“Another Christmas Alone,” She Thought — Until a Duke’s Carriage Broke Down at Her Gate
Chapter 4
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Rosamond stood in the kitchen, surveying the unexpected transformation of her quiet Christmas Eve. The coachman, Peters, sat beside the stove with a steaming cup of tea. The younger servant, Daniel, had been persuaded to eat a generous helping of stew. Pickles had appointed himself supervisor of the entire operation. And the Duke of Winterbourne stood near the kitchen doorway holding his gloves, looking as though he had never before been uncertain where to put himself.Rosamond found this oddly endearing."Your Grace," she said, "you are making the doorway look terribly uncomfortable."He glanced down. "I beg your pardon?""You have been standing there for nearly five minutes.""I did not wish to interfere.""With what?""The efficient running of your household."Rosamond looked around the kitchen: Peters was eating bread, Daniel was eating stew, and Pickles was attempting to persuade Daniel to share."I believe the household will survive your sitting down."Julian looked toward the small wooden chair beside the hearth. "Are you quite certain?""Unless you have reason to suspect the chair of treason."Peters coughed into his cup. Julian sat."Miss Fairchild, I am beginning to suspect that you find my circumstances entertaining.""Not your circumstances, Your Grace.""Then what?""Your determination to remain dignified while your boots drip onto my kitchen floor."He looked down; a small puddle had formed beneath his chair. For a moment, his expression was perfectly solemn. Then he said, "I shall endeavor to drip with greater distinction."Rosamond laughed. The sound surprised her; it had been a long time since she had laughed so freely in her own kitchen.Julian watched her. Something softened in his face.Before either could speak, Daniel looked up from his bowl. "Begging your pardon, miss, but this is the finest stew I've eaten in months."Rosamond smiled. "Then you must take another helping."Daniel's face brightened. "Truly?""Of course."Peters cleared his throat. "Miss Fairchild, you are very kind.""Nonsense. It is Christmas Eve. Feeding hungry travelers is hardly an act of extraordinary virtue.""Some houses would have sent us to the nearest inn," Peters said.Rosamond paused. "Perhaps. But the nearest inn is four miles away, and I suspect none of you would enjoy walking there tonight."Julian looked at her thoughtfully. "You make kindness sound remarkably practical.""It often is."He considered that. "An interesting observation."Rosamond lifted the kettle. "I have several. Most are less interesting before tea."An hour later, the servants were settled comfortably in rooms above the stable, and Julian had been shown into the sitting room.