Page 42 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“I introduced Della to a Mr Marwick. She knows his sister, but as delightful a young fellow as he is, Hawkney would not approve, and Della seemed quite taken with him. I’ve never seen her blush so often or look so uncertain of herself. Mr Marwick seems a sensible sort, however, and appears keen to avoid further contact.”

“Oh, poor Della. I think it’s wretched how everyone must stick to their own kind. Such snobbery,” she said crossly, getting to her feet and smoothing down her skirts.

Nat smiled at her indignation though was unsurprised by it, given what he had learned about her. “I don’t disagree, but it’s best to avoid heartache. They’d be neither fish nor fowl. He wouldn’t fit in her world, nor she into his. Like it or not, it’s a recipe for disaster.”

Meg sighed. “I suppose there is truth in that, but only because everyone keeps to the status quo. It will take some brave people to buck the trend before things change for the better.”

“That is true too, but I’d rather not see Della have to face such a fate if I’m honest,” he said with a rueful smile.

“I know,” she said, putting her hand on his arm and smiling at him. “Because you are a good man who cares for his cousin. I understand that. Well, come along, then. I shall leave Voltaire for another day. Oh, do you suppose there is a copy in the library?” she asked, her grip tightening in her excitement.

“I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” Nat said, though his gaze had snagged on her slender hand, and the way it clutched his sleeve, her touch so natural and so familiar. “I’ll help you find it when we get home. For now, how about tea and cake? There was always a marvellous teashop here when I was a lad, they did splendid scones with jam and cream.”

Her eyes lit up, the sometimes stormy grey brightening with delight at the prospect. “Scones with jam and cream?” she repeated with obvious longing. “Well, don’t just stand there, hurry up!”

She grabbed his hand, towing him after her, and Nat laughed, happiness bubbling inside him. He determined to slip back to the shop and order all those books for her, so she had her own copies. Anyone who brought such joy into his world deserved to be spoiled for once, and he very much doubted anyone had ever spoiled her or made a fuss of her in her life.

Chapter 9

Who do you think you are?

Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, 7th December 1815

Meg almost leapt out of her skin the moment she heard Nat’s knock and snatched the door open.

“I feel sick,” she said with no preamble.

It had been the most wonderful day, so much so that Meg had allowed herself to forget about his grace and his disapproval of Nat’s new fiancée, fake as she was.

The walk to and from the town, talking with Della and Vinnie, and especially with Nat, the bookshop, tea and scones, and then Nat helping her search the library for a copy of the book she’d been reading. It was as if the universe had given her a perfect day, one created entirely for her pleasure. Even though they hadn’t found the book, it hadn’t diminished her enjoyment one bit. But now it was over, and she had to take her medicine, however bitter.

“Calm down,” Nat said with a reassuring smile. “Hawkney’s a supercilious devil, I’ll grant you but he’s not an ogre. He won’t eat you.” He reached for her hands, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.

She met his eyes, wishing they were just a little less blue, or that he was just a little less handsome and kind. Perhaps then her heart wouldn’t skip about like a fool whenever he said something nice to her.

“Honestly, Meg, I’ve met no one better prepared to deal with Hawkney in all my life. For all his top-lofty ways, he admires intelligence. Just be yourself and he will be forced to concede you are too good for me, no matter his prejudices about lineage and money.”

Meg let out a breath. “I am not too good for you, foolish creature. You deserve the very best, and we both know that isn’t me.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Nat replied softly.

Meg’s breath caught, but he was already moving away. He turned, holding out his arm to her. She went to him, placing her arm on his sleeve and grateful he had offered to escort her down to dinner. Yet his words rang over and over in her ears. Had he really said that? Could she have misheard? No, but he didn’t mean it like that. He was just being kind, because he was always kind. He was just trying to imply that she was… better than she imagined. The best, in fact, but not the best as in, I deserve the best and that’s you, Margaret Bancroft. He didn’t mean that.

Well, obviously.

By the time they reached the dining room, Meg was in a complete fluster, though she now didn’t give a snap of her fingers about meeting the duke. She wanted to know what Nat had meant by those words, if he had really said them and she hadn’t imagined the entire thing. What did he mean by saying such things to her? Yes, he was a flirt and had a rather rakish reputation, but he would never treat her like one of his… his light o’ loves. She felt certain of that. So, was he just giving her a compliment and had not considered how she might interpret it?

Drat the man, why must he say something so… so lovely at the precise moment when she was in the most danger of being discovered? She could strangle him. At least she was avoiding the pre-prandial drinks. They had returned late from the town and so Della had excused herself on the pretext of wishing to rest before dinner, which Meg had translated as wanting to read her new book. But it had given Nat the excuse to follow suit on her behalf. That much was a blessing. Putting her into a state of agitation at such a moment, however, was not. It was too late now, though, as he led her into the dining room.

If Meg had believed it an opulent affair the previous night, the sight that greeted her was quite beyond anything she had imagined.

A gold surtout de table occupied the centre of the table: a long, low tray, heavily embellished, upon which sat gold candelabras and gold vases with arrangements of hot-house flowers. Exotic fruit, such as grapes, oranges, and lemons, and other things Meg could not identify filled gold fruit dishes, and the table glittered under the weight and quantity of gold and crystal.

“Courage, pet,” Nat whispered, guiding her to where the company had assembled, awaiting the duke’s permission to sit.

The dowager had obviously had words with her companion, for an older, rather faded lady was present and in conversation with a young woman Meg did not recognise but guessed to be Miss Percy.

The young woman looked around and smiled at Meg as she and Nat entered. Meg returned her smile, relieved to discover she was not some raven-haired beauty for reasons she did not, in the light of current events, wish to consider.