“They have trees inside for Christmas, Val . . . We must have one; we simply must . . . Imagine, it will be so magical.”

She had been so magical.

“You want a tree inside our home? Then when we arrive at Donneborogh,” he said of his Somerset estates, “we shall have one, Your Grace.”

His late wife’s tinkling, bell-like laughter filled the corners of his mind, melding with the droning of the lady now lecturing to him.

“Why, one would think it was just the gentry, but it was not. It was—”

“I don’t want to talk about the Christmastide Season,” he began, intending to bestow a lecture upon her that would send her running and silence her on the matter forever.

“We’ve just done so.”

He spoke over her. “And why people celebrate.”

“To feel and spread cheer,” the lady added. “I think that should be fairly obvious and not have required further clarification.”

“Or how they celebrate,” he said, ignoring her.

“I’ve just covered some of that.”

“Or what they eat.”

“Beef and mincemeat and pudding and—”

“No more talk of Christmas,” he thundered, startling several wood pigeons from the ledges they perched on, the wild flapping of their wings sending feathers floating forlornly down to the earth.

And if he were one to still be impressed by women, he’d have found himself admiring the fact that she’d not gone running off, weeping at his bellowing shout, and that she instead remained, her feet planted to the ground, meeting his gaze still.

Granted, her cheeks were paler and her eyes wider, and damned if it wasn’t like he’d kicked the household mouser for the way he felt about himself, yelling at a lady who was likely so young as to not have yet seen a London Season.

He should have known better than to allow himself a moment of pity or weakness where this one was concerned.

“Is your Christian name Oliver?” she asked curiously.

At that sudden, unexpected, and out-of-nowhere question, Val cocked his head. The queue tied at the nape of his neck tipped to the right of his shoulder. “No.”

“Hmm,” the lady murmured to herself. “I would have thought with your aversion for Christmas, you were a regular Oliver Cromwell. He banned carols and festive get-togethers, decreeing them against the law, punishable by imprisonment.” She paused, apparently wise enough to catch the horrified look he surely wore. Misunderstanding the reason for that look, she clarified all the details he didn’t care to hear. “Oliver Cromwell is an English statesman. He led the armies against King Charles I during the English Civil War and—”

“I know who Cromwell was,” he clipped out between clenched teeth.

“—ruled the British Isles as Lord Protector from—”

“I said I know who Lord Cromwell was,” he shouted to be heard over her.