Free It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella by Valerie Bowman Page A

valet that got him killed and smeared the Markingham name to begin with. His grandfather’s legacy was something Oliver had been proud of his entire life, and now it was somehow miraculously entrusted to him and he carried the burden of restoring the name to its former glory. By God, the Markingham name had been esteemed for centuries and it would continue to be, with or without the approval of the bloody patronesses of Almack’s.
    But even as he thought the words, he knew they weren’t true. The patronesses could and did control the gossip and approval of the majority of Society. If they chose to cut him or his family, there would be little he could do to restore the good name. One miracle had already happened when Kate had been allowed to reenter the ton ’s good graces. But that had been largely due to the reputation and connections of her husband, Medford. The Markingham name was no longer hers.
    But the worst part was that even if Oliver didn’t give a bloody damn about himself, he did care about Cerian. She’d told him how vulnerable she was when it came to fitting into Society. How she dreaded it, wanted no part of it. It made her nervous, made her want to rush back to Wales and marry a nobody who truly loved her and lead a simple life. When he thought about the viciousness of members of Society like Lady Kinsey, he couldn’t blame Cerian for her wish.
    Damn her to perdition, but Lady Kinsey had got one thing right, and that was that if those smug, awful women decided to give Cerian the cut direct, she would be an outcast. And she was already trying desperately to fit in. They could completely destroy her. Even if he did give her the protection of his name. And regardless of how he was rapidly coming to care for her, Oliver would not allow his new inconvenient title to ruin a young woman as sweet and loving and funny as Cerian. He slammed his fist into the bag again. No. He would stay away from her. He had to. For her sake. By God, he’d stay out here in the stables hitting hay bags for the rest of the bloody house party if that’s what it took.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    The moment Oliver strolled into the drawing room after dinner, Cerian made her way over to him, steeling her resolve. “Your grace, a moment of your time?”
    He nodded, an inscrutable look on his face. “Of course.”
    He allowed her to precede him to the corner and followed her there. Thank heavens they were partially obscured by a large potted palm. But not before Cerian noted Lady Kinsey’s dark watchful eyes upon them.
    The words tumbled out of Cerian’s mouth in a rush. She’d been practicing them all morning and now that the moment was here, the words seemed to have become hopelessly jumbled. Typical .
    “Your grace, I want to … that is … I wish to … That is to say, I…”
    “Perhaps you should take a deep breath,” he offered.
    Had that been the duke talking or the voice in her head? Regardless, it was a fine idea and no matter its origin, she would take that bit of advice. She breathed in deeply, sucking air into her lungs and then blowing it out evenly, briefly closing her eyes.
    “Feel better?” he asked.
    Ah, so it had been his idea.
    “Immensely,” she replied. Courage, Cerian. Say what you’ve resolved to say. She could only hope that the duke would be able to hear her next words over the insane tapping of her nervous little foot. “Your grace, I wanted to tell you that I think it’s time we agreed to, I mean, that we decided upon ending our agreement.”
    He narrowed his eyes on her. “Our agreement?”
    She lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder glaring at the potted palm as if that sneaky plant might be listening. “Yes. The one in which we were pretending to have affection for one another.”
    She held her breath, waiting for his response. Would he be angry? Would he be sad? Would he be…? No doubt about it. The look on his face was pure … relief. She wrinkled her nose. Deflating, to be