Merry Christmas, My Love

“That’s not the point, Your Grace. What would Miss Jennings say?”

“Ah, Miss Jennings.” He slanted Merry a look. “The perfect governess.”

She gave an unladylike snort. A glance at the duke caught him in a smile.

“It appears Miss Jennings does not quite approve of you.”

“Neither do you, Your Grace.”

His brows drew together. “Please stop with the ‘Your Grace.’ It gets burdensome after a while.”

Merry’s lips quirked. “I have the feeling you rarely find your title burdensome, Your…”

“Penrose. Why don’t you call me that instead?” When she inclined her head, he remarked, “So you believe love and marriage are compatible?” His intense gaze encompassed her as if she were a bug under glass. She felt exposed and smothered at the same time.

Nonplussed by his quick shift in conversation, she raised her chin. “Yes, I do. My parents had a love match, and I will not marry without love.”

“Foolish child.” He shook his head as he studied the brandy he swirled.

“I beg your pardon!” Merry felt the heat rise to her face.

He glanced quickly at her. “Once again I must apologize. I meant no insult.”

“Her Grace told me she and your father were in love.”

“That’s true. However, it didn’t start that way, and they were lucky love remained. Things could turn messy if a couple fell out of love. Better to marry without that expectation.” He drained the last of his brandy and set the glass aside. “To me marriage is all a business arrangement, nothing more.”

“And at four and thirty you have not been successful in securing a busine

ss arrangement for yourself?”

“Ah. Straightforward speaking. A trait of the Americans.”

Since her brash statement didn’t have him ordering her to her room, she continued. “You are a duke, with responsibilities. Surely someone as dedicated to his title as you are would have ensured the continuation of the Penrose line and filled his nursery by now. An heir and a spare, is that not the accepted vernacular?”

“Lord Brandon is my heir.”

“And it appears he has done nothing to secure the title, either. So neglectful, Your Grace.”

He grinned. “You do realize how far over the line you have stepped, Miss Chambers?”

She inclined her head. “Yes, please excuse my straightforward speaking. I am afraid it doesn’t bode as well here in England as it does in America.”

“Which Americans have in abundance.”

“As you say.” She sighed and stood. “That little bit of sherry has rendered me drowsy. I’m sure I will be able to sleep now.”

Penrose stood at the same time she did. “Alas, I find the brandy did not soothe me as much as I’d hoped.”

“Perhaps a book?”

“I have a better idea.” He moved toward her, and set his hands on her shoulders. “Do you know why Miss Jennings dislikes you so?”

Merry shook her head, the ability to speak having fled. Her skin burned where his warm palms held her, his strong fingers kneading her flesh. She should not allow these liberties. But it was, oh, so hard to move away from his commanding presence. His eyes held her prisoner. She moved her gaze to his sensual lips.

“Because you’re a beautiful woman-Merry.” He edged her closer. “Isn’t that what the girls and my mother call you?”

His eyes danced with mirth and something else. Undefinable, and fleeting. Her senses were awash with his smell, touch, warmth. The dark room, lit only by the glow from the fireplace, with his strong body blocking out the darkness, enveloped her with an aura of peace and danger all at the same time. She tried desperately to remember his question. “Yes.” Her voice, having recovered, decided to only whisper. “Your Grace…”