might you assist, please? Instead of laughing? I’m permanently adhered and it’s cold.”

His amused expression faded. “Of course. Allow me.” He hesitated, then squatted beside her and stripped his gloves, tucking them into his coat pocket. He hesitated again, as if strategizing, then dug his fingers against the crooked nail embedded into her skirts. With pinched brows, he commenced wiggling it loose. “Fortunately, it didn’t go flat into the wood.” He bent closer toward her, his broad shoulders leaning in even closer, bumping into her thigh. He pushed aside her skirts. “Pardon my hands.”

Men and women paused to watch them as snow fluttered down.

She bit her cold lip, trying to pretend she couldn’t feel that probing touch as he continued to repeatedly graze her skirts and her thigh in an effort to remove the nail.

His one hand suddenly tightened around her calf, those large fingers possessively molding against it. They slid up.