Page 25 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“But you just told me all that information about the citrus trees! And the way you spoke about travelling before, about all the wonderful things to be seen. I felt your enthusiasm, and you spoke so eloquently. I do not believe you when you say such things about yourself.”

She sounded rather annoyed, which he in turn found perplexing and aggravating.

“I did not tell you all that information. I gave you a handful of Latin names and a few facts. Pray do not insult my intelligence, such as it is, by pretending you were impressed. I cannot read for hours like you do and retain the information, I can’t speak a dozen languages. I suppose I can manage a bit of French tolerably well, but I was expelled or sent down from more schools than I care to remember as a boy, so my faults are well known to me, and everyone else. You outpace me by many miles, my dear, so don’t try to soothe my poor masculine pride with false flattery. I’m no scholar, but I’m not a fool either,” he remarked, belatedly realising he sounded rather angrier than he’d intended.

He dared to look back at her again, chagrined to discover she looked rather hurt by his words.

“I apologise,” she said quietly, sounding so crestfallen he hated having reacted with such heat. “I did not mean to imply an insult, though I seem to keep doing so. Quite the reverse.”

Nat waved her words away, unsettled for reasons he could not understand. What on earth was he getting so het up about? “Forget it. I’m just being prickly as usual. I told you it was likely more my fault than Hawkney’s and now you have proof. Ah, here is the yellow room. You’ll love it, for it has a fine view of the sea, though it’s too dark to make it out now. In the morning, you will be able to sit up in bed, sipping hot chocolate and gazing at the splendid view.”

To his amusement, she turned a little pink at his description of her sitting in bed, which he found entirely too charming for his peace of mind. The ladies he habitually spent time with had forgotten how to blush a long time ago.

He knocked on the door, and Betty appeared. She gave a little squeal upon seeing Meg. “Oh, miss, if this ain’t the prettiest room you ever saw in all your days! Well, I don’t know what could be better.”

Meg sent him a last glance. “I suppose I will see you at dinner?” she said uncertainly.

“Of course.” Nat spoke warmly, hoping to reassure her he was not really the bad-tempered devil he had just shown himself to be. “I’ll knock for you once the gong is sounded and we’ll go down together.”

She looked relieved by this idea and nodded. “Until dinner, then.”

“Until dinner,” he agreed, and waited until she had closed the door.

He stood there for a moment, running a hand through his hair and wondering what had got into him. As a rule, he was exceptionally even-tempered. It must just be the strain upon his nerves at being back here after so many years and having to pass Meg off as his intended bride. He did not doubt Hawkney would kick up, despite what he’d said to Meg. Though if his grace upset her, there would be words of the kind the duke would not forget in a hurry. Yet such an alliance would more than likely offend the family honour and all that old guff that Hawkney appeared to set such store by. Though Nat’s own father had hardly been a paragon of propriety and good sense.

Naturally, everyone said how much Nat resembled him.

Come to that, the old duke had been the devil made flesh, which likely explained why Hawkney had gone the other way. Happily, he’d died when his heir was quite young, or things might have been different indeed.

Pushing thoughts of the past away, Nat carried on to his mother’s room and knocked.

“Bonjour, Celeste,” he said, greeting his mama’s French lady’s maid. “Is she in the mood to greet her son?”

“Ah, oui, Monsieur Ashford,” she said, dipping a curtsey. “She is most eager to see you. Please come in. My poor lady, she ’as the headache today, but she is very brave.”

Privately, Nat thought it more than likely his mother had given his grandmama a headache with her endless chatter and Grandmama had snapped when she’d had more than she could take. Mama would have retreated to her room, pleading a headache when, in truth, she was sulking. She had never been equal to withstand her mother’s rather wicked tongue and was certainly not quick enough to spar with her.

“Nathaniel is that you?” his mother asked, though it was patently him, but he agreed all the same.

“It is, Mama. How do you do?”

“Oh, tolerably. One must not complain, but I am happier for seeing you,” she said, lifting her cheek for a kiss.

Nat obliged, admiring the pretty picture she made, reclined upon a chaise longue. For a woman of her years, she was still a remarkably handsome creature with an excellent figure and lustrous dark blonde hair with barely a strand of grey to be seen. “You are looking in prime twig, I must say, Mama. A very fetching gown, that. Is it French?”

“Bien sur,” she said, giving him a pleased smile. “But you always have such an eye for beautiful things. Did you bring me a present?” she asked, as eager as a child.

Nat laughed. “It’s not Christmas yet”

She laughed merrily, her spirits lifting as they always did when she could speak of things she enjoyed. “Well, no, but you always bring me gifts anyway. You spoil your mama, I know, but I do so love presents. Did you bring me something?”

“Of course, I did, you dreadful creature, but I came straight to you from Grandmama, so you must wait until I’ve seen my things unpacked.”

“Oh,” she sighed. “Very well. I do so like your presents, Nat, dearest. Do you remember that lovely fichu you bought me at Easter, or was it Michaelmas? No, I’m sure it was Easter because we had lamb and Cook spoiled the sauce, do you remember? Or was it a goose? No, I’m sure it was lamb, unless it was beef we had that year? Anyway, I suppose it does not matter, but it was a very pretty thing with such fine embroidery, and everyone so admired it and asked where it came from, and Mrs Turnbull was green with envy, for her son never buys her a thing, and—oh, I just remembered, it was goose, because it was the green sauce Cook spoiled. There, I knew it would come to me in the end,” she said with satisfaction.

Nat smiled indulgently, far too used to his mama’s sprawling manner of conversation to show the least sign of impatience with it.

“Well, I am pleased to know my gift was turned to such good account,” he replied, well aware that Mrs Turnbull was his mama’s closest friend and arch nemesis.