“He is heir to the title. Of course he’ll become their guardian.”

Joshua crossed long booted legs and ran a hand through the dark wavy hair her ladyship had bequeathed to all the children. “Little Gwynn makes her bow this Season.”

A man who took stewardship of his acres seriously, a man who had no patience with the ordeal of the social Season, needed another sip of stout potation before he parsed out the ramifications of this half-yawned, diabolical aside.

“You’re saying Elijah will run into his sister at some Society gathering, and there will be awkwardness.”

And dear little Gwynn—all nearly six feet of her—would be mortified not to be recognized by her brother, which was a sorry, sorry possibility given how quickly and recently she’d acquired her statuesque proportions.

“I don’t foresee any difficulty, Papa, unless she recognizes him first, which grows increasingly unlikely when she hasn’t seen him to speak of for what… ten years?”

“Nine.” And eight months, except for some chance sightings or cordial visits in Town. Where in all of creation had Elijah come by such stubbornness?

Joshua eased to his feet and ambled over to the punch bowl. The twins had pleaded a cold and gone above stairs, there to no doubt devour a lurid novel provided by their indulgent elders. The older girls were playing cards over in the corner, cheating shamelessly and gambling like sailors on shore leave—for hairpins. Pru, Abner, Silas, and Solomon were drinking more punch than they ought to and playing their own version of whist for God knew what stakes, while her ladyship presided over the whole with a serene beauty that never dimmed in her husband’s eyes.

And yet, Charlotte was sad. Damn that stubborn boy; he was making his mama sad.

His lordship rose, snatched up his empty glass, and joined Joshua at the punch bowl. “You are a rapscallion and a pestilence, Joshua Harrison.”

Joshua took his father’s cup and ladled more of the Brew of Misrule into it. “Those qualities can be inherited, Papa. Excellent punch.”

“It’s my father’s recipe, and while I will not invite Elijah to join his own family at his own home over the holidays, where any proper fellow would know he’s welcome unconditionally at any time, I can hardly take exception to correspondence between siblings that extends felicitations of the season, can I?”

Her ladyship’s needle momentarily paused over her embroidery hoop then resumed stitching. She was a demon with her needle, was her ladyship. She could conjure any scene in fabric and thread, and some of her creations were quite fanciful. Even a man whose art was limited to pen-and-ink sketches could tell that much.

Joshua took a hefty swallow of a mixture that well deserved the appellation “punch.” He tossed it back so easily his lordship felt a spike of pride.

“Elijah has eleven siblings, your lordship. That would be a lot of felicitations, if I knew where to send them.”

“Include your mother’s, and it will be a veritable deluge. I always know where your brother is, and I always have.”

The barrister’s eyebrows rose, and his lordship had the satisfaction of seeing Joshua for once looking flummoxed. To eliminate any lingering confusion, the marquess touched his glass to Joshua’s and winked.

“Here’s to a happy Christmas, Joshua, for every member of my family.” His lordship offered the words not only as a toast, but also as a prayer, the same prayer he’d been sending up for nine long years.

Five

People lied.

Jenny assured herself of this as she joined her sister and brother-in-law in the breakfast parlor. All the people who said sitting to Elijah Harrison was a pleasant experience were perishing liars.

Sophie beamed a smile from her place at Sindal’s elbow. “Good morning, Jenny! I hope you slept well.”

Jenny had tossed and turned for most of the night, wondering how—and why—a wish to see Paris had been announced to Elijah Harrison as something far more permanent and binding. “I slept splendidly, dearest, and you?”

“Well enough.” Sophie cast a speaking glance at her husband. “Sindal, be a love and fix Jenny a plate. We must fortify her against the ordeal of the holidays at Morelands.”

Sindal rose to his blond, golden height. “Jenny, prepare to be stuffed like a goose, though the boys would have me remind you that sanctuary always awaits you here. What is your pleasure?”

To be sketched the livelong day by Elijah Harrison, even if it did leave her feeling… emotionally ravished. Wonderfully, exhilaratingly, emotionally ravished. The things she’d said to him…

“Some toast will do.”

He set a plate before her laden with toast, omelet, crispy bacon, and several sections of a Spanish orange. “Sindal, I am not going a-Viking. If I eat all of this, I’ll have to let out my seams.”

Sindal paused to kiss his wife’s crown. “One can never have too much of a good thing, and you are going a-Viking. Sophie says you’ve agreed to help with the boys’ sittings, which I’m sure Sven Forkbeard himself would shudder to attempt.”

Sindal’s people had come from the North, as was evident in his height, blue eyes, and the intrepid courage with which he’d taken on marriage to Sophie Windham. Jenny liked him tremendously, and yet, the way he regarded Sophie was hard to watch so early in the day.

“Children are sometimes more themselves when parents are not in evidence,” Jenny replied, touching a dab of strawberry jam to her toast.

Another look passed between Sindal and his lady, reminding Jenny that they’d met and fallen in love when Sophie had maneuvered a few days of solitude one fine Christmastide—a few days of freedom from the loving eyes of the duke and duchess.

“Good morning, my ladies, Sindal.”

Elijah Harrison stood in the doorway in informal morning attire. At the sight of him, Jenny’s hunger skittered sideways, into a bodily longing that had nothing to do with food.

“So, Harrison, any last wishes before you take on the Vandal horde?” Sindal pushed the teapot down the table as he spoke. His smile was friendly, though Jenny sensed an element of challenge to it as well.

“Tell my brother Joshua not to put up with any of his lordship’s nonsense, and never to underestimate her ladyship.” Elijah poured for himself and passed the pot to Jenny. “Though I’m sure your sons are delightful.”

They were—also complete hellions.

“Jenny will be on hand to ensure nobody is seriously hurt,” Sophie said. “You must help yourself to whatever appeals at the sideboard, Mr. Harrison. Cook is in alt to have company, though there will be more directly, based on Her Grace’s last letter.”

An alarm sounded through the fog created in Jenny’s mind by the sight of Elijah Harrison’s hands in morning light. “Mama has sent along some news?”

“She has. Papa has decreed that we’re all to gather for Christmas at Morelands this year. Her Grace is vexed because Papa will not remove to the country yet, and such a large house party will require significant preparation.”

Sindal winked at his wife. “His Grace is not done with his holiday shopping.”

Mr. Harrison stirred cream into his tea, apparently used to marital glances and winks over breakfast. “I thought shopping was the province of the ladies. I have six sisters whose letters—when they bother to write—are filled with dispatches about this and that shopping sortie. Even the two youngest like shopping for books.”

He stirred his tea counterclockwise then clockwise, a slow dragging of the spoon along the bottom of the teacup. Jenny wondered if he stirred his paints with the same symmetry—first one direction then the other.

“Papa must find Mama the perfect Christmas present every year,” Jenny explained. “Some years, we don’t know what he gives her, but we know a gift was bestowed in private. One year it was new chandeliers for the ballroom in Town, another year he found her a Shakespeare folio. Another year, he borrowed the regent’s chef for a private meal of Her Grace’s favorite dishes. Papa can be ingenious, and he’s very determined.”

Mr. Harrison rose, aiming a smile at Jenny. “Determination is a fine quality. Would my ladies like anything else from the sideboard?”

Sophie came to her feet. “I am quite finished, thank you. I’ll have the boys brought up to you in an hour, Mr. Harrison. Sindal, come along. A paternal lecture about decorum wouldn’t go amiss.”

Sindal was on his feet in an instant. “Of course, my love. The children can always use practice ignoring their father’s advice.”

And thus, Jenny was alone with the man who’d kept her up most of the night.

“Do you mind if I sit beside you?” Mr. Harrison asked. “The sun is in my eyes on the other side of the table.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, but took a seat to Jenny’s left. No footman stood guard over the sideboard—or the proprieties—but the door was open, and Viscount Rothgreb or his lady might come down at any time. Rothgreb was Sindal’s uncle, the one responsible for commissioning the boys’ portraits, but a very elderly fellow who likely took a breakfast tray above stairs.

“You’re going to eat all of that, Mr. Harrison?”

He glanced at his plate, which held steaming eggs, ham, bacon, and toast. “I’ll have some oranges and stollen on the next pass. What can you tell me about your nephews? And please be honest. Once Rothgreb joins us, diplomacy will be the order of the day, unless I miss my guess.”

“His lordship is a late riser, but he’d be the first to tell you the boys are very active little fellows.”