Merry Christmas, My Love

“Miss Jennings. The perfect governess who would be the perfect duchess.”

“What are you talking about?” He cupped her cheek. ”You, my love, are the perfect duchess. For me.”

When what he’d said finally sunk in, Merry realized she’d misunderstood the entire conversation she’d overheard between Penrose and Lord Brandon.

“You wish to marry me?” she whispered.

“More than anything.” He brushed his lips over hers. “Sweetheart, please save me from the torture I’ve been going through all day and say yes.”

She moved back, hand on her hip, her eyes narrowed. “Is this to be a business arrangement, Your Grace?” She tapped her foot.

He grinned and tugged her back. “No, my love.” He tapped the end of her nose with his finger. “And no more ‘Your Grace.’ I want to be your husband, your lover, the father of your children. And if you feel about me the way I feel about you, this will be a love match.”

Tears of relief and joy gathered in her eyes. This man, who she’d fallen so deeply in love with, would be hers. No matter to him that he was the duke, and she a mere American, he loved her. Her chest swelled with happiness. “Oh yes, this will definitely be a love match.”

“Miss Merry!” Charlotte and Clare called from one of the upper windows.

Both Merry and Penrose sprang apart and look upwards. Merry gasped. “Girls, what are you doing hanging out the window in your night clothes?”

“It’s midnight, Miss Merry. Christmas Day.” They grinned at her, their beautiful young faces aglow in the moonlight.

She tried unsuccessfully to hide her smile. “Return to your room, I will deal with you in the morning.”

Penrose threw back his head and laughed.

Merry attempted to glare at him, but lost the battle. “Don’t laugh. They are in big trouble.”

As the first snowflakes fell, he gathered her close yet again, then leaned his forehead on hers. “Merry Christmas, Miss Merry.”

“Look, His Grace is kissing Miss Merry,” Charlotte sighed. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Epilogue

One Year Later

“Your Grace, what are you doing out of bed?” The young servant hurried to Merry’s side, gripping her elbow as if she were an invalid.

“I am finished with lying about in bed. My son is two weeks old, and I refuse to spend another day staring at the ceiling.”

“I don’t know, I’m afraid His Grace will be furious.”

“Indeed he will be.” Penrose strode down the corridor, scooped Merry up into his arms, and started up the stairs.

“For heaven’s sake, put me down. I can walk.”

“No. The accoucheur distinctly said you were to remain in bed for three weeks.”

“I would love to see how you would behave if someone told you to stay in bed for three weeks.”

“I did not just deliver a baby, madam.”

“But I feel fine. I need some exercise. I can help with the preparations for Christmas.”

“No. I will settle you in bed, and have tea sent up. You must re-gain your strength so you can properly care for my son.”

She glared at him. “My son, too.”

“My goodness, what is all the bickering about?” The dowager duchess stood at the end of the corridor, her hands planted on her hips.