“Of course you do.” Lady Myrtle batted her eyes innocently at him, and he didn’t believe for a damned minute that flutter, as he didn’t think there was a damned thing innocent about her. “Cromwell being a famous Englishman and all, he was no doubt covered in your Oxford days.”

“Cambridge,” he said between his still tensed lips.

The lady tipped her head.

“I went to Cambridge.”

“Oh, that is interesting, indeed. I would expect a duke would be more of an Oxford man, given it’s the oldest and all.”

And if Val’s hands had been free of the wood he’d been holding, he’d have jammed his fingertips into his temples and pressed hard. But she wasn’t speaking about Christmas, so he took thanks where they could be had this day.

Myrtle sighed. “I should be on my way. Goodbye, Your Grace.”

He should be relieved at that—both with her leaving and with her having quit attempting to get him to divulge his Christian name.

“Myrtle,” he called when she started to leave.

Myrtle turned back.

“Val,” he said gruffly. “My name is Val.”

A slow smile formed on her mouth, that sparkle of merriment and joy . . . It transformed her into someone far from ordinary, and into a woman who really was quite captivating.

“Val,” she repeated, as if testing it. She gave a nod. “It suits you.” She made to go.

His curiosity, however, proved too strong. “How so?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

He rather doubted that.

“You’re assuming the name puts me in mind of Valentine of Passau, the hermit bishop,” she went on.

Wonder of wonders, Val felt his lips pull up at the corners in a rusty smile. “Actually, I’ve never heard of him.” Against all better judgment and reason, Val found himself all the more intrigued by how this young sprite of a woman had come to be in possession of that information.

Alas, it was a question that was to remain unanswered. “But the name’s Latin roots mean ‘strong and healthy,’ which . . . well, I’ve never known a duke, let alone any other nobleman, who chopped his own wood and carried armfuls of it the way you do.”

And this time when she waved and left, he found himself lifting his hand in parting goodbye, and staring after her until she’d gone.

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

When Myrtle had been a small girl, she’d oft found herself competing to be heard amongst her large, raucous Scottish family.

To make herself noticed, she’d put energy into pranks that would earn their attention.

She’d sung the loudest of all her cousins and siblings.