Chapter Thirty-Four

Rosecombe Park, Hertfordshire, December 1815

Children's laughter filled the great hall, echoing off the walls and spiraling toward the ceiling. The very bones of the building seemed to vibrate with life. Most likely because Rosecombe had never experienced such a cacophony of unbridled, childish merriment.

At least not in Monty's lifetime.

And the scent of spices and citrus—an aroma that always evoked the spirit of Christmas—was almost enough to lift the spirits.

Almost.

He glanced toward the fireplace, where the children had gathered around Jenkins, sitting cross-legged on the carpet under the watchful gaze of Olivia and a young girl from the village who now ran the school. The children stared, wide-eyed, at the butler while he related tales of folklore and faeries. One child sat apart from the rest, a notebook in his hand.

Who would have known that old fossil Jenkins, of whom Monty had been terrified as a boy, possessed a talent for entertaining children?

Jenkins finished his story, and was met with a chorus of "oohs" and "aahs."

"What do we say, children?" Olivia asked.

"Thank you, Mr. Jenkins!" the children chorused.

"And now—before you get your treats, can anybody tell me what's special about today?"

Several hands shot up.

"Yes, Lottie?"

"It's Christmas!" the little girl cried.

"Not yet," Olivia replied, laughing, "though our host has treats for you all. Anybody else?"

The quiet little boy on his own shifted forward, his body tense, and Olivia kneeled beside him.

"Do you know what's special about today, Joe?"

He scribbled in his notebook and showed her the page.

"Excellent, Joe—well done!" she said. "That's right—it's St. Nicholas's Day. The duke has treats for you all. Isn't that kind of him?"

A ripple of enthusiasm threaded through the children at the prospect of sweets, and Monty's heart sank at the prospect of two dozen children enlivened by a dose of sugar.

Time for a brandy to numb the senses.

He approached the sideboard, unstoppered the decanter, and poured a measure of dark brown liquid into a glass.

"I take it you're unused to children's parties, brother?"

Olivia had followed him.

Monty tilted the decanter toward her and raised his eyebrows in question.

"Offering brandy to a woman, before dinner?" She smiled. "I'll stick to tea. I need my wits now my class has trebled in size."

"That's why we've employed Miss Akroyd," Monty said. "Now you're a member of the family, there's no need for you to teach anymore."

"I still have a duty to the children—especially Joe."

Monty glanced toward the children. The little boy was now scribbling again, absorbed in his work while the others laughed and chatted together.

"Must I change who I am to suit you?" Olivia asked.

Monty shook his head. "No, Olivia. I want you to be happy here as my sister—but the last thing I want is to have you change yourself to suit the expectations of others."

She laughed. "Who are you—and what have you done with the Duke of Whitcombe?"

"I don't follow you."

"You don't sound at all like the soulless aristocrat I always believed you to be. Where have you been hiding that kind soul? Or have you experienced an epiphany?"

An epiphany…

Yes, he'd been struck by a revelation that the world would be a better place were individuals to embrace their individuality rather than conform.

"Perhaps I will have a brandy," she said.

He poured a measure and handed it to her. They clinked glasses, and she took a sip.

"I suppose there's no point in my asking where she is now," Olivia said. "It was too much to hope she'd be here when I arrived. Will she ever return?"

He drained his glass and poured another measure. Why did the mention of his mother always bring about a thirst for brandy and the oblivion it gave?

"I didn't mean to upset you," Olivia said.

"I'm not upset," he replied, "merely frustrated that Mother refuses to acknowledge you. It's not your fault that—"

"I didn't mean the dowager, Montague. I meant her."

Monty had no need to ask who Olivia meant by her.

"Though you were opposites in terms of countenance and rank, you seemed well suited," she said. "Like the sharp sauce that was served at dinner last night. The beef, which you told me was the finest cut, was nevertheless bland in its refinement. Yet the sauce complemented it perfectly, rendering it palatable—and even enjoyable."

"Are you likening me to a fillet steak in need of enhancement to render my company bearable?"

"No," she said quietly. "But you lack completion."

At that moment he felt a hand tug his sleeve. He glanced down to Joe standing before him.

"Joe, sweetheart, what is it?" Olivia asked.

The boy flicked through the notebook until he came to a page with a drawing on it, and he held it up. On the page was a portrait of a sheep's head, portrayed with extraordinary accuracy and attention to detail, such that the sheep's eyes seemed to be alive and staring at Monty from the page.

"Joe drew that last month, didn't you, Joe?" Olivia said.

The boy nodded, then offered the notebook to Monty.

"Is this a gift for me?" Monty asked. "Why, thank you, little master. I'm much—"

"N-no."

At first, Monty thought he'd imagined it. Surely the boy hadn't spoken?

"E-Eleanor," the boy added, craning his neck to meet Monty's gaze. "It's for Eleanor."

"Miss Howard isn't here, Joseph," Monty said.

"It's Molly. My favorite sheep. W-will you give it to her?"

"I'm sorry, Joseph. I don't know if I'll see her again."

The boy closed the notebook and tucked it under his arm.

"I'm sad."

"Perhaps Miss FitzRoy and I can find you something good to eat," Monty said. "Would you like some of Cook's spiced biscuits?"

The boy shook his head. "I don't want biscuits. I want Eleanor. I miss her."

His words, delivered matter-of-factly, pricked at Monty's heart more than any speech articulated with emotion or tears.

He crouched beside the boy and took his hands. "Shall I let you in on a secret, Joseph?"

The boy met his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

"I miss her also," Monty said. "I didn't realize how much until I returned here without her. She was able to look beyond that which I portray to the world around me, to see the true man behind my fa?ade."

The boy nodded—and Monty smiled at the notion of such a young mind understanding his words.

"Eleanor sees people without looking at them," the boy said. "I hate being looked at, but I don't want to be invisible—a-and Eleanor saw me."

Monty stared at the boy who, behind the silent, withdrawn exterior, hid a wise soul with remarkable insight. Then the boy colored and lowered his gaze. Monty touched his shoulder, but he flinched and jerked free.

Miss Akroyd approached. "Joe, would you like a custard tart? I've set one aside for you."

A maid circulated among the children, carrying a tray laden with a huge pile of tarts, diminishing rapidly as several pairs of hands eagerly reached for them. With a nod, Joe slipped his hand into Miss Akroyd's, and they returned to the fireplace, where Jenkins sat with Lottie on his lap.

"I've never seen my butler with such an informal attitude," Monty said.

"Lottie's his granddaughter," Olivia said.

"Really? How did I not know that?"

"Because it's the servants' responsibility to know everything about their masters, not the other way round," she replied. "Eleanor knew, of course. She spotted the resemblance after she visited the school the second time."

He smiled. "As young Joseph says—she saw people without looking at them. I never thought the boy capable of such an observation—or such a speech."

"Joe speaks so rarely that it's wise to heed what he says," Olivia said. "He sees much and says little. Such people are to be treasured."

"Aren't they just," he said, almost to himself.

Devil's toes—what have I done?

The enormity of what he'd lost—nay, what he'd had in his grasp but let slip through his fingers—crept toward him like a thick black tide, relentless in its determination to obliterate his prospects for a happy and fulfilling life.

He shook another measure of brandy into his glass and drained it.

I've made the grandfather of all mistakes, haven't I?

"Yes, brother. I rather think you have."

He turned to Olivia. "Did I say that aloud?"

She nodded. "Even if you hadn't, your expression told me all I needed to know." She gestured about the room. "Christmas is a time for loved ones. Why don't you invite her back?"

"What's done is done," he said. "Besides—she wouldn't come."

"That's a coward's response—an excuse to avoid doing that which is difficult or awkward. You love her, don't you?"

"Should you be asking such a direct question, Olivia?"

"Where's the sense in frittering away words on niceties when directness is the only way to achieve one's objective?"

"Heavens, Olivia, you sound just like…" He caught himself.

"Like Eleanor? You can speak her name, you know. You miss her, after all." She held up her hand in anticipation of his protest. "You said it yourself to Joe, and not even you would be callous enough to lie to a child." Then her expression softened. "Did she reject you?"

"It was a mutual parting," he said, "though I'd long lost sight of why I intended to break off our engagement."

"You intended to break it off? I don't understand."

"Neither do I. Nevertheless, it's what we'd embarked on. And though it was only a few months ago—it feels like a lifetime."

"Eleanor agreed to it?" Olivia shook her head. "I can imagine you entering into such an arrangement—but I'd thought better of Eleanor. Did she not think of what else might be affected by such an act—her family, the sanctity of marriage itself? I find myself disappointed."

"You've every right to be disappointed," he said, "but in me—not the finest woman I have ever known. She entered into our engagement believing it to be genuine."

Olivia paled. "You mean…" Her voice trailed off as if she couldn't bear to contemplate his meaning.

"After I explained my motives, Eleanor agreed to maintain the fa?ade. In return, I offered to teach her a few social graces."

"How very gracious of you," she said.

He flinched at the sharp sting in her voice.

"I was content with the arrangement at first," he said. "As was she, until…"

"Until you realized you'd fallen in love." She shook her head. "You fool! Do you mean to say that you ended your engagement simply because that's what you set out to do? Why would any man in possession of his wits undertake such a scheme?"

"I did it to stop my mother from plaguing me."

"You what?"

"She kept insisting I find a bride, foisting a host of dull heiresses onto me—perfect ornaments for my arm, but who'd plague me into my grave if I married them. So I chose the very antithesis of what Mother wanted."

"You mean the woman you deemed the least elegant, least beautiful, and least suitable?"

He caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, before she delivered a stinging slap to his cheek.

"You swine!" she cried. "I suppose that's why you chose to recognize me publicly as your sister—not out of any sense of obligation, or fondness, but to torture your mother by tainting the shades of Rosecombe with your father's bastard!"

"No!" he said through gritted teeth, painfully aware of a bright pair of brown eyes watching him. "I asked you here because I care for you. You're my family, and I want you here!"

"And Eleanor?"

"Yes!" he bellowed, unable to stem his emotion. "Yes—of course I want her! I love her—how could I not? Does it give you satisfaction to know that?"

"Then go and win her back."

"It's not that simple. She'll never accept me. I ended our engagement very publicly. I made sure I was seen with a doxy—two doxies."

Olivia's eyes widened, and she curled her hand into a fist.

"It was a ruse," he said, eyeing her knuckles, his cheek still smarting. "I cannot bear to touch another woman. I left Eleanor in the care of another—a man more deserving of her."

"You think her love for you was so shallow that she'd transfer it to another?"

Heavens!What an outspoken creature she was! Perhaps that was due to her upbringing—raised by straight-talking villagers with little time to school her into a simpering Society miss.

No other woman had granted him such honesty and made him look at himself with clear eyes unfettered by the self-importance brought about by his savagely handsome looks, his fortune, or his title.

None except Eleanor.

Why did every train of thought—or, come to that, every waking moment—begin and end with her?

Then the door opened, and Monty's heart sank at the announcement.

"Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Whitcombe!"

Shit. That's all I need.

The last time he'd seen his mother, they'd parted on bad terms—he fueled by his anger at her cruelty toward Olivia, and she filled with indignation at the disgrace he brought to the family name by elevating a grubby little bastard to the status of a lady.

Olivia stiffened, and Monty took her hand—the same hand that had struck him moments before. But now, they faced a common enemy.

"Mother, what brings you here?" Monty asked.

She swept past the footman, her black silk gown rustling. "Do I now require an invitation to enter my home, Montague?"

The room fell silent as the children, with their innate sense of danger, turned to face the newcomer. One of the younger ones began to sniffle and was quickly silenced by Miss Akroyd.

Olivia, who seemed to recover first, slipped her hand from Monty's and clapped.

"Stand up please, children!" she said in a singsong voice.

After they scrambled to their feet, Olivia turned to Monty's mother.

"Children, this is tonight's guest of honor—the dowager Duchess of Whitcombe. We mustn't forget our manners, must we?" She dipped into a curtsey. "Good afternoon, Your Grace," she said. "Happy St. Nicholas's Day." She gestured to the children.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace!" they chorused. "Happy St. Nicholas's Day!" Then they bowed and curtseyed.

For a moment, Monty feared Mother would turn her back and stride out of the room—or worse, issue a comment about allowing peasants onto the hallowed grounds of Rosecombe. Instead, she merely inclined her head. She cast her gaze about the room until it landed on Jenkins, who'd leaped to his feet, little Lottie clinging to his breeches. Though he stared straight ahead in the manner of the staid butler, he'd placed his hand on his granddaughter's head—a tender gesture of comfort that pricked at Monty's heart.

"Don't let me disturb the children's party, Miss…?" Mother asked the young woman.

"Miss Akroyd, Your Grace."

"Farmer Akroyd's girl?"

"Aye, Your Grace. I teach at the school."

"Very good," Mother said. "Do your charges give you trouble?"

"No, ma'am. They're ever so keen to learn. I cannot thank you enough for all you've done for the school."

Mother arched an eyebrow then glanced toward Monty. "I daresay it's my son who deserves the credit—but your appreciation is welcome. Please"—she gestured toward the children—"don't stop the merriment on my account."

She crossed the floor toward Monty, her gaze fixed on Olivia.

Olivia curtseyed again. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"What for?" Mother asked.

"For permitting the children to remain here."

Mother stared at her—the girl whose very existence pained her—and Monty braced himself for another onslaught of hysterics. Then she inclined her head.

"You're welcome, my dear," she said stiffly. "My son is head of the family, and while I have every right to my opinion, I must bow to his judgment in all things."

"Whether you agree or not?"

"Yes, Miss"—she hesitated, as if steeling herself—"Miss FitzRoy."

Evidently as surprised as Monty himself, Olivia drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening at Mother's address.

"Your Grace, I—" she began, but Mother raised her hand.

"I can never look upon you with a mother's affection, young lady—you'll always serve as a reminder of my late husband's betrayal. But this is the season of goodwill and forgiveness. If you can forgive my bitter words the last time we met, then I'm willing to acknowledge you as a FitzRoy. I cannot promise more than that, for I'd be at risk of breaking my promise. It's better to make no promise at all than to break faith with another." She met Monty's gaze, her expression hardening, and he felt his cheeks warming under her scrutiny.

"Thank you for your kindness and honesty," Olivia said, dipping into a curtsey once more. "I think Miss Akroyd is in need of assistance. The children always get a little boisterous when they've eaten too much sugar."

She retreated toward the children, leaving Monty alone with his mother.

"That was well done," he said.

"You left me no choice if I was to avoid banishment from my home of thirty years. But the closer I draw to my final appointment with the Almighty, the more I understand the futility of regret."

"That which you regret was not of your doing, Mother."

"Unlike you, Montague. I daresay you have much to regret. I'm a woman who has lived her life and is merely waiting for it to draw to a close. But you are a man with the power to do, and take, what you wish, without reprobation."

She nodded toward the decanter. "Aren't you going to offer me a brandy, at least?"

He reached for a glass and poured a measure before handing it to her. She lifted her glass and took a sip.

"I happened to pass Mrs. Swift on my return from the village yesterday," she said. "She asked me to pay her respects to Miss Howard when I saw her next."

"Oh?" Monty took a mouthful of brandy in an attempt to feign nonchalance.

"Even the staff ask about her," she huffed. "Jenkins had the temerity to note that Miss Howard was the politest young lady he'd ever had occasion to meet, and that he'd have no objection to her being mistress of Rosecombe."

"Whatever induced Jenkins to say such a thing?"

"Because I asked him."

"Mother!" Monty cried. "Aren't you the very last person to believe Miss Howard worthy of me—and of Rosecombe?"

"My dear boy," she said, "you're asking the wrong question."

"Then what is the right question?"

"Whether you—and Rosecombe—are worthy of her."

Her words served as a wind to dispel the fog of denial shrouding his mind. Of course Eleanor was worthy of Rosecombe. He had realized that weeks ago when he'd fallen in love with her. He'd pushed it to the recesses of his mind while he continued with their ridiculous charade. But as he'd grown to know her better, her character had emerged. Not the shy, foolish creature scared of looking others in the eye—but the extraordinary woman with a heart as big as any ocean, and a mind intelligent and independent enough to enable her to carve out her own path in life, if only the world would let her.

And he had pushed her into the arms of another.

"Why not invite Miss Howard to Rosecombe again, Montague?" Mother asked.

"And if she refuses to come?"

"Then at least you won't suffer the regret of not having asked."

Mother was right. There was no harm in trying. Even though the thought of Eleanor in the arms of another was more torture than he could bear, he would weather it for the chance, however slim, that she might be waiting for him.