The Duke Who Despised Christmas (Christmas Dukes #1)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

U nless he was mistaken, the scent of greenery and fir was even more pronounced this morning as Quint descended the staircase in search of his breakfast. He reached the last step and frowned, sniffing the air. There was the smell of soap and freshly scrubbed floors, which was decidedly new—and appreciated, now that he thought upon it. But no mistaking it. There was also the verdant scent of cut greens and trees, redolent and, though he would never admit it aloud, almost pleasant, reminiscent of a time when he hadn’t despised Yuletide to his marrow.

What the devil had come over him?

He was about to stalk to the dining room for his customary morning coffee when some bustling about the library down the hall caught his attention. Footmen. At least four of them, entering his library. By God, had Mrs. Yorke hired even more domestics? Where had the meddlesome woman found them? He wasn’t sure if he should be irritated or impressed.

Strangely, some perverse part of him was leaning toward the latter, which shocked him. He was beginning—somehow, and against his better judgment—to like his unwanted housekeeper. The realization almost had him tripping over his own feet as he neared the library and the source of the commotion.

As he reached the threshold, the sight that greeted him stopped Quint short.

More Christmas trees.

More holly.

And ribbons, too, and oranges and roses and apples, and sweet Christ above, was that a kissing bough hanging from the ceiling?

He goggled at the scene, taking note of the sheer abundance of decorations, before his gaze settled upon the lone feminine figure whose back was to him. She wore a gown as black as her hair, a tidy white apron looped around her waist and blanketing the front of her skirts. Her raven hair was confined in a tidy chignon at her nape. And he suddenly itched to pluck out her hairpins and sift his fingers through those inky tresses, to see if they felt as silken and smooth as they looked.

What was the matter with him? He should be outraged at this blatant disregard for his edict. And yet, he was standing here mooning over his housekeeper’s hair.

“Your Grace!” Peter—thankfully a familiar face in the sea of footmen and maids busily at work—exclaimed, spying Quint amidst the flurry.

Mrs. Yorke whirled about, her customary sunny smile on her lush lips as her gaze clashed with his. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

Her curtsy was faultless. She was too young, too beautiful to be a housekeeper. Where had his mother found her?

The room had come to a stop around her, a hive of bees that had been summarily stopped, the new footmen and housemaids frozen, their eyes wide. He was ever cognizant of their audience. And of the fact that she had once again defied him, to stunning effect.

“A word with you alone, Mrs. Yorke,” he said with deceptive calm.

Because inside, he was a maelstrom of contrasting emotions, all of which were dangerous.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Still smiling, she turned to her assemblage. “Return to your posts, if you please. I’ll fetch you when I’m ready for additional assistance.”

It was on the tip of Quint’s tongue to tell her that she wouldn’t require any more assistance, unless it meant tearing down the holly and trees and other festive nonsense that was cluttering up his library. But he remained quiet instead, venturing deeper into the room so the domestics could file out of the chamber past him.

She kept her emerald gaze carefully averted as the last of the servants retreated. Quint knew it because he couldn’t wrest his own stare from her. The chatelaine at her waist draped over the apron—the trappings of her trade so plainly on display. And yet, the bold reminders that she was a domestic in his employ and forbidden to him did nothing to quell the sudden, maddening ardor coursing through him.

He was wildly attracted to her, his body feeling as if it had been awakened from a two-year-long slumber. And yet he very much could not have her. She was a Mrs. Yorke, after all, and although many housekeepers assumed the title of missus for ease, he had not inquired if she had a husband elsewhere, pining after her.

The thought had him clenching his fists at his sides and clamping down his jaw. The door clicked discreetly closed, and at last, he was alone with her. Alone in a room filled with the evidence of her insolence. He didn’t know which he wanted more, to reprimand her or to take her in his arms.

But he couldn’t do what he truly wished. Not with her.

So he took a deep breath, settling upon musts rather than needs. “Mrs. Yorke, would you care to explain why you have desecrated my library?”

Her hands were clasped at her waist. Dainty hands for a housekeeper, though chapped and reddened by work. He found himself oddly fascinated by those hands, wondering what they would feel like on his ruined skin. It had been so long since a woman had touched him. The memory was distant and obscure, almost like a dream he’d once had but could no longer remember.

“I would hardly call holly and fir and a few ribbons a desecration, Your Grace,” she was saying with her customary cheer.

The woman could likely stand in the midst of a deluge, thunder and lightning cracking all around her, and still smile as if she were not being pelted with rains and facing imminent danger.

He itched to touch her, so he stalked to one of the twin Christmas trees that had been erected, plucking a candle from its boughs instead. “And I cannot help but to think there is no other way to view your deliberate rebelliousness. After I have given you a reprieve and deigned to allow you to stay, you decided to fill yet another room in my house with Christmastide rubbish. One can only think that you have no desire to keep your present situation.”

The candle was a small weight in his gloved hand, and he couldn’t say why, but he longed to touch it without the barrier of leather. To feel the pine needles on the tree, the sticky sap coating his fingertips. To feel , full stop.

“Or perhaps I am hoping to change your mind, Your Grace,” she said, her quiet yet throaty voice sending another rush of yearning through him.

Damn his unruly body. Since when had he been so incapable of controlling his base urges?

He gave her a tight smile laden with menace. “An impossible feat, madam. I have no intention of celebrating Christmas. No number of trees and trinkets will alter that.”

“One may decorate and yet still decline to celebrate,” she suggested. “The decorations are for your mother. I have been arranging the rooms as she asked of me when she hired me to be your housekeeper.”

“I’ve already told you that I neither want, nor need, a housekeeper and that, above all else, I have no wish for Blackwell Abbey to be trussed up like a Michaelmas goose. You have overstepped your bounds.”

“Do you find the decorations unpleasant?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Perhaps it does. Why are you so vehemently opposed to Christmas? Is it the same reason you wear gloves?”

Quint felt as if all the blood had drained from him. These were not subjects he wished to discuss. Not with her, not with anyone. He was as he was, and that was simply that. Heaven knew what it had cost him to get to where he was. To be alive when he had failed Amelia and she was forever lost to him, ever since that fateful morning three weeks before Christmas. Yuletide had been hateful without her, each day that passed a reminder of what he would never have.

“You ask questions you haven’t the right to ask, Mrs. Yorke,” he told her coolly. “Do not mistake my generosity for weakness.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I only seek to understand you.”

“Understanding me is not a part of your duties.”

Somehow, they had come together. He wasn’t sure which of them had moved first. Perhaps they both had. But now, they were standing dangerously near, the scent of holly and fir and something else that was distinctly her surrounding them. It was floral and light, like a spring garden filled with sweet-smelling blooms.

“Pleasing you is, however,” she countered softly. “And to please you, Your Grace, I must also understand you. The two are inextricably intertwined.”

When she spoke of pleasing him, God help him, he wasn’t thinking about the cleanliness of his floors, the organization of his domestics, or the absence of mice from his kitchens. He was thinking about something else entirely. Something that was sinful, shameful, and wrong. That involved lifting her onto the nearest table, hauling her skirts to her waist, and sliding deep inside her.

“There is only one way you can please me,” he bit out before he could stop himself, frustrated, furious, and vexed to the point of sheer madness.

Her dark eyebrows winged upward, her full lips parting. And to his everlasting shame, he was imagining those lips on him, gliding over his scarred skin, wrapping around his cock, which had suddenly roared to life and was straining against the placket of his trousers.

“How, Your Grace?” she asked, her soft voice a Siren’s lure in itself.

Like the rest of her, that husky contralto was far too lovely not to be a temptation.

He swallowed hard, willing his erection to abate. “By doing what I’ve required of you. Remove the decorations you have so willfully hung all over my home.”

“Do you find fault with my decorating?” she had the temerity to ask.

“The mice, madam,” he reminded her. “I allowed you to stay because you promised to take care of the mouse infestation. Yesterday, you claimed the footmen were otherwise occupied with setting traps and laying poison bait belowstairs. And yet today, rather than removing the decorations from the drawing room, you have added additional greenery and trees to my library. That tells me that you are a liar. How am I to keep you in my employ when you have deceived me? What is next, I wonder? Will you be filching the family silver?”

She went pale at his question. “I am not a thief, Your Grace. I am merely a servant in your household, attempting to perform the duties Her Grace the dowager duchess expects of me.”

He hated himself for his weakness where Mrs. Yorke was concerned. Hated himself for desiring a woman at all, let alone a servant. It was wrong. And yet, she was as intoxicating as an elixir. He wanted her.

Desperately.

He couldn’t have her.

Quint gripped the candle in an iron fist, so tightly that it was a miracle the wax didn’t snap in two. “And as I have already informed you, Her Grace is not the master of Blackwell Abbey. I am, and you have lied to me repeatedly over the few short days you have been here. You have run roughshod over my house and my wishes. You have hired servants I do not want and filled my rooms with Christmas bric-a-brac. I ought to turn you out at once without a character and make you walk to the train station on foot.”

Yes, he ought to do that. But he didn’t have it in him. And he wanted her here. Beneath his roof. Even if it meant enduring more holly boughs and fir trees. The realization had him rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He had been one man before the fire and a new man after. But now, standing in perilous proximity to his gorgeous housekeeper, Quint was a third man.

Someone he didn’t recognize.

“Please don’t send me away,” she begged him, those vibrant green eyes of hers searing him to his soul.

He was the beast he saw in the mirror.

“Then obey me,” he snarled, before stalking from the library.

It wasn’t until he had reached the dining room and his cooling breakfast that Quint realized he was still holding the bloody candle from the Christmas tree.

Joceline inwardly chastised herself that afternoon as she left the kitchens after making the latest preparations with Cook. In the absence of a lady of the house, she had begun presiding over the menu decisions and other matters. But it wasn’t the stoning of plums for Christmas plum pudding that was the reason for her self-castigation. Rather, it was her embarrassing reaction to the Duke of Sedgewick. In itself, the way he made her feel was not just maddening, it was perplexing.

He was fractious, he was cold, and on so many occasions, he was also rude. His handsomeness could not offset his frigid personality. He was rigid and unfeeling. He had called her a liar and threatened to have her removed from his home. He had accused her of wanting to steal his silver next. At every turn, he met her attempts at cheer with grim disapproval. He snarled and growled and glowered. All the domestics in his employ feared incurring his wrath.

And more than that, he was not just her employer, but a duke. She should know better than to long for that which was beyond her reach. What had she been thinking, standing so near to Sedgewick in the library, wondering what his mouth would feel like on hers, daring to ask him questions she knew that she had no right to ask?

She sighed heavily as she neared the housekeeper’s room, a joyless, dismal chamber which was dank and cold despite the plentiful fire burning in the hearth. By now, Joceline was accustomed to life in service. Any dreams she had once harbored for her future had died some time ago, along with her father.

She had set them aside in favor of helping her mother and siblings. It had not always been the way of it, of course. When she had been quite young, there had been the ever-elusive hope that she might have a London Season with her aunt, Mama’s sister, one day. As the eldest child, with lovely looks, as Mama had said, Joceline had been sent away to stay with her aunt for much of her girlhood. Mama had been filled with catching sanguinity the day she had seen Joceline off to London.

That hopefulness had transformed into bleak acceptance over time. For although she had been permitted to share her cousins’ governess for several years, there had been a distinct line between Joceline and her cousins. She was the poor relation being given alms through the good grace of her aunt, the baroness. Emily and Catherine, however, were the daughters of a baron. When Joceline reached the age for her debut, she had been sent back to her parents, where her father was an invalid and a growing brood of children had rendered their family quite destitute. She had gone to service shortly thereafter, having no other option but to work and send what meager funds she could save home.

She had been fortunate in her placement, working her way up from chambermaid to housekeeper within several years, thanks to her education, her polite elocution, and her dedication to her craft. At five-and-twenty, she knew that the gravest mistake anyone in service could ever make was to grow too fond of an employer or to overstep her bounds. The lines between them were invisible—and yet, as immovable as a castle wall.

This dreadful malaise, or whatever it was, that had affected her since her arrival at Blackwell Abbey, was a terrible aberration. Joceline had never been attracted to her employer before. She had never longed for him to kiss her. She had never wanted anything more than her salary, her position, and a letter of character if she moved on to another household.

And yet that morning, she had inexplicably found herself yearning for the Duke of Sedgewick. Wanting to know his secrets. Wanting his arms around her, his mouth on hers. Wanting even more.

“Foolish, foolish woman,” she scolded herself beneath her breath as she crossed the threshold into her private room, closing the door at her back. “What were you thinking?”

With another sigh, she began untying her apron.

And that was when she saw him. Tall, decadently handsome, and forbiddingly austere.

Sitting on her chair as if it were the most natural place in the world for him to rest. As if he belonged there.

She gasped instinctively, startled, pressing a hand to her madly beating heart. “Your Grace.”

Remembering herself, she dipped into a curtsy.

“Sit, Mrs. Yorke.”

His countenance was unreadable, his voice a low rumble that sent a frisson of something dangerous down her spine. He gestured to another chair not far from his, the one where Mr. Dunreave would sit when they reviewed matters pertaining to the household.

Warily, she did as the duke commanded, seating herself primly on the edge, rather as if she were poised for flight. One never knew what to expect from the Duke of Sedgewick.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Is there something you wished to speak with me about, Your Grace?”

And if so, it was most irregular for him to come belowstairs, to her private room, rather than ringing for her. But she wisely kept that to herself.

He nodded, his stare cool and assessing. “Dunreave told me you were meeting with Cook concerning the menu. I decided to await you here. I hope you don’t mind.”

Where was the growling, surly man who had been so outraged over the garlands and trees in his library? He was perfectly calm. Almost even polite.

She blinked. “Of course not, Your Grace. You are more than welcome to await me here whenever it pleases you.”

Drat. There it was again, that word. Please. It somehow took on a sensual meaning whenever she spoke it in his presence. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she hoped he wouldn’t take note of her embarrassing reaction.

“I hardly think so,” he said, an odd expression flashing over his handsome countenance for just a moment before it fled.

What was he saying? Surely not what her foolish mind had inferred?

“Who were you speaking to when you entered?” he asked before she could further contemplate the questions whirling in her mind.

“Myself, I’m afraid,” she admitted, certain she was red as a beet by now.

She must have been wrong to think there was even a hint of sexual innuendo in what he’d said. The Duke of Sedgewick had made it brutally clear he didn’t even like her and that he only tolerated her presence for his own peace of mind and on an entirely temporary basis.

To her surprise, a small smile flirted with the corners of his lips. “And do you make a good conversation partner, Mrs. Yorke?”

The effect of that tiny smile had her breath catching. If she had thought the duke handsome before, nothing could have prepared her for the Duke of Sedgewick smiling . He had dimples on both cheeks, a small groove that deepened just the slightest hint.

Belatedly, she realized he was staring at her, waiting for her response.

“I have often been the only conversation partner I’ve had, Your Grace. As such, I must admit to partiality.”

“Is it a solitary life, then, that of housekeeper?”

His marked interest was most disconcerting. How astonishing to be the full recipient of not just his gaze, but his full attention as well. And not in anger either.

“I suppose it must be at times,” she answered earnestly. “Unlike some of the other servants, we must carefully separate ourselves from the rest, lest they become too familiar. A maid who thinks herself friends with the housekeeper will not heed her. Most often, when I hold a conversation with anyone, it is to tell them which of their tasks must be performed next.”

“How long have you been a housekeeper, Mrs. Yorke? You do seem rather young for such a weighty task.”

“I have been employed as a housekeeper for these past four years, and I am five-and-twenty,” she answered easily, wondering how old he was.

No more than a decade her senior, she would wager.

“Have you always been in service?” he queried next. “You are remarkably well-spoken for a servant. Forgive me my bluntness, but I couldn’t help but to take note.”

“I have been in service since I was sixteen, and I thank you for the compliment. I owe my education to my aunt, Baroness Rothermel. I was permitted to live with her during much of my younger years, and my cousins’ governess taught me as well.”

“And these cousins and this aunt of yours, where are they now? Never say they abandoned you to a life of service.” He frowned, looking as if the thought displeased him.

But that was impossible, surely. He was the Duke of Sedgewick, and she was nothing more than his housekeeper. Why would he concern himself with the vagaries of her past? Why would he want to know about old hurts and betrayals and disappointments she had long since locked away deep inside her heart?

“They returned me to my family when I was of an age to make my debut,” she explained, and not without some of the old bitterness returning. “My father was an invalid and unable to support my mother and siblings. Someone needed to go to work so they didn’t starve. When he died, that became even more apparent.”

“And so, instead of making your curtsy, you became a servant,” he guessed, his expression darkening.

She forced a smile she didn’t feel—dwelling on the past had never done her one whit of good, and none of it could be changed. “I did what I had to do.”

“How did you begin in service?” Sedgewick asked next.

His intense regard and proximity here, in the confined space that was solely hers, heightened her awareness of him. She thought back to her first situation when she had been a green girl of sixteen. It was difficult to believe that nearly ten years had passed since she had left her siblings and Mama behind. She hadn’t been able to visit often, preferring to send everything she could home to them rather than waste it on the cost of travel.

“I began as a maid of all work for a wealthy widow,” she said. “I was fortunate to find an excellent situation. The character she provided me enabled me to become a chambermaid next, and then the sudden illness of a housekeeper at yet another situation allowed me to fill the role. I suppose I proved myself suited to the task.”

“And these letters of character were provided to Her Grace, I presume.”

“Are you interviewing me for the position of housekeeper, Your Grace?” she asked, the notion belatedly occurring to her, and not without a sharp pang of disappointment she had no right to feel.

He was not interested in her . Rather, he was interested in her qualifications. Her background.

He inclined his head. “I reckon I am, Mrs. Yorke. I’ll admit that you vex me mightily with your propensity for flouting my authority at every turn. However, Blackwell Abbey is cleaner than I can recall ever seeing it, the household is running with an efficiency I wouldn’t have thought possible, and just this morning, I enjoyed the best breakfast I’ve eaten in years, followed by an excellent luncheon. Although it aggrieves me to admit it, your unparalleled skill at managing my home and domestics leaves me somewhat in awe.”

He was in awe of her. For her housekeeper skills, of course. Her stupid heart tripped over itself anyway.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she managed, astounded by his sudden sea change.

Naturally, it was for his own comfort. It behooved him to keep her in his service. Joceline knew she was a good housekeeper. However, she hadn’t expected the arrogant Duke of Sedgewick to acknowledge her skill or be moved by it.

“Will you stay at Blackwell Abbey, then, Mrs. Yorke?” he asked, an earnestness in his tone that struck some part of her.

She had never intended to leave, but Joceline knew she needn’t tell him that. Instead, she thought of the fifty pounds she could send to Mama and the children. The duchess had been firm that it was only to be hers if the Christmas decorations remained in place.

“What of the holly garlands and Christmas trees?” she ventured.

He raised a brow. “If having my drawing room and library festooned in greenery and filled with trees will keep you here, then I suppose it must stay.”

Joceline couldn’t contain her smile. “That is wonderful news, Your Grace. I would be pleased to remain here at Blackwell Abbey.”

The duke nodded and rose to his full, impressive height. She stood as well, trying not to take note of what a dashing figure he cut and failing miserably. His dark-gold hair brushed his broad shoulders, and a hint of whiskers shaded the bold slash of his jaw.

“Is there a Mr. Yorke, madam?” he asked suddenly, startling her with both the question and the unexpected nature of it.

“No, Your Grace,” she answered swiftly. “There is not.”

“Are you a widow, then?”

“I’ve never been married, Your Grace.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, and she held her breath, doing everything she could to keep from looking at his mouth or to think about what it would be like to close the distance between them and slip her arms around his neck. To rise on her toes and press her lips to his. To tug at his necktie and unbutton his shirt and reveal the muscle and man beneath his country tweed. To remove his gloves and discover what he was hiding from the world.

But she could do none of those things.

The Duke of Sedgewick simply nodded, looking unmoved, whilst she was inwardly waging a battle of epic proportions.

“Good day, Mrs. Yorke,” he told her politely.

And then, he left her room just as stealthily as he had invaded it, leaving her behind with a racing heart and the flames of longing she could not afford to fan.