A Duke for Christmas by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page B

than a second or two before he stepped away, his hands falling to his sides.
    “You look, if I may say so, much more rested this morning.”
    “Is it still morning?”
    “Well then, this afternoon.” He offered his arm. Somewhat gingerly, Sophie took it, aware of the muscle beneath the sleeve. “I’m afraid you’ve missed church.”
    “Did I? I’m sorry to hear it. I was hoping to go but I was so very tired.”
    “So was I,” he said. “I always sleep better in the country. So much quieter than town.”
    “Especially with the snowfall. What a delightful surprise for my first day here.”
    “I’m so happy you are pleased with it.”
    “Did you do it?” she asked with a smile. She remembered how she and Broderick used to joke like this, and her smile wavered like a flickering candle.
    Dominic didn’t seem to notice. “Of course. I’m on the best of terms with the snow elves.”
    “Snow elves?” Sophie almost laughed out loud.
    “Absolutely. Didn’t you know they make the snow? My good girl, what sort of upbringing have you had? Never heard of the snow elves?”
    Sophie saw that the curtains had been thrown open along the far wall, disclosing a striped cushion set in a bow window seat. She walked toward it at once, to sit with her feet tucked up and her back against the wall. A breath of cold air poured along the window but the view was so marvelous down the snow-covered lawn that she couldn’t resist sitting there. “I’m sadly ignorant of meteorology. It wasn’t considered a necessary study for females.”
    “How unfair.” He seated himself to lean against the other wall, his long legs over the edge of the cushion.
    “Yes. For instance, I never knew elves controlled the weather. How shockingly ignorant you must think me.”
    “It’s not your fault. Shall I teach you all about them? Maybe you can learn to see them if you study very hard.”
    “You must think me about ten years old, Your Grace.”
    “I? I assure you, quite the contrary.” He had such bright eyes, with so penetrating a gaze that she could not meet it for very long. He made her very self-conscious. She could turn her head to gaze out the window whenever his gaze grew too concentrated for her to sustain.
    “Let us speak seriously, if we can.”
    “If you wish, though I’d rather talk piffle, just to see you smile again.”
    “Oh, now that I’m home again, I’m sure I will smile a great deal. But what I wanted to ask you is this: Do you still have friends among writers?”
    “Yes, quite a few. Some I even support with funds from time to time. Why? Are you thinking about your husband’s poems?”
    “I’m determined to see them published. I have no doubt that these are poems that will speak to thousands of men and women all over this country.”
    “You have such faith in your husband’s voice?”
    “Yes,” she said, giving a short, decisive nod. “Any advice you can offer me will be most gratefully accepted. Ionly know what Broderick himself told me about selling poems.”
    “What did he say?”
    “That compared with selling a poem, writing one is easy.”
    Dominic chuckled. “He had a point.”
    “Do you miss it?”
    “The struggle? No. I could sell anything now. I receive offers by every post, pleading with the Duke of Saltaire to grant them the opportunity to publish whatever I choose to send them. But they wouldn’t look twice at the writings of Dominic Swift.”
    “So you don’t write at all now?”
    “Once in a while. When something strikes me as interesting or important.”
    Sophie leaned forward, resting her chin on her fist. “What do you find interesting and important?”
    “People, mostly. Sometimes an idea or, more often, a fragment of an idea.”
    “Not poetry, though?”
    “No, never poetry,” he said, raising one hand as if taking a vow. “Just between us, I can’t rhyme hat with cat.”
    “Broderick used to say that rhyme was too easily devolved into mere doggerel. He felt the future of