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not have felt any stronger need to pursue and investigate.
    â€œIs there fresh tea?” he asked, taking a place beside his duchess.
    But Her Grace was no fool. She knew that in the duke’s eyes, the purpose of tea was to wash down crème cakes. In extremis, tea might serve as an adequate medium in which to stir a generous dollop of brandy on a freezing day.
    Tea for its own sake was a lame undertaking, and Her Grace had long since divined His Grace’s position on the matter.
    â€œI sent Westhaven and Anna off shopping with the girls,” Her Grace said. “Eve tried to beg off, but her sisters wouldn’t have any of that.”
    â€œAbandoning you to my dubious company.” And abandoning him to the dubious offerings on the tea tray: scones and butter, jam, and honey. Not even a hot cross bun or a few slices of stollen. “Whom do you suppose will make our stollen this Christmas, since Sophie has gone to housekeeping with her baron?”
    â€œJust where do you think Sophie got her recipe, Moreland?”
    He adored it when she called him Moreland in that magisterial tone. He planted a kiss on her cheek. “From your mother, because your interest in cooking is almost equal to my interest in a tepid cup of tea. What has given you a fit of the megrims, my love? Shall I take you for a drive? Send around to Gunter’s for a picnic?”
    â€œLouisa asked me if she might remain at Morelands next spring.”
    His Grace sat back, trying to shift mentally to that part of his intellect—the brilliant politician and successful former cavalry officer part—that occasionally got him past the rough patches when the papa part was knocked on its backside.
    He reached for his wife’s hand, needing the subtle information gathered by physical connection with her—and the reassurance. “What is that about, Esther? Louisa is not the least retiring and not the type to mope.”
    But Louisa was from that vast, unmapped territory known as His Daughters. His Grace loved his five adult daughters and would cheerfully have died to protect them, but as for understanding them… He might as well have tried to grasp the mental processes of… another species entirely.
    â€œI have been thinking this over,” Her Grace said, “and you’re right. She’s not the type to mope. She takes after her papa in that she’s more given to action than introspection.”
    â€œYou have referred to me as a bull in a tea shop in your more honest moments, Esther.”
    â€œA handsome bull.” She moved closer in that subtle way women had of shifting without being visible about it. “A doting and lovable bull, one who keeps me quite pleased with him, usually.”
    â€œSuch flattery will have me locking that door, Esther Windham.” A quarter century had passed since they’d needed any locked doors in the middle of the day, but mistletoe was showing up all over the house, and standards had to be maintained if his duchess was to be kept smiling a particular smile.
    She cocked her head, the beginnings of that smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. “About Louisa.”
    His Grace understood priorities, for they were the heart and soul of bearing a lofty title. Comforting his duchess involved more than just flirting with her. He slipped an arm around her waist, the better to allow her head to rest on his shoulder.
    â€œAbout our dear Louisa,” His Grace said, pressing a kiss to his duchess’s brow. “As pretty a young lady as ever sipped the punch at Almack’s. She is worrying you, and thus I must be worried, as well.”
    â€œI have grasped her reasoning, I think, but you must tell me your thoughts. I believe, as the oldest unmarried daughter, she thinks to remain at Morelands so as not to overshadow her younger sisters.”
    His Grace stroked a hand over his wife’s wheat-gold hair while he considered her theory. He was