Chapter Ten

      It was still dark when he left her bedroom, rolling to kiss her lips before swinging his legs to the floor to search for his nightshirt.

      Without thinking, she held her arms out to him.

      In the dim light of the fire, she saw him shake his head. ‘I must be gone before the servants are up. I promised no gossip, remember?’

      ‘And where shall you go?’

      ‘To the sofa in the parlour. I will pull a rug over myself and sleep there.’ He grinned at her. ‘It will shock Mrs Jordan when she comes to lay the fire. But there are worse shocks, are there not?’

      But would she be so shocked, really? The poor woman must have guessed the reason for Generva’s sudden indisposition yesterday. What would she think if the duke announced his plan to take them all to London for the Season?

      She should not have silenced him when he had begun to speak of it. She should have refused immediately, so they might have enjoyed each other with no misunderstanding between them. In the cold light of morning, the memory of his suggestion made something special seem like a different, more elegant sort of disgrace.

      He was standing over the bed, staring down at her as she brooded. ‘Might I trouble you for a last kiss before I go?’

      He bent down, and she gave him an embarrassed peck upon the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Your Gr— Thomas.’

      If he was disappointed by the lack of warmth, it did not show. ‘Good morning, Generva,’ he corrected. ‘And a very good one, I hope.’ With that, he was gone.

      She began to miss him the moment the door closed. The night had been a mistake, one that she should have stopped immediately. What sort of an example was she to either of her children that she would bed a man she had known for less than two days? And how would she go on without him once he was gone?

      But the senior Thomas Kanner was the sort of man that made one forget all that. It had been good to lie with a man again. But it had been amazing to lie with this particular man. When the sun rose, she would find herself humming the old carols he was so fond of, with their faintly sad melodies and their fearless welcoming of the darkness that came with the brightness of this season. When she looked in the mirror as she washed, she would smile. She might not be in the spring of her life, but neither had she reached winter. She was alive and happy to be so.

      * * *

      When she saw him again at the breakfast table, he was as jolly as ever. He greeted both children warmly and even coaxed a smile from Gwendolyn. But he gave no indication that anything had changed between them, other than a certain tenderness in his eyes as he looked at her.

      But the song he had been singing as he shaved was about a maid in a lily-white smock opening the door to him. For Christmas morning, it was most improper. She hoped that he did not mean to sing when they were at church. Perhaps he could be persuaded to do some plainsong or chant that Reverend Allcot might not find so reactionary.

      Then she recalled that she had not asked him his plans. ‘Will you be accompanying us to church, Your Grace?’

      ‘Of course,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I will be there for the wedding.’

      Gwendolyn’s fork clattered to her plate, and she reached for a napkin as though ready to stifle a sob.

      ‘There is to be no wedding,’ Generva hissed. ‘I thought it was settled.’

      ‘Not for your daughter, perhaps.’ He looked at her with mock surprise. ‘But I thought you and I had reached an agreement on the subject last night.’

      ‘You and I. We. Today.’ Was that what he had meant when talking of a trip to London and a Season for Gwen? Their discussion had been sorely lacking in detail.

      ‘I am sorry if we are causing you pain by taking the day that was to have been yours,’ he said to her daughter in the gentlest of voices. ‘But there is no better way to deflate a scandal than by creating a bigger one. As the stepdaughter of a duke, I suspect you shall have your pick of gentlemen when you are ready to choose one.’

      ‘You and Mama are getting married?’ Gwen seemed surprised, but not unhappy. ‘How wonderful. I do not mind. Not at all, Your Grace.’

      ‘I gave my permission,’ Ben said around a mouthful of bacon. ‘Because I am man of the house.’

      Generva was choking on her piece of toast. Even after she had managed to wash the bite down with a sip of tea, she could not seem to get air into her lungs. Her future had been settled to the satisfaction of everyone in the house. Even Mrs Jordan had heard the news and come in from the kitchen to congratulate His Grace on a wonderful plan.

      It was a fairy tale after all, and she was the princess in need of rescue. Or perhaps she was a duchess, since he was not a prince.

      And that was nonsense. All of it. There was no magic in the world. Wishes were not granted and miracles did not happen, even at Christmas. She could not even call it an answered prayer, since she had long ago given up praying that a man would come to change her name and her life.

      Once again, common sense answered. But this time, it was with a laugh. Generva could not very well refuse him. It was too late for that. Nor could she announce that they had settled no such thing, last night.

      One could not be forced, in the heat of passion, to make such a momentous decision.

      Or perhaps one could.

      But when one was a chaste widow, not supposed to be feeling the heat of passion at all...?

      Then perhaps one must be sensible and keep one’s mouth firmly shut.

      They finished their breakfast and pulled on bonnets and coats for the mile-long walk to church. At the first opportunity, Generva pulled Mrs Jordan aside and begged her to walk a short distance behind with the children so that she might speak privately with the duke.