Page 22 of It's a British Christmas

“You can forget what you’re thinking. The Duke of Penrose will never stoop so low as to marry a commoner. And from America, no less,” she sneered. Pacing in front of the bed, she slapped a fist into her hand. “If he were to select a wife not a member of the haut ton, he would surely choose me. I’m English. My father was a member of the gentry.”

Recovering her voice, Merry said, “How exceedingly pleasant for you.”

“Don’t condescend to me. I see the way you look at His Grace, and he may be attracted to you. But be assured, a quick tumble in his bed is all he is interested in.”

Merry drew in a sharp breath at the woman’s crudeness. “From what I understand, His Grace is not in the market for a wife. In fact, if you are wishing to secure a husband, I advise you to look to his brother. Lord Brandon has been named the duke’s heir.”

“Nonsense. No duke would ignore his duty. And Lord Brandon is sorely wanting in so many ways.”

Merry thought of the young man with the sparkling wit and charming ways. The man who befriended her from the first. “Miss Jennings, you are unpleasant and rude. Please leave me.”

“I will. As soon as I finish.” She came to stand directly over Merry, her face in a vicious snarl. “You may have cajoled Her Grace into hiring you as a companion so you don’t have to leave, but you’ll never get your hands on her son. He is a duke, and you are a nobody.”

Quelling the unladylike desire to rip out the governess’s hair, she gave a tight smile. “Thank you for your kind words. Now please leave me in peace.”

Miss Jennings patted her hair and tugged on the sleeves of her gown. Turning on her heel, she headed to the door. She gripped the door latch and viewed Merry over her shoulder. “Just remember what I said. I can assure you if anyone in this house is to be the next Duchess of Penrose, it will be me.”

Merry blew out the breath she held. Miss Jennings was more than welcome to the duke. His arrogance was something she would never put up with.

Then she touched her lips with her fingertips. Remembering…

CHAPTER 7

Penrose blew on his hands, bitingly cold, even though he wore gloves. He glanced out the window at the darkening sky. Definitely snow in the air.

The crested coach stopped in front of the Hall, and the butler had the front door open before Penrose alighted from the conveyance. He gathered up his satchel, full of papers he’d acquired on his five-day trip to Lord Smithfield’s estate.

Twice a year he and Lords Smithfield and Eastlake met at one of their homes to discuss bills they wished to sponsor in the Lords, and to compare notes on estate matters. When the duchy had been unexpectedly thrust upon him at a young age, the lords, who had been his father’s peers and close friends, had provided him with a steady hand in the old duke’s place. After years of running his own estate, Penrose now made as many helpful suggestions as the others.

As he strode to the front door, his thoughts, as had many times during his time away, drifted toward Merry. He chuckled when he remembered the morning he’d left, and how enraged she’d become when he’d sent word that she had his permission to leave her bed after her injury. She’d tore down the stairs and let him know she had every intention of being up and about and certainly did not need his permission to do so. With all that fire and wrath, he wanted nothing more than to drag her to him and conquer her mouth as he wished to conquer her body.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” His butler, Jones, bowed. “It looks like we’re in for a bit of nasty weather.” He helped Penrose off with his greatcoat.

“Yes it does. Where is my mother?” The woman he really wanted to see would most likely be with her.

“I believe she and Miss Chambers are working in the dining room.”

Already an air of festivity surrounded him. Girls from the village, who only came during the holidays to help out, were busy decorating the Hall. Someone had gathered greens, and their scent brought him to where his mother and Merry−sitting on the floor at his mother’s feet−chatted and laughed.

“Penrose, you’re home!” Mother rose from her chair alongside Merry and embraced him. He returned her hug, glancing over her shoulder at the vixen sitting in a most unladylike manner on the floor. His eyebrows rose.

Merry regarded him, a slight smile on her lips, her head tilted.

A challenge?

Her slender fingers brushed back the wisps of blond hair that had fallen on her forehead. A smudge of dirt dusted her cheek, and she wore an old gown with a soiled apron over it. She never looked more beautiful to him. His groin tightened, and the sight of her pitched him into the whirlwind of emotions brought on by the minx.

“Miss Chambers.” He released his mother and nodded in Merry’s direction.

“Your Grace.” She moved to rise, and he extended his hand to help her. Despite his cool and logical mind, the jolt he felt was real. Merry jerked her hand back as if she felt it, too.

Penrose’s gaze roamed the women’s work area. Stacks of linens sat alongside plates, cups, saucers and chests of silver. He directed his attention to his mother. “What are you doing? It looks to me like you’re preparing for a feast.”

The duchess smiled brightly. “Exactly, my dear. Since you’ve been gone, Miss Chambers and I have been busy getting ready for the Christmas Eve ball. And the rest of the holidays, of course.” She took him by the arm and headed toward the doorway. “Perhaps we could all use a respite. I’ll send for refreshments.”

He turned. “Will you join us, Miss Chambers?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Grace. Please excuse me while I freshen up.”