Duncan’s Twelfth Night Miracle

Caroline Warfield

Merlin’s Owl Press

Copyright 2020 by Carol Lynn Roddy, writing as Caroline Warfield

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

ISBN and ASIN to be determined upon publication.

Written to order for Elaine Mitrovich, winner of the right to specify story elements,

in gratitude for her interest in my stories.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

About the Author

Chapter 1

December 1813

Margaret Carter’s misgivings swelled with every mile. Darkening skies and dropping temperatures didn’t help. The letter of introduction in her reticule weighed heavily on her mind even as second thoughts weighed down her heart. How had she let Micah Turner convince her to risk her future on this imprudent journey?

The Turners’ kindness had sustained her these last five years, that is how. She couldn’t bear to refuse them. She’d been seventeen when her mother suffered apoplexy, the year the Turners came to Fallcombe bringing new life to the old church. Micah Turner was a preacher of light, and he and his Anne spread light and joy where ever they could. They certainly brightened the fate of a young girl suddenly burdened with responsibilities beyond her years. They became her lifeline. Her good friends.

When Mother passed these eight months gone, the cottage reverted to the family of her mother’s second husband who had kindly allowed Margaret several months, but who were eager for the rent money it might bring. Anne and Micah found her a place with a merchant’s family, but it quickly became apparent that a young and comely woman would never make a comfortable governess or even nursemaid.

And then Micah’s friend in the far north, his dearest companion in boyhood, had written about his difficulties, seeking wisdom and help from the man of God. Micah pronounced it the hand of providence. Micah had been vague about the man’s inability to attract a governess to his remote manor, but he assured Margaret he “has a good heart, and his need is great.” There were children, his wards, relatives of some sort, and they required care. The man himself had decided he needed… A wife!

Margaret acquiesced, but she profoundly wished she had stood her ground in her determination to stay for one last Christmas in Fallcombe with friends and the familiar church down the road. Mother had always made the time until Twelfth Night lovely for her, at least she had until her illness. Margaret tried after that, but it had been difficult. Micah and Anne insisted the matter was urgent, however, so here she was, traveling through a bleak December.

Mile after mile as the carriage—his carriage—crept toward Northumberland, she had pondered one question: What sort of man writes to an old friend to find him a wife? Doesn’t Viscount Mildrum have family to arrange such things, as titled families do? He must trust his friend Turner beyond all reason to allow him to thrust an unprepossessing nobody into his nest.

As the journey progressed, the bit Micah glossed over, the viscount’s inability to attract staff, preyed on her mind. One cause, she suspected as the landscape grew drearier and signs of habitation fewer, had to be the remote location. But could that be all of it? With a few scant miles left, fear threatened to upend her determination and the temptation to order the carriage to turn around grew. The coachman wouldn’t listen to her, of course, not with journey’s end so near.

You’ve never been foolish, Margaret. Don’t start now. Micah respects this man, and he would never send you into harm. If only this viscount wanted a governess…

The thought calmed her. Perhaps she could convince the man that he needn’t burden himself with a wife when a governess would serve.

* * *

A person could hope for quiet, but he may not be rewarded with such a gift. If not every man then surely a viscount ought to expect that his solitude would be respected. It was not to be so. Duncan Laidlaw had been at his books a mere half hour when a small hand pushed the door open and a pair of cunning brown eyes peered into his sanctuary. He pretended not to notice.

The shuffle of small feet just inside the door provoked a response. “What is the rule about the uncle’s study.”

“We must not come in when the door is closed.” Those words, softly lisped were followed by a bellow. “But Uncle Alan—”

“Quietly, Elsbeth. A lady does not bellow.” The sight he dreaded greeted him as soon as he turned—a forlorn expression and eyes welling with tears. He had no defense against those weapons. At five his niece had become quite adept at manipulating her uncle, the cunning female.

The little one crawled into his lap, and laid a head on his shoulder, her hand sneaking up to trace the ridges and lines of his damaged cheek, a loving gesture that seemed to soothe her and never failed to melt his defenseless heart.

“What has your brother done now?” he asked.

“He made Marigold a prisoner; he says her wealthy father has to pay ransom.”

“Pirates again? What part are you?”

“I’m the evil rev’noo officer. I don’t want to be evil. What is ransom?”

“Money.”

She sat bolt upright, indignant. “I don’t have any money, and Marigold doesn’t have a father.” Neither did Elsbeth, the favorite doll’s owner.

Duncan picked the scamp up and put her on her feet. He would have no peace until he resolved the latest conflict. “Shall we go negotiate her release?”

She took his offered hand with an expression of smug triumph that ought to have been a warning and let him lead her down the hall from the family rooms, past the more formal public rooms, and into the massive entranceway. Shouted words greeted their approach.

“Give me back my book.” The voice of Elsbeth’s sister Mary bristled with indignation.

“Not book, booty. You said it was your treasure. Pirates don’t give back their treasure.” Alan Laidlow, their brother and Duncan’s ward, ran down the sweeping stairway waving a wooden sword in the air, Mary’s book under his other arm, his sister hot on his heels.

“Alan,” Duncan roared, “Stop tormenting your sisters.”

The boy didn’t pause, running to stay out of his sister’s reach. “I’m not tormenting; Mary is. She won’t play, she called me a name, and she said the only treasure she cares about is in books. That’s dumb.” He waved the book in the air, laughed, and kept running in circles around the entranceway.

Elsbeth dropped Duncan’s hand and darted after them demanding that Marigold be freed. Mary pursued Alan into the drawing room. When Elsbeth tried to follow he ran back out knocking her over and causing Mary to trip over the littlest one.

In the chaos, Duncan didn’t hear the arrival of a carriage. His butler, Hurley, appeared from where ever he’d been hiding to avoid the children’s nonsense and opened the door. Duncan heard an exchange of words with the barest sliver of attention while he untangled the girls, Mary weeping and Elsbeth howling, while Alan shouted “It wasn’t my fault,” and waved his sword in the air.

“Miss Carter has arrived, Sir,” Hurley intoned.

Duncan’s plans to make a good impression evaporated before his eyes. The damned woman is two days early.

“You lot,” he roared, pulling a clearly unharmed, but loudly wailing Elsbeth to her feet, “To the nursery now. Hesitate one minute and dinner will be dry bread and water.”

“But Uncle Duncan…” Elspeth argued.

“Now!”

Alan peered over his shoulder at the woman in the doorway and took off up the stairs. Mary took Elsbeth’s hand and muttered soothing words—or perhaps vile threats of revenge on their brother—and led her up as well.

Duncan peered at the woman who stared back with rising horror at his ravaged face and disorderly household, felt his mouth go dry, and silently cursed his friend Micah Turner. The “sensible, competent countrywoman” he’d been promised had the sort of beauty that men made themselves fools over.

She blinked twice, gave Hurley a tight smile, and removed her bonnet, dislodging whatever arrangement had been underneath and causing glorious chestnut girls to tumble down her back. The woman squared her shoulders and approached, curtseying a proper distance from him. She had backbone as well as staggering beauty. Duncan could only gape.

“Viscount Mildrum.”

He almost groaned at the sound of her deep husky voice. Intelligent blue eyes studied him, no doubt finding him wanting. At least she didn’t shrink from his ravaged face.

Duncan found his manners. “Welcome, Miss Carter. We weren’t expecting you so soon.” He groaned inwardly. Not his finest welcome.

She firmed her mouth—her wide sensual mouth—and spoke firmly. “I apologize for the inconvenience. I assured your coachman I was a sturdier traveler than he expected and the weather was on our side.”

“No, not at all,” he lied. There was nothing convenient about this woman. Nothing at all. “We— I—" He was staring like a schoolboy.

Hurley came to his rescue, “Perhaps Miss Carter would like to freshen up from her travels before joining you for tea in the drawing room?”

Yes. Tea. Exactly.

“That would be lovely—Mr. Hurley, is it?” The blasted woman turned her smile on the butler.

“Yes, ma’am.” The old man beamed, obviously under the woman’s spell already.

“Excellent idea, Hurley. I will await your presence,” Duncan said, silently cursing Micah again. He watched her hand her pelisse to a footman, revealing a generous endowment of a woman’s curves encased in a plain brown traveling gown underneath, and cursed his devious friend again. She wasn’t what he wanted. I told him comfortable, damn it, not a seductress.

She turned the luminous eyes to him and he almost blinked. “I won’t be long, my lord. We’ll talk.” She didn’t wait for a reply.

He watched her follow Hurley up the stairs, her luscious form turning his rational mind to porridge.

Chapter 2

A stew of emotion accompanied Margaret up the stairs after the butler. The man had the manners of a farm laborer. She chided herself at the thought. No, Margaret. That is an insult to farm laborers. But his treatment of those poor children… The man behaved like a brute.

The grey-haired gentleman led her down a dim corridor and opened the door to a suite of rooms much too large to be called cozy, much too overdone to be called homey, and much too fussy to be called comfortable. He had conducted her to the viscountess’s suite; impressive but not at all to Margaret’s taste. The furnishings were new, but she suspected no woman had a hand in planning the décor. A weary sigh escaped her before she could consider the impact.

The butler’s face fell. “Viscount Mildrum has given orders that anything not to your liking should be fixed. If I may—”

She’d offended the servants, who had most likely gone to great pains to prepare a room fit for a viscountess. “Not at all, Mr. Hurley. You’ve worked hard to make me welcome. It is just so… large.”

A footman trooped in with her traveling trunk, and a wary looking girl scurried in behind. The butler beamed at her. “This is Agnes. We understood you were not bringing a maid of your own, ma’am. I took the liberty of hiring a girl from the village—temporarily, you understand, until you settle in and take a hand in hiring staff.”

The poor man looked so hopeful she could only try to smile reassuringly. As to the girl, wide eyes and nerves spoke to lack of experience, and the way she studied the room indicated she was as overwhelmed as Margaret. “We’ll do fine, Mr. Hurley,” she told him.

She swallowed panic, exhaustion, and the urge to hide in this barn of a room for one more day. “Please assure Viscount Mildrum I’ll be down momentarily.” Best to begin as I mean to go on.

He closed the door behind him, and Margaret turned to her newly acquired maid. “Well, Agnes, shall we explore this palatial suite and find somewhere to stow my belongings?”

The girl dipped a curtsey. “Yes, my lady.”

Margaret chuckled. “I’m plain Miss Carter, Agnes. At least for now.” Maybe forever. “How long have you worked here?”

“Just since this morning, my… er, ma’am.”

A half hour later, she left Agnes folding and smoothing her clothing and placing it in a wardrobe several times too large for her meager belongings. She found the entranceway without assistance, and located the drawing room easily due to the footman on duty by the door.

The young man snapped to attention and announced, “Miss Carter, my lord.”

The lord of the manor stood leaning on an exquisitely carved mantle at the far end of the room. He turned and inclined his head when she entered, approaching with his hands locked behind his back.

Up close, his striking appearance gave her pause. Burn scars covered the right half of his face, scars so severe they all but destroyed it. She suspected he had been lucky to keep his vision, but keep it he had. Fierce intelligence burned in his eyes, giving him the look of bird of prey. Margaret Carter was no man’s prey. She stiffened her resolve.

“Miss Carter, welcome to Nordwick Hall. I apologize for my lack of manners earlier. We were not expecting you for another two days, and hoped to be prepared to give a warmer welcome.” His coal black hair curled over his collar, a detail that softened his impression somewhat.

Micah, the wretch, hadn’t warned her about the scars, but she suspected she now understood his difficulty attracting a governess. Some hen-witted girls would run from this man without waiting to know more about him. Margaret wasn’t hen-witted either.

“Apology accepted, my lord. You did appear to be somewhat preoccupied.” The apology lifted some of the wind from her sails, but she stiffened her resolve to challenge him about requesting a wife sight-unseen. The scene she witnessed had little to do with welcome or the lack of it, and, as to manners, no man greeted a woman he meant to court that way. On the other hand, those children’s need for a governess had been very clear.

The viscount gazed at her so long she thought him at a loss how to respond. They were saved by the arrival of the tea cart. Margaret welcomed it with relief, as eager for a sip of tea as for the ritual of pouring and serving, which gave her time to collect her scattered wits.

She handed a cup to his lordship, and he took two biscuits when she offered the platter on the tea cart, reminding her she felt peckish. Best to fortify myself.

A nibble of a remarkably tasty biscuit forced her to murmur her appreciation.

“Indeed. I hope you’ll find Mrs. Custer as superb a cook as I do.”

She took another nibble and could only agree with his assessment. She raised her cup for a ladylike sip as an awkward silence descended. What did they have to say to each other?

She cleared her throat. “I find it best to say uncomfortable things straight out, and this situation calls for honesty. I do not understand why Micah Turner told me you requested a wife. We are strangers, and I find myself uneasy about that role. Would I not be better suited as the governess you so clearly need?”

He slammed down his cup, a look of horror on his face, his response only a bit below a roar. “No!”

* * *

Duncan shuddered and forced himself to calm down. She wants to refuse my offer? He couldn’t let her do that. And she most certainly would not be better suited to the role of governess. A governess—one as attractive as Margaret Carter—in a single man’s household? Not appropriate and for good reason. He would struggle to keep his hands off her. Honor would force him to keep his distance; he’d end up living in Edinburgh.

Gather your wits Duncan. She must think she’s wandered into a madhouse.

“Again, I have to apologize, Miss Carter, but you must see that staying here in such a role would not be respectable. It would leave your reputation in shreds.” As the last two candidates—one almost elderly and the other horse-faced—for the benighted position told me as soon as they saw my household and ran from my appearance.

“That is of little consequence to me, my lord. I have no options at this point and would be grateful for the position.”

“I admire your choice of plain speaking, Miss Carter.” That was not a lie. He admired her calm self-assurance. “Let me respond the same way. I do not wish a governess. I am in need of a wife. I’m offering you the benefit of my name and title, my home, and more than adequate means. You are, you said, with few other options. What is it about my offer that you abhor?” Aside from my face, my unruly children, and the cold of Northumberland. He clamped his jaw shut and forced himself to hold her eyes. He had as much as invited her to tell him she found him physically repulsive. You demand honesty, Miss Carter. Let’s see if you can provide it.

She blinked, and looked away first, her eyes drifting to a painting of the ocean off Devon, one he greatly admired. She did not appear to be seeing the painting, however, nor did she speak at first. He waited while pretending to drink his tea.

“I don’t think abhor is the correct word,” she said at last with a sigh.

“What is?”

Her rueful smile touched something inside him. “I’m not sure of that either. It is just that I don’t know you; I don’t understand a need so great that you would settle for a nobody who is a stranger to you; and I find the manner in which this offer came to be made to be odd, at best. Why did you ask Micah Turner to find you a bride?”

“A fair question. Micah and I were boys together, and in all my life I’ve never known a man with a better heart. He and Anna epitomize an ideal of marriage. He’s the wisest man I know. Who else would I ask?”

If she knew Micah, she must know every word he said was true, and yet she hesitated. “Forgive me, but you have a title and an estate. Aren’t marital matters usually arranged by great families? Dynastic unions and all that…”

Duncan choked on a biscuit. “As it happens, I have no family. The Laidlaws have been sparce and few these past generations. I am the younger son of a younger son, and in the grand scheme of things ought never to have been allowed within shouting distance of Nordwick Hall and a title, much less guardianship of three children—and before you ask, the children are my late cousin’s step children. Alan is not in line for the title or entailed lands.”

“I heard the little one call you uncle.”

This one misses little. How could he explain that he asked them to call him that as it seemed to bring them closer, almost like a family. “I suggested it. They have no actual uncles and it seemed… more comfortable than cousin. They need more than a guardian; they are as bereft of family as I am.”

The blue eyes widened, and—God help him—began fill with tears. “No family? No parents?”

A grown woman’s tears afflicted him worse than Elsbeth’s, but if they helped him win her agreement, he would take them. The children needed more than an uncle too. They needed a mother. “Mine were both taken by influenza when I was at university. The children’s drowned in a boating accident.” A damned ill-conceived boating accident with some of their frivolous friends in November off Great Yarmouth, with a storm brewing, while their children— left behind and unsupervised as was frequently the case—terrorized the servants.

She swallowed her tears. “How is it you know Micah Turner?”

“We lived nearby as boys. My father was headmaster of a boy’s school; his, the village physician.”

“You didn’t grow up at Nordwick Hall?”

“God Lord, no. Haven’t you been listening? I visited once as a child. I hadn’t seen the place in almost twenty years when I got word of my cousin’s death.”

He must, he thought, have made a hit. The woman sank in thought, sorting through what he told her. “So, you see, Miss Carter, I have responsibilities, ones I never expected. I need a wife, I need a hostess, I need an heir.”

Heir caused her cheeks to go all rosy, to his amused delight. Hostess was not perfectly truthful; he could do without socializing if he must. Wife, however, when faced with Margaret Carter, began to feel like a necessity. “I need a wife who can hire a governess,” he concluded.

She didn’t argue, and he leaned in. “Thinking of the position of a single woman without family in my house I took the liberty of obtaining a special license.” Her utter horror told him just how stupid that assumption had been. He rushed forward. “I understand we need time to become acquainted and more comfortable with one another. May I suggest we call the banns instead? There are two Sundays between now and Christmas; the third Sunday is Boxing Day. We could be married at Christmastide.”

“Three weeks are hardly enough time—” She shook her head.

“My need to have this resolved and the awkwardness of your position argue otherwise. If you find we do not suit, you can call off after the banns are read.” Or I can. He would too, if only to spare this woman any misery he caused. He prayed he could make her comfortable instead.

She bit her lip, a sign, he had already discovered, that she gave a matter serious thought. “Twelfth Night,” she said gravely.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I brought a letter from my vicar—Mr. Turner as it happens—for the vicar here. If, after the banns are read, I find we will suit well enough, I will marry you. But I want a bit more time. Waiting after the banns until Twelfth Night gives us ten more days. Do we have an agreement?”

She made it sound like a business arrangement. Perhaps it was; he didn’t care. “We do, Miss Carter. One more thing, though.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small box, and handed it to her.

Startled eyes shot from the contents to his face when she opened it. “This exquisite. It must be worth a fortune. I can’t possibly—”

“It is a betrothal ring, Miss Carter. Surely, we are that at least until the banns are completed.

She picked up the ring with trembling hands. He had to admit it was a beautiful piece, a massive ruby surrounded by smaller ones set in tiny roses formed in gold.

“It is part of the Mildrum estate collection. There is more.” He studied her face and saw only reluctance. “Perhaps we’ll wait for the rest, but, for now, it would help if you would wear it. We’ll drive to the vicarage today; bring your letter for the vicar and wear the ring. Confirm our honorable relationship before the neighbors, at least.”

“Neighbors?” she squeaked. The armor of a moment ago seemed to have disappeared leaving her vulnerable. It touched his heart in ways he couldn’t describe.

“Did you think I would hold you here in seclusion?” The beauty in the lair of the beast…

She bristled. “Of course, not.”

That’s my girl. Don’t let me bully you. “Let me help.” He took the ring from her to place it on her finger. When he took her hand in his, an electric shock ran up his arm. He slipped the ring on her finger, keeping his hand from shaking by force of will. “There. Betrothed.”

“Betrothed,” she breathed. “For now.”

He refused to let her words daunt him. Small steps, Duncan, small steps. He would have to woo this woman, but woo he would, and he planned to enjoy it.

Chapter 3

Margaret retreated to the viscountess suite, space she couldn’t think of as her own, removed the glorious ring, and put it inside its box in the drawer of her bedside table. Wearing it left her breathless and feeling like an imposter, a peasant in princess’s clothing. She would wear it in public if she must, but she wondered how she could do any practical work with a national treasure on her hand.

The man wasn’t perhaps the ogre she first thought, but she felt far from comfortable with him. The scars were easily ignored; his powerful form much less so. When he spoke of the children his voice gentled in an appealing way, however, and when he took her hand so tenderly to slide his ring on her finger, the scent of pine and musk enveloped her as much as the soft glow in his eyes. Her own very physical reaction disconcerted her. She wanted marriage. What woman didn’t. But his man? She wanted children, as well, and he certainly brought those and wanted more. Just the memory of his deep voice saying he needed an heir made her mouth water and other parts quiver uncomfortably.

Pacing from room to room in the massive suite didn’t help. She opened a door to a small space that appeared to be a closet lined with empty shelves—a dressing room perhaps. Agnes, who had been sitting on a wooden stool inside jumped to her feet.

“Agnes! Don’t you have things to do?”

“No, ma’am. That is, I went down to see if Mrs. Custis wanted help, but she said as how a lady’s maid waits for her mistress to need her. So, I’m waiting.”

If you’re waiting for me to need you it could be a long wait. Margaret supposed she ought to get to know the housekeeper. Shouldn’t the viscount have introduced her? Perhaps he didn’t want to impose duties before they even married. A vision of her and Agnes sitting together in this set of frilly rooms waiting all day struck her supremely ridiculous.

Margaret’s mother once told her that, in uncomfortable situations, the secret to success was to look as if you knew what you were doing. People who pretended to be competent frequently discovered that they actually were.

“Agnes, do you know the way to the nursery?”

The maid brightened considerably and led the way upstairs to a bright room lit by a bank of windows along one side. A nurserymaid as young as, or possibly younger than, Agnes looked up in shock from where she sat playing tea party with a tiny girl. She scrambled to her feet and curtsied.

“This is Miss Carter, Betsy. You don’t need to curtsey until she’s the Viscountess.” Agnes beamed up at Margaret, pleased to have remembered.

Oh dear. This truly is an odd way to go about things. “Perhaps it is better if you practice now so you don’t forget when the time comes.” The girl colored uncomfortably. She didn’t look much older than the oldest of the three children who had gathered to stare at the proceedings.

“You’re going to marry Uncle Duncan, aren’t you?” The oldest child appeared to be somewhere between eight and ten, coltish and bright. Her direct question deserved a direct answer.

“We’re to get acquainted to see if we will suit, but yes. If all goes well, we will marry by Twelfth Night.”

The boy groaned, tossed his head up, and turned away. “You’ll leave just like the rest of them.” He walked three feet and spun around. “The last one took one look at Uncle Duncan, called us imps, and left in one day.” He stomped over and slid down to sit on the floor, his back to the wall, glowering into space.

“Don’t be daft, Alan. The others were supposed to be governess. This one is supposed to be his wife. She’s still here isn’t she?” The older girl’s pained expression gave Margaret a pang. “Sorry, Miss Carter.”

“My name is Margaret. What is yours?”

“My name is Mary, this is Elsbeth and the badly behaved lad is my brother Alan.”

“I am pleased to meet all of you,” Margaret said, and realized she was. This plain-spoken girl gave her a glimmer of hope.

The littlest one, who had fixated wide brown eyes on Margaret the whole time, piped up. “Will you be our mother when you marry Uncle Duncan?”

Mary turned to her in alarm and gave her shoulder a shake. “Aunt, Elsbeth. An uncle’s wife is an aunt.”

“We already have a mother,” Alan shouted from the corner. He glared at Mary and added, “And he’s our cousin. She can’t be anything but our cousin’s wife.” He rose and stalked back to peer up at Margaret. “Will you pack us off to an orphanage? Mrs. Custis says you will if you’re smart, and you look pretty smart to me.”

“A gentleman does not contradict a lady,” Margaret said focusing on his treatment of his sister and storing the rest of his astounding statement in her mind for later.

“She isn’t a lady. She’s Mary.”

“Young ladies deserve respect as well, and young gentlemen need to practice their manners.” Mary preened at the defense.

“I’m not a gentleman. I’m not going to be viscount so I don’t have to be. Anyway, I’d rather be a pirate. Pirates aren’t gentlemen.”

“Pirates are mean,” Elsbeth said. She peered up at Margaret. “Are you going to visit us again? Our mother came sometimes.”

Sometimes? “Of course, I’ll come. If I marry the viscount, I’ll see you every day.”

Elsbeth smiled then and hope radiated from Mary’s gentle face. Alan snorted at her statement. “Mrs. Custis says—”

“If Mrs. Custis has aught to say, she should say it to me. It is late today, but perhaps tomorrow I can come up and read, or we might walk outside. For now, I want to speak with Betsy.”

She stepped out into the hall, Agnes following. After a frantic look around the nursery, Betsy followed as well. Agnes put an arm around the other girl. “It will be well, Bets. Miss Carter is kind.”

“How long have you been the nursery maid, Betsy?” Margaret asked.

“Three months.”

“And you manage up here by yourself? It must be hard.”

“His lordship said there would be a governess and I’d be her helper, but either they write back and don’t want to come clear from London or they come over from Edinburgh, look at his face—begging your pardon, as some women are ninnies—and run. Or they come up a day or two, but Alan and sometimes the girls run them off.” She leaned in. “That were mostly the hatchet faced one. She were mean. I din’t blame them.”

They spoke briefly about what the children liked to do, and how Margaret might contribute.

“Walking out would be good, as long as Alan doesn’t run off and get lost. I lost him once. I try to keep ‘em busy, but they get away sometimes. Like this afternoon. I hired on because there are four younger ones at home, but my brothers and sisters have chores and work. These ‘uns don’t have anything to do except ask to be entertained.”

And no one to teach them their lessons. If nothing else Margaret began to get a glimpse at Mildrum’s challenges.

“Thank you, Betsy. You’ve been very helpful.”

“You won’t have me fired?”

“Definitely not. Just do your best for now.”

“I told you she was all that is kind,” Agnes put in. Margaret dredged up everything her mother taught her about training new servants and resolved to begin with Agnes. She might not be a titled lady and didn’t grow up in a manor like this, but her mother managed a few servants as long as they lived in the cottage.

She started down the stairs before Betsy called to her. “Don’t pay Mrs. Custis no mind, ma’am. She just wants to keep Alan out of her pantry and out from underfoot.”

* * *

Duncan poured himself a generous whisky from the bottle stored in an ornate Turkish cabinet in the drawing room, his cousin’s stash, one he had only recently discovered, while he waited for Miss Carter to come down to dinner. She had disappeared after their conversation; he half expected her to change her mind and wondered if she had gone up to pack. She seemed tougher than that, though. He reminded himself they had an agreement.

The lady entered wearing the same brown traveling dress as she’d worn upon arrival that afternoon. She’ll be wanting a wardrobe—another thing I ought to have considered. The dress flattered her, though, and that pleased him. Marriage to this lovely creature will be…

She glanced down at herself. “I’m sorry. I’m not accustomed to dining with viscounts. I do have other dresses.”

He felt like a brute; he’d been caught staring. “On the contrary I find that dress charming. It brings out the gold in your glorious hair. I hope you enjoyed your rest.”

Her smile didn’t reach her expressive eyes. “Thank you. I hope I’m not late for dinner.”

“Not at all. I’m used to dining alone, and so the household doesn’t have a dinner custom, but I thought perhaps we might gather here here and— Ah! Here they are.”

His idea had been that the children would join them before dinner. To discuss their day. As families did. Before trooping back to the nursery for their dinner while he and his wife—so far that creature lived only in fantasy—enjoyed a quiet evening.

The precious darlings of his fantasy were supplanted by Elsbeth with jam down her apron, Mary tight-mouthed and wary, and Alan hopping about and staring around the room. The plucky nursery maid he’d managed to hire from the village followed them.

“Children, I wish to introduce you to—”

“We already know her. She’s to be aunt, not mother.”

Elsbeth’s declaration took him aback, and didn’t prepare him for Alan’s outburst. “She thinks she’s going to take over.”

Mary glowered at her brother, before composing herself to speak. “Miss Carter came up to the nursery floor, Uncle. She was entirely gracious. I’m afraid Alan did his best to make a bad impression.”

“She’s going to see us every day when she marries you, Uncle Duncan. Our real mother didn’t do that, but she was gone a lot.” Elsbeth brightened but turned to Miss Carter with a wrinkled brow. “Sorry Miss Carter, but Alan says you’ll change your mind when you are a viscountess. Viscountesses want to be in London or at least Edinburgh not stuck in the country with children.”

Dear God. Are they trying to drive her away? He turned to Miss Carter, wondering where he’d find words to reassure, only to see her approach Mary and put a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Thank you so much for your kind words, Mary. You make me feel welcome.” She caressed the girl’s cheek and Mary visibly relaxed, swaying ever so slightly toward the woman.

Miss Carter turned to Elsbeth and lifted the little chin with two fingers of her other hand. “It looks like you’ve enjoyed some jam since I came up to the nursery.”

Elsbeth glanced down. “Betsy says how I should change but my other one is dirty too.”

“Perhaps you need more pinafores.” Elsbeth nodded, awe supplanting her sheepish expression when Miss Carter removed the outer garment. “Only look at the pretty dress underneath. Perfect for greeting uncles at dinner time.”

“He comes up. We don’t come down. And she gets jam all over his sleeve so it doesn’t matter,” Alan declared.

Miss Carter turned to the boy and his face hardened. “She is older now and growing into a young lady, Alan.”

“She is not, and you won’t make her one.” He ran out and the sound of little boots pounding up the stairs echoed through the entranceway.

“He’s very angry,” Mary said earnestly to Miss Carter who still had one hand her shoulder and, he realized, the other on Elsbeth’s forming a circle of feminine solidarity. He felt oddly excluded.

“Say goodnight, girls. Your dinner will be up soon.”

They murmured their goodbyes. Before the children left, he watched Miss Carter hand Betsy the pinafore and whisper to her. Encouragement, he suspected, because the girl brightened. He could use some of that encouragement. He didn’t get it.

“Are you aware your cook has been telling Alan your wife will send him to an orphanage when you marry?” When he had no response, she added. “I thought not.”

“He took his parents passing the hardest. He’s angry at them for leaving him, I suspect, but I haven’t been able to turn him around.”

“Threats like the one the cook makes can only make it worse. He isn’t the sort of boy to be frightened into submission. Were you?” Her raised chin and defiant tone told he she wasn’t the sort to be cowed into submission either.

“No. I certainly was not. Most boys grow more defiant when faced with threats. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Custis.”

His declaration didn’t have the impact he hoped; she appeared troubled. “The lady of the house ought to have that responsibility. I’m not that person. But if I don’t stand up now, how can I possibly win their respect when—if—we marry. I haven’t even met the housekeeper.”

“We have none.”

“No housekeeper?” Her astonishment, predictable as it was, fed his sense of hopelessness.

“My predecessor’s housekeeper asked to be pensioned off when I inherited, and I haven’t managed to hire another. This house needs a woman to manage it.” He’d done his best, but he had the strands of estate management and some far-flung enterprises to pull together. What time he salvaged beyond that had been taken by the children and obviously he was bungling that. Apparently, his cousin kept Nordwick Hall short staffed and Duncan had struggled to hire more among the sparse residents of the far north in between his other duties. In fact, only Hurley and Mrs. Custis remained of the servants he inherited. The rest left or preferred the viscount’s house in Edinburgh. The cook only stayed because of the outrageous raise in salary he gave her—and complained loudly that she had to take on some housekeeper duties.

“We agree on that much, my lord. Perhaps I should act as if I plan to stay. Even if— That is, even a month might make a difference.” Vulnerable again, and open, her eyes drew him to her.

He longed to put arms around her to reassure her; he yearned to kiss her marvelous mouth. “Do your best. I’ll introduce you to the cook after dinner.” His voice sounded ragged to his own ears.

“Perhaps I can hire a housekeeper and a governess for you while I’m here,” she announced looking pleased.

While I’m here… Her words were cold water on his desires.

“Dinner is served my lord, Miss Carter,” Hurley intoned from the door.

How many days were there left in December? Fifteen? It was a season of miracles. Duncan needed one.

Chapter 4

In the close confines of the carriage the viscount’s physical presence overwhelmed Margaret with sensuous reactions. She’d never been in close space alone with a man before and was unprepared for the feelings his scent—something redolent of out of doors and masculine strength—and his husky voice engendered in her. She wiggled a bit and tried to concentrate on their visit to the vicar, Mr. Robinson, and the neighbors they had met.

“Mr. Williams appeared pleased to call the banns.” She thought he had looked positively eager to see his viscount wed. The cordial relationship between the men had been another surprise. Mildrum had the vicar’s respect.

“Most clergymen would rather see a full church wedding than a short ceremony with a license, I suspect. They train for it.” His teasing grin drew an answer one from her. “He was gratified to get your letter from Micah, as well.”

“Were you satisfied with the neighbors we encountered?”

He had introduced her as his affianced wife to the grocer where they dropped a letter to an employment agency that employed governesses and housekeepers, to the squire who pulled his curricle over for a greeting, to the physician, Doctor Wilbur where they stopped, “just to say hello.” When they reached the little coffee shop, she’d been surprised a village as small as Little Derewick had such a thing. He had whispered that she should take off her gloves so the goodwives and gossips could see the betrothal ring and then explained to her over coffee and remarkably good pasties that the last tavern had burned to the ground and the women of Little Derewick supported the coffee shop, to the men’s chagrin. He had leaned over and whispered, “There is a tavern to be had on the highway several miles north —up toward the border—so everyone is satisfied with the arrangements.”

The proprietor, who had been introduced as Maud Higgins, grinned at him. “I’m shocked to hear it,” she lied good naturedly.

Margaret liked Maud. She had bitten her lower lip to keep from laughing at the woman, until she realized his eyes focused on her mouth. The memory made heat creep up her neck and she realized he was answering her.

“…and the ladies were certainly enamored of the sight of your ring.”

“They didn’t even try to hide their whispers.” She pulled off her glove and held up the hand with the ring. “Your ring is hard to miss. It seemed to do its job.” She deliberately emphasized the word your, lest he assume more compliance than she intended. “I’ll wear it to church on Sunday. I have no doubt you will find a way to get me out of my gloves.”

His heated expression, smug and entirely male, drove the heat past her neck to her cheeks, and his smile broadened. The wretch no doubt thought of what he’d like to get her out of and took delight in her discomfort. She turned her head to the window.

“Northumberland is bleak in December.”

He chuckled. “The weather, Miss Carter? We must have other things to discuss.”

“I promised the children we would take a walk outside today. We should arrive in plenty of time to do so.” The children were a safe topic. Almost as safe as the weather.

He nodded. “They need to get out. I’m afraid Betsy has a hard time controlling them, however.”

“They don’t need control. They need direction,” she said. “The first is futile. The second teaches them to make good decisions.”

“You should have been a teacher.”

“Perhaps I will be yet. Would a letter of reference from the son of a headmaster help me find a post?”

She meant to tease, but his sour expression made it clear he failed to see the humor. “The children need affection as well,” she said. “I think you’ve tried to give them that.” She’d seen him hugging Elsbeth this very morning.

Margaret sat back and let herself anticipate a good long walk when they got home. They arrive to find chaos, however. Something as banal as a walk would have to wait.

* * *

Before Duncan could think, before he moved more than a half dozen steps inside the door, before he removed his coat, Elsbeth threw herself into his arms, sobbing. The distant sounds of shouting and crashing pottery made it difficult to understand her words. Something about a fox.

“Where is Mary?” he asked peering around the entranceway. His oldest ward was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Margaret Carter.

He took the little one’s hand and hurried toward the sound. When he reached the kitchen, the crashing and banging had stopped but the shouting amplified. He took in several things at once. Flour, apples, and broken crockery lay everywhere. One of Duncan’s grooms held a canvas sack as far from his body as possible—a sack that wiggled and screeched. Mary sobbed in the arms of his betrothed while she cradled one arm carefully. His cook had Alan by both arms, shaking him so hard his head wobbled. Matt, the second footman, who’d been having a laugh at the groom’s expense sobered when he caught sight of Duncan’s fierce expression

Duncan dropped Elsbeth’s hand and stepped toward the Mrs. Custis, but before he could take a second step, an authoritative voice bellowed. “Stop. Stop abusing that boy this instant.”

His jaw dropped, but before he could react Miss Carter pushed Mary into his arms, whispering, “Careful now. I think it may be broken,” before striding to confront the irate cook and forcibly yanking the woman’s hands from Alan. She pushed the boy behind her and glared, arms akimbo, at the sputtering Custis woman who pointed a shaking finger at Alan.

“That spawn of Satan let a demon loose in my kitchen. Look what he done!”

“Not a demon. Just a fox kit. He’s that hungry, and he got loose and you…” Alan’s excuses were lost in the cook’s roar.

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Custis. You are the adult here. We will sort the business of damage in a moment. You will stop shouting and calm yourself immediately.” She turned to Alan and added, “And we’ll deal with this utterly unacceptable behavior as well.”

The cook sputtered, drew herself up to her full height, and raised her chin to stare down at Miss Carter. “I will not have it in my kitchen.”

His betrothed allowed none of that impertinence. Miss Carter—no, Margaret, his Margaret, warrior queen—stepped forward glaring into the woman’s face. “Whatever occurs in the viscount’s kitchen, or in any part of his household, you will never lay hands on his ward again. Am I clear? Nor will you threaten this lad with orphanages or any other imagined horror. Am I clear?”

Mrs. Custis shot Duncan a glance, and smirked at Margaret. “Either I have the management of my kitchen as I see fit, or I will quit. The previous viscount gave me full rein, and you’ll be long gone by Christmas, mark my words. You can’t—”

Duncan had had enough. “I am not the previous viscount, and you don’t have to quit. You are fired. I suggest you leave before I bring charges for assaulting the ward of a peer.”

The admiration that glowed in Margaret’s eyes for his support caused warmth to surge through his body. Later, he thought perhaps that was the moment he fell entirely in love with this unlikely woman his friend Micah sent his way. He had no time to considering it then.

The cook paled, her mouth opening and closing like a fish before venting her spite. “You’ll not find a cook as good as me in Northumberland, nor any servant willing to work in so ramshackle a household. Not after I spread word about these terrors.”

He turned his back on her, intent on giving Mary over to Margaret.

His beloved stared back with wide eyes, both hands covering her mouth. She dropped them to her side. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my lord. It wasn’t my place. She just made me angry!”

“You were magnificent.” He longed to take her in his arms and reassure her, but this wasn’t the place and they had other things to deal with. “We’ll talk later. Take Mary up to the nursery and see about the arm. I’ll handle things here, send for a physician, and join you shortly.”

Elsbeth clung to Margaret’s skirts as they departed.

Alan tried to follow, but Duncan grabbed his arm. “No, you don’t, young man. You have much to answer for.” He glanced up at the second footman, and asked him to accompany Mr. Alan to the study where he was to sit on a chair in the corner until Duncan came for him.

The cook attempted to whine and cajole. He didn’t mean it. How could he possibly mean it?

He meant it. “Are you still here? I’ll have the coachman drive you to the village in one hour. Go now and there may be a letter of reference regarding the quality of your cooking at least. You’d best hasten to get ready.” She had the good sense to scurry off then.

“What do you want me to do with this, my lord?” The groom lifted the gunny sack with the squirming animal. “Drown it? The young ones won’t be happy.”

The young ones needn’t know. “A fox kit, I gather. Where on earth did they find it?”

The footman shrugged and gestured in the general direction of the hills above Nordwick Hall. “Mr. Alan found it crying for its ma on one of his rambles. He’s been hiding it in an empty stall in the stables since Saturday. Mr. Baxter, th’head groom, saw no harm in it.”

Four days ago. Before Margaret came. Duncan made a mental note to speak with Baxter. “And the girls?”

The groom chuckled. “They followed him all stealthy like. Told him they’d tell on him unless he let them help. They think it’s cute.”

Duncan rolled his eyes. Young animals may appear appealing, but they couldn’t be kept as pets. He saw puppies in his future. “Take it a good distance into the hills and let it go. Let the creature take its chances.”

The groom left Duncan in a ravaged kitchen. He looked around at broken crocks, overturned flour, scattered apples, a shank of ham with bites take out of it, and even what appeared to be honey in one spot; he glanced up at the scullery maid and the tweeny who stared at him with eyes like saucers. “Leave it. Mr. Alan will be here momentarily to work on the mess.” Though God knows the servants will likely have to clean up after his cleaning up.

It took him another half hour to speak to the coachman about removing the Custis woman and returning with the physician, warn his oddly subdued ward of future consequences, and send the second footman to supervise work in the kitchen, before he finally climbed the stairs to the nursery. One more worry nagged him. How on earth are we going to manage to feed people.

* * *

“She’s terribly pale.” He spoke with his back to her; Margaret hung back while the viscount sat at Mary’s bedside. “Is the pain horrid, Mary?”

The girl bit her lip and nodded. “What did you do with Jack?”

Her question seemed to baffle him. “Jack?”

The girl’s brief flash of a smile looked sheepish. “The fox kit.”

“Jack is being taken back to the woods where he can find his home.”

Mary’s eyes drifted shut. “Good. I was afraid… You know…”

She’s afraid he had it drowned. Another man would have. Margaret knew he had no choice. Wild animals don’t belong in captivity and a fox near the kitchen gardens and henhouse would be a disaster. Freeing it seemed tactful for the children’s sake, but may not have been a kindness to a half-grown animal.

Mary’s breathing evened out as she sank into exhausted sleep, and the viscount rose and faced Margaret. “What do you think?”

“Broken. I’m certain. I gave her willow bark tea, and immobilized the arm. I’m no bone setter, though. A physician should look at it.”

“The coachman has been sent to fetch him—and to remove Mrs. Custis to the village.”

Memory of her behavior in the kitchen shamed Margaret. “I am so sorry I intruded before! It isn’t my place to berate servants here, but I saw her shaking Alan and I couldn’t keep silent.”

He reached up and touched her cheek, the feel of his tender fingers both reassuring and alluring. “Hush,” he whispered. “You were perfect.” The warmth of his kind eyes enveloped her. It had been a long and emotionally draining day; she longed to lean into him for comfort.

Apparently, so did Elsbeth. The little one wrapped herself around his legs, sobbing. He scooped her up and sat in the big rocking chair holding her where Margaret yearned to be. She followed them, leaving the door open in case Mary woke and pulled up a chair nearby.

“Are you going to beat Alan?” Elsbeth asked. She leaned into her uncle’s shoulder and reached up to run her dainty fingers over his facial scars in what Margaret recognized as a habitual gesture. She realized with a start that the man found it comforting as well.

“Alan is cleaning up the mess. Did he put the fox in the kitchen?”

The little one nodded. “Mary told him to put a cover on the box so he put an old sack over it but Jack poked his nose out and we laughed.”

“Why was he in the kitchen?”

“We needed more milk and Alan didn’t want to leave him alone.”

Margaret’s lips twitched in amusement at the logic of children. “Then what happened?”

The viscount grinned back over Elsbeth’s head. “And how did Jack get out?”

“Well, Mrs. Custis was supposed to be taking her tea, but she came back, so Mary pushed the box under the work table while Alan hid the jug of milk behind his back, but Mrs. Custis saw the box and pulled off the cover. When Jack jumped out Mary went backward and fell over a stool that bumped into Alan making him drop the jug.”

Poor Mary! “And Jack ran around?”

Elsbeth sat up straight and turned to Margaret. “Course not. First he just lapped up the milk.”

The viscount’s puzzled expression matched Margaret’s. “What caused the mess?”

The little one lay her head back down. “Mrs. Custis screamed at Alan to take him out but when Alan reached for him, he ran off. The scullery maid started screaming and climbed on a chair—but she got down quick when Jack jumped on the table and started nosing in the bowl of apples. Alan knocked it off when he tried to grab him. Mrs. Custis grabbed the broom and started bashing every which way trying hit him, knocking everything down and yelling at Matt to fetch the groom with a pitchfork.”

“So, Jack caused a lot of damage,” the viscount murmured.

Elsbeth popped back up, indignant. “He did not; Mrs. Custis did.”

After a long pause in which the viscount appeared to be getting control of himself, he said. “You know, Elsbeth, children should not bring wild animals into the house. None of it would have happened if Alan had left Jack in the woods where he belonged.”

“I know.” The sound was soft and muffled in Mildrum’s waistcoat, repentant but full of confidence in forgiveness.

Had she really thought this man an ogre just yesterday? Margaret gazed at his kind eyes and began to believe it might do, this proposed marriage of theirs. It might do very well.

Chapter 5

A pall fell over Nordwick Hall the following day. Dr. Wilbur had pronounced Mary a fit and healthy young lady, and he assured them she would heal in due time, but he ordered bed rest and a close watch for fevers, managing to both reassure and terrify her guardian.

Duncan found Margaret keeping vigil at the girl’s bedside whenever he poked his head in, leaving him feeling as useless as a fifth wheel on a carriage and more enchanted by the woman caring for Mary. Every hour that passed it seemed she rose in his esteem. She had scurried downstairs when Hurley announced Wilbur’s arrival, and came back wearing the ruby betrothal ring, and hope soared in his heart. She hadn’t made up her mind to flee, at least not yet.

Mary slept a great deal; Margaret read to her when she awakened. Sometimes Elsbeth would climb into Margaret’s lap to listen. Even she acted subdued, walking as a shadow of herself.

Alan hid under his bed and no amount of coaxing called him out, at least not when Duncan was looking. He had done a credible job with the kitchen and accepted bread and water for dinner as fair enough, since their cook had departed. The boy was less compliant about the loss of Jack, whom he seemed to have imagined was some sort of partner in adventure. He called Duncan a brigand for sending him into exile. As amused as Duncan was by Alan’s dramatic imagination, he feared the anger might boil over.

Night falls early in December. The nursery was candlelit when Duncan went up determined to relieve Margaret. Betsy played quietly in the corner with Elsbeth who clutched Marigold while pretending to feed the doll porridge. He raised a brow at the nursemaid and gestured toward Alan’s closed door with his head. She shook her head. The boy still hid. The plate on which Duncan had brought day-old scones earlier, however, sat outside the door covered with crumbs.

Mary’s door hung half-open; Duncan pushed it the rest of the way to see Margaret on her feet; she blinked up from her study of the patient when he entered. “I’m glad you’re here, my lord. Does Mary feel warm to you?”

He crouched by the bed and felt Mary’s forehead. “A bit warm, but she’s wrapped up in quilts and sleeping peacefully. She doesn’t appear the slightest bit fitful,” he whispered back.

“Can you sit with her a while?”

“I came to do exactly that. You need to rest. You stayed here all last night.”

“I slept; don’t worry. I’m needed in the kitchen.”

Duncan’s brows shot up. Who can plumb the mind of a woman? “The kitchen?”

“I’m not a master cook, but I can manage soup. There may yet be bread in the pantry.” His valiant bride looked dead on her feet, but was prepared to take on cooking as well as mothering. What a treasure Micah found for him!

He felt the smile that spread across his face push the stiff skin on the scarred side upward. He felt it in his heart. “As it happens, Maud Higgins brought a hamper of pasties and a promise to return tomorrow to, in her words, ‘see what can be done.’ She has a business to run, but she’ll help us manage until we hire a cook. I sent a message to the employment agencies—three, one in London—back with her for the mails. You rest.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief. She swayed a bit. She must have been exhausted because when he steadied her with a hand on her shoulder she didn’t object. He nudged her closer and she let him.

“You know what it means don’t you?” She peered up at him. Her eyes narrowed, puzzled in the flickering candlelight. He went on, teasing her. “You chased off my cook. It will take a while to replace her. Maybe February. Maybe June. You can’t leave.”

She didn’t argue, but he wasn’t so sure she agreed to stay. Fascinated with her lovely mouth he watched it open and close again without saying anything. He nudged her again and she didn’t object. He took it as an invitation and lowered his mouth to hers, the hand on her shoulder sliding up to cradle the back of her neck. Her hands slid up his chest to grip his lapels, and he thought she would push him away. He raised his head and peered into her eyes. When she didn’t move away after all, he kissed her again, a more sensual exploration of her lips while his other arm went around her waist and pulled her against him.

Her sweet response struck him as untutored but interested, as though driven by curiosity as much as desire. His own passion burned high, but he let her go when she took a step back, her eyes on his, and raised a trembling hand. He wondered if she meant to slap him or pull him back. She did neither. She laid her dainty fingers across his chest, gave him a pat, and left without a word.

* * *

Goodness, Margaret, you’ve known the man three days, and you wanted to devour him. Yet you still aren’t certain about marrying him. Or are you? His kisses had been wonderful, far more so than the hesitant picks or messy assaults she’d occasionally experienced from swains in the Fallcombe area on the rare occasions she had opportunity to socialize. None left her wanting more, not the way Mildrum’s tender exploration had done.

Perhaps you need to explore his kisses further, Margaret, just to be sure you like them.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

The next few days settled into a pattern. Maud Higgins and Dr. Wilbur visited. The nursery remained subdued. Margaret and Viscount Mildrum shared vigil at Mary’s bedside. There were no more kisses, to Margaret’s disappointment. She feared he may have the mistaken impression she disliked his attentions. Nothing could be further from the truth, and she began to plot ways to encourage him to kiss her again.

Margaret and Maud Higgins worked out a plan for feeding the denizens of Nordwick Hall with a combination of deliveries from the coffee shop and simple meals planned by Margaret and prepared by the viscount’s servants. There were missteps, but no one went hungry. Maud promised to write to relatives who might know of a cook who might like to serve in a viscount’s household.

Dr. Wilbur returned Sunday to check on the patient again and pronounced her out of danger and healing. He brought the good wishes of the vicar and other neighbors, and news of the banns being read to the congregation that morning. With Mary injured, the party of Nordwick hadn’t attended.

“Wedding plans must be progressing quickly, no?” He beamed at Margaret with fatherly kindness. “It is always an exciting time for the bride.”

Margaret blushed, but didn’t reply. Wedding? Gracious.

She was so worried about marriage to a virtual stranger—one less of a stranger every hour of every day—that she had given no thought to the wedding, should there be one. The viscount walked the doctor out and Elsbeth crawled into bed with Mary who sat up now, her arm safely splinted. Both girls stared at her wide eyed, the doctor having given them ideas.

“Will we have a wedding party? Won’t we need flowers, and, and, and new gowns?” Mary became breathless at the thought.

“Will there be cake?” Elsbeth chirped.

Margaret almost choked. “Perhaps.”

“You are going to marry Uncle Duncan, aren’t you? That is why you came.”

“We agreed to take some time to be certain,” Margaret said, devoutly wishing she could turn the subject.

“Isn’t that a betrothal ring you are wearing?” Mary made a sheepish shrug of her shoulders. “I noticed it yesterday.”

Margaret had retrieved the ring when she met with Maud. With people coming and going it made sense to wear it every day. Glancing at it now, she realized she had gotten used to it on her finger, just as she was getting used to—

“Aren’t you going to be our aunt? We need an aunt.” Elsbeth’s eyes began to pool with tears. “We need you, Miss Carter. Please don’t leave.”

Margaret teetered on the brink of promises she wasn’t sure she was ready to make. Yet, her very presence had given these children hope. Why hadn’t she considered their expectations from the very first day?

The viscount’s return cut off that thought.

“He seems to think you can be up and about as long as you guard the arm and don’t over exert yourself. How do you feel, pet?” Mary didn’t answer. He looked from one face to the next, Elsbeth ready to cry, Mary worried, and her own which must, she guessed, look lost and confused. “The news was all good. What has happened to you lot?”

“Miss Carter doesn’t want to be our aunt.” Elsbeth clambered out of bed and ran into the nursery sobbing.

“See, Mary. I told you she’d never marry him.” Alan stood in the doorway. “Otherwise, she would be planning a wedding, wouldn’t she?”

Margaret froze. They talked about it? She should smile and tell them they would begin planning a wedding. But they all sounded as if it mattered, as if they wanted her to stay. What would happen if she called off after the little ones were anticipating a wedding?

“Why are you wearing the ring if you aren’t planning to marry Uncle Duncan?” Mary made it sound like an accusation.

Duncan’s intense gaze didn’t help; his eyes seemed to ask the same question. She met him half way, hoping he saw the pleading in hers. He broke eye contact, cleared his throat and spoke. “Wedding planning? Miss Carter has been here less than a week, a week in which we haven’t all been at our best.”

He gave Alan such a look that Margaret wanted to call it back, but the viscount continued speaking. “She needs time to get used to Nordwick Hall, to all of you, and most of all to me. Weddings are nice but marriage is forever. A woman doesn’t want to make a mistake about something that lasts forever, Mary. I hope you take great care when it is your time.”

The girl nodded solemnly and Margaret wanted to hug him for his wise words to the girl. She loved him for it. Love him? Oh my. It can’t be, can it?

She hardly had time to consider it, when he went on. “Now, time is short. We’ve agreed to give it to Twelfth Night to decide. We need a Twelfth Night celebration, don’t we?”

“We didn’t have one last year,” Alan complained. Elsbeth walked back and peeked around him, listening to every word.

“We were in mourning last year,” Mary said.

“Quite correct,” The viscount agreed. “But this year we will celebrate. There will be greenery, games, and food. If Miss Carter decides there’s to be a wedding as well, it will be easy to expand it into a wedding party.”

He studied Margaret carefully looking for agreement, and she lost herself for a moment in the yearning she saw in his eyes. She found voice long enough to agree. “That will do very well, my lord.”

She thought for a moment he might be on the brink of kissing her, so intent was his watchful gaze.

“Do you feel up to reading to Elsbeth, Mary? I want a word with Miss Carter.”

Mary looked from one to the other while Elsbeth fetched her favorite book. A knowing, womanly smile came over her. “Of course, Uncle Duncan.”

* * *

Duncan led Margaret from the nursery intent on apologizing for the children, intent on reassuring her. He got as far as the hallway before she threw herself in his arms and kissed him fiercely before stepping back to blush and sputter. He pulled her back slowly, tenderly lest she take offence and pull away, until he had her head against his shoulder and his hands around her back.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured into his waistcoat.

“Enough with ‘my lord.’ If you’re going to wear my ring you may as well call me Duncan. And what have I done to earn your thanks?

“Thank you, Duncan. A Twelfth Night celebration is a brilliant idea. It is exactly what they need.”

He pulled her a few inches away and peered down into her eyes. “And what do you need, Margaret. Dare I hope you’re becoming comfortable with me? Are you closer to knowing if we suit one another? Tell me what you need.”

He held his breath, hope and desire warring with determination to give her the room she needed.

“You could start by kissing me again. Perhaps some exploration may make me certain I like your kisses as much as much as I think I do.”

What man could refuse such a request? He lowered his head to hers, his tender salute rapidly growing into a passionate possession under the goading of her response. Noise from behind the nursery door reminded them of their position, and he pulled away.

“Kisses only, Margaret?”

Her dazed eyes and swollen mouth left him unable to say more. His beloved managed a tremulous smile. “For now,” she said pulling away with a sigh. “We have a Twelfth Night party to plan.”

Chapter 6

“Thank goodness I didn’t break my right arm, Uncle Duncan.”

Thanks indeed. By Monday afternoon Mary and Elsbeth had a list entitled, “Twelfth Night, the bare necessities.” It included three kinds of pudding and a cake, but specified no dinner. They settled disputes about which about games to add by listing every one they could remember. Very specific decorations were described in excruciating detail. Alan, once again, was nowhere to be found when Duncan came to review the plan, but both pudding and games showed signs of his input.

On. Tuesday morning, Duncan dispatched Matt to the village to obtain colored papers, gilded paint, ribbons, and, from Maud, suggestions for ingredients and recipes, while Mary and Margaret planned invitations. There would be no time for printed ones, but it was agreed that informal would do for what was, after all, only family Twelfth Night. When he noticed that their list began with the vicar (in large letters), he couldn’t suppress his smile. Not one word was said about weddings.

It appeared his ladies planned to invite the entire shire, and that suited him. If they were planning a wedding, family would be summoned from more distant places, but neither he nor Margaret had family to invite. Alone in his study, Duncan penned a message to his old friend, Micah Turner, begging him to attend Twelfth Night revels at Nordwick Hall with his wife Anne. He sanded the missive and stared at it for a moment before adding a line, hopefully we’ll have more than the season to celebrate. We shall see. He sent it off with hope and a prayer.

The week flew by with Margaret sequestered by day in the nursery writing invitations with Mary while Elsbeth and Betsy made chains from paper scraps rescued from the kitchen and Duncan’s office and Alan played quietly with model soldiers, the fierce pirate Alan nowhere in sight.

By night, Duncan carried out his own plans: soft music for two in the music room, starry walks when the moon was full, romantic dinners by the fire in his sitting room… He found excuses every night for a touch, a kiss, a gentle exploration as Margaret called it. When he said good night at her door on Saturday, his waistcoat had come unbuttoned, his shirt had been pulled loose and he couldn’t remember where they left his cravat. He had difficulty calming his heated body in order to sleep, but his rising hopes soothed him.

Margaret pronounced Mary well enough for church, so Sunday morning found all five of them bundled into his carriage for services at which the banns were called for a second time. He had given the children strict orders to speak only of Twelfth Night while they passed invitations to all and sundry in the church yard after services. He assumed they obeyed because Margaret appeared rosy and joyful when he came back from having a few words with the vicar about the state of his courtship and wedding plans. The neighbors, he knew, drew their own assumptions. Margaret still wore his ring.

Steady rain dampened the early week while Christmas itself slowly approached. The girls filled the days with making snowflakes and stars, tying bright red bows, and creating angels out of paper. Finally, the weather broke late Thursday. Early on Friday, Christmas Eve, he assembled his little army—Margaret, the children, Betsy and Matt—in the entranceway. After inspecting for boots, gloves, and warm mufflers, they set out up the hill behind Nordwick Hall and into the woods in search of holly, ivy, pine, and, if the fates were kind, mistletoe. Matt pulled a sledge for their booty.

It went well at first. Much laughter and a few snowballs later they had greens piled high and were scanning treetops for mistletoe.

“We’ll need it if the Twelfth Night party expands.” Mary said, giving the holiday emphasis and deliberately echoing his words about it expanding into a wedding. When that brought general laughter, she continued in the same humorous tone thanking goodness they had enough chairs and remembered music and flowers. “Of course, we did forget one thing. Every Twelfth Night party needs new gowns.”

Like many girls, her emotions could shift abruptly. This was one of those times, and she grew despondent. “Mama would have taken me to Edinburgh for a new gown,” she said seriously, casting a pall on all of them.

Margaret dropped the greens she carried and grasped Mary’s shoulders, leaning closely. “Gowns aren’t necessary for a party, Mary. If all goes as your uncle intends, perhaps you and I can do that in the spring.”

Was that finally capitulation? Before Duncan could think, Alan’s surly voice chimed in. “She doesn’t want Nordwick. As soon as she’s married, she’ll leave for the city. I know she will.”

With that the boy disappeared into the woods, rapidly running out of sight, leaving the entire party stunned into silence.

* * *

“Should we follow?” Worry made Margaret’s voice tremble.

“Give him a few moments,” Duncan said staring after the boy.

Margaret thought they ought to pursue immediately. No amount of sulking in his room had improved his mood. She picked up the last of the pine branches and piled them on the sledge. “Mary and Elsbeth have been out here a while. Perhaps they should go in.”

Duncan turned to her, his smile, the one that seem to carry bushels of private feelings, embracing her. “Good idea.” She leaned a head on his shoulder when he paused, but, when the first stinging drops of sleet hit their faces, it became more urgent, and he picked up Elsbeth to set her on top of the greenery on the sledge.

“I’m so sorry, Uncle Duncan. I spoiled our good time,” Mary said, tearing eyed.

Margaret pulled the girl into a hug. “You have nothing to apologize for. Alan is responsible for his own behavior. You can oversee the unloading of the greenery and help Betsy with Elsbeth.”

Alan still hadn’t returned, even though it had begun to sleet in earnest. “I’ll see them down, my lord, and come back to see if you need help,” the footman said.

“Thank you, Matt. Do you by any chance know where the fox’s den is? The one where Alan found Jack?” Duncan asked.

He did not. The little party hurried down the hill, and Duncan took Margaret’s hand. “The sleet is coming down hard. You should go with them.”

“I’m not leaving you.” In that moment she knew it for the declaration it was, whether Duncan did or not. He kissed her quickly and they set off uphill hand in hand calling for Alan.

The precipitation wavered between sleet, rain and freezing rain. Within twenty minutes Margaret felt icy wetness penetrating her cloak and Duncan had ice crystals on his brows and hat. “Alan will freeze if we don’t find him soon.”

“I never held with birching but this may cause me to change my opinion. If you become ill because of it, I know I will,” Duncan muttered.

“You most certainly will not!” Margaret shouted the boy’s name one more time. This time she thought she heard a reply, though the howling wind made it difficult to tell.

They found him, as Duncan predicted, huddled at the mouth of an abandoned fox den.

“He’s gone,” the boy wailed. His guardian, overcome with conflicting emotions, alternately glared and melted into relief.

Margaret didn’t hesitate. She pulled him into her arms. “Thank God. I was so afraid we would find you frozen and as immobile as a statue.”

“Could that happen?” The miscreant sounded intrigued

When he allowed the hug, she took courage, but didn’t press her luck. She let him go, and the boy sobered quickly. “I’m sorry Miss Carter. “I… I’m just—”

“Worried?” She studied his face. Downright fearful. Duncan, she was grateful to realize, had the wisdom not to interfere. This was between the boy and Margaret.

“We— That is Elsbeth knows you’d only be an aunt but she wants a mother and…”

“You don’t want Elsbeth disappointed if I leave?” Not to mention you don’t want any more grief and loss.

He nodded, struggling to avoid the humiliation of tears.

“Let me tell you something I haven’t told anyone. Your sisters don’t know. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. Unlike other viscountesses this one likes the country very well. The city is nice too, but if your Uncle Duncan and I go to the city in the spring, you will come with us. You all will.”

Alan’s enthusiastic, if brief, hug tickled her. She looked up into the eyes of the other person she hadn’t told yet, his brow furrowed.

When Duncan spoke softly to him—words of direction not control Margaret was pleased to hear—before took her hand and turned to leave. Alan held back. “Wait. One good thing happened.” He pointed upward. Bunches of mistletoe hung on the branches of the overhanging oak tree.

“For that, I am in your debt Alan. Our party is complete.” Duncan looked down, the private smile making her toes curl, and bent to kiss her well and thoroughly.

Chapter 7

“The neighborhood will remember this Twelfth Night for years, my lord.” Mr. Robinson, the vicar, beamed at Duncan, as more people wandered into Nordwick Hall’s expansive entranceway and Alan fidgeted at his side. “They’ll be expecting invitations every year.”

“Perhaps we’ll do that,” Duncan replied absently, greeting Dr. Wilbur and the grocer’s wife and glancing up the stairs where his beloved had been giggling with Mary and Elsbeth in the viscountess suite for a few hours doing whatever it was females did before a wedding. When she admitted she found the suite overly fussy and not at all to her liking, he told her she could redo it. When she told him shyly that she preferred his room to hers and asked if she might move over there he almost expired on the spot.

Sounds at the door drew his attention. He hadn’t thought this night could give him more joy, but the new arrivals managed that miracle. Micah and Anne handed cloaks and hats to Hurley who dispatched footman, likely to fetch traveling trunks.

Micah approached with a breathless “Well? Does that smile mean the revels are a bit more than seasonal.”

He gave Duncan’s back a friendly smack, but Duncan had none of that. He pulled his friend to a fierce hug. “I will never be able to repay my gratitude. You gave me a Christmas miracle.”

Maud came down the steps then, welcomed an introduction to the Turners, and announced, “You best get moving, my lord. We’re ready.”

Chairs had been laid out in the music room, each tied with red ribbon and a shining star. Greens covered the mantle piece where Micah and Robinson conferred privately. Duncan knew a moment of discomfort. He hadn’t considered the protocol of inviting two vicars, but he let them sort it. To his surprise, Micah hurried through the door.

Duncan put his hand on Alan’s shoulder, drew breath, and waited while people took their seats.

He didn’t have to wait long. Elsbeth rounded the corner in a pretty white and pink gown, carrying a branch of holly tied with a red ribbon. Mary followed appearing as if she had grown up several years, with her hair up twined with a red ribbon. He held his breath.

It seemed an eternity, but Margaret came to the door on Micah’s arm at last, glowing in the candlelight. She told him later Anne had helped her buy the green silk dress before she left Fallcombe, but he didn’t notice it. Not then. At that moment all he saw was his Twelfth Night miracle, and his heart, his home, his life lit from within.

The End

About the Author

Traveler, would-be adventurer, librarian, technology manager, Caroline Warfield has been many things, but she is above all a romantic. Someone who begins life as an army brat develops a wide view of life. She reckons she is on at least her third act. When she isn’t off seeking adventures with her Beloved or her grandson down the block, she works happily in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to even more adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

Click here to find out more:

http://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/

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