The Duke's Christmas

By Anthea Lawson

Escape into the warmth of a Victorian Christmas, where the scent of fresh-baked gingerbread and the festivity of the season conspire to mend an old family feud and bring together a couple perfect for one another (if only they could see it), in this newest sweet tale from USA Today bestselling author Anthea Lawson.

Turned out of their home just before Christmas, Miss Mena Clarke and her mother have no other option than to accept an invitation from Andrew Harrington, the 5th Duke of Beckford, to spend the holidays at his country estate. Mena wants nothing to do with the boy who teased her so terribly in their youth, not to mention the bitter quarrel between their parents that has kept the families apart for a decade. Yet as the snow blankets Yorkshire in white, fresh beginnings don't seem quite so impossible, after all...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiddlehead Press
• Release date: Nov 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781680130553

Book preview

Chapter 1

The scent of ginger and molasses filled the low-ceilinged kitchen as Miss Philomena Clarke—Mena to her friends, who were regrettably few and far between, seeing as how their family estate was isolated in Yorkshire—carefully removed the pan of parkin cake from the oven.

Mrs. Stewart, their longtime family cook, looked on, arms crossed over her stout belly.

It’s not right for gentry to be messing about in the kitchen, miss, she said, as though they hadn’t had the same argument for years.

Though this would be the last. A pang went through Mena at the thought, and she quickly pushed the painful knowledge away. There would be time enough to give way to despair later. For now, there was gingerbread.

She inhaled deeply of the warmth as she set the pan on the iron trivet atop the wide kitchen table, then looked at Mrs. Stewart.

I know, Mena said, trying to smile. And yet you indulge me.

I suppose someone ought, Mrs. Stewart said with a sniff. Whether you deserve it or not.

Sudden tears blurred Mena’s vision and she blinked hard, hoping the cook would think the heat had gotten to her. The gruff old woman had always been kind, and the kitchen had always been Mena’s refuge from the coldness of the rest of the baronial manor.

Not that Marston Mews was a particularly grand home, as such things went. Nothing like Dovington Hall, the vast and glittering estate of the Dukes of Beckford that lay on the far side of the village. In her memory, that estate was an enchanted castle, and the people who dwelt there lived happy and perfect lives.

But it had been a decade since her family had anything to do with the late Lord Beckford, his horrible wife, and their dreadfully spoiled offspring.

We were friends, once…

Before the gulf in their stations became so painfully clear.

It was true that Mena’s mother was from the village and not born into the gentry, but that was no cause for the duchess to accuse her of theft. Mena had been ten at the time—too young to fully understand the complexities that had caused the rift between the families—but she was still incensed on her parents’ behalf.

Although now that her father had passed, he was beyond caring for such things as social niceties and matters of noblesse oblige.

Make sure Tommy doesn’t get into the gingerbread before it cools, Mena said, slipping her hands out of the quilted oven mitts and laying them beside the pan.

That boy’s a scamp, make no mistake, Mrs. Stewart agreed. But he’s good lad with the horses.

My cousin will keep him on, won’t he? Mena bit her lip and glanced at the cook. For that matter, was Mrs. Stewart’s employment secure?

Mena hadn’t thought to ask her mother which of the servants would be staying when Cousin Basil took possession of the estate. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought to question the future of the staff. Not when her own fate hung so heavily, a ticking pendulum over her head, liable to crash down at any moment and crush her beneath its weight.

Come now, she told herself. Being a governess or companion won’t be so bad.

Plenty of young women of good breeding and few prospects went into genteel service. And for every tale of mistreatment and woe, there were at least an equal number of pleasant circumstances to be found. Weren’t there?

A pity about Mr. Whittaker, the cook said, giving Mena a sympathetic look. Who’d have thought he’d go down to London and never come back. Especially when…

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Everyone in the village knew that young Whittaker and Miss Philomena Clarke were going to make a match. Until—they didn’t.

Yes, well, Mena said, briskly removing her apron and brushing a sifting of flour from the black sleeve of her dress. I’ll be down in half an hour to check on the gingerbread.

She pinched her lips together, unable to manage even the merest smile, and marched out of the kitchen. Everything was dreadful, and not even her grandmother’s secret parkin recipe could make the future sweet.

Lord Andrew Harrington, fifth Duke of Beckford and generally a lighthearted fellow, stared at his sister, aghast. Despite the cheery crackle of the fire in the parlor hearth and the festive greenery draping the mantel, he felt as though he’d been thrust outside into the frosty Yorkshire morning.

Invite Lady Marston and her daughter to Dovington? He shook his head. Is this why you insisted I come speak with you? It’s a preposterous idea.

Viola smiled, as if her suggestion had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Consider it an act of neighborly kindness, she said. The baron is dead now—forgive my bluntness, but it’s the truth—and Mena and her mother are soon to be turned out of their only home. The cousin sounds quite dreadful, from what I hear in the village.

There was so much wrong with her words, Drew didn’t know where to begin. He held his hand up and began ticking off his points, as if that would make Viola see reason.

One, he said, raising his index finger, the unfortunate event of the baron’s death doesn’t change the longstanding feud between our families. Or did you forget that the baroness and our mother are bitter enemies? Two, that young woman’s name is Miss Clarke in this household, not Mena. And three, I can’t believe you’re going gossiping about the village like some common schoolgirl.

He shook his upraised fingers at her.

Unrepentant, Viola lifted her eyes to the cloud-painted ceiling. I thought you, of all people, would welcome the chance to mend matters with the Clarkes. Must you sound so stuffy and duke-like?

"I am a duke, he reminded her. And why would I want to hold out a hand in friendship to the family that treated our mother so unkindly?"

She started it, Viola said, as if that made a difference. "It’s time we mend our fences. And you were always fond of Mena—begging your pardon, Miss Clarke—even if you won’t admit it. Don’t you remember what fun we used to have, especially at the holidays?"

That was a lifetime ago, he said. We were only children.

Unbidden, a memory of Mena flashed through his mind—the first time he’d teased his sister’s new friend, the daughter of one of the nearby gentry. It had been autumn, and he and his younger brother, Theo, had climbed the biggest apple tree in the orchard. When Viola and Mena had come looking for them, they’d pelted the girls with apples. Mostly they’d missed, but he’d caught Mena a solid blow on the shoulder.

Her brown eyes alight with fury, she’d stomped up to the apple tree, clambered high enough to reach his foot, and pulled hard. Unbalanced, he’d tumbled down, barely breaking his fall with the other branches, and landed, sprawling at Mena’s feet.

You are so fierce! he’d said, laughing.

She’d set her hand on her hips and scowled. Only to people who bedevil me.

Then she’d turned with a toss of her head, her blonde braid swinging behind her as she went to rejoin Viola.

That flash of temper had surprised him—he hadn’t paid much mind to Miss Clarke, before. After that, though, he made an effort to tease her, just to see the flush of color in her cheeks, the spark of temper in her eyes.

Somehow, teasing had turned to camaraderie as they roamed the grounds of Dovington, getting into scrapes and being scolded by various members of the household staff. Often Theo and Viola tagged along, but sometimes it was just himself and Mena, building a secret tree house or stealing sweets from the kitchen…

Well? Viola asked, stepping forward and waving a hand in front of his face. Will you invite them?

I hardly think Mother would agree. Suspicion stirred in the pit of his belly, and he narrowed his eyes. Why are you so set on this?

His sister gave him a studiously innocent expression. I’ve no idea what you mean.

Matchmaking again, Vi? You’ve no talent for it, if I recall.

The innocence fell from her face, replaced by impatience. It’s not my fault you can’t see the charms of Lady Fenton, or the Misses Harding, or—

They are all charming, he said, unable to keep the weariness from his voice. A bit too much so, frankly. It’s clear they’re more than aware of the advantages of becoming Lady Beckford.

He turned toward the fire, bracing one hand on the mantel. He’d hoped to escape the increasing pressure to make a match, at least over the holidays.

Really, Drew—there is no woman in this entire country who’s insensible of what becoming a duchess means. Is this why you insisted on coming to Dovington for Christmas? I did wonder if you were running away.

We’ve always had Christmas here, he said defensively.

Viola gave a snort.