The Duke Who Despised Christmas (Christmas Dukes #1)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

I t was Christmas Eve morning, and a thin coating of snow had painted the landscape an ethereal silver-white overnight. The reflection of the sun off the icy coating was almost unnatural as Quint descended the grand staircase to the great hall, where a large bank of windows overlooked the rolling parkland beyond.

The world was a new place. Quint was a new man. The future was suddenly filled with possibilities. And he was counting the minutes until he could have Joceline back in his arms where she belonged. All he had to do was navigate these rather unusual circumstances with prudence and a mind to avoid causing scandal.

He would not have Joceline hurt, nor would he allow any hint of gossip to spread about her. He was more than aware of the unusual nature of an aristocrat taking his housekeeper as his wife—in his set, such things simply were not done. Or, at least, they hadn’t been until now. Which meant he needed to proceed with the plan he had begun to make as he had slipped from her room in the bowels of the night like a thief afraid of being caught and sent to the gallows.

“Sedgewick!”

Startled from his thoughts, he glanced up to find his mother storming toward him in a flurry of navy silk, her countenance hard as marble.

“Good morning, Mother,” he greeted, smiling.

“Sedgewick,” she bit out again, looking pale and quite as if she had just learned of a death. “I must speak with you in private at once.”

It wasn’t like his mother to make demands of him. Mostly because she knew they would be ignored. But he needed to speak with her anyway concerning his plans to wed Joceline, so he allowed it.

Quint inclined his head. “Of course, madam. The drawing room should do.”

It was one of the few rooms on this floor in which he hadn’t kissed Joceline, and while he intended to fully rectify that matter, it would have to wait until after they were husband and wife. If he wanted to shield her from gossip, he was going to have to keep his desire firmly in check, as impossible a feat as that seemed.

He escorted his mother to the chamber in question, a thorny silence between them, the taut line of her jaw telling him that he was in for a tongue-lashing. When they reached the drawing room, the door had barely closed behind them before she confirmed his suspicion, rounding on him in high dudgeon.

“Sedgewick, I have been beset by the most egregious accusation this morning,” she began, “the very scandalous nature of which I can scarcely fathom. It is, without a doubt, the most dreadful, egregious, unbelievable, preposterous outrage I have ever, in all my years on this earth, been forced to confront.”

Quint tensed, dread coiling in his stomach. Not from his mother’s words, but rather because he feared there was only one thing that would cause such an unprecedented, melodramatic reaction from her.

But he maintained his sangfroid just the same. “I do believe you said egregious twice, Mother.”

“It bore repeating. I could have said it thrice.” She pressed a bejeweled hand over her heart. “Truly, Sedgewick, I am deeply embarrassed to have to come to you with this, but Lady Diana is positively stricken, and if what she implied is true, then it must be answered for. The poor dear girl was so pale, and she has been weeping uncontrollably all morning.”

“I am sorry to hear Lady Diana has been distressed,” he said, though, in truth, it hardly concerned him.

He had never harbored any intention of offering for her. He hadn’t invited her to Blackwell Abbey. That had all been his mother’s manipulations at work.

“As well you should be,” his mother said, her voice trembling beneath the force of her upset. “For you are the source of her discontent.”

He clenched his jaw and raked a hand through his hair, realizing as he felt the long strands slide against his fingertips that he’d forgotten to don his gloves this morning. “I fail to see how I can be the lady’s source of discontent. I have not seen her since last evening at dinner, and I do believe we all parted ways on excellent terms.”

His mother’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if she were summoning up her strength. She swayed, and he feared she was going to swoon.

“Mother.” He caught her elbow in a gentle hold, steadying her as her eyes opened again. “Shall I ring for some hartshorn?”

“No servants, if you please,” she clipped, her tone steeped in disapproval. “That is the reason I wished to speak with you, Sedgewick. Lady Diana’s lady’s maid brought some troubling concerns to her from belowstairs about the nature of your relationship with your housekeeper .”

Ah, so there it was.

She said the last word as if it were an epithet, and indeed, to Quint, it rather had become one. He disliked thinking of Joceline by that impersonal term. She was so much more to him than a servant. So much more than he could have ever imagined possible.

His gut clenched at the thought that he hadn’t been as careful as he’d believed. That he had brought shame and gossip down upon Joceline. But he still didn’t know how much anyone knew just yet.

He kept his expression carefully blank. “Oh? And what, pray tell, can be her worry about Mrs. Yorke?”

His mother shuddered. “Her lady’s maid suggested that there is a great deal of tongue-wagging among your domestics that you have been improper with the woman. Indeed, Lady Diana’s lady’s maid said that you were seen belowstairs in the early hours of the morning, and that you were leaving the housekeeper’s bedroom. Lady Diana is desperately overset, for she was hoping for a match between the two of you, but no lady can, in good conscience, wed a man who would commit adultery with one of his servants. It is the height of disgrace.”

Damn it. He had somehow been seen, and now it was Joceline who would pay the price for his lack of discretion, because he was a duke and she was a domestic—and a woman at that—and that was simply the way of the world.

“I can scarcely believe a young lady of good breeding would carry such a shocking tale to another,” he pointed out grimly. “And likewise for her lady’s maid.”

“I’ll own that it was quite irregular,” his mother huffed, her eyes flashing with indignant fire. “However, I can hardly find fault with her for trying to make certain that her marriage bed would not be shared by her housekeeper. Tell me it isn’t true, Sedgewick, I beg you. Tell me that the lady’s maid is engaging in baseless gossip and that she should be sacked at once.”

He didn’t want to admit it, confound the tongue-wagging lady’s maid. He had intended to do things properly. To announce to his mother his intentions to court and marry Joceline. But now, his hand was being forced.

“Mother, I do not now, nor have I ever, harbored any inclination toward marrying Lady Diana,” he said instead.

His mother’s hand flew over her mouth, stifling a gasp as her eyes went wide. “It’s true, then, isn’t it?”

He scrubbed at his jaw. “What is true?”

“That you have been indecent with your housekeeper.”

“I’ll not answer such a question, madam,” he denied tersely. “What I will tell you is this. I intend to make Joceline Yorke my wife.”

His mother went pale, and this time, she truly did fall backward, nearly collapsing to a heap before he caught her and guided her to a seat.

“You cannot do such a thing,” she protested.

“I can, and I will,” he said, seating himself nearby, lest she fall out of her chair. “There is nothing you can say to sway me from my course.”

“Good God, Sedgewick,” she gasped. “Only think of the scandal. Have you gone mad? Of course you must have done. It is the sole explanation for such a ludicrous notion to have entered your head. I knew that no good would come of locking yourself away here at Blackwell Abbey. I warned you of it when you left, did I not? And how many letters have I sent, imploring you to return to civilization? Dozens upon dozens, I’d wager. Instead, you lingered here, allowing your brain to rot.”

He might have laughed, were not her accusations so dire.

He gripped the arms of his chair. “Is that what you think, Mother? That I must be mad to wish to marry the woman I love?”

“The woman you love ? You cannot love her. She’s your inferior in every way.”

He held his mother’s stare, unflinching. “On the contrary, I rather think Mrs. Yorke is my superior in every way. And need I remind you that if not for your meddlesome interference, she would not have come to me here at Blackwell Abbey? You sent her to me.”

“I sent her to you so that she could gather your house into order, and so that when I brought Lady Diana to you, she would not run screaming back to London. I did not send Mrs. Yorke to you for any reason other than for her to be your housekeeper. Your servant . A gentleman does not dally with his domestics. Need I remind you?”

He smiled tightly. “Fortunately for me, Mrs. Yorke will be my duchess. Not my servant.”

“But Sedgew?—”

The blistering look he gave her stopped her in medias res .

“I am marrying her,” he repeated firmly. “Not Lady Diana. Not anyone else. I’ve fallen in love with Mrs. Yorke, and I intend to make her my duchess.”

His mother’s shoulders stiffened, and her countenance took on a mulish expression he knew too well. “But Lady Diana is perfect for you in every way. She is young and lovely, and she comes from one of the very best families in England.”

“How nice for her. I’m still not marrying the chit.”

His mother gaped. “And yet you propose to marry this…this…common trollop who has taken you to her bed before all the servants?”

Fury had him shooting to his feet, to the devil with remaining seated in the presence of a lady. At the moment, his mother was certainly not conducting herself like one.

“Apologize for paying her insult,” he demanded.

His mother’s chin went up. “I’ll do no such thing. There is only one sort of woman who would welcome the master of the house into her private quarters when she is nothing more than a servant.”

“Yes,” he agreed with deceptive calm, “and that is the sort of woman I intend to make my wife. Any lapse in judgment is purely my own. I went to Joceline’s room last night uninvited because I couldn’t bear to be apart from her a moment longer. I’ll not have her paying the price for my own mistakes.”

“The fault is mine for this outrage,” she said, shaking her head. “I should never have offered her such a tremendous sum to be housekeeper. And then the additional fifty pounds.”

His mother’s words gave him pause, for he hadn’t realized that she had lured Joceline to Durham with a fat purse. “A tremendous sum? How much?”

“One hundred pounds per annum,” his mother said, sighing. “I might have known, too, that she was lying about sending every bit of it to her mother and siblings. And then there was the fifty pounds for persuading you to decorate Blackwell Abbey for Christmas. It was meant to be for Lady Diana’s sake. I knew she would never agree to become your wife if I brought her to a desolate, decrepit old abbey bereft of any joy.”

He ought to have known that her meddling had been greater than merely hiring a housekeeper, and that her actions hadn’t been entirely altruistic. But he didn’t understand her insistence upon his marrying the earl’s daughter.

“Why were you hell-bent upon seeing me wed to Lady Diana?” he asked.

A cross expression soured his mother’s countenance. “Because I am in love with Lord Dreighton, you ungrateful scoundrel, and he will not marry again until he sees his daughter settled. She suffered a tremendous scandal in London, and all her prospects dried up. I was hoping that Mrs. Yorke would render this heap habitable. It would have been quite ideal, really. Few women will have you with your terrible scars, duke or no, and no gentleman will have Lady Diana, given the gossip. You could have married, and then I could have wed Dreighton as I have been longing to do.”

His mother’s selfish reasons for wanting to see him married suddenly made perfect, awful sense. None of her plans had been about him. They had all been about herself and her own happiness. To say nothing of the cavalier fashion in which she had referred to his terrible scars .

Everything within him went cold. “Mother, I want you, Lady Diana, and the Earl of Dreighton to leave Blackwell Abbey at once, and I never want you to return.”

“Leave?” she sputtered. “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

He didn’t care.

“Trains will still be running. They are scheduled for tomorrow as well. I saw the advert in The Times myself. I’ll have Dunreave make the necessary arrangements.”

She rose from her seat, quaking with fury. “Sedgewick, if you force us to leave and insist upon marrying so dreadfully beneath you, I will never forgive you. It is beyond the pale.”

He took in his mother, all burning, self-important ire, and he felt oddly at ease. “I don’t particularly care, madam. The only good turn you have brought me is sending me Mrs. Yorke. For that, I thank you. Otherwise, I bid you farewell.”

With a formal bow, he took his leave.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Mrs. Yorke.”

With a start, Joceline turned from the last bits of holly she had been arranging with some freshly cut orangery flowers on the dining room table. Her heart beat faster as her gaze settled upon Quint on the threshold, looking dapper in country tweed and a notable lack of gloves. He was so handsome, so beloved. It required all the restraint she possessed to keep from running to him and throwing herself into his arms.

Last night had been over in a blink, and she had woken to an empty bed and the fear that what they had shared had been nothing but a feverish dream. Until she had found his neckcloth, partially flung beneath her bed, the only hint that it had been real.

“Your Grace.” Remembering herself, she dipped into a curtsy. “I was finishing the table preparation for breakfast this morning.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, smiling as he sauntered into the room.

“It won’t?” She frowned, confused. “But surely your guests will arrive in a few minutes’ time. I wouldn’t wish to disappoint them with a barren table.”

“My guests are departing this morning,” he said, and she couldn’t help but to take note of his dimples, making a rare showing. “They’ll not be requiring breakfast.”

This news was most unexpected.

“But…it’s Christmas Eve.”

He stopped before her, gazing at her with a look of unfettered tenderness. “So it is.”

“Why would they wish to return to London with such short notice, and just before Christmas?” she asked. “Has something not been to their liking? I can have it remedied at once, whatever it is.”

“They’re returning to London because I told them to go,” he said simply. “I’ve discovered that the only reason they came at all was because Lady Diana requires a husband so that my mother can marry the earl. But Lady Diana was embroiled in some manner of scandal in London, the magnitude of which rendered it more appealing for her to venture to the wilds of the north and consider a hideously scarred recluse as a potential suitor.”

She hated the way he spoke of himself, and she also hated the revelation he had just made. “You are not hideously scarred. And I am shocked that Her Grace would so place her own needs before her son’s.” Belatedly, she realized how forward she was being, recalling the necessary erection of boundaries between them. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly.”

“You needn’t ask for forgiveness.” He reached for her, looping his arms around her waist and pulling her flush against him.

“Your Grace,” she squeaked in protest, her eyes flying to the closed door, where, at any moment, someone might appear.

“Quint,” he said and then kissed her soundly, his mouth hot and devouring.

He felt so wonderful that, for a moment, she forgot why she shouldn’t allow him to kiss her in the midst of his dining room just before breakfast. But then she remembered, flattening her palms on his chest and pushing gently.

He lifted his head, still grinning.

And oh, the way he looked—happy. Truly, magnificently, happy.

“You cannot kiss me like this,” she whispered. “It’s wrong. I’m your housekeeper.”

“Not any longer, you’re not.”

She stiffened, searching his countenance, her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re sacked,” he pronounced with great joy. “You are no longer my housekeeper. Therefore, I am free to kiss you whenever and wherever I like, including in my dining room at half past eight in the morning.”

Dread unfurled. “Quint, I need this situation. Please do not give me the sack. My mother and my siblings require everything I send home to them to survive.”

“Do you think they would like Blackwell Abbey?” he asked, further confusing her.

She blinked. “Do I think who would like it here? My mother, sisters, and brother?”

“How many of them do you have, by the way?” he asked thoughtfully. “A man likes to prepare.”

“Three sisters and one brother,” she said. “But I still don’t understand. What are you saying?”

His smile faded, his expression turning serious. “I’m saying that you needn’t send funds home to your mother and siblings any longer, nor do you have to be a housekeeper. Not ever again. They can come to us here at Blackwell Abbey. There is room aplenty for the five of them.”

Her heart iced over. “But I cannot be your mistress, Quint. I’ll not do it. Please don’t ask it of me.”

“My sweet girl, is that what you think of me?” He cupped her cheek, holding her as if she were fashioned of the finest, most delicate porcelain, as if she were priceless to him. “Of course I suppose you must. I’ve made a muck of this, haven’t I?” He stepped away from her suddenly, offering her his hand. “Come with me so I can do this properly, won’t you?”

Instinctively, she laced her fingers through his. But then he pulled her from the dining room, taking her into the hall where anyone could see their hands linked.

“Quint,” she protested. “Someone will take note.”

“Let them.” He grinned, tugging her into the library where a cozy fire was roaring and the fresh scent of greenery and fir surrounded them.

It was the scent of Christmas. Of hope.

“But…what are you… This is…” She was breathless, her words trailing away as he stopped beneath the kissing bough she’d had one of the footmen hang from the ceiling.

He turned to her, taking both her hands in his. “I’m not good at pretty phrases, and all my best plans have turned to naught, so I’ll just say it. I love you, Joceline Yorke. Not long ago, I believed I would never feel that tender emotion again. I believed myself incapable. In many ways, it was as if I’d died in that fire. But then you barged into my life with Christmas holly and fir trees and a smile that is pure sunshine, and you brought me back to life. Just like the flowers you found in the orangery and coaxed into blossoming again. Marry me. Be my duchess. Please .”

“Oh, Quint.” For a moment, she couldn’t find words. Her heart was flooded with so much unimaginable joy that her mind couldn’t keep up with itself. She had never believed he would wish to marry her. That he would love her. “I love you too. But I’m no duchess. I’m a common girl who has worked in service these last nine years. I don’t belong in the gilded world of aristocrats and polite society. I never will. This cannot be what you want.”

“Of course it can,” he countered tenderly. “And you do belong. You belong with me. Say yes, sweet girl. I know I’m too old for you and scarred and?—”

“Stop,” she interrupted. “You’re none of those things. I’ll not hear another word of such blasphemy. And yes, I’ll marry you. It would be my great honor to be your wife.”

The smile he gave her was dazzling. “No, my darling. The honor is all mine.”

They kissed beneath the kissing bough as snow began to fall anew, and for the first time since Joceline had been sent away all those years ago, she knew she had finally found her true home.

Right here, in the arms of the man she loved.