He bent a little to be on eye level with the toddler. “Happy Christmas, Master George.”
The boy grinned, reached out a hand, and grabbed his nose. He chuckled. The last time he’d visited the lad in the nursery, he’d pretended to steal his nose. It had led to endless amounts of laughter and apparently his nephew had not forgotten.
“I believe he may just like you,” Emma said, a cheeky smile on her face.
Alan freed himself from the toddler’s grasp. “Nonsense. He is simply trying to exert dominance, as most of us men do.”
“And is it working?”
“Unequivocally. I shall soon need to bow to him.” He raised a brow at his nephew and the boy giggled.
Mrs. Lenning’s eyes were bright with adoration as she took in the interaction. “You will be a great father one day, Lord Gladsby.”
He straightened. “What makes you say that?”
“You have a way with children.”
Pressing his lips together, he couldn’t stop his gaze from straying to Grace as the butler helped her on with her redingote. When she turned in his direction, he jerked his eyes away.
“I only have a way with this one,” he said. “I believe he’s put a spell on me and now I shall be his devoted servant for the rest of my days.”
All the ladies tittered except Grace. Her brow furrowed and her lips flattened. When they locked eyes, she quickly set to work pulling on her last glove. Something in the comment had upset her. Knowing how perceptive she was, he did not doubt she understood his meaning.
He had no intention of fathering his own children, and yet now he wondered if the decision was a hasty one.
It had only taken one moment of vulnerability, one time of finally opening up about his past to help him sleep better. He knew it wouldn’t work every time, but maybe Hamdon had been right. Maybe it was time to let others in.
Chapter 15
Grace smiled at her dinner companion, Mr. Clayton. The older gentleman reminded her of her father. Soft-spoken, kind, and abounding in wisdom, his presence had brought a peace to the day she’d not realized she’d been missing for years. Had it really been nearly six years since Papa had taken his light with him to the grave?
She nibbled on her bottom lip, trying desperately to forget that Christmas came before Pru’s birthday, which brought other unwelcome memories. Like a house filled with silence as everyone watched and waited. Tears from family and staff alike. The dawning of a new day, and with it, the ending of a life.
A wrinkled hand patted hers. “Are you well, my dear?”
My dear. How was it that older gentlemen could use the endearment and it somehow felt like a hug rather than a breach of social propriety?
She sniffed and lowered her voice. “Christmas holds many memories. Some good, some sad.”
He gave a solemn nod. “I can understand. My Clara loved Christmastide. I cannot help but think of her whenever it comes around. They are bittersweet memories, but being around the family she loved so dearly helps soothe the ache.”
She glanced around at the others at the table before asking him to share a few of his favorite memories. Apparently, the vicar’s wife had been the late Lord Gladsby’s sister. Never able to have children, they’d loved Lady Hamdon and Lord Gladsby as their own. He spoke of each of them in the most glowing light that she wondered why Lord Gladsby had portrayed himself as being a rather disagreeable child.
From Mr. Clayton’s perspective, he’d been a protective brother who loved his little sister so much he’d insist she be included in every outing with friends. In addition, he’d adored his mama and her parents, who had come over from France during the revolution, which explained why Lord Gladsby spoke French without a hint of the choppy accent that plagued her attempts at the language.
Mr. Clayton told her stories of Christmas parties filled with laughter and love. He spoke of entertaining discussions between his nephew and Monsieur Beauchene. Apparently, Lord Gladsby had inherited his passionate nature from his grandfather. To hold his own in political discussions with one’s own grandparent at the age of seventeen was no small feat.
Lord Gladsby had a strength of character that she found alluring. His passion was admirable, not disgraceful as he’d indicated. It seemed he and his father simply had different opinions on the application of his gifts.
Conversation carried on around them, but she could not get enough of Mr. Clayton’s stories. When he finished one, she’d ask a question that would inevitably lead to another.
“You two seem to be enjoying yourselves,” Lord Gladsby said from the other end of the table, his fork suspended in the air. “What subject has you both so occupied?”
Grace ducked her head, feeling like an intruder in his past. How could she say she’d been learning everything there was to know about his childhood because it made it easier to understand him, to feel close to him?
Thankfully, Mr. Clayton answered for her. “Miss Lenning has been so kind as to let this old man visit his memories of Christmases past, and what’s more, she’s been a wonderful listener, even though I know I’ve prattled on for the better part of an hour and have probably bored her nearly to tears.”
“On the contrary,” she protested, “they have been wonderful stories.”
