clock had struck twelve. And she had no intention of admitting, in a churchyard, on Christmas, that she had been willing to surrender to his charms without the benefit of matrimony. ‘I do not need a man to help me, Thomas Kanner,’ she said, a little too primly. ‘Until recently, we have done quite well on our own.’ And what a lie that was. ‘For you to swoop in and rescue me is entirely unnecessary.’ But most welcome.
He gave her a look that sent the blood singing in her veins. ‘Is that what I am doing? I had no idea. I was attempting to seduce you.’
‘Shh,’ she said, looking around her to be sure none of the villagers gathering on the path ahead of them had heard. And then she whispered, ‘You succeeded.’
‘That is good,’ he said. ‘Because once you realise how much work comes with the title, you will wonder if you have gone from the frying pan into the fire.’
‘Work?’ It had never occurred to her that there would be more than the title.
‘The management of several houses, scores of servants, entertainments to arrange, charities to organise...’ He ticked off the duties on his fingers. ‘Your poor daughter would have had no idea how to go on, and you’d have ended up doing the work anyway.’ He glanced down at her, a sly sidelong glance. ‘And I’d have been your son-in-law. For the sake of the girl’s honour, I’d have been willing to try. But it was scant hours in your presence before I realised how awkward that would have been.’
‘Awkward?’
‘To have such carnal thoughts about a woman who should be respected as a mother?’ He shuddered.
She gave another hurried ‘Hush,’ and then followed with ‘Good morning, Reverend Allcot! And a Merry Christmas to you.’ They had arrived at the church door, and the vicar was there to greet them, eyeing the man who escorted her with obvious disapproval.
Before he could speak, Thomas supplied his own introduction. ‘Allcot, is it? Good morning, Vicar. I am Montford. Let us go into the vestry. I wish to speak to you about performing a marriage.’
‘But the service is about to begin.’
‘Do not worry. It cannot begin without you. Nor me, for that matter.’ Thomas cast a dazzling smile at the most sombre spinster in the village. ‘It is not every day a duke comes to hear you preach the homily.’
If he meant to create gossip, he was succeeding. There was an audible gasp from the woman, and a whisper rippling through the parishioners lined up behind them.
And now Mr Allcot was being swept along on the same tide that carried her, until they reached the vestry and Thomas produced the licence from his pocket.
‘There has been a slight change of plans, as you well know. My nephew was totally unfit to offer for young Miss Marsh.’ He smiled again. ‘I have no such encumbrance, nor does Mrs Marsh. So if you would do us the service of a sacrament, in the time allotted...’
Allcot glanced down at the paper before him. ‘This cannot be proper. The names are wrong. Perhaps if you could reapply...’
Generva had not realised how much she had come to want the marriage until it appeared it might be impossible. The sudden sense that her heart was crashing towards the ground was proof enough of her true feelings. She inserted herself into the conversation. ‘The groom’s name is right, is it not, my darling Montford? Thomas Kanner was named to honour you.’ She looked up at him in adoration.
He smiled back at her, reading the message in her eyes. ‘That is very true. We will add my title to the line.’ He picked up a pen from the writing desk, and did so. ‘There. Right as rain.’
‘But the bride...’ Allcot laid a bony finger beside Gwendolyn’s name.
Now Thomas took up the aspergillum resting on the table and obliterated the bride with a sprinkling of holy water. ‘Oh, dear. I seem to have smudged it. But we can fix it yet.’
He scrawled Generva in the place from which Gwendolyn was rapidly disappearing. ‘There.’ He smiled in satisfaction. ‘All better.’
The vicar stared in alarm at the mangled paper. ‘That cannot be proper,’ he insisted in a weak voice.
‘I fail to see why not,’ Thomas said, all innocence. ‘The licence is right. But the names were written wrong. They are correct now. For myself, I can hardly wait to upbraid Chuckles for his mistake. Over dinner, perhaps.’ He turned to Generva, as if in an aside. ‘You will love the man, my darling. We must entertain him as soon as we are back in London.’
‘Chuckles?’ she said.
‘An old nickname for my friend Charles. Manners-Sutton,’ he added for the benefit of the vicar.
‘The archbishop?’ The vicar turned as white as his alb.
‘His Grace, Canterbury,’ Thomas added, tapping the signature, Cantaur:, at the bottom of the paper. ‘He would marry us himself, in my drawing room, if I asked. But I do not want to wait until we have removed to London. It would be a shame to take Generva away from her home parish when there are so many who want to wish her well.’
She was not so sure of that herself. The ladies of the congregation looked more like a pack of jackals drooling for her marrow than friends eager to celebrate her good fortune.
The vicar still looked doubtfully at the marred paper. ‘If you are sure that the Archbishop made a mistake...’
As if in afterthought, the duke reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy purse, setting it on the table, then pushed it to the side as though he had already forgotten its presence. ‘I am, Reverend Allcot. I am.’
* * *
As they sat later, snug in the box pew that her family shared, Generva could not imagine a better Christmas gift. Their toes were kept warm by the little stove upon the floor in front of them, but it was the feeling of a man’s hand holding hers that truly warmed her heart.
Although she had dreaded the day for a week, now that it was here, she saw no censure directed towards her daughter. The recently jilted Gwendolyn sat on her other side, completely ignored and dozing through Reverend Allcot’s sermon. Beside her, Ben toyed with a penknife Thomas had given him as a Christmas gift, opening and closing it, staring thoughtfully at the mahogany of the pew.
Thomas followed the boy’s gaze, then reached into his pocket and produced a bar of soap. He handed it over and they all ignored the pile of shavings building up at their feet as Ben began work on an effigy of Boney, the spaniel.
Generva marvelled at his sangfroid. She suspected he was as calm and collected in Parliament as in the parlour, equally untroubled by small boys and large men. His mere presence held the entire congregation in rapt attention. But he paid no attention. He cared for no one but her. And when she looked at him, she felt the same.
At the end of the service, the congregation sat in pious silence to witness the marriage of Mrs Generva Marsh to the Duke of Montford. There was an awkward pause when Mr Allcot asked, ‘Who giveth this woman?’
She was about to answer that it should hardly be necessary to be given away at this stage in her life when her son came bounding up the aisle, complete with penknife. He left a trail of soap shavings behind him like so many rose petals dropped in the
