A Duke for Christmas Read online

  A DUKE FOR CHRISTMAS

  Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Chapter One

  Seaside towns were all the same, Dominic thought, wind-worn, sun-faded, and smelly. He swung down from his weary horse, patting it absently as he sniffed hesitantly at the comingling scents of salty air, fish past its best, and the underlying tang of a coaching yard. Yet Dover, at this visit, held a certain enchantment, and not merely because it was the end of a tiring journey.

  “Which way to the docks?” he asked a passing lounger.

  “The docks, sir?” the man repeated, his good eye looking past Dominic at the splashed coach, the driver and the footmen drinking away the dryness in their throats. The coach had a coat of arms on the door, rather a gaudy one with its daubs of red and blue showing bravely through the dust and mud. The good eye became brighter, the manner more subservient, the air of greed pronounced.

  “Yes. I’m meeting a ship which should have arrived today from Italy.”

  “Italy, sir? That ‘ud be the Aten de Mui, Marseilles and Palermo. I’ll show you to ‘er meself.”

  Recognizing the name as the Attendez Moi and the names of the ports as vaguely resembling those visited by the ship he’d come to meet, Dominic agreed and followed the man out of the coaching yard, throwing a word to Fissing to see to their accommodations. The valet, nearly as tall as Dominic but half his weight, bowed with that degree of affront that told his master his words were wasted. Of course Fissing would arrange all to fit the most exacting taste. It was Fissing’s misfortune that his master’s taste was not at all meticulous. Dominic knew he disappointed his servant, but Fissing was an inheritance and would never consider serving any but the Duke of Saltaire.

  The breeze that hit them as they came out of the sheltered yard made the lounger shiver and wrap his arms about himself. He cast a bleary eye toward the dim sun. “It’ll be settling in for snow ere long,” he said.

  “No doubt, it being nearly December,” Dominic agreed civilly, striding along with his greatcoat open.

  “Ain’t you cold, sir?” the lounger asked suddenly, as if taken by a sudden irresistible curiosity.

  “No. Is it far to the docks?”

  “Just down ‘ere.”

  Dover bustled even on a short winter’s day. Men in uniforms either naval or merchant strode along in pairs like nuns, hands clasped loosely behind their backs. Everyone else hurried. Fishmongers pushed among the crowd, the crates on their shoulders leaving redolent ribbons of fishy smells behind them.

  Prosperous-looking men rushed about, stopping to greet each other and then hurrying away. What few women he could see hastened along, just as intent on reaching their goals as the men. Boys darted between, through, and sometimes over obstacles, whether human, animal, or inanimate. The alehouses seemed to be doing a roaring trade, Dominic noticed, though even there men seemed to slug down their beer and demand their refills with great rapidity. The only creatures that didn’t seem infected by this mania for hustle were the huge draft horses patiently waiting for someone to unload their carts of crates and barrels.

  “Oh, this ain’t nothing, sir,” the lounger said when Dominic asked if it was market day. “Should have seen it in the War. Couldn’t hardly move for sailors and their doxies. Speakin’ of which, sir, seeing as you be new in town...”

  “Is there another way to return to my inn? A less crowded way?”

  “Not so straight a course, but if you take your bearings wit’ care ... never tell me a big cove like yourself’s scared of a crowd.”

  “I shall have a lady with me and I can’t ask her to charge a line of fishmongers.”

  “A lady? Be it your wife?”

  “No. Not my wife.”

  The basins and piers of the harbor were so filled with shipping that Dominic could hardly believe there had ever been more, even in wartime. The lounger took in a deep lungful of the salty air. Between coughs, he gave Dominic to understand that it was a good tune to make port.

  The strong breeze set all the masts to bowing and nodding as if in some dance, with the gulls overhead calling the steps. Dominic put a hand up to tug his low-crowned hat more securely onto his head. “Lead on, MacDuff,” he said.

  “My name’s Boltoff.”

  “Even better. Which ship is the Attendez Moi?”

  “Out there,” Boltoff said, pointing to a black dot on the sparkling waves. “She’s not come in yet. Doctors still aboard.”

  “Doctors?”

  “Never worry, cully. They’re just checking her over. Can’t bring infeckuous diseases into ol’ Blighty.”

  “I see. How long will they be?”

  “Can’t rightly say. Usually takes an hour or so, depending on which medico you draw. Come on. I’ll show you a snug harbor where you can wait.”

  The thought of entering one of those raucous public houses did not appeal. “Do you know where she’ll berth?”

  “Not a hundred miles from where you’re standin’, cully. Brung you to the very spot.”

  Dominic fished in the pocket of his greatcoat, pulling out half a crown. “Will you come back when the ship comes in and show me the quieter way back to the coaching house?” he asked, handing it over.

  “That I will. And you needn’t worry that I’ll drink it away. I’m not a drinking man, me.”

  Glancing around, Dominic saw an upended cask and sat down upon it. He was aware that Boltoff stood some distance away, watching him. His own attention was fixed upon that distant dot which he hoped was indeed the Attendez Moi, fresh from Marseilles and Palermo. He wished he’d had the foresight to bring a telescope, though at this distance, while it might have brought the ship into nearer view, it would not have shown him any details of the rigging, the crew, or the passengers.

  Was she aboard? Or had some mishap delayed her in Marseilles? Was she, even now, looking toward this spot where she would soon step foot once more upon her native land? Three years and more since she’d left England, three years that had brought many changes in her life and in his.

  Dominic sighed heavily. No doubt his imagination was running off with him again. In all probability, Sophie Banner was down below, organizing her belongings before disembarkation. Even when he’d first seen her, radiant with a bride’s joy, there’d been something about her that spoke of determination and adeptness. They’d been introduced but had hardly spoken until he came upon her the night before her wedding.

  She’d been arranging the table placement for dinner. He’d leaned against the door frame, watching her with pleasure, her movements so neat and deft that she never knocked into a wineglass or disturbed a flower’s petal. Even when he’d suddenly spoken aloud his complimentary thoughts, she’d not jumped or allowed her hand to shake. She’d only looked up at him and smiled.

  “Thank you. You’re Kenton’s dearest friend, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I could claim that distinction.”

  “And are you pleased he has married my sister?”

  “Very pleased. The Lindel family seems to be a very nice one to join. Are there any other Lindels?”

  “Only my mother, sir. As she is a widow, she may welcome a new suitor.” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Come and help me with this puzzle.”

  “What puzzle?”

  “This arrangement of the place cards. We are to dine with the women on one side of the table and the gentlemen on the other, and organizing it is driving me to distraction.” A tendril of pale gold hair had slipped from the high knot to curve along her cheek. She puffed at it, blowing it aside.

  “I would have thought it an easier task than the other. At least you needn’t worry about putting married couples together.”

  “Tell me what those first two re
ad, will you?” she asked, pointing across the table.

  Obediently, Dominic read off the names of two Miss Pebbletons. “Ondrea and Aurilla... is that right?”

  “Dreadful names, aren’t they? I would not doubt that is why they are both so ill-tempered. Imagine going through life as an Ondrea.”

  “No worse than my own name. It’s Dominic.”

  “Oh, but I like that.”

  “You wouldn’t if you were a boy. I cannot tell you— certainly I cannot tell you—all that they called me at school.”

  A faint deepening appeared in the tender rose of her cheeks as she laughed. “No, you shouldn’t tell me. Nor should I confess that I can readily imagine what a nasty boy’s imagination might do to your name. At any rate, move Miss Aurilla down about four places. Who would that put her beside?”

  He read off two names and she nodded.

  “Quite unexceptional. She’ll find it hard to quarrel with either of them. Mrs. Dryer talks only about her sons and Mrs. Pensonby is hard of hearing. Now, who have we put beside Miss Pebbleton?”

  “Miss Norbury.”

  “Oh dear. Miss Pebbleton dislikes her even more than she dislikes her sister.”

  “Shall I put Mrs. Dryer there?”

  “I suppose you’d better. Move Miss Norbury back. Now what shall I do with these two men? They’ve been arguing for six months over a boundary dispute and I won’t have settlements and messages in the middle of my last dinner on this earth as an unencumbered female.”

  “You see marriage as an encumbrance?” Dominic asked, intrigued.

  “Every human tie burdens one to a greater or lesser extent. If you are a conscientious person, at any rate.”

  “I suppose one feels an obligation not to injure people one is fond of,” Dominic agreed.

  “Well, I try not to. Of course, it can be complicated when someone is fond of you and you cannot return that feeling with the same fervor.”

  “Sometimes hurting someone is the only way to be kind.”

  “You speak as if you have someone specific in mind. It must be difficult to be in your position, Your Grace.”

  As usual, Dominic felt embarrassed by his grand title. “Please call me Dominic, as your brother-in-law does. I can’t get used to being called ‘Your Grace.’”

  “You haven’t had the title long, from what Kenton tells me.”

  “The ink on the papers is scarcely dry.”

  “I shall call you Dominic tonight but tomorrow, when I am Mrs. Banner, it wouldn’t be proper to do it any more. My husband might not like it.”

  “He’s a poet, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. A very great poet.”

  There was such a light of love in her face that Dominic could scarcely bear to look at her without feeling intense embarrassment. She was so rapturously beautiful that she reminded him of spring flowers and the glow of summer sunsets, everything that was fresh and good in this world. And for whom did all these lights and wonders appear? A weedy poet who seemed in their one conversation to take her adoration as being no less than what was due to someone so marvelously gifted as himself.

  Late that same evening, when poet and guests had taken themselves off to bed, Dominic had paced the brick garden path. Kenton was a notable amateur botanist whose blooms were the envy of rose fanciers the world over. Their heavy scent seemed stronger and sharper under the moon than in the heat of the day. He could never after smell roses without the pointed shame of that evening returning to him as if it had just occurred.

  Dominic had heard her step and known it for hers before he turned. She seemed surprised to see him, and he realized that the dark of his evening attire had let him blend into the shadows of the hedge-lined walk. “Is that you, Dominic?” she asked, her low voice acting on him more powerfully than the perfumed air. “It’s so late I didn’t think anyone else would be awake.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, hardly recognizing his own voice.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to waste this last evening.”

  “Your last unencumbered evening.”

  “That’s right.” She came to stand beside him. He saw that her hair, silvered by the inconstant light, flowed freely over her shoulders. The color of her pink evening dress had faded into white, and her eyes were deep and dark as she looked up at him with friendly concern. “Are you not tired either?”

  “I don’t know.” He hardly knew what he was saying. Dominic was only surprised he hadn’t been struck dumb entirely. Men weren’t supposed to be susceptible to moonlight and roses. But some magic was working on him, filling him with temptation, as if some small voice were whispering urgent persuasions in his ear.

  Feeling as if his hand didn’t belong to him, he raised it and placed it on her shoulder. She startled, but didn’t move away. The silk of her hair was cool beneath the heel of his hand, while the heat of her skin seemed to melt his fingertips. “I... “

  “Yes?”

  Dominic kissed her, surprising himself more, possibly, than he surprised her. He felt that they fit together as though they’d been carved from the same block and had at last found each other. Though not without experience with women, Dominic had never known a kiss to feel so right. He wished the moment might be prolonged infinitely, but she stirred as though she wanted to speak. Wanting to hear her voice again, prepared to overcome all her objections, he raised his head.

  “My goodness gracious me.” She stood back from him, a little unsteadily. Dominic hadn’t realized he’d dragged her onto her toes until she stepped down.

  “Sophie,” he said, tasting her name for the first tune. “Sophie, you mustn’t marry that man. That posturing poet.”

  “Broderick?”

  “Broderick. What can he offer you? If he makes ten pounds a year by his pen, I’d be amazed. I’ve been a scribbler half my life and I know.”

  “Yes, Ken said you’d been a writer. Grub Street?”

  “That’s right. I was a Grub Street hack, selling my soul for a penny a line. I don’t have to do that now. I can offer you everything, a fortune, a title if you care for that, and... and my heart.”

  “Your heart?” The lightness vanished from her tone. “Oh, dear. I didn’t imagine for a moment...” Even by moonlight, Dominic could see embarrassment in her eyes. “You see, I was talking to some of the ladies ... women do chatter so ... and they one and all seemed to regret that they had not taken more advantage of their opportunities when younger. Flirting and such, if you see what I mean.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Dominic didn’t think this sounded as if Sophie were working up to an acceptance. Perhaps she hadn’t realized he’d just proposed?

  “Well, most of them are married, you see, and had only one man in their lives. And they were saying how they wished they’d not been so missish when men tried to kiss them when they were younger, not realizing how few men would wish to when they were married and settled. So when you looked as if you wanted to kiss me ...” She peeped at him shyly. “I think that third glass of champagne might have been too much. I do apologize, Your Grace.”

  “Wait,” Dominic said, reaching out as if to mesmerize her into staying. “I don’t expect you to feel the same way I do, but you can’t marry that dreary little tick.”

  “He’s not really the way you saw him tonight,” she said. “He’s shy and his politics are something radical. He doesn’t know how to behave around dukes and lords and such, so he’s sometimes a little rude.”

  “He wasn’t rude in the least. He toadied me to the top of his bent.”

  This seemed to strike a spark of anger in her. “I’m sure you must be mistaken,” she said, her chin rising proudly. “Broderick despises all the nobility. It’s a point of honor with him to treat all men as equals.”

  “Then he must toad-eat everyone he meets. I’ve only been a duke a short time, but I’ve already learned how to spot a sycophant at a hundred yards. Your precious Broderick is the type who truckles by pretending to see no difference bet
ween men, yet all the while his eyes are toting up the cost of your boots and your signet ring. I expect him to ask me at the wedding breakfast to subscribe to an edition of his poems.”

  “Good night, Your Grace.”

  Dominic felt the humble desire of every lover to grovel unashamedly before the beloved object’s frown. “No, wait. I didn’t mean it. I’m sure your poet’s a fine fellow, once you get to know him. But he’s all wrong for you. You ... you’re wonderful.”

  She paused, half turned away yet listening, and Dominic hurried on. “You deserve so much more than he can give you. And I don’t mean only the material goods of life, houses, jewels, fine clothes. You deserve someone who’ll adore you lifelong. That poet can’t see you for thinking about his wonderful self. I’d put you first and foremost. My every thought would be to please you.”

  “How much champagne did you have?” she asked, a smile in her voice. Then she looked at him. “I’m sorry. You are serious.”

  “Very serious. Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

  “I... I’m not sure.” Sophie glanced toward the house. “It’s quite impossible.”

  Dominic stepped up to stand beside her. “Why?” he whispered, his breath moving the tendrils beside her ear. “Because there’s a houseful of people who expect to see you married in the morning?”

  She put her small hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes. “No. Because Broderick needs me.”

  Perhaps his expression reflected his scorn, for she hastened to bolster her argument. “He does, indeed he does. He’s so foolish about things like bills and eating regularly and keeping his clothes mended. He needs me to look after him and I... I need someone to look after.”

  “But I...” Dominic said, framing frantic words to protest that he needed her too.

  “You have everything to offer a woman, Your Grace. You have the whole world at your feet, and I don’t know how to tell you how moved I am that you have said such things to me.” She touched her cheek with the fingertips of her other hand, as if soothing away a blush that the moonlight hid from him. “But I only want my poet and he only wants me. So I thank you and I bid you good night.”