Page 10 of Mistletoe Minx

Gower clicked his heels together. “An old family recipe, Your Grace. You’ll feel better momentarily.”

Dalton scowled, but his stomach was already starting to settle. Cautiously, he nibbled on some toast, and soon finished several pieces without mishap. “I need another favor, Gower. Can you go downstairs to the jewelry vault and select something for Her Grace?”

The valet nodded. “Of course. Some earrings, perhaps? A pendant?”

“No. Something more…substantial.”

Gower’s face lit up like fireworks at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. “Oh! Dare I ask…a reward for happy news?”

Dalton pressed his lips together. Naturally his valet would assume a pregnancy. Sometimes it felt like every eye in London watched Frances’ belly, and he knew their lack of success hurt her. Truthfully, that certain forlorn look on her face each month when she took to her chamber with herbal compresses and heated towels made his heart twist in a peculiar manner. Yet he didn’t dare visit her chamber more often. Besides, if she did conceive, the thought of turning out to be a wretched bastard like his own sire, to be the actual source of his son’s misery, was too horrifying to contemplate.

Was he even capable of tender sentiment?

Unlike Frances, who had been cherished by her parents since birth, all he could remember from his childhood was crushing loneliness, harsh lectures, dismissal of any achievements, and an ironclad understanding that he existed and mattered solely for the title. He’d been twenty-five when his father passed; Christ what a relief that was.

But Frances deserved so much better. After last night she would probably rather swim to the continent than lie beneath him again…unless he made a grand gesture.

Jewelry. Ladies loved that.

“No, just a husband who has been shamefully remiss in draping his wife with diamonds. A bracelet would do nicely. Perhaps you could bring a few options?”

“At once, Your Grace,” said the valet, but not even a seasoned campaigner like Gower could hide his disappointment.

Ha. Apparently, marriage was only the first step in redeeming the Duke of Dashford. His many sins would remain unforgiven until the carved nursery cradle rocked an infant Earl of Keswick to sleep.

Mercifully, a knock at the door distracted Gower, and moments later several footmen entered the chamber carrying buckets of steaming water to carefully pour into the bath. In no time at all, Dalton was alone once more.

Shuddering in distaste, he kicked off his shoes and practically peeled off his fine linen shirt, gray breeches and woolen stockings. Then he sank into the bath, sighing as the hot water surrounded him like an embrace, before snatching up a bar of Gower’s herbal soap, another family recipe he would no doubt take to the grave.

Christ, he was a shambles. This miraculous soap might cleanse him of sweat and brandy, but the stench of shame would linger far longer.

How could he have behaved so poorly toward Frances?

Although some parts of the evening were fuzzy in his mind, like what exactly had provoked him to tear her night rail or everything he’d said, it remained unfathomable.

Dalton slapped the marble side in frustration. Why didn’t his ridiculous body understand? Frances was for soirees and balls, ton fundraising committees and an heir. That was what she wanted. What she’d agreed to. For a hedonistically submissive lover, greedy to be restrained and plundered, he needed a mistress.

So attend the Warenne house party and find one.

Dalton sat up straighter at the stray thought and water splashed around him.

No. That was a bloody foolish idea.

Why? With ten new novices inducted each year, the likelihood of being matched with a woman who craves exactly what you offer is high! Just attend to ducal duties on Christmas morning, leave in the afternoon, and you’ll be restraining a new lover by suppertime. It’s not like Frances would be devastated…she doesn’t love you, remember?

Dalton grimaced at his mind’s blunt reminder, but perhaps this was the best course. He could sate his urges and in turn be a better husband.

A deliberate throat-clearing jolted him from his thoughts, then Gower poked his head around the bathing screen. “I have those bracelets, Your Grace. One is a dainty gold link with sapphire clasp, another a heavy three rows of diamonds, and one a charming circlet of amethysts.”

“The diamonds,” said Dalton decisively. “I’ll write a note to accompany it. Also…I’ve decided to attend the Warenne house party so will need a trunk packed for a four-day stay. As his lordship and I are old friends, I’m sure the late notice won’t be an issue.”

The valet was silent for an unusually long time, but eventually nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Dalton sank back into the bath, his shoulders actually relaxing. This was the right path forward.

Surely.

At precisely five minutes before eleven o’clock, Frances once again stepped out of the Dashford town carriage onto the footpath in front of the Kyles’ Grosvenor Square townhouse.