Christmas Day arrived, and with it all the spectacle Westford Castle could summon. The dining hall blazed with candlelight, garlands of holly looped the walls, and a roasted boar’s head—glazed and crowned with rosemary—glared down the length of the table. The scent of spiced wine filled the air.
At the Duke’s bidding, Lord Stratton carved into the haunch of beef with theatrical relish, his jowls reddened with wine. He had muttered for days about insult and squandered opportunity. Now, emboldened by food and drink, he let his grievances fall with calculated weight.
“His Royal Highness is always eager for news from his friends,” Stratton said, brandishing the carving knife as a ragged strip of meat clung to it. “I daresay he’ll be curious to hear how matters proceed at Westford Castle this Christmas. He has a long memory for promises—especially those not kept.”
The last word came with a flick of his wrist. The scrap of roast flew, struck his wife’s cheek, and dropped onto her napkin.
The silence was immediate. William’s fork paused on his plate, but he did not raise his eyes. Charlotte bit down on a laugh.
Lady Stratton’s spine stiffened. “Indeed,” she said. “To cast aside the most noble lady in England—a Bourbon’s daughter—would be incomprehensible.”
The Duke smiled, unbothered. “Come now, my lady. No insult is meant. Lady Henrietta is a rare jewel. But even a jewel requires time and polish before it can dazzle.”
Henrietta blushed to the base of her pale throat. “Your Grace is too kind.”
Charlotte’s gaze gleamed with mischief. “Indeed. Though polish may brighten a stone, it cannot change its nature,” she murmured. “Isn’t that true, William? One’s nature seldom changes.”
Her brother looked up at last, his expression unreadable, though his mouth curved in something dry and sharp. “True enough,” he said evenly, “yet some stones are valued not for polish, but for their strength.”
Lord Stratton gave a genial smile, tinged with calculation. “Well, whether polished or strong, a jewel is wasted if it lies unused. It would be a sorry day for England if our best families squandered alliances out of whim. The Regent values loyalty, and I have always found it pays to be… dependable.”
The Duke raised his glass, urbane as ever. “And so you are right, my lord. But the Regent also knows the worth of patience. Some grapes must ripen before they are pressed into wine.”
Charlotte set down her knife with a quiet clink. “Or turn to vinegar, if one waits too long,” she said, sotto voce.
“England must be preserved—that is all I strive for,” Lord Stratton pronounced with ponderous dignity.
Charlotte’s eyes gleamed, her voice sweetly guileless. “Ah, then I see why you are so determined to banish the King’s sausage-makers back to Hanover, my lord.”
Lord Stratton choked on his wine. He coughed, dabbing at his cravat, while his wife stiffened beside him. Henrietta stared ahead, uncomprehending.
William bent over his plate, jaw locked against a laugh. The Duke, serene as a bishop, lifted his glass as if England’s fate depended on his composure. The Duchess turned to Lady Stratton with a smile too sweet. Her gaze was soft with placation, as though the insult might be soothed away. No one spoke again until the desserts were served.
* * *
When the final dish was cleared, the company rose with relief and moved into the drawing room, where the fire blazed high and the scent of pine and orange peel clung to the air. Candles flickered in every alcove, catching the gilt edges of carol books. Port was passed. Lord Stratton, already ruddy, launched into some anecdote no one had asked for; his wife followed, lips tight, saying nothing, features edged with disdain.
A gentle knock interrupted. The door opened.
Jane stepped in, leading Lady Margaret by the hand. The child’s holiday frock shimmered faintly in the firelight, her ribbons neat, her face solemn with effort. Jane wore black—severe, unadorned. Yet even so, William could not look away. She seemed to still the air as she entered.
The Duchess turned her head. “Ah. Miss Ansley. I believe Lady Margaret has something prepared for us this evening?”
Jane inclined her head, composed as ever. “A short recitation from the Gospel of St. Luke, Your Grace. She’s practiced it daily.”
Margaret made her curtsy—low and careful—and waited. At a slight nod from the Duke, she stepped forward and began, her voice high but steady:
“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night…”
She hesitated. Her eyes darted to her governess, lips parted.
Jane whispered with a smile, “You know it by heart.”
Margaret inhaled, squared her shoulders, and went on. When the last line fell, silence followed. Then came a light, scattered swell of applause. Margaret flushed with pride and darted straight to William’s chair. He lifted her easily into his lap and kissed the top of her head.
“Did I not recite better than Lady Horse-face?” she asked, delighted.
The room froze. Henrietta flinched. Lady Stratton turned her head, slow and cold.
