The Peace of Christmas Yet to Come: Sweet Regency Romance (A Dickens of a Christmas Book 3) by L. G. Rollins

Author:L. G. Rollins [Rollins, L. G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-12-09T00:00:00+00:00

Two days later, Martha walked through Stonewell Castle, grateful to have disentangled herself from Lady Fitzroy’s long story about her childhood but also needing a short break from sitting beside Tim. At least he’d opened his eyes for a few minutes earlier that day. Now, if only she could coax a bit of color back into his cheeks.

“Good evening.”

The duke’s deep voice made her smile. Her first day in the castle, the way the duke had treated his friends had given her pause, and she’d wondered if she’d misjudged his true nature. But now, just a few days later, she wondered if the opposite was true—if the duke she had conversed with at the church, that had comforted her outside Tim’s room, was the truer reflection of the man. Still, he was so often brooding, and seemed to barely tolerate his guests; it was hard to know what to make of him.

Slowly she turned toward him and curtsied. “Your Grace.”

He huffed at her display of formality.

“What?” she pressed. “You don’t wish for me to treat you as the others do?”

“Certainly not.” He fell into step beside her.

A bit of heat warmed her cheeks. What was she to make of that? Nothing, that’s what. She was a title-less woman with no dowry, struggling under reduced circumstances. He was a duke. They could hardly be from more different stations if she were a scullery maid from the kitchen.

“How is your brother?” he asked at length.

“The same.”

He glanced at her sideways, clearly willing for her to continue.

“It isn’t particularly bad news,” she said. “I just wish I had more good news by now. Doctor Lock still isn’t sure . . .” She couldn’t finish.

The duke seemed to understand regardless.

They walked on in silence. Martha clasped her hands together in front of her; Tim would pull through, wouldn’t he? She could only pray at this point.

Hugh paused and held his arm out to her. “Care for a distraction?”

Martha’s shoulders relaxed as she reached out and took his arm. “That sounds perfect.”

He turned them down a hallway to their left and then to their right. They came out in a wide corridor with a wall of windows on one side and more portraits than Martha had ever seen in her lifetime along the other.

“Gracious.” She moved up to a large painting of a man in lace ruffles, a powdered wig, and a jacket trimmed with gold. Next to him was the likeness of a woman, sitting most stiffly, in a brown and burgundy riding habit. “Are you related to all of these fine individuals?”

“Yes,” he said, moving up beside her. “Some directly, others indirectly.”

What would that be like, to pass by one’s ancestors whenever one chose to? To still be able to look upon their faces? She knew a moment of disappointment; she had no likenesses of either of her parents.

Martha moved down the corridor, looking over names and expressions. Some were soft, others were stern, many held an air of clear superiority. She’d expect nothing less from a ducal family.

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