Page 12 of The Virtues of Christmas
Chapter Three
Henrietta resisted my lures for weeks—weeks spent cozening her into a parody of friendship. I admired her quiet nature. I begged to sketch her hands—as if a housemaid’s hands deserved that honor. I consulted her on my choice of cravat pin and other weighty matters. Never was a mouse stalked with more patience than I stalked Henrietta Whitlow’s virtue, and all the while, she was honestly unaware of her peril, such was my skill as a romantic thespian. When I recall my dedication to the task, I truly do marvel at my own tenacity, for once upon a time, Henrietta Whitlow was that bastion of English respectability, the good girl…
In Henrietta’s experience, men truly comfortable with their rank and fortune were good company. They neither suffered fools nor put on airs, and the best of them operated under an ethic ofnoblesse oblige. Most were well educated and well informed about the greater world, and thus made interesting conversationalists.
Henrietta had known she was at risk for foolishness with the last man whom she’d granted an arrangement, because His Grace’s conversation, his wealth, his grasp of politic affairs, and his generosity hadn’t appealed to her half so much as his tacit friendship.
Noah, Duke of Anselm, had truly been a protector, deflecting any disrespect to Henrietta with a lift of his eyebrow. He’d escorted her everywhere with the punctilious courtesy of a suitor, rather than the casual disdain of a lord with his fancy piece.
When he’d informed her that he was embarking on the hunt for a duchess, Henrietta had wished him well and sent him on his way with as much relief as regret. By way of a wedding gift, she’d informed him that his greatest amatory asset was…
His ears.
In the course of their arrangement, Anselm had lingered over breakfast with her, chatting about the news of the day rather than rushing off at first light. He’d never expected her to take him straight from the foyer to the bedroom, as some of his predecessors had, and he’d always approached lovemaking as a conversation. Behind the bedroom door, the taciturn, difficult duke had been affectionate, relaxed, and devilishly patient.
Not quite garrulous, but a good listener. A very, very good listener.
Michael Brenner’s willingness to listen eclipsed even the duke’s. He never watched Henrietta as if he were waiting for the moment when he could turn the topic to intimacies, and his gaze never strayed even playfully to places a gentleman ought not to look.
Henrietta had lapsed into tired silence mostly because further acquaintance with the baron could go nowhere. She was mulling over that sad fact—also mentally rehearsing Christmas carols with her nephews, Dicken and Zander—when the coach came to a smooth halt.
“That was a fast twelve miles,” she said, struggling to sound more awake than she felt.
“Wait a bit,” the baron said. “Your hair has tangled with my buttons.”
Henrietta was obliged to remain close enough to his lordship to appreciate the soft wool of his cloak beneath her cheek and the scent of lavender clinging to his skin. He extricated her hair from the offending button, and she could sit up.
Lucille stirred as well. “I’ll just be having a nice, hot cup of—oh, I must have caught a few winks. Beg your pardon, ma’am. My lord.”
“Let’s stretch our legs.” Anything so Henrietta could put some distance between herself and the man upon whom she’d nearly fallen asleep. She’d shared her bed with a half-dozen partners, which meant she was ruined past all redemption, and yet she was embarrassed to have presumed on the baron’s person.
The most highly paid courtesan in London, embarrassed by a catnap.
The baron handed them down from the coach amid steadily falling snow. The coachman clambered off the box, and Lucille disappeared around the side of the inn, doubtless in search of the jakes.
“Please see to accommodations for the ladies, Logan, and a fresh team, unless you’re not inclined to press on.”
“A bit of snow needn’t stop us, my lord,” Logan said. “Though you’ll be wanting more bricks heated, and we’ll have to unload the lady’s trunks.”
“What are my trunks doing on your coach?” Henrietta asked, counting a half-dozen traveling cases lashed to the roof and boot of the baron’s conveyance. “I thought you understood that a valise would be sufficient for my needs.” The idea that he’d made free with her possessions or countermanded her orders sat uneasily.
“I gave no order to transfer your belongings,” the baron said as his coachman stomped up the steps into the inn. “Perhaps your coachman tried to anticipate your needs. We can unload your bags easily enough and have them sent up to your rooms.”
Now that the moment to part was upon her, Henrietta didn’t want to lose sight of his lordship. He’d behaved toward her as a gentleman behaved toward a lady, nothing more, and yet his consideration had solved many problems.
“I suppose this is farewell, then,” she said.
“If you’re biding in Oxfordshire, our paths might well cross again.” He’d eschewed a hat, and snow dusted auburn locks that brushed the collar of his cape.
“I generally stay at the Duck and Goose in Amblebank.” Henrietta’s own father refused to grant her the use of a bedroom, though his manor house boasted eight. She refused to impose on her brothers lest their hospitality to her cause difficulties with Papa.
The baron reached into the coach and produced Henrietta’s scarf. “I have the great good fortune to dwell at Inglemere, due east of Amblebank by about five miles. I’d welcome a call from you or your family.”
Welcome a call.
His lordship spoke a platitude, but in the past ten years, no one had offered Henrietta that courtesy. She was not welcome to call on old friends and neighbors. They didn’t judge her for having wealthy protectors in London, but her own family refused to openly welcome her, and the neighborhood took its cue from that behavior.
If only Papa weren’t so stubborn, and if only Henrietta weren’t even more stubborn than he.
