Page 30 of The Virtues of Christmas
She left him in his comfy chair in his cozy study, before she started shouting. For Christmas, she’d longed to have his respect. They were speaking to each other, mostly civilly, and he’d granted her shelter from the elements, albeit temporarily.
That was a start, and more than she’d had from him for the previous decade.
* * *
Five days went by, during which Michael rehearsed enough apologies and grand speeches to fill every stage in Drury Lane. On Friday, he received a holiday greeting from Lord Heathgate that was positively chatty.
Heathgate, once the greatest rogue in Britain, maundered on about his daughters’ intrepid horsemanship and his sons’ matchless abilities at cricket. The paragraph regarding his lordship’s marchioness was so rife with tender sentiment that Michael had nearly pitched it into the rubbish bin.
Instead, he took himself for a long walk and ended up in the stables.
“You again,” Liam Logan said. “I’d thought by now you’d be traveling into Oxford to see those sisters of yours.”
Michael joined him at a half door to a coach horse’s stall. They still had the grays from the last inn Michael had stopped at with Henrietta.
“I thought by now my sisters might see fit to pay their brother a holiday visit,” Michael said. “But sitting on my rosy arse amid a bunch of dusty old books hasn’t lured my family into the countryside.”
“Then you’ll want to go into Oxford to purchase tokens for the Christmas baskets,” Logan said, reaching a gloved hand to the gelding nosing through a pile of hay.
“My staff has already seen to the baskets. Didn’t I give you leave for the holidays, Logan?”
The horse ignored Logan’s outstretched hand and instead gave Michael’s greatcoat a delicate sniff. Horse breath on the ear tickled, but Michael let the beast continue its investigations.
“That you did, sir, but here I am.”
“I won’t have much use for—”
The horse got its teeth around the lapel of Michael’s collar and tugged, hard. Michael was pulled up against the stall door, and—with a firm, toothy grasp of his coat—the horse merely regarded him. The domestic equine was blessed with large, expressive eyes, and in those eyes, Michael detected the same unimpressed and vaguely challenging sentiment Henrietta had once turned on him.
“Ach, now that’s enough,” Logan said, waving a hand in the horse’s face. “Be off with you.”
The same words Henrietta had used.
The horse, however, kept its grip of Michael’s greatcoat. If the beast could talk, it might have said, “I weigh nearly ten times what you do, my teeth could snap your arm, and my feet smash your toes. Ignore me at your peril.”
I’m to fetch Henrietta home to Inglemere, and to me.For ten years, Henrietta had bided in London, probably longing for her family to fetch her home, because that’s what families were supposed to do when one of their number strayed. The idea had not the solid ring of conviction, but the more delicate quality of a hope, a theory, a wish.
Which was a damned sight more encouraging than the cold toes and insomnia Michael had to show for the past week’s wanderings.
“Have the team put to,” Michael said, scratching the gelding’s ear. “We’re for Amblebank.”
The horse let him go.
“Thank God for that,” Logan said. “But you’d best change into some decent finery, my lord. The ladies are none too impressed with muddy boots.”
“I’m not calling on a lady,” Michael said. “But you’re right. The occasion calls for finery.”
And some reconnaissance. A comment Henrietta had made about her brothers had lodged in Michael’s memory, and the comment wanted further investigation. Henrietta’s family was merely gentry, not aristocracy, and life in the shires ran on more practical terms than in Mayfair.
Michael dressed with care, explained the itinerary to Logan, and made only one brief stop on the way to Amblebank. Less than two hours after making the decision to go calling, he was standing in Josiah Whitlow’s study, sporting his best Bond Street tailoring and his most lordly air.
Henrietta’s father put Michael in mind of an aging eagle, his gaze sharp, the green of his eyes fading, his demeanor brusquely—almost rudely--proper.
“To what do I owe the honor of this call, my lord?” Whitlow asked.
“We’re neighbors, at a distance,” Michael said. “My estate lies about five miles east of Amblebank, and I’ve had occasion to meet your daughter.”
Whitlow stalked across the room and stood facing a portrait of a lovely young redhead. His gait was uneven, but energetic. “For ten years, I had no daughter.”
