of the house. ‘That will not be necessary. It has been a most confusing week,’ she added, hoping this would explain her behaviour.
‘It has indeed,’ he replied. ‘And I suppose you are wondering the results of my conversation with your daughter just now.’
‘I...’ What was the answer to this? Courtesy suggested that she deny curiosity, but her duty as a mother was just the opposite. She swallowed and attempted another breath. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘While she is a lovely girl, I fear our first hope was in vain. She has little interest in wedding me and I would not persuade her against her will. She is still quite young, and full of romantic illusions, as we all were at that age.’
‘She will outgrow them in time,’ Generva said firmly, thinking of how far her own life had veered from young romance.
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps not. She deserves a chance at a love match, does she not? And a man who can prove that all of us are not such bounders as my nephew proved to be.’
‘But how will that be possible? Tomorrow people will be talking of nothing else but her jilting.’
His finger was on her lips now, resting gently to silence them. ‘I will make sure the blame falls where it belongs, with my erstwhile heir. And—’ he gave her a smile that was both reassuring and secretive ‘—I have another plan in mind. Something that will occupy the gossips for weeks to come.’
‘But...’ If she had forgotten the finger resting against her lips, this attempt at speech made her immediately aware of it. The movement of her mouth dragged across the skin of it, and she had a sudden, totally irrational desire to touch it with her tongue, to take it into her mouth and suck.
Perhaps he had a similar thought. For though his smile did not falter, his already dark eyes seemed to grow darker. ‘Do you trust me?’
She should not. She should ask him about the missing berry. But she gave the barest of nods. And again, the friction of her lips on his hand made her mind wander.
‘Then you must not fear,’ he said. His hand dropped away from her face to rest upon her shoulder. ‘And you must not take everything upon yourself.’
‘Who else has there been to help me?’ she said, unable not to rail, just a little, at the unfairness of widowhood.
‘No one yesterday,’ he agreed. ‘But today you must remember that you are no longer alone.’
She wanted to argue that of course she was still alone. John had been captain at sea, but she had always been the captain of her own little ship right here in Reddington. While it might seem that she deferred to him, he would soon be gone. Today or tomorrow, St Stephen’s Day at the latest, he would be on his horse, riding south, and she would be alone again.
His hand tightened upon her shoulder ever so gently, the thumb settling in the hollow of her collarbone and stroking. ‘You knew the old song I was singing before, did you not?’
She nodded again, barely able to breathe.
‘It was a man’s song. The man is the holly. The woman is the ivy, who clings to him for support.’
She did not need to, she reminded herself. But it would be pleasant, for a time, to cling to anyone.
‘That song is rather unfair to poor ivy, for she is standing outside the door with cold fingers. But do you know the chorus?’ he asked softly.
At the moment, she was not sure she knew anything, other than that the duke had the beginning of a beard shadow, just under the curve of his full lower lip. Her eyes dropped to the ground again, so she would not have to stare at his mouth.
‘“Let Holly have the mastery, as the manner is.”’ The words were barely a breath against her hair. ‘That is what you must do for me, Generva. Let me help you.’ His thumb travelled up her shoulder until it rested under her chin, and tipped her face towards his.
She should not be doing this.
She allowed herself one token protest before putting it aside and closing the last inch between them to accept his kiss. His mouth was warm and wonderful, and the nearness of his body as comforting as a blanket on a winter night. She leaned into him and felt his hand on the small of her back, supporting her as he opened her mouth, capturing her tongue with a lazy possessiveness, drawing it back into him so that she might kiss him as he was kissing her.
He tasted of mulled wine and mischief, and she gave herself over to it, wrapping her arms around his neck so that their hips touched. She felt his body stir against her belly, growing hard. He wanted her in that way?
Her heart and mind warred for a moment, trying to decide whether to be offended or flattered. If she was not careful, she would have a reputation more damaged than her daughter’s. The world would think she was one of those too-gracious widows, willing to let a man warm her bed for favours.
In the end, her body won out over reason. Her knees weakened, pressing her hips ever so slightly in welcome towards the budding erection.
‘What are you doing?’ Ben was sitting on the stairs in the hall, watching the whole scandalous moment.
She broke quickly from his kiss, straightening her skirts and touching her hair. Then she cursed herself for the fussiness. It made her look even more guilty than she felt.
The duke was given to no such sudden movements. He was still staring down at her, eyes pools of blackness, a slight satisfied smile upon his lips. ‘I am kissing your mother,’ he said to the boy, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be caught in an embrace in the middle of the day.
‘Oh,’ Ben responded. Perhaps that was just the way to handle such a thing, for her son did not seem the least bit surprised. His tone said that such carrying on was not nearly as interesting as catching wrens in the woods.
‘Like you kissed my sister before?’
Generva pushed away so fast that her head hit the door frame. ‘Your Grace.’ There was much more that she wanted to say, and none of it was appropriate for little ears. For now, two words would have to be enough to tell him what she truly thought of the sort of man that would do such a terrible thing. Then she gave him another push for good measure and fled past her son, up the stairs to her room.
Montford stood in the doorway, lips still warm and body still alert from the effects of her kiss. It had been a promising beginning. But the conclusion had been both unexpected and unfortunate. He turned to look at the boy on the stairs. ‘No, actually, kissing your mother was quite different from kissing your sister.’
‘Oh.’ The boy seemed no more interested than he had been without the explanation. He took a pair of conkers from his pocket, tapping them together then holding one out to the duke. The smack of nut against nut punctuated the silence.
Montford sighed and walked to the stairs to sit at the boy’s side, taking one of the strings. ‘When I kissed your sister, it was out of kindness, as a father would have.’
‘You are not her father,’ Ben pointed out, taking a few tentative swings at his opponent’s
