Page 12 of It's a British Christmas

“Miss Chambers, may I speak with you outside, please?”

Merry gave her a curt nod and spun on her heel to leave the room. She waited on the other side of the doorway for Miss Jennings.

“I understand the young ladies have an attachment to you, however, now that I am in charge, I would appreciate you only coming to the nursery upon invitation. Perhaps you may join them for their afternoon tea each day.”

All manner of insulting words raced through Merry’s head, but realizing Miss Jennings only spoke the truth, albeit in a not very nice way, she merely nodded. “I apologize for disturbing you. I shall return for afternoon tea.”

“Not today,” Miss Jennings said.

Merry raised her eyebrows, afraid to open her mouth, less her vicious thoughts spew forth.

“They are being punished for poor manners. Although, I don’t expect their manners to improve until they’ve had good English lessons on deportment.”

After a moment of stunned silence at the woman’s impudence, Merry asked, “Do you speak German, Miss Jennings?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “No, I do not. Every properly brought up young lady should know French and Italian. It is not necessary for one to acquire knowledge of the more advanced languages.”

“Good. Wünsche ein tausend Floh zum ihrem Bett kommen.”

Leaving the confused governess not understanding Merry just wished her a thousand fleas in her bed, Merry hurried away from the nursery, taking gulps of air to control her anger.

She charged down the stairs, muttering to herself until she reached the bottom of the staircase, swung left, and walked into a brick wall.

Penrose grasped her by the arms to keep her from falling backwards. Merry yelped and tried to retreat, but he held her firm.

“Are you all right, Miss Chambers?”

She looked into those deep brown eyes, now full of concern. The hint of Bay rum and brandy drifted toward her. Plus another scent that she’d already identified as Penrose. Merry struggled to contain her emotions, and replied in a shaky voice, “I am perfectly well, thank you, Your Grace.”

He released her, still watching her with a guarded expression. With trembling fingers, she patted the sides and back of her hair, barely noticing it had almost fallen completely down again.

“You don’t look well. Your face is flushed, and your breathing is quite rapid.”

“I just came down the stairs too fast. If you will excuse me.” She shifted to go around him, but he stepped into her path.

“It’s more than you hurrying. Something has upset you.”

Reconciled to having this conversation, Merry drew back and crossed her arms, still shaken from her encounter with Miss Jennings. “I’m afraid my attachment to the girls is stronger than I realized.”

Then to her abject horror, she burst into tears.

Penrose placed his hand on her lower back and moved her toward the library. “Send some tea in, Jasper.” The footman standing at the door nodded and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

The duke drew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Merry. He led her to a comfortable chair in front of the fireplace where she sobbed into the cloth. The anger and embarrassment of Miss Jennings’ set-down was nothing compared to the complete humiliation of succumbing to female hysterics before the duke. Sobbing like a schoolgirl, she cried for her dear friends who’d died too young, for the beautiful daughters they left behind, and for the sadness in the girls’ eyes when she left them at the nursery just now.

After a few minutes, her sobs turned to soft hiccups, as a tea tray was carried in and placed on the table before her. The duke, who sat in the chair across, eyed her carefully.

She peeked at him over the handkerchief wondering if she could run from the room without making a complete cake of herself.

“No, don’t leave. Have your tea, it will calm your nerves.” His deep voice, kinder than she’d heard thus far, soothed her, and then immediately put her on guard.

The man was a mind reader, or was it so easy to discern her thoughts? Merry took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “I apologize, Your Grace, for that outburst.”

He abruptly nodded and glanced at the teapot. Merry attempted to pour, but her shaking hands spilled the hot liquid over the tray. Penrose stilled her hand with his warm one, and took the teapot from her, pouring for both of them. “Milk and sugar?”

“Yes, please. Two lumps.” Her voice came out stuffy from crying. She must look a mess. With her fair skin, red blotches generally appeared on her face when she cried. Once again she attempted to smooth her hair, but gave up. She reached for her tea, and immediately felt calmer when the warm liquid slid down her throat. One thing the English had over the Americans, and that was their belief in the restorative powers of a cup of tea.

Penrose studied the woman alongside him. Despite her disheveled appearance, he was once again struck by her beauty. Tears gathered on her full eyelashes, giving her a waiflike look. Every once in a while, she took a shuddering breath, still attempting to get herself under control. White even teeth chewed on her lower lip. Lips he would love to cover with his own, then slide his tongue along the seam until she opened, allowing him to plunder the depths of her warm, sweet mouth.