Page 36 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

They had returned to the hall after their ride, with Meg unhappily aware that Nat was still in a temper. She could hardly be surprised. What on earth had provoked him to make such a rash and ridiculous statement, she could not imagine—except perhaps that men did not enjoy being thwarted.

For all his cleverness, her father had never taken it well if she had proven him wrong. Usually he would get cross over something entirely different, just so he could vent his feelings. But eventually, Nat would be forced to concede she spoke nothing but the truth. She could only hope he took it well and did not feel he’d backed himself into a corner. Meg could think of nothing worse than marrying a man who only did so out of obligation and some silly notion of honour.

Sadly, she did not believe his temper would be greatly improved upon hearing the news Betty had just delivered.

“He’s here,” the girl said in an undertone, as if she imagined someone might be listening in as she helped Meg out of her riding dress.

“Who is?” Meg asked in confusion.

“His grace.”

Meg stared at her in horror. Though she had known this was coming, she felt entirely unprepared for it.

“Have you seen him?”

Betty looked at her in surprise. “Me? Course not. When would I have seen him? But they’re all chattering about it downstairs. Last time he was here, he had the most tremendous row with his grandmama over Lady Della playing for the ladies’ club. He forbade her from doing so, and now that he’s come back, he’s bound to discover that she ignored him. Everyone is on tenterhooks, waiting.”

“Oh dear,” Meg said faintly. “That sounds like a recipe for a very ill-tempered duke.”

“Well, you’ve nothing to fret about, miss. Don’t look so frightened. I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought you’d be troubled by it. Shall you wear the green cambric muslin, the one with all the little tucks? I’ve already taken the hem up.”

“Nothing to fret about?” Meg repeated, pinching the bridge of her nose. She sighed. “Yes, that will be fine.”

“Whatever is the matter?” Betty asked in concern, bringing the gown over.

Meg said nothing as Betty helped her into it, for she could not tell her the truth, or at least not all of it. “I am not fit to be Mr Ashford’s bride, Betty. I have no dowry and no connections. I’m a Miss Nobody from nowhere, and he will not like me marrying into his illustrious family.”

“Oh,” Betty replied, understanding dawning. “Well, miss, it strikes me there’s nowt he can do about it. Mr Ashford is a big boy, with a mind of his own, and he’s decided you are the one. I reckon he’s up to the duke’s weight.”

Meg groaned and prayed that Betty was right.

Nat stood outside the door to his cousin’s study, wishing he did not have the exact same feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d had every time he got sent down from whatever school he’d been attending.

Just because Hawkney was a duke and head of the family, did not mean he had the right to dictate Nat’s personal affairs.

“Come.”

The familiar and, to Nat’s ear, imperious voice on the other side replied to his knock.

Well, he may as well get it over with. Fixing an insouciant smile to his face he was far from feeling, Nat swung open the door and strolled in.

The room was one his grandmother had completely renovated. As a boy, he had always avoided it, especially as it was given over to reading, writing, and study, all occupations Nat avoided like the plague. He’d found the room gloomy anyhow, smelling of mouldering books, and the chimney had always smoked, giving it a sooty stench, especially in the summer when no fires were lit. Now, though, whilst it was still a masculine room, done out in shades of dark green, with many gold-framed landscapes and hunting scenes adorning the walls, there was a fresh feeling. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, whatever had been wrong with it apparently having been remedied. Still, the only other person in the room made it feel less cosy than it might otherwise have done.

“How do, Hawkney,” he said, making his way across the room to the enormous desk the duke sat behind. Nat was fairly certain that whoever had commissioned the massive piece of furniture had done so with the sole intention of intimidating whoever was on the opposite side of it. He couldn’t blame Hawkney for that, he supposed, for the desk was ancient and had likely seen several dukes, though Hawkney’s father had brought it to Hatherley Hall.

Hawkney did not look up at once, involved in pressing his seal upon a blob of melted wax, so Nat flung himself carelessly down into a chair, sprawling in a way he knew Hawkney found provoking.

“Nat,” his cousin replied, glancing up. His lips tightened subtly, but he said nothing. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he said instead, going in straight for the kill, which Nat ought to have expected.

“They are, indeed. You may wish me happy, cousin, and congratulate yourself on finally seeing your scapegrace relation shut up in the parson’s pound.”

“May I?” Hawkney drawled, his dark blue eyes glinting. “Who is she, Nat?”

“Miss Margaret Bancroft,” Nat replied promptly.

The duke sat back in his chair and sighed. “Don’t play the fool.”

“Why not? I do it so well,” Nat replied, his temper flickering to life despite promising himself he would remain cool throughout the interview.