Or, as he had twelve years ago, packing and stealing away without a word to any of them at all.
“Ra-ther,” agreed Lieutenant Fluellen wholeheartedly. “A hot fire, a hot fire, my kingdom for a hot fire.”
He looked like he might have expatiated on that theme, but the Duke preempted him by strolling deliberately towards the door. Glancing back over his shoulder, the Duke winked at Charlotte in a way that made her stomach flutter like five and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
“Come, Tommy,” he said easily. “Where’s your seasonal spirit? How often does one have the chance to participate in a proper country Christmas?”
Lieutenant Fluellen held out both hands palms up, in the traditional gesture of surrender. “How could one refuse?”
Chapter Two
There were many emotions Robert Lansdowne, fifth Duke of Dovedale, might have experienced upon returning to his ancestral home. Elation. Triumph. Fear.
Mostly, he just felt cold.
Charlotte was right: He was longing for a hot fire. Preferably a dozen of them all at once. After a decade overseas, he had nearly forgotten the merciless chill of an English winter. Robert thought back to all those soldiers he had known in India who had spent half their time mooning over memories of England, saying fatuous things like, “Oh, to see a good English winter.” Madmen, the lot of them. He had lost the ability to feel his feet somewhere just west of King’s Lynn. Since he was upright, he assumed they were still attached to his legs, but he wouldn’t have been willing to vouch to their presence in any court of law. As to the rest of him . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking about. At this point, fire and brimstone were beginning to sound more like a promise than a threat. The Devil could have his soul for the price of a hot water bottle.