have not even met the girl, for one thing.’ While it would solve the problem of Gwen’s reputation, total strangers did not simply step in and offer, as if they were helping the girl over a stile on the walk to church.
‘But I am acquainted with her mother,’ he said, smiling reasonably. ‘A very limited acquaintance, perhaps.’
She shook her head, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Striking you with a broom is hardly a proper introduction.’
‘Then allow me.’ He stood and bowed to her. ‘I am Thomas Kanner, Duke of Montford.’ He smiled again. ‘There are other, lesser titles, of course. I’d have given one to young Tom on the occasion of his marriage. Your daughter would have been Lady Kanner.’ The smile tightened. ‘But under the circumstances, I think not.’
‘But if she marries you, she will be...’ Generva’s breath caught in her lungs again.
‘The Duchess of Montford.’ He was helping again. She imagined his arm at her elbow, lifting her over the stile.
‘Duchess of Montford,’ she repeated. It was a coup. Everything that a mother could wish for her daughter. Why was she not instantly happy at the thought?
‘Now that we are likely to be family, I see no reason that you might not call me Thomas, Mrs Marsh.’
There was one very obvious reason. She could not dare call him Thomas because he was the Duke of Montford. She was just getting used to the fact that she would call him His Grace. She had never met a duke, nor had she expected to. When Tom Kanner had begun to pay court on Gwen, he had made it clear that his most important relative was both distant and disapproving. They communicated in writing, if at all. When the Marshes finally saw the great man, it was likely to be at his funeral, after Tom had taken the title for himself.
Now here he was in her kitchen, with a broom straw still stuck in his hair from the assault she had waged on his person.
‘Mrs Marsh?’ he said, leaning a little closer to her. He waved a hand in front of her eyes, as though attempting to wake her from a trance.
‘You may call me Generva,’ she said weakly.
‘That is a lovely name,’ he replied. ‘As is—’ he shot a surreptitious glance at the special licence on the table ‘—Gwendolyn.’
She started. A licence. ‘You would need to go back to London for another licence. Or wait the three weeks to have the banns read...’
‘We could simply use this one.’ He pushed the paper towards her. ‘My nephew and I share a name.’ He glanced at the paper. ‘My title is not on the licence, of course. But there is some space left on the line. I will take up a quill, wedge it in the gap and sign properly at the bottom. Then the wedding can go on, just as planned.’
‘That could not be legal,’ Generva said with a frown.
‘If propriety concerns you, I will sleep at the inn until such a time as we can travel down to London and procure another licence. We will marry again, quietly, in the new year.’
‘At the Fox’s Tail? Oh, dear Lord, no, Your Grace. That would not do.’
He gave her a surprised look. ‘I assure you, madam, I am not so high and mighty that I cannot take a room there, with the rest of the common travellers.
‘Fleas,’ she said, in an embarrassed whisper. ‘We locals call the place the Dog’s Hind Leg. You can spot the guests in the street for the way they scratch.’
‘Thank you for your warning, Generva.’
Her given name was probably meant as a reminder that they were to be on friendly terms.
‘You’re welcome, Thomas.’ His name escaped her lips as a hoarse croak. ‘And you are welcome here. You will take the best bed in the house for the duration of your stay.’ That was her bed, she supposed. She could share with Gwendolyn, which was probably the best. She would be there as chaperone.
Not that a chaperone was likely needed when the potential groom had such good manners and the bride to be could not stop crying over another man.
‘Certainly not.’ The duke’s voice cut through the wool in her head. ‘You are thinking of displacing yourself, are you not? I will not hear of that. Any place will do. A rug by the fire, perhaps—’
The conversation was interrupted by the creaking of the pantry door and the appearance of a single grubby hand, fumbling for another of the pies on the table.
Generva was on her feet in a moment to seize the boy by the wrist to haul him into the room. ‘Your Grace, may I introduce my other child, Benjamin Marsh.’ She gave one quick glance to his face, relieved that there were not too many smudges upon it, and gave a half-hearted swipe with her fingers to straighten his hair, before turning him to face their guest. ‘Benjamin, offer your greetings to His Grace the Duke of Montford.’ When Benjamin seemed frozen in place, she pushed gently on his back to encourage the bow.
The duke gave him a sombre look. ‘I have been sent by the Regent to look into the local theft of mince pies.’
The boy shot a horrified look to the crumbling crust in his hand.
Then the duke laughed heartily and stepped forward to take the cleaner of the two small hands. ‘I am sorry, I could not resist.’ He glanced down at Benjamin. ‘I am Tom Kanner’s uncle, come for the wedding.’ He glanced at Generva. ‘I will happily displace this boy from his bed. I suspect he deserves a night on the floor for something he has done recently.’
‘Fair enough.’ Generva smiled back. ‘Benjamin, go prepare your room for a guest.’
When the boy had taken the back stairs to the first floor, they were alone again. She felt the room growing more sombre by the minute as the enormity of what was occurring came home to her. To hide her confusion, she prepared the drink that the duke had requested, setting a mug of brandy and hot water on the table beside his hand. ‘Now, about your kind offer...’
He gave her a sad smile. ‘That was almost delivered in a tone of refusal, Mrs Marsh.’
She thought for a moment and poured a drink for herself, returning to the bench opposite. ‘What kind of a mother would I be to accept for her with no thought at all?’ She would be a very sensible one. She could not think of a better answer to the dilemma. But somehow she could not manage the heartfelt thanks he deserved. Instead, she whispered, ‘You would do that for her? You would marry a girl you had never seen to save her from disgrace?’
‘It is not solely for her,’ the duke said with a sigh. ‘With each passing year, it grows more apparent that I cannot trust my title and holdings to the man who will inherit them. As much as it goes against my wishes to marry again, I must attempt it.’ At last, she noticed the little lines of strain around the smile and the creases at the corners of his eyes that had not all been caused by mirth.
‘You do not wish to marry, Your Grace?’ When speaking for her daughter, it would be easier to respect his title and not foster this closeness that seemed to grow so quickly between them. ‘Then why do it? And to a stranger?’ She was tempted to add that the girl he was planning to wed was much younger than he was and hardly old enough to know her own mind on the subject of love and matrimony. But she had been younger still when she had married John. He
