Page 17 of Mistletoe Minx

Unless he did care for her but just didn’t know how to say so. By all accounts, his upbringing was horribly bleak…

Determination surging through her veins, Frances lifted her chin. “I’ll see you downstairs for chapel.”

Nancy bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace.”

When Frances departed her bedchamber, the sight of Dashford waiting at the top of the staircase made her heart beat faster. He looked simply divine in his gray trousers and black jacket, crisp linen shirt and elaborate cravat, but it was the flash of sapphire-blue waistcoat that almost made her stumble. He’d matched her colors?

Stay calm. Do not pounce. That is for Kent.

“Good morning, Dashford,” she said politely. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Frances,” he replied, curving her hand around his arm. “As ever, you look beautiful. Shall we hurl ourselves into the lion’s den?”

Frances hesitated. “Chapel is, er, a lion’s den?”

Dashford grinned, the epitome of wicked. “You haven’t yet met Chaplain Lugton, who performs Christmas service. He is…an experience.”

“Oh my,” she mumbled. Naturally, there would be a price to pay for her pending adventure. “I can hardly wait.”

His ears still ringing from an excruciating two hours of thunder and brimstone, Dalton escorted Frances out of the chapel. Usually the north-facing, ground-floor space was cool and rather tranquil with its cushioned pews, stained glass window and carved wooden pulpit, but stuffed to the gills with his staff and after Chaplain Lugton’s annual verbal rampage against sin, he was actually desperate for some fresh air. Even city air would be acceptable.

Leaning down so he could speak directly into Frances’ ear, Dalton muttered, “I sincerely apologize; Lugton grows more terrifying with age. As a duke I am entitled to six chaplains, but feel he is more than enough.”

Frances peered up at him, her eyes still slightly dazed. “I was not prepared.”

A reluctant chuckle escaped. “You were very stoic. In the past, Lugton gnashed his teeth over my bachelor state; apparently my marriage isn’t enough to smooth his feathers. But it’s done now, we have successfully upheld the law of the land.”

She frowned. “There is…a Christmas service law?”

Dalton sighed. “Sadly, yes. The Holy Days and Fasting Days Act of 1551. A ridiculous relic from the boy king Edward VI; every citizen must attend a Christian church service on Christmas Day and must not use any kind of vehicle to get there. It is a law begging to be overturned, causing a fuss and depriving hardworking hackney drivers of income every year. But at least with a private chapel complete with guest tyrant, both our souls and selves are obliged.”

“I see. Well. I am relieved to avoid Christmastide criminality,” said Frances, her eyes twinkling. “With my spotless reputation, I might perhaps be freed with a stern warning. But you? Hmmmm.”

Utterly unbidden, his hand moved to cover hers, shackling it to his arm as he turned her toward a nearby alcove. Such impish teasing demanded immediate punishment, his wife bent over with her thighs spread wide…

WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?

Stunned, Dalton shook his head to clear it. They were in the damned portrait gallery of all places, a shadowed, gloomy space where eerily lifelike paintings of all fourteen previous dukes—frigid, draconian bastards all—hung. Not only was he behaving like a madman once again, but in the least seductive setting possible. That confirmed it. The line was certainly ending with him.

He cleared his throat. “An accurate observation; I hope you’d show mercy and send care parcels to Newgate. But we must carry on to the meal and distributing of baskets. Your addition of green and red ribbon and a sprig of holly was a charming touch.”

His wife blushed as she fiddled with her necklace. “It seemed festive. I can see why the staff love the baskets, you are very generous. Admirably so.”

Locket.

“You’re wearing your wedding locket,” Dalton said abruptly, unsure why it mattered or how it was so supremely satisfying to see her wearing jewelry he’d purchased himself rather than heirloom pieces. “Not the bracelet?”

Frances looked away. “Ah, something that…significant…can really only be worn on certain occasions. But this locket is lovely. It matches any gown.”

Hell. Anyone would think his duchess disliked the bracelet; significant was hardly a rousing endorsement. In saying that, perhaps it just reminded her of the time he’d been a drunken fool.

Buck up, man. In a few more hours you’ll be at Warenne Hall.

Dalton forced himself to smile again as they entered the large dining room that easily seated 100 people. “I’m glad you like it…good God, Cook and Mrs. Thorpe have outdone themselves.”

Indeed, the dining room had been transformed. The walls were draped with silver silk and white ribbon alongside fragrant Christmas wreathes of rosemary, bay leaves, holly, laurel and mistletoe. On a trestle table in one corner stood a sea of bottles: brandy, sherry, ratafia, port, wine, Mrs. Thorpe’s refreshingly tart lemon cordial, even a cask of ale. But the main oak table near-groaned under the weight of a feast fit for a king: sides of roasted beef and venison, several dressed geese, thick vegetable pottage of carrots, leeks and onion, a boar’s head with a red apple in its mouth, green beans and boiled potatoes in butter sauce, poached fish, wheels of cheese, loaves of freshly baked bread, and dishes of nuts and candied fruit.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” breathed Frances.