Chapter 5 #2
He cleared his throat. “An accurate observation; I hope you’d show mercy and send care parcels to Newgate. But we must carry on to the meal and distributing of baskets. Your addition of green and red ribbon and a sprig of holly was a charming touch.”
His wife blushed as she fiddled with her necklace. “It seemed festive. I can see why the staff love the baskets, you are very generous. Admirably so.”
Locket.
“You’re wearing your wedding locket,” Dalton said abruptly, unsure why it mattered or how it was so supremely satisfying to see her wearing jewelry he’d purchased himself rather than heirloom pieces. “Not the bracelet?”
Frances looked away. “Ah, something that…significant…can really only be worn on certain occasions. But this locket is lovely. It matches any gown.”
Hell. Anyone would think his duchess disliked the bracelet; significant was hardly a rousing endorsement. In saying that, perhaps it just reminded her of the time he’d been a drunken fool.
Buck up, man. In a few more hours you’ll be at Warenne Hall.
Dalton forced himself to smile again as they entered the large dining room that easily seated 100 people. “I’m glad you like it…good God, Cook and Mrs. Thorpe have outdone themselves.”
Indeed, the dining room had been transformed.
The walls were draped with silver silk and white ribbon alongside fragrant Christmas wreathes of rosemary, bay leaves, holly, laurel and mistletoe.
On a trestle table in one corner stood a sea of bottles: brandy, sherry, ratafia, port, wine, Mrs. Thorpe’s refreshingly tart lemon cordial, even a cask of ale.
But the main oak table near-groaned under the weight of a feast fit for a king: sides of roasted beef and venison, several dressed geese, thick vegetable pottage of carrots, leeks and onion, a boar’s head with a red apple in its mouth, green beans and boiled potatoes in butter sauce, poached fish, wheels of cheese, loaves of freshly baked bread, and dishes of nuts and candied fruit.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” breathed Frances.
“The Dashford Christmas Day menu hasn’t changed much over time,” Dalton admitted. “But I did remove eels. Not only are they disgusting, Cook threatened to leave me for Devonshire’s household if they remained. It seemed there were several…incidents.”
Frances giggled, the sound so decidedly not proper, it stopped him short. Once again, she was surprising him and he was already thoroughly out of sorts, damn it.
After inhaling deeply for some sort of composure, Dalton asked: “How do you feel about donning an apron? I usually pour drinks for the staff.”
His wife nodded, reaching for the starched white linen apron draped over a chair. “I’m happy to assist. A half glass? Full to the brim?”
He smiled ruefully. “My banker has conniptions, but full to the brim. It is Christmas.”
For the next half hour Dalton served a never-ending stream of people; had he thought Tansley House had just fifty staff?
Clearly they’d multiplied like mice. But the entire time, Frances stood beside him smiling and pouring and conversing with everyone from scullery maid to butler, and he couldn’t help but admire her warmth and poise.
Frances might be entirely too beautiful for his peace of mind, but she truly was an excellent duchess. A credit to him.
When they were all seated, Dalton rang the supper bell for silence. “As it’s nearing noon, I shall endeavor to be brief. 1814 has been a year of great change, both for England and this household, with the welcome addition of my duchess—”
Cheers and thunderous applause sounded until he gestured for quiet.
“Today begins Christmastide,” Dalton continued. “A time of good cheer and miracles, new beginnings, reward for toil and—”
“Making babies!” bellowed Cook, raising her brandy glass then hiccupping, and the dining room exploded in laughter.
Dalton ground his teeth. The staff might be too busy drinking, but he’d not missed Frances’ tiny flinch.
She knew. He knew. Every bloody person in England knew the Dashford dukedom needed an heir for the ancient title, multiple estates, vast fortune and nearly a thousand livelihoods.
That was as inescapable as a runaway cart.
But did it really need to be brought up in every damned conversation?
Thank God going to Kent would offer a short respite, where fucking was about pleasure, not securing lines.
“Anyway,” he said when the laughter finally died down, “thank you all for your loyal, industrious service. Her Grace and I wish you a very Merry Christmas. Enjoy the meal.”
After escorting Frances to her seat, Dalton returned to the other end of the enormous dining table. Thankfully, very soon, he would be on his way to erotic Utopia—the only cure for his ever-growing and certainly insane obsession with his own wife.
Finally.
* * *
Winter carriage travel in a hired vehicle was proof that purgatory did exist.
Pressing her lips together so she didn’t yowl like an angry cat, Frances stared out the window as the last remnants of gloomy gray afternoon was devoured by darkness.
To ensure Dashford was long gone, she’d allowed a full half hour between him leaving Tansley House and her own escape at two o’clock, but it was an excruciating twenty miles to Warenne Hall, just south of Dartford in Kent.
Twenty miles of jolting, shuddering, swaying travel on thin squabs that her backside might never recover from.
She winced, moving restlessly to try to ease the bruised, cramped feeling.
However, this situation could certainly be much worse: the roads were actually passable rather than a treacherous mud hole or ice sheet, a small carriage with two footmen and an experienced driver was faster and nimbler than most, and they carried surprisingly powerful lanterns to light the way.
Lady Warenne had also generously provided a lap rug and hot brick, so the temperature was bearable.
Yet right now, after what must be about three hours of travel, she would give anything to just be still.
Especially when her nerves were scraped raw at what she was about to do.
Frances twisted her fingers together. Following Dashford to Kent to be his surprise mistress was probably the most foolish plan in the history of the world.
Even with the help of practice phalluses, how could a young, inexperienced duchess pretend, even for a few minutes, that she was a wild wanton who knew how to pleasure a man in the bedchamber?
Surely Dashford would know her for a fraud at once and send her away in disgust.