Page 1 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

P ROLOGUE

Fairford, Gloucestershire December 24, 1804

H e shouldn’t have come here. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t.

But he’d made that same promise before—last year, and the year before that—and every year, it turned out to be a lie. He always came, no matter how many times he swore he wouldn’t.

Promises were sneaky that way, especially the ones you made to yourself.

In the end, they always became lies.

Shouldn’t he know that by now?

The sun was just melting into the horizon when he slipped from his father’s house and down the pathway toward the wood, fitful streaks of amber and crimson like bloody claw marks torn into the sky, but underneath the trees, it was as dark as midnight.

It didn’t matter, though. He knew every stone, every jutting tree root, every dead leaf hidden in the mud under his feet. He’d trod this same path so many times he might have found his way blindfolded, memory guiding his steps.

Except it wasn’t the same, no matter how familiar it felt. It would never be the same again. Pretending it could be was just another lie.

There was no snow this year. Only rain, an occasional grim drizzle since he’d come home from Eton, washing everything in shades of gray. The ground was wet still, the icy water seeping into his boots, and the mud sucking his feet into the earth, the darkness like the heel of a palm pressing into his eyes.

But not for long.

It was waiting for him when he emerged from the shelter of the trees, just as it always was. A burst of light, setting the inky sky above aglow, as if every star were shining down upon it at once. As if some great hand had scooped all the brightest ornaments in the sky up into a tight fist, and was squeezing them, squeezing until liquid streams of light spilled through its fingers directly over Hammond Court, bathing it in pale silver fire.

As if here was the only place that mattered. As if Ambrose St. Claire was the only man who mattered.

It was the same, every year.

Max kept to the shadows, outside the pool of golden light spilling into the drive. He was invisible to the party guests laughing and gossiping on the other side of the windows, a blur of satins and silks and glittering jewels, small silver cups of spiced cider in their hands.

The warmth and merriment unfolding behind those windows were as far away from him as the stars gleaming coldly in the black sky, but even from here, he could hear the laughter, the chatter, the singing. Christmas carols. The same songs, every year.

Boughs of holly. Silver bells. Partridges, pear trees, and golden rings.

He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and kicked at the muddy ground. It had been four years since he’d been inside the house, four years since it had been his home.

Four years. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was sixteen, nearly a man, yet he still couldn’t make himself stay away.

He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to remember. If he could, he’d turn around and never come back, never set eyes on the house again, but he couldn’t make himself forget what it had felt like to be on the other side of those windows. It would be easier if he could, but there was no forgetting such a betrayal.

No forgiving it, either.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t bloody fair .

Inside his coat, his hands clenched into fists. He hated Ambrose, hated him so much the bitterness scalded the back of his throat, making him cough and choke.

Ambrose might play at being lord of the manor, but that didn’t change the truth. He wasn’t a lord, and he’d stolen the manor. Stolen it from Max and his father.

He wasn’t the only one. There had been others who’d taken what was once theirs. Over the past four years, they’d been picked clean of everything that wasn’t entailed, until only the bare bones remained.

The other boys at Eton sneered at him over it, calling his father the Destitute Duke.

He’d make them pay for that, one day. He’d make them all pay, but none of them would pay as dearly as Ambrose St. Claire would, because of all the betrayals, his had cut the deepest. That wound was raw edged and bloody still, even four years later.

Once upon a time, before Max’s mother died and everything fell apart, Ambrose had been their friend. He’d trusted Ambrose, had looked up to him. Worshipped him, even, but in the end, Ambrose hadn’t been any different from the rest of them.

He was a thief and a liar.

Someday, when Max came here, he wouldn’t hide in the woods under the dripping tree branches, cold water trickling down the back of his neck. No, he’d walk right up the front drive and through the door, and he’d take his father’s house back.

For now, though, there was nothing to do but return home, where there were no garlands, no silver cups, no golden lamplight. His father would have fallen asleep on the worn leather chair in his study by now, an empty bottle of brandy lying on the floor beside him.

Max dragged the back of his arm over his damp cheeks, the wool of his coat prickling his skin, and turned to go—turned his back on the bright lights of Hammond Court, leaving it behind until next year.

He wasn’t crying. Not over a villain like Ambrose St. Claire.

The dampness on his cheeks was just drops of water falling from the branches above, nothing more.