Page 8 of The Mistletoe Duke

Though the hall was lit only by the occasional lamp, it seemed as bright as daylight as they emerged. So when Jonathan pulled the door closed and turned to smile at her, she saw everything. The crinkle of his eyes, the raft of dimples on his cheek, the slight twitch of his nostrils.

Fortunately, he seemed oblivious to her rapt attention, which gave her time to look elsewhere before he noticed her drooling. Her wrinkled skirt was a perfect foil for her fascination.

His voice, when he spoke, rumbled through her being. “I understand they ran another one off.”

Thank God for the humor in his tone. It shattered any silly thoughts she might have been harboring in this oddly intimate scenario. She leaned against the wall and looked up at him and affected a starchy tone. “They set her on fire.”

He chuckled. “So I heard. Whatever will we do with them?”

We? She loved that he’d said we. But still, “They are your problem, Your Grace.” She never called him that when they were private, though he’d been a duke since he was a boy, so he knew she was jesting.

Indeed, he laughed. “I know you better than that. You adore those girls as much as I do.”

“True.” She forced a gamine grin. “But they are not my problem, and we both know it. Perhaps, while you are here, you can be their governess.” She batted her lashes. It was a cheeky thing to do to a duke, but the situation called for cheeky.

He paled. “Surely Mother has sent for another?”

“I believe she directed Mawbry to do so. But there is always the possibility that…”

“What?” He always hated when she trailed off.

“Well, the help does talk. There is always the possibility that no one will take the post.” Again with the lashes. It was a ridiculous prospect, because who wouldn’t want to work for a duke? But it was amusing to watch the dismay cross his features. She patted him on his fine coat. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. You’ll make a wonderful governess. And I daresay they will not set you on fire.” And with that, she turned to head down the hall to her room.

“Meg!” The tenor of his voice stopped her. That and the fact he’d said her name. She loved when he called her Meg.

She turned and shot him a curious glance. “Yes?”

“You will help. Won’t you? Until someone comes?”

“You’re their father.”

He sighed and raked his hair. “I cannot parent. Not like Tessa. Tessa was…wonderful”

“It’s so easy. All you need to do is two things. First, be there, and second, love them. They are so lovable.”

“They are, but…”

Something in his voice caught her attention. Tugged at her heart. “What is it?”

He raked back his hair. “Sometimes I can’t help feeling… guilty when I’m with them. It’s… Blast it all. It’s my fault their mother died.”

“What nonsense. It’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have demanded a son.”

Meg shook her head. “We both know Tessa wanted more children—”

“That changes nothing. Tessa is gone—”

“She’s not, Jonathan.” Meg put her hand on his. “She’s alive in those little girls. And they need you. They need their father.”

He frowned. “Please say you’ll help.”

He seemed so distraught, she had to relent. “Of course, Jonathan.” She waggled a finger so he would remember she was hardly a pushover. “But it would do you a world of good to spend more time with them. And it would be good for them as well. They miss their father.”

“I miss them too.”

Because the mood had shifted, she felt she could add, “And they need a mother.”