“Leave it for now, Mrs. Yorke.” His voice was cold and stern, a distinct contrast to the fires of interest smoldering in his eyes when he looked at her. “I want the rodents dealt with first. The rest can wait a day or two.”
Victory was hers. For this interview, at least. She was to have a reprieve from her sacking, and he would allow her to keep her elaborate, painstaking Christmas decorations in place. In the meantime, she would simply have to craft more clever excuses why the greenery couldn’t be taken away quite yet.
Joceline tamped down a smile, knowing that she didn’t dare show him just how pleased she was. Perhaps there was still hope she could crack his hardened shell. The dowager duchess would be happy to see that Joceline had at least made some progress. Unlike the previous housekeepers the dowager duchess had sent to Blackwell Abbey, Joceline had not been unceremoniously deposited back at the train station within her first few days.
“That is most generous of you, Your Grace,” she said demurely. “Thank you.”
“As soon as the mice are dealt with, I expect the holly and trees to be gone,” he reminded her sternly.
“Would Her Grace not wish to enjoy the decorations during her stay at Blackwell Abbey?” she inquired lightly, knowing she was pushing him and yet unable to keep quiet.
The fifty pounds the dowager Duchess of Sedgewick had promised Joceline was a potent lure indeed. Her family would needed those funds desperately.
“Her Grace is not visiting Blackwell Abbey,” the duke snapped with finality. “As I’ve told you, I’ve not extended an invitation.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she acceded hastily, content to leave the matter for now.
She had already pressed him enough, and she didn’t dare to push him any further at the moment. There was always tomorrow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Yorke,” he said curtly. “That will be all.”
She had been dismissed.
Joceline dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace. Good day.”
He inclined his head, that unusual blue-green stare of his far too intent. With nothing more to say, she fled to the safety of the endless list of duties awaiting her.
CHAPTER 4
Unless he was mistaken, the scent of greenery and fir was even more pronounced this morning as Quint descended the staircase in search of his breakfast. He reached the last step and frowned, sniffing the air. There was the smell of soap and freshly scrubbed floors, which was decidedly new—and appreciated, now that he thought upon it. But no mistaking it. There was also the verdant scent of cut greens and trees, redolent and, though he would never admit it aloud, almost pleasant, reminiscent of a time when he hadn’t despised Yuletide to his marrow.
What the devil had come over him?
He was about to stalk to the dining room for his customary morning coffee when some bustling about the library down the hall caught his attention. Footmen. At least four of them, entering his library. By God, had Mrs. Yorke hired even more domestics? Where had the meddlesome woman found them? He wasn’t sure if he should be irritated or impressed.
Strangely, some perverse part of him was leaning toward the latter, which shocked him. He was beginning—somehow, and against his better judgment—tolikehis unwanted housekeeper.The realization almost had him tripping over his own feet as he neared the library and the source of the commotion.
As he reached the threshold, the sight that greeted him stopped Quint short.
More Christmas trees.
More holly.
And ribbons, too, and oranges and roses and apples, and sweet Christ above, was that a kissing bough hanging from the ceiling?
He goggled at the scene, taking note of the sheer abundance of decorations, before his gaze settled upon the lone feminine figure whose back was to him. She wore a gown as black as her hair, a tidy white apron looped around her waist and blanketing the front of her skirts. Her raven hair was confined in a tidy chignon at her nape. And he suddenly itched to pluck out her hairpins and sift his fingers through those inky tresses, to see if they felt as silken and smooth as they looked.
What was the matter with him? He should be outraged at this blatant disregard for his edict. And yet, he was standing here mooning over his housekeeper’s hair.
“Your Grace!” Peter—thankfully a familiar face in the sea of footmen and maids busily at work—exclaimed, spying Quint amidst the flurry.
Mrs. Yorke whirled about, her customary sunny smile on her lush lips as her gaze clashed with his. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
Her curtsy was faultless. She was too young, too beautiful to be a housekeeper. Where had his mother found her?
The room had come to a stop around her, a hive of bees that had been summarily stopped, the new footmen and housemaids frozen, their eyes wide. He was ever cognizant of their audience. And of the fact that she had once again defied him, to stunning effect.
“A word with you alone, Mrs. Yorke,” he said with deceptive calm.
