Chapter 1
"Your Grace, might I suggest the green waistcoat? It would be most festive for the journey."
Alaric Montrose, the Duke of Wexmere, did not look up from the letter he was reading—a tedious missive from his steward regarding drainage issues at the northern estate. He found drainage infinitely more compelling than his valet's sudden preoccupation with seasonal color schemes.
"Grimsby," he said, his voice carrying the particular tone of exhausted patience he'd perfected over twelve years of ducal responsibility, "if I wished to resemble a Christmas tree, I would have myself fitted with branches and tinsel. The black waistcoat, as usual."
"Very good, Your Grace." Grimsby's tone suggested it was not, in fact, very good at all. The man had been attempting to inject what he called 'a touch of warmth' into Alaric's wardrobe for the better part of a decade. It was a war of attrition that neither party seemed likely to win.
Alaric set down the letter and watched his valet pack with the efficiency of a man who had long ago accepted his employer's sartorial preferences as one might accept inclement weather; with resignation and appropriate preparation. The December morning light filtering through the windows of his Mayfair townhouse had that peculiar quality that suggested snow, though London rarely obliged with anything more picturesque than grey slush.
"I trust you've remembered to pack my ledgers?" Alaric asked, though trust was perhaps too strong a word. Hope might be more accurate.
"All seventeen of them, Your Grace, including the supplementary volumes on crop rotation and the agricultural reports from the Royal Society."
"Excellent. And the..."
"The correspondence from Mr. Ironwell regarding the boundary dispute, yes. Also the surveys from 1762, 1794, and 1803, as you requested. They are in the second trunk, organized chronologically with cross-references by property line."
Alaric felt the smallest flicker of satisfaction. In a world gone insane with ribbons and good cheer, efficient filing systems remained a bastion of sanity.
"Tell me, Grimsby," he said, moving to the window to observe the street below, where his neighbors were already engaged in the exhausting business of hanging garlands, "what precisely is the appeal of this season? Every year, perfectly rational individuals suddenly decide that bringing trees indoors and setting them aflame with candles is not only acceptable but desirable. It defies all logic."
"I believe, Your Grace, that the appeal lies in the spirit of generosity and goodwill toward one's fellow man."
"Ah yes, goodwill. That explains why Lady Rhodes and Mrs. Ashford nearly came to blows yesterday over whose door wreath was more 'authentically festive.' I witnessed the altercation frommy study. There was rather impressive use of a holly sprig as a weapon."
Grimsby's mouth twitched in what might have been suppressed amusement. "Perhaps the ladies were simply overcome with... seasonal enthusiasm."
"If that's enthusiasm, I should hate to see antipathy." Alaric turned from the window. "No, Grimsby, I am convinced that Christmas is a form of collective madness, a contagion that spreads through the population every December, causing otherwise sensible people to behave as though happiness can be achieved through the strategic placement of evergreen boughs."
"And yet, Your Grace is traveling to Hollingford Hall for the season."
"To escape the madness, not embrace it. The northern estate has been neglected for years. The ledgers suggest concerning irregularities in the tenant payments, and my steward there, Fletcher, has been suspiciously vague in his recent correspondence. Besides," he added, collecting his gloves from the side table, "Hollingford is remote enough that I doubt even Christmas could find it."
This was, Alaric would later reflect, perhaps the most spectacularly wrong prediction he had ever made in his thirty-two years of existence.
"Will Your Grace be attending any of the local festivities?" Grimsby inquired with studied innocence. "I understand the village of Hollingford hosts quite a charming Christmas fair."
"I would sooner attend my own funeral. At least that would have the advantage of being brief and requiring no small talk."
"Very good, Your Grace. I shall pack your mourning clothes instead of evening wear."
Alaric shot his valet a look that would have withered lesser men. Grimsby merely continued folding shirts with geometric precision.
"You know," Grimsby ventured, "your blessed mother, may she rest in peace, was quite fond of Christmas."
"My mother was fond of many things that brought her joy and others acute discomfort. I learned early to distinguish between the two." The words came out sharper than intended, a reminder that some wounds, even decades old, never quite ceased aching.
The late Duchess of Wexmere had indeed loved Christmas with the passionate intensity that she'd brought to all her enthusiasms. She'd also loved her husband, who had reciprocated by spending every December in London with his mistress while his wife decorated Hollingford Hall alone. Young Alaric had watched his mother pretend joy for the servants' sake, had seen her shoulders shake with suppressed tears as she hung stockings for a family that existed only in her imagination. He'd been eight when he'd found her crying into the Christmas pudding, and nine when he'd decided that any season that could make his formidable mother weep was not to be trusted.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean to..."
"No forgiveness necessary, Grimsby. You meant no harm." Alaric straightened his cravat unnecessarily. "I simply prefer to acknowledge Christmas as what it truly is—a commercial enterprise designed to part fools from their money while forcing proximity upon relations who spend the rest of the year successfully avoiding one another."
"A most philosophical view, Your Grace."
"I prefer to think of it as practical. Now, shall we depart before someone attempts to sing at me?"
