A Season of Hope (Danby #2)(17)

“Let me finish. You’re also one of the biggest cowards. This is Christmastide, a time of renewal and hope. Don’t go and ruin this now, Wheatley.”

So they were back to Wheatley.

“I’m done here. Think about what I’ve said and don’t disappoint me, boy. I don’t like to be disappointed.”

Marcus stared after him. Invariably the duke was going to be disappointed in him. Danby, a step below royalty, was one of the most powerful peers in the realm. No one would be wont to deny the man anything. The duke didn’t know what it was like for the rest of Society; especially mere second sons of viscounts, covered in scars.

And Danby was wrong. Olivia deserved more. Far more than a man like him.





Chapter 9


The Gold Parlor, bathed in candlelight, leant a magical feel to the decorated hall. Hundreds of sconces flickered and danced off the silver and red beading strewn through the room. Brightly wrapped packages littered the base of the tree.

The duke had declared the yew boughs that had been draped around the perimeter were not nearly enough, and Marcus and Olivia had been charged with bringing in additional greenery.

Olivia stared up at the mistletoe, which had been hung from the chandelier at the center of the room.

Marcus leaned close, his hot breath fanned her cheek. “Who would imagine His Grace was romantic?”

She smiled. “If I were to tell my family, they’d never believe it.”

“And the proof of his Christmastide spirit will surely be swept away so swiftly that no one will ever know.”

No one, but them.

Her throat worked painfully. The days had ticked by faster than the beats of a clock, counting down the time until she’d have to leave. This was the eve of Christmas; a time that should be wrought with merriment and laughter and yet, all she could think was that in two days, she’d be gone. She would return to London, where she would wed the Earl of Ellsworth, Marcus would remain here, and the beauty of this season would be nothing more than a haunting memory.

Marcus stroked his fingers along her jawline. “There is no room for sadness. Not on the eve of Christmas.”

Her eyes caressed the angled planes of his face. No, on this night nothing else mattered—just this moment.

“Are you two going to sit?” the duke barked from across the room.

Olivia and Marcus jumped apart as if a canon and gone off.

Danby stomped across the parlor floor, gesturing to the gold brocade sofa. “Sit.”

Marcus’ lips twitched. “Does it often feel like His Grace is speaking to a terrier?”

“I heard that, Wheatley. I may be dying but I’m not deaf.”

Olivia greeted her grandfather with a kiss on the cheek. “You aren’t dying,” she assured him. He was aging, ill, and more gaunt than she ever remembered him, but she’d realized in her time visiting, the Duke of Danby wasn’t dying. The duke might not ever admit it, but he’d summoned her because he hadn’t wanted to be alone for the yule season. “In fact, I would venture you have at least another twenty Christmastides to still celebrate.”

He frowned and shuffled over to a King Louis broad-framed chair and sat heavily. He opened his mouth to no doubt deliver a stinging rebuke at Olivia’s insolence.

Marcus cleared his throat. He held out an arm. Olivia placed her fingers along his sleeve and allowed him to guide her to the sofa. He hesitated and for one long moment, she believed he would claim the chair next to the duke but then he sat beside Olivia. His tan breeches brushed the fabric of her skirts and her breath caught. She stole a peek from the corner of her eye to see if Marcus was as affected by the subtle touch, yet could read nothing in his firm stare.

“Time for songs now.” The duke raised his monocle and glared over in the general direction of the small orchestra that had been assembled.

The musicians immediately set their strings to bows and began to pluck out the hymn, Angels from the Realms of Glory.

“Sing,” the duke barked.

Marcus whispered close to her ear. “I believe he is speaking to us.”

“I do believe you mean, commanding,” she said, her tone dry.

Marcus chuckled.

Olivia’s voice blended with Marcus’s gruff baritone. He’d always possessed a smooth, mellifluous tone when he spoke. Now, with time and what he’d suffered, there was almost a grating, rough quality to his voice when he sang or spoke. It suited him. His voice was that of a man.



Angels, from the realms of glory,

Wing your flight o'er all the earth;

Ye who sang creation's story,

Now proclaim Messiah's birth:



Come and worship, come and worship

Worship Christ, the newborn King.



Shepherds, in the fields abiding,

Watching o'er your flocks by night,

God with man is now residing,

Yonder shines the infant light.



As the chords drew to an end, Marcus and Olivia exchanged a smile.

“I’ve got something for the both of you,” Danby said, interrupting the stolen interlude.

A servant seemed to materialize at the duke’s pronouncement. He and one small, brightly wrapped package and a thick, velum envelope. He held the envelope to Marcus, and then handed the present over to Olivia.