A Duke for Christmas (10 page)

“Yes, that’s true. That’s one reason why I want her to stop gallivanting about. She never seems to take any rest.”

“Yesterday...”

“Oh, she lies down upon her bed, but she doesn’t spare herself. I know she walks the halls at night when she should be sleeping. Dear Kenton is at a loss. All he can do is walk with her.” She sat heavily on her bed, a cardinal sin in her philosophy. “I’m afraid for her,” she said almost to herself.

Sophie came to her side and sank down on the floor at her mother’s feet. “It’s been very difficult for you. I’m sorry for my part. I will try not to add any more to your worries.”

Her mother’s hand lightly stroked the smooth hair on top of her head. “When you have children, trouble and worry are hardly unexpected. Never think that I am not proud of both my girls. Your father would have been proud of you, especially.”

“Would he?” Sophie asked. It was rare for her mother to do more than speak of her late husband except in passing. All Sophie really knew of him was that he’d been a bruising rider, a man of little tact and much good humor. She could remember him well, for he hadn’t died until she was twelve. But there would always be a wide gap between a woman’s knowledge and a child’s.

“Yes. He never had time for people who wept over ill fortune. He would have been so proud that you didn’t beg for help when Broderick left you.”

“I wept a great deal, Mother.”

“I’m sure you were courage itself. Just like your father.”

Mrs. Lindel encouraged Sophie to stand up and swept her with an all-encompassing glance. “We must do something about your clothes.”

“They aren’t really so bad,” Sophie said. “They are only three years old. It’s just that I lost a little weight.”

“How much?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Her mother rose to her feet and came over to tug the back of Sophie’s morning gown tight against her figure. “My goodness, there’s five inches to take in here if there’s one. I’ll have to look over your clothes, see which ones are worth altering. You can still sew?”

“Of course. I altered a few things at first. Later, there was just so much to be done, I’m afraid I fell behind.”

A rap at the door behind her made Sophie turn while her mother looked around and smiled. Maris came in. “Are you talking to her about her clothes?”

“You too?” Sophie said without surprise.

“I’m sorry, dear, but they are simply appalling.”

“You haven’t seen them all.” Sophie felt herself grow defensive and realized, with an inward smile, that there was no need. They were completely right; her dresses were appalling. “Most of my shoes are half-soled or re-heeled, as well,” she admitted, surrendering to forces too strong for her.

“My feet are too swollen to fit in my shoes, so that’s one problem solved. As for my dresses, I think even they would have to be altered to fit you now.”

Considering that Maris was two inches taller and much more slender prior to her pregnancy, her gowns would certainly need alteration.

“There’s nothing for it,” her mother said resignedly. “We shall have to visit Finchley first thing tomorrow. I shall send a note to Miss Bowles that she should expect us no later than half-past ten o’clock.”

“Miss Bowles?” Sophie echoed. “I thought...didn’t you always insist that we make our own clothing? What happened to the material and such stuff that you had put aside?”

Her sister and her mother exchanged glances. “Sophie,” Maris said with a tinge of pity, “we are not poor anymore. There’s no need to prick our fingers over such work. Miss Bowles needs the money we pay her far more than we need to save it.”

Sophie stepped away from them. “I cannot accept a wardrobe from your husband, Maris.”

“Why not? You accepted a whole horse.”

“That was an excess of generosity on the part of His Grace. Besides, I consider that horse belongs to him, not to me. I only had the use of it. Clothes, however, are a different matter.”

Again a glance passed between Mrs. Lindel and her eldest daughter. “They wouldn’t be from Kenton,” the older woman said. “They would be Maris’s Christmas gift to you.”

“From my pin money,” Maris added.

“Your pin money? You can’t spend that on me. It isn’t right. That’s for your use alone.”

“What else am I to spend it on? Since my marriage, I’ve not been allowed to spend a shilling on myself Kenton pays for all. I haven’t seen so much as a single bill. He takes them all before I can even see the totals.”

“That’s very generous.”

“Ah, yes,” Maris said, sighing ecstatically. “Kenton is the best of men, the kindest of husbands, the most delightful ...”

“Maris.” Mrs. Lindel cut her off quickly but indulgently.

Maris looked down and smiled a little shamefacedly. “I’m afraid I become a little carried away.”

Sophie came back to her side. Passing her arm about her sister’s enlarged waist, she gave her a hug. “You deserve all the happiness in the world. I have always thought so.”

“What a picture,” their mother said. “If I were an artist, that is the image I should wish to capture. My girls, all grown up but still as close as ever.”

Now it was Sophie’s turn to meet Maris’s eyes. When Maris raised her eyebrows, she gave in, though she didn’t feel entirely comfortable with that acceptance. “Thank you, Maris, if you are certain Kenton won’t object.”

“Good. Mother, she doesn’t have to wear mourning, does she? It would be such a shame.”

“Dear me, I hadn’t considered. She should, I suppose.”

“Half mourning,” Maris decreed. “White, gray, lilac. Pale shades offset with darker. We must show off her tiny waist and perfect complexion.”

“Yes, that has possibilities. Perhaps add a fringe across her forehead.”

“No, no,” Maris said. “But lightly formed curls beside her ears would draw focus to her eyes.”

“Perhaps. Certainly this manner of hair won’t do at all.”

“I beg your pardon,” Sophie said, unsure whether to laugh or be indignant. “Am I to have nothing to say in all this?”

Though they both said reassuring things, Sophie realized that they weren’t actually listening. Mrs. Lindel brought out some hoarded issues
of Ladies’ Magazine.
Maris sat down in an armchair by the window, holding the books open awkwardly on her rounded stomach.

Though they referred to Sophie for her preferences as to decorations, they overruled her ruthlessly. Her taste leaned toward the simple, the straight-lined, and the discreetly covered. According to both Maris and Mrs. Lindel, these notions were hopelessly outmoded. Waists had begun to curve inward and approximate the natural. The absence of trimming and floss that appeared elegant to Sophie made Maris roll her eyes to heaven. As for covering, necks were lower than had been seen for several years.

Eventually, Sophie found the best thing to do was to slip away during the discussion of the suitability of certain hats considering her widowed state. Closing the door behind her softly, she blew out her breath, relieved at her escape. Her old dresses suddenly seemed more comfortable and desirable than they had in years.

Hearing a soft chuckle, she turned to see Dominic, dressed to go out, leaning against the wall several doors down the hall. Before she could speak to him, her mother’s voice, muffled, came through the door. “Now, where did she go?”

Sophie cast him a half-laughing, half-desperate glance. “Hide me?”

He made a long arm and opened the door beside him. “Hurry.”

Feeling more than a little foolish, Sophie waited in the silence of Dominic’s bedroom. Though the bed was made and the room generally straightened, certain signs gave away that the occupant of the room was definitely male. A boot fallen over beside its comrade, a crumpled cravat on the bow-front bureau, a few loose notes scattered about, one having drifted to the floor, showed that Fissing was either gravely ill or no longer with his master.

Sophie occupied a few moments picking up the note and setting the boot to attention. Catching sight of herself, she peered into the dark-framed mirror, lit from the window, and wondered if her appearance truly was as dire as her mother and sister believed. Granted, her cheeks were rather pale. Perhaps she could use a trifle of rouge, just temporarily. And perhaps pulling her hair back so tightly did leave her looking more like an onion than was attractive, however practical it might be.

Pulling a few tendrils loose at her left temple, Sophie studied the effect, turning her head from side to side to judge the difference. When she tugged at the right side, however, one of her tortoiseshell pins slipped out, causing half her hair to tumble out of the double twist she habitually wore.

“Mannaggia”
she said, irritated. With a glance over her shoulder, she set about repairing the damage. Flicking out the rest of the hairpins, she combed her fingers through her long blond hair, smoothing out the kinks created by twisting damp hair first thing in the morning.

When Dominic tapped lightly at the door, she said, “A moment, please,” but a pin she held between her teeth fell to the floor. She knew several other Italian imprecations, it being a language singularly well-stocked with invective, but she shut her mouth tightly to keep the other pin from following.

“Mrs. Banner?” Dominic poked his head around the door. His eyes widened and he glanced instinctively behind him. “What happened?”

“An attack of vanity,” she said, jabbing a pin into the
heavy mass. “Would you be very kind and pick up that
hairpin?”

He went down on one knee to peer for the dark brown prongs against the deep red and blue figured carpet that ran under the bed. “I don’t see it.”

“It must have bounced.” Holding one hand flat
against the side of her head to keep the unsupported half
of
her hair from tumbling down around her neck again, Sophie bent down to look. “Maybe it went under the bed.”

“Or the bureau.” Despite his coat and shallow-crowned hat, Dominic went down on his stomach to reach a questing hand under the bureau. “Here it is,” he said, pushing up with his arms. Again on one knee, he handed it to her.

Sophie heard a strange, choked sound from the hall. She didn’t know if it was her mother, her sister, or one of the servants, but this was not the room or the company she wished to be discovered in with her hair down. “Thank you,” she said, taking it from his hand and plunging it into the loops of hair all in virtually the same motion.

“What were you hiding from?” he asked, looking up at her curiously.

“Advice,” she answered shortly. “Please, Your Grace, stand up before someone sees you like that.”

His eyes laughed at her. It was hard to believe that his hand had once been hers for the asking. Sophie still wondered what had prompted his strange proposal the night before she’d married. Though it was useless to repine over the past, she couldn’t keep from wondering what her life would be like now if she’d accepted him. Perhaps the scandal would have died down after three years. Impatient with herself, she turned about sharply to look in the mirror, checking that her hair and her complexion were both as usual. She’d made the right choice. She was never destined to be a duchess.

Dominic rose to his feet behind her. Sophie noticed that her head came to his shoulder, just the right height to lean against. The smile had gone out of his eyes. “Is it awkward for you, my remaining in this house?”

“No, certainly not. Why would it be?”

“There are certain passages between us, as you may remember.”

“I remember,” she said quietly. Then, rallying, she added, “Besides, if these considerations did not trouble you in Dover...”

“They did. I did not want to refuse a favor asked of me by my best friend, but I would rather not have gone to meet you.”

“I remain grateful that you did. No one else could have made me so comfortable.” Smiling with bright determination, she tamed around, only to find that the mirror had deceived her. He stood very close behind her. “I hope you know,” she said, lifting her hand to rest against the pulse beating in her throat, “that you have more than one friend under this roof, Your Grace.”

His gaze rested on her lips, almost as if he were unable to hear her words. She’d not noticed before that his eyes were quite such a deep, clear blue, nor that there were tiny gold flames in their depths. Then his gaze lifted, and Sophie felt as if she’d been released from a spell.

“I wish to heaven you’d stop calling me that.” He stepped back and Sophie drew a breath.

“What should I call you?”

“Dom, as Kenton and Maris do. Or Saltaire, as your mother does.”

“All right. Saltaire. And you may call me... Mrs. Banner.”

That brought the smile back. “Very well. Mrs. Banner, would you care to accompany me to the stables? I want to make sure our horses are well bestowed.”

“Your horses,” she said. “I should like that. I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes?”

“Excellent.”

Sophie did not expect to be alone when she reached her room. She was not disappointed. “Tell me all,” Maris demanded.

“I thought it was you. Were you eavesdropping?”

“Naturally.”

“Marriage has had a bad effect on your moral fiber, I fear.”

“Don’t change the subject. What is between you and Dominic?”

“Tell me, what are you giving Kenton for Christmas?”

Maris’s eyes sparkled. “I found the most wonderful man in Ludgate Street and I had him make a new microscope for Ken.”

“A microscope? How interesting.”

“All the pieces fit into the case like jewels. I’m sure he’ll love it. He’s still using the one he had at school, and they’ve improved out of all recognition since then.”

“What does he use it for?”

“He’s interested in all sorts of things, but mostly in classifying the parasites and mildew on his roses.”

Sophie hid a smile. She never would have believed her sister or any woman could become rapt with interest over aphids and black spot. “It’s important for a man to have an outside interest.”

“Yes, indeed. Which brings me back to my earlier question.” Maris stood up and tugged on the bellpull. “What interest does Dominic Swift have for you?”