The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,3

a governess, if you prefer.”

She must have contorted her face, for he smiled.

“Companion is better,” he said. “You can read books to some elderly woman in some idyllic manor house.”

“You mean remote,” she said miserably.

He scrutinized her. “Of course, there is another option.”

“Oh?” she asked, her voice eager.

He tapped his long fingers languidly over the leather top of his satinwood desk. “I almost hesitate to bring it up.”

“I’ll consider any option,” she said.

“Well,” Sir Vincent said gamely. “You can marry...me.”

CHAPTER TWO

LONDON COULD BE RELIED upon to have marvelous balls. It was the thing Colin North, Duke of Brightling, loved most about the city. There were balls in Mayfair, balls in Kensington, and occasionally, balls at Buckingham Palace. Balls involved dancing and alcohol and a parade of pretty women. Balls never allowed time for musing and other such melancholic drivel, not when one was occupied with providing scintillating chitchat tailored to charm each member of the ton.

Unfortunately, this was December, and there were scarcely any balls at all. Most of the ton had abandoned the city, spurred by sentimental images of Christmas to travel with their families to the countryside over muddy lanes, the trip made more vile and unpleasant by the inevitable accompaniment of rain, sleet, or on particularly dreadful occasions, snow.

Colin favored sunshine to any of the winter weather events the sky seemed so eager to conjure. He wondered if he’d imagined the sky could ever be blue and have large fluffy clouds sail over it. He sighed. Perhaps he should have traveled to Rome, where snow was a rarity, and the considerable distance from England precluded anyone from expressing surprise that he did not intend to make a multi-day jaunt to his estate.

A knock sounded on the door, and his manservant sailed into the bedroom. The light from the windows didn’t cast a golden glow as it did under other, brighter, better days, but Niles still gave a serene smile as if every strand of his blond hair, unmarred from gray, were glinting. “A letter has arrived for you.”

Colin turned away from his contemplation of the dismal season. “I hope it’s an invitation to a ball.”

“That would be unlikely.” Niles’s nose wrinkled. “The letter is postmarked Cornwall.”

“Sandridge!” Colin sprang from his armchair, grabbed the letter, and tore off the red seal. “I haven’t seen him for months.”

“Most tragic,” Niles said in a soothing voice.

Colin chuckled. “That’s nonsense, and you know it. You’re glad he’s not in town.”

“I would never criticize a duke.”

“Good.” Colin flashed a smile, contemplating his own title. He tilted his head. “But perhaps you would criticize the frequency with which you had to wash my clothes?”

Niles shuddered. “Spot cleaning is far preferable. But your friends—”

Niles was silent, and for a moment, Colin pondered the times spent on horses galloping about Hyde Park. He pondered sudden swimming ventures into unguarded ponds. He pondered nights at smoky gaming hells, sipping brandy and playing cards.

“Well, they’re all married now,” Colin said.

“Thank goodness.”

An aggrieved expression must have shot upon Colin’s face, for Niles’s expression sobered.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Niles apologized. “It was improper.”

“That is a state you never achieve.” Colin unfolded Sandridge’s letter, wishing his friend had taken as much care in penmanship as he had with expressing his affection and adoration for his new bride.

“I believe Sir Seymour is holding a ball tonight,” Niles said. “I didn’t see an invitation, but I’m certain he wouldn’t mind if you were to make an appearance, Your Grace.”

Colin grimaced. Sir Seymour was one of his least favorite members of the ton. The man had the pomposity typically found in butlers of large country estates with none of the fawning servitude.

“You mean I can be a reliable dance partner?” Colin asked.

“I have no intention of implying you must do athletics for your tea,” Niles said stiffly.

“I wouldn’t describe the thin slices of dry cake and punch Sir Seymour normally puts on the buffet table for his balls as tea. One would think Almack’s horrible food has made it fashionable for some households to attempt to equal that institution’s in unpleasantness, and Sir Seymour is determined to be fashionable.”

“Given the state of the soles of your dance slippers, I’d rather assumed you enjoy twirling and hopping.”

Colin smiled. “I do. You might find the activity appealing yourself.”

Niles’s eyes shot open. “You want me to twirl?”

“Why not? Though you can wait until I leave the room.”

Niles appeared somewhat reassured, and Colin smiled. Niles might be near his own age, but his manservant seemed to