“What do you suppose Lady Booth thought would happen?” Rothgar asked, pouring chocolate for her.
Genova hadn’t considered that question before, and sipped as she did so. “I think she’s a very stupid woman.”
“But not insane.”
“I can only assume that she thought Lord Ashart would take care of the baby, and be embarrassed by that. Which suggests that she doesn’t know him well at all.”
“Or perhaps that she had some other plan. We will discover the truth eventually.”
Wasn’t there a saying about the mills of the gods grinding slowly but being impossible to evade?
“In the meantime,” Rothgar said, “her baby and maid seem settled in the nurseries, and I’ve alertedthe neighborhood for a Gaelic speaker. Have you celebrated Christmas in England before, Miss Smith?”
Some time later, Genova realized that she’d been skillfully drawn out to talk about her life. She remembered discussion of foreign parts, her hopes for the Christmas season, and even mention of her mother’s death and her father’s sickness and retirement. She didn’t think she’d revealed her discomfort in her stepmother’s house, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.
The conversation broke when Lady Arradale came in, sat opposite Genova, and ordered coffee. Her smile seemed to indicate that nothing could make her day more perfect than to find Genova Smith sharing the breakfast table with her husband.
Talk turned to Christmas plans.
“Most of the guests will arrive by two,” Lady Arradale told Genova, “which will allow us a couple of daylight hours to ravage the countryside. It adds to the pleasure to return to the house as darkness falls.”
“It certainly makes the mulled wine and spiced ale welcome,” Rothgar commented, “which leads to celebratory spirits.”
“Quite.” The countess thanked the footman for the coffee, then smiled at Genova. “I found Christmas in great disorder here, with evergreens brought into the house before Christmas Eve. Can you imagine!”
The marquess seemed merely amused. “I have previously held Christmas festivities a little earlier, Miss Smith. I now understand that I’ve been dicing with fate.”
Lady Arradale frowned at him. “Everyone knows it brings bad luck.”
“And yet, we have survived.”
“By the skin of your teeth.”
“Do teeth have skin?”
“Only when revoltingly unclean.”
Lord Rothgar winced theatrically. “Not at the breakfast table, I pray, my love.”
Lady Arradale laughed and apologized to Genova, who was pondering the strange question herself.
“I have imposed good order,” the countess stated, “which means that Christmas will be celebrated at Christmas, and begin today.”
“Thus demanding a mostly family gathering,” Lord Rothgar explained. “Most people wish to spend Christmas in their own homes, so no one has been invited who is not connected to the family tree.”
“I’m not.” Genova instantly wished she could take the words back. She’d not been invited at all.
“But you are betrothed to my cousin.”
She’d managed to forget that detail.
Lady Arradale poured herself more coffee. “I’m told Old Barnabas promises mild temperatures for the afternoon, and even some sunny skies.”
“Old Barnabas,” said Rothgar, “remembers when he’s right and forgets when he’s wrong.”
Lady Arradale swatted his arm. “He will be right because I wish it so.”
“Ah, in that case the sun will shine as in July.”
