Christmas Wishes Part 1. Elizabeth Rolls
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her frown with an innocent, almost boyish look. ‘They will grow back, you know. Your mantel has no garland. Nor does your banister. If I mean to remedy the fact, I decided it was better to have too much than too little. I would not want to make a second trip.
‘True,’ she said, and took a deep breath. He had brought the scent of pine and fresh air into the house when he’d returned to it. Surely that explained the sudden buoyancy of her spirit.
‘If you give me some twine, or perhaps a bit of wire, I shall set it all to rights.’
Would that you could. For a moment, the solid maleness of his voice washed her worries away. She did so miss having a helpmate. Not that John had been that much help, if she was honest. He was away far too often. She shook her head, as though trying to clear it, and said, ‘It is my duty. You are a guest.’
‘And I owe you much,’ he said softly. ‘It is better, staying here, than at the inn I would have chosen. But I have placed an unexpected burden of hospitality upon you.’ He smiled in a way that was far too open and friendly for so important a man. ‘It would be my pleasure to help you in this.’
She gave a little flutter of her hands, trying not to look as foolish as his words made her feel. ‘Very well, then. I shall get the twine.’ She was back in a moment with a work basket that held wire, hammer and nails, as well. At the last minute, she’d added a handful of bright red ribbons that she’d meant to save for trimming her wedding bonnet.
He nodded in approval and set to work. For a gentleman, he was surprisingly adept at it, twining the branches together and threading sprigs of holly through the wires. Ben had disappeared into the kitchen to find crumbs for his feathered prisoner, which left Generva to steady the branches and snip the wires that he tied. In no time at all, he’d fashioned a creditable swag and draped the banister with it.
He stood back satisfied. She had to admit, the results were impressive and the time expended had been minimal. They moved on to the parlour, piling the mantel with holly and ivy.
He glanced down at her. ‘You are smiling again, Mrs Marsh. Twice in one day. It must truly be Christmas.’
Was it really so rare a thing to see her smile? She hoped not. But now that he had commented on it, she could not manage to raise the corners of her lips to prove him wrong.
The duke sighed. ‘And now it is gone again. Do you think, if we put up a kissing bough, it will come back?’
‘Certainly not.’ At least he had given her a reason to frown. All the kindness in the world did not give him the right to tease her.
‘You have several fine arches and a hook in the centre of the parlour where you might hang it.’ He glanced up in mock sadness at the empty door frames. ‘And yet, I see none there.’
‘That is because there is no point in hanging something of that kind in this house,’ she said firmly, as though the matter was settled. ‘There is no one here that wants or needs kissing.’
‘Really,’ he said, surprised.
‘My son is too young to care. If I allow my daughter to run riot at the holidays I will have even more trouble than I do already. The servants have no right to be distracted with it for half the month of December.’
‘And you?’ he prompted.
‘I?’ She did her best to pretend that the thought had not occurred to her. She turned away. ‘It is foolishness, and I have no time for that, either.’
‘Perhaps it is time to make the time,’ he said, stepping forward, holding the branch above her head and kissing her on the lips before she could object.
It was as if the world had been spinning at a mad rate and suddenly stopped, leaving her vision unnaturally clear. She was not a minor character waiting in the wings of her own life. She was standing in the centre of the stage, alone except for the duke.
And then it was over. A strange, adolescent awkwardness fell over them. He cleared his throat. She straightened her skirt. They both glanced at the door and then back to each other. ‘I trust I have demonstrated the need for further decoration?’ he said.
She touched her lips. And against her better judgement, she nodded.
‘Shall I get a bit of ribbon? I am nearly tall enough to reach that hook without a ladder. Or I could steady you while you place it on the hook,’ he offered.
She imagined how easy it would be for him to lift her, and her slow slide down his body once the job was done, leaving them standing close again, under the white berries. ‘I will get you a ladder.’
She had tasted of iced cakes and ginger and smelled of woodsmoke and brandy. Montford turned the branch in his hands, staring at it. How long had it been since he had kissed a pretty girl under the mistletoe, just for the fun of it?
He had done it last Christmas, of course. His own house had mistletoe boughs in several doorways. It was pleasant for both parties to catch a young lady under the berries, to swing her briefly off her feet and buss her on the cheek.
If the girl was not willing and wandered beneath the bough in mistake, he would make a playful start for her and send her scampering in fright before she realised that it was naught but a game. Then they would both laugh. And sometimes he would get his kiss after all, if she came back to award him for his good humour.
But had any of those previous kisses been as this one? It was sweet and sad at the same time, tasting of lost youth and aged like wine on his tongue. But there was hope in it as well, reminding him that while he might never be a boy again, there was much to enjoy in the present. The clock had not precisely stopped when he’d kissed Generva Marsh. But the passage of time had not felt quite so loud and insistent.
When he had pulled away from her he’d seen the same thing mirrored in her eyes. Her needs might have changed over the years. But the desire to be loved, and to love in return, had not diminished.
He had kissed her. For a moment, the title had fallen away and he’d felt like nothing more than a man. But he was a man without a wife. And for the first time in a long time, he felt incomplete. Both of his courtships, while not devoid of romance, had been foregone conclusions. He had shown interest and they had been flattered. He had proposed and they had accepted. It had all been very simple.
But that was the past. He had consoled himself that he was too old to start again. It had been a lie. But to open his heart when the answer was not guaranteed...
There was a shifting from behind him and a whispered, ‘Your Grace?’
He turned, surprised that he was not alone in the room.
It was Gwendolyn, holding a step stool in front of her. ‘Mama said you needed a ladder.’
So Mrs Marsh had lost her nerve and sent the girl to deal with him. Perhaps she still hoped that there would be a match between them and that a moment alone in the presence of mistletoe would be the answer. She was wrong.
But that was no fault of Generva’s. ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling. He took the stool from her and climbed it to hang the branch on a nail above the door. Then he stepped down again, standing well clear of the thing so that he might talk to the girl in peace. ‘And while I have you alone, I wish to speak with you for a moment.’ He gestured to the chairs by the window and they sat.
He resisted the urge to clear his throat, fearing that it would make him seem even more old and pompous than he already felt. ‘I wanted to apologise personally for the actions of my nephew.’
He could see, in the bright afternoon light, that her eyes were still red from crying. But for the moment, at least, they remained dry.
‘That is not necessary. They were not your fault after all.’
‘He is my heir and it reflects poorly upon my