Page 11 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 10

“A h, there we are. Those pretty eyelashes are fluttering, at last.”

Something was touching Rose’s face. Fingertips? Yes, fingertips were tapping gently at her cheek, and there was a voice murmuring something, but she couldn’t quite make sense of it through the cotton wool in her head.

“Can you hear me, Miss St. Claire?”

Rose opened her mouth to reply to the kind voice, but only an incoherent stream of garbled sounds emerged as if her tongue were wrapped in velvet.

“That’s it, lass. Time to come around.”

She shifted, her brow furrowing at the soft warmth wrapped around her, but her eyes refused to open. Why was she so tired? Something had happened, but prod as she might, her sluggish brain could only provide a few messy bits and pieces of it. Trying to make sense of them was like groping her way through a darkened room.

She’d fallen asleep in the chair in her bedchamber last night, burrowed under a nest of blankets, her eyelids growing heavy as the sky beyond the window turned indigo, then a deep, penetrating black, without a single star visible in the sky.

But this wasn’t her chair. No, it was far too cozy and comfortable. Something smooth and lavender-scented was draped on top of her, the satiny edge of it tickling her chin. It was like being wrapped in feathers, or . . . silken sheets?

She twisted in her scented cocoon, a question on her lips, but when she tried once again to give it voice, nothing came out but a weary croak.

“There, there.” A cool, soft hand touched her forehead. “Just take your time, now.”

With great effort, she lifted her heavy eyelids to find a face hovering above her, the pale brown eyebrows drawn with concern. It was a kind face, with a dimpled smile and laugh lines fanning out from the corners of a pair of twinkling blue eyes.

A familiar face, but she couldn’t quite place—

“You look confused, and I don’t wonder at it, you poor thing, with what you’ve been through.” The face came closer. “Well, we might have known it would come to this. It’s not right, for a young lady to be left all alone in a rambling old place like that.”

Rose struggled up onto her elbows, her head spinning, and the lady pressed a cup into her hand. “Here, drink this. It’s a soothing ginger tea, with just a touch of peppermint. I make it myself, you know.”

Rose sipped obediently. Something warm and sweet slid down her throat, and she swallowed eagerly.

“That’s a good girl,” the lady murmured approvingly as she set the empty cup on the table beside the bed. She was a grandmotherly sort, with graying brown hair and a generous bosom that made one want to lay their head upon it and sob out their troubles.

Rose collapsed back against the pillows. Her shoulders ached, and it felt as if someone had kicked her in the backside. “What happened?”

The lady sighed. “I’m afraid you lost a bit of your roof in last night’s storm. I imagine it was the wind that did it.”

“The roof ?” No, surely not. That is, the roof hadn’t been entirely sturdy, and last night’s storm had been a powerful one, but surely it hadn’t been so violent it had torn the roof off the house?

“Oh.” Slowly, the fog in her brain cleared, and memory came rushing back. “Oh, no .”

There’d been an odd cracking sound, so strange, unlike anything she’d ever heard before, as if wooden beams that had held fast for centuries were snapping like kindling, the swollen ceiling, and the rush of water above her head . . .

“The ceiling.” The balloon had burst, and the ceiling had crashed down upon her, bringing a deluge of icy water with it. “The ceiling in my bedchamber collapsed.”

“Aye, and it might have been much worse.” The lady clucked her tongue. “It’s a blessing the duke arrived when he did.”

The duke. Of Grantham. It was all coming back to her now, like a nightmare in reverse.

“I don’t say I approve of everything the duke does.” The lady fussed with the coverlet, smoothing it under Rose’s chin. “Or most things even, come to that—but he did the right thing, bringing you here.”

Here . The room was too dim for her to properly assess her surroundings, but the fire was roaring in the grate, the pillows cradling her head were as fluffy as a cloud, and the delicate teacup from which she’d just drank was made of very fine porcelain, indeed.

There was only one place in Fairford that could boast such luxuries.

Grantham Lodge. Where else? How could she have forgotten? The duke had appeared at Hammond Court just after dawn, taken one look at the destruction of her bedchamber, and in typical ducal fashion had begun issuing orders. Why, she’d hardly had a chance to say a word before he’d bundled her into his carriage and . . . and absconded with her back to Grantham Lodge.

“I’m Mrs. Watson, Miss St. Claire,” the lady was saying. “I’m the housekeeper here at Grantham Lodge.”

Mrs. Watson. Of course. She recognized her now. “It’s kind of you to take such good care of me, Mrs. Watson.”

“Oh, I’m happy to do it, Miss St. Claire.” Mrs. Watson beamed at her. “You’re the first guest we’ve ever had at Grantham Lodge, you know.”

“Am I? How delightful.”

“It’s a shame, for such a big house as this to always be empty.” Mrs. Watson tutted. “Why, such a grand house is meant to be filled with children. Don’t you think so, Miss St. Claire?”

“I, ah, yes, of course.” Though one couldn’t quite picture the Duke of Grantham as a doting father. “Might I trouble you for a bit more of your ginger and peppermint tea, Mrs. Watson? It’s quite soothing.”

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Watson patted her hand, then rose and reached for the teacup. “I’ll just nip out and fetch you some more, shall I? I’ll see to it a bath is brought up, as well.”

“Oh, there’s no need, Mrs. Watson. I don’t like to put you to any trouble.” Though she couldn’t deny a bath did sound heavenly.

“Nonsense, Miss St. Claire. You rest now, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“All right. Thank you, Mrs. Watson.”

Rose waited until the housekeeper had bustled out the door before sinking lower in the bed and pulling the coverlet over her face. How easy it would be to hide here, to burrow into this dream of a bed until her heart no longer ached, and all her troubles vanished.

But it was out of the question. Now that fate had done her worst, what was to prevent the duke from finishing the job, and tearing what remained of Hammond Court to the ground?

Not a blessed thing, aside from her continued presence there.

Oh, fate was a wicked, vengeful creature, and must even now be chortling with glee over the trouble she’d caused!

But there was nothing to be done about it now except scurry home at once before the duke seized on this little mishap with the roof as an excuse to do what he’d been longing to do all along. Otherwise, all her plans and dreams to save Hammond Court—to persuade the Duke of Grantham to fall in love with it and keep her promise to Ambrose—were in utter ruins.

She’d stay for the bath, but that was it . No more ginger tea, or blazing fire, or soft, fluffy bedding, no matter how seductive it was. She already owed the duke her thanks. The longer she remained, the greater her debt to him would be.

The sooner she left Grantham Lodge and the Duke of Grantham behind her, the better.

* * *

“How does Miss St. Claire do?” Townsend, who’d managed to hold his tongue for the better part of the afternoon, looked up from the stack of letters he’d been answering. “Is there any news of her yet, Your Grace?”

Max had been writing his own letter, but his hand stilled at the question, and black ink spilled from the nib, spoiling the page. “Damn it, Townsend. You’ve made me blot my letter.”

“Oh, dear. I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

Max glared down at the dripping end of his pen, then tossed it aside with a sigh. There was no sense in blaming poor Townsend. He was just out of sorts today, for no particular reason.

It certainly wasn’t because he hadn’t heard a single word from Mrs. Watson, or because Miss St. Claire had yet to venture out of her bedchamber. Or, more accurately, his bedchamber—his, that is, in the sense that all the bedchambers at Grantham Lodge belonged to him.

Not in any salacious, improper sense. Of course not.

But it was just as well if Miss St. Claire kept out of his way. The last thing he needed was the troublesome chit underfoot, distracting him with her nonsense.

Unless . . .

Was it possible she’d fallen ill? She’d been soaked to the skin when he’d come upon her this morning, and the bedchamber was positively arctic, what with that broken window. If she hadn’t developed a lung complaint, it would be a blessed miracle.

Mrs. Watson hadn’t asked his permission to send for a doctor, but perhaps he’d better check with her, just the same. He was reaching for the bell to summon her when there was a light tap on his study door. “Yes? Come.”

“Your Grace?” Miss St. Claire’s fair head appeared around the side of the door. “I beg your pardon for interrupting you. Good afternoon, Mr. Townsend.”

Townsend leaped up from his chair, his cheeks going as red as his hair. “Miss St. Claire! How do you do? I’m afraid you must be done in, after such a frightening experience.”

“You’re kind to enquire, Mr. Townsend, but I assure you I’m quite well. Only a little tired.”

“You don’t look well.” Max rose belatedly to his feet. “Though better, admittedly, than the last time I saw you.”

She was wearing a pale yellow dress, the thick mass of her fair hair scraped into a prim knot at the back of her head, secured with what must be dozens of invisible pins, as there wasn’t a single wayward strand to be seen.

She’d obviously borrowed the gown, as it was so large it might have fit two Miss St. Claires, with fabric to spare. She was a wee bit of a thing. It was a wonder she hadn’t been killed, her dainty limbs crushed under the weight of the collapsed ceiling.

Everything about her was dainty, aside from her hair.

What business did such a small scrap of a young lady have with such a superfluous quantity of hair as that? How was it she managed not to topple over from the weight of all those wild golden curls?

He sank back into his chair, unaccountably nettled by that extravagant hair. “I don’t know what you’re doing out of bed, Miss St. Claire. You look perfectly dreadful.”

Townsend grimaced. “Er, Your Grace, I don’t think—”

“Never mind, Mr. Townsend.” Miss St. Claire choked back a laugh. “At this point, I’d find His Grace’s flattery much more distressing than his admittedly brutal honesty.”

“Is that so, Miss St. Claire?” Max made a show of tidying the papers on his desk, but from under his eyelashes he gave her a slow, thorough perusal. “Then you won’t mind my saying you look as if you’ve been dragged backward through a knothole.”

Townsend gasped. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I really must insist that you—”

“It’s all right, Mr. Townsend. I don’t deny I’ve had more peaceful weeks than this one, and I suppose it shows.” Miss St. Claire smiled at Townsend, then turned her attention back to Max. “I wondered if I might have a word with you, Your Grace?”

“Of course. Townsend, if you would?”

Townsend cast him a reproachful glance, then left the room, leaving the door half-open behind him.

“Sit down, Miss St. Claire.” He waved her toward one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Max drew in a sharp breath as she settled into the chair on the other side of his desk. The heavy snowfall had dwindled to an occasional burst of snow flurries, but it was clear now, and a ray of pale sunlight fell across her face.

Her eyes were ringed with dark circles, her lips were tight as if she were in pain, and her cheeks were as pale as death. Some emotion flickered to life in his chest and swelled, mushrooming inside him until his ribs ached with it, his heart pressing against his sternum, threatening to tear it in two.

Damn the girl, what was she thinking, staying in that decrepit old house? Didn’t she have any sense at all? Why, anyone could see it was merely a matter of time before another part of that house collapsed on top of her. “I can plainly see, Miss St. Claire, that you’re not well at all. I insist you return to bed at once.”

His voice was clipped, his tone cold, but if she resented it, one couldn’t tell from the angelic smile she gave him. “I’m perfectly well, Your Grace, only a bit sore.”

“That’s hardly surprising, Miss St. Claire, given I found you sprawled on the floor with a chair on top of you. I can only assume you fell off it.”

“I did, yes.” She waved a hand as if a fall from a chair into a hip bath’s worth of half-frozen water were a mere trifle. “But I didn’t come to see you to—”

“Is that all you have to say? For God’s sake, you might have cracked your head open. If the beams in your bedchamber had given way, you might even now be buried under a mountain of rubble with broken fragments of your skull scattered on the floor around you!”

She stared at him, clearly taken aback by his vehemence, but she couldn’t have been more shocked at it than he was. Good Lord, what was wrong with him? There was a reason the ton called him the Duke of Ice behind his back. He wasn’t given to fits of temper, but here he was scolding Miss St. Claire like a hysterical grandmother.

How the devil had this tiny slip of a girl managed to burrow under his skin?

Then again, perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising. She was Ambrose’s daughter.

“That’s, ah, wonderfully descriptive of you, Your Grace. But as you can see, my skull remains intact. Indeed, that’s why I’ve come to see you. We didn’t begin on the most cordial terms, but—”

“Cordial? You tried to shoot me, Miss St. Claire.”

“Nonsense. If I’d intended to shoot you, Your Grace, you’d be dead. But that’s neither here nor there. We didn’t begin on the most cordial terms, as I said, and thus I had no reason to expect any kindness from you, but you did me a good turn today, and I’m grateful to you for it.”

“You might return the favor if you had a mind to, Miss St. Claire.” He leaned back in his chair, assessing her. “As you know, you possess something I want very much.”

“You mean Hammond Court, of course.” She shook her head. “As much as it pains me, I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Your Grace.”

“I did you a good turn, Miss St. Claire. You said so yourself. I might even have saved your life. Your life, in exchange for a ramshackle house? It seems a fair trade to me, but of course, I’d pay you handsomely, nevertheless.”

“Perhaps it would be a fair trade if you had saved my life, and if Hammond Court were just a house, but it’s not, Your Grace. Not to me.”

No, not to him, either. It was a piece of his history, a part shadowed by loss, anger, and grief, yet he wanted it back, just the same. Ironically, Miss St. Claire might be the only person in England who could understand what Hammond Court meant to him.

“I came to thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured when he didn’t reply. “I don’t know how you happened to be there at such an early hour, but I’m grateful you were.”

He glanced down at his blotted letter, his dripping pen, the uncapped bottle of ink on his desk—anywhere but at her , into those green eyes shining with gratitude. “Yes, well, despite our differences, Miss St. Claire, I’ve no wish to see a young lady injured, or worse.” He cleared his throat. “Even if such a tragedy might easily have been prevented and was a result of her extreme foolishness.”

He deployed the eyebrow then, which conveyed better than words ever could how unwise it was of her to remain at Hammond Court in the first place.

But the eyebrow didn’t appear to have any effect on Miss St. Claire, who only raised her own eyebrow in return. “Yes, well, it was good of you, Your Grace.” She cocked her head to the side, considering him. “I’m rather glad I didn’t shoot you, after all.”

A wild laugh swelled in his throat—really, the chit was half-mad—but he swallowed it back before his lips could so much as twitch. It wouldn’t do for her to think he found her ridiculous antics amusing.

“I didn’t wish to leave today without expressing my thanks,” she went on. “And to assure you I’m sensible of the kindness you’ve done me.”

“Leaving?” He leaped up. “You can’t mean you’re returning to Hammond Court?”

She blinked. “But of course, I am. Where else would I go?”

She rose to her feet, but she was a trifle unsteady. He hurried around the desk, taking her arm. “Sit down, Miss St. Claire, before you fall over.”

“Nonsense. I’m perfectly well, and I must be going. Billy will be wondering where I am.”

“You’re not going back to Hammond Court.” For God’s sake, was the girl trying to put an end to her existence? “It isn’t safe. One would think you’d have come to that conclusion on your own after the roof toppled down upon your head.”

“Nonsense. It did no such thing. It was merely the ceiling, and only a small part of it, at that.”

She tugged at her arm, but he held her fast. “It will be awkward, indeed, Miss St. Claire, if I’m forced to lock you in the guest bedchamber to prevent you from returning to Hammond Court.”

She glared at him, her cheeks flushing. “Yes, it would make it a great deal easier for you if I gave up, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately for you, Your Grace, I don’t intend to make it easy for you to tear Hammond Court to the ground!”

God above, the girl was driving him mad. “These theatrics are hardly necessary. It does not, alas, make you any less a half owner of the house if you’re not living there. Here or there, you are, I assure you, still very much in my way.”

“Be that as it may, I prefer to be in your way from there .” She glanced pointedly at his hand, which was still on her arm. “Unhand me, if you please, Your Grace.”

Damn it, he couldn’t let her go now, not when he was so close to putting his plan into action. But how the devil was he going to persuade her to remain at Grantham Lodge long enough for his chosen viscount to come to Fairford, court, and marry her?

How long did a courtship take? No more than a fortnight, surely, or, if she could be persuaded to fall in love with Viscount Dunwitty, the entire tedious business shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, at most.

Love was—if he could judge by his friends Basingstoke’s and Montford’s recent marriages—a thing one could fall into with astonishing rapidity, and Miss St. Claire was a young lady, and thus susceptible to the sorts of romantic notions that plagued all young ladies.

Why, it should be the easiest thing in the world for her to fall in love. “I must insist, Miss St. Claire, that you remain here at Grantham Lodge through to Twelfth Night. Indeed, I demand it.”

“Twelfth Night!” She stared at him. “Are you mad? I can’t stay in this house alone with you for weeks on end!”

“We’d hardly be alone, Miss St. Claire, with two dozen servants wandering about.”

She drew herself up, her lips in a prim line. “You know servants aren’t considered proper chaperones, Your Grace.”

“Mrs. Watson would be highly offended to hear you say so, Miss St. Claire, but of course, I didn’t mean only the servants. There will be, er, some others here, as well.”

“Oh? Who?”

A good question, that. Think, man, think!

She raised an eyebrow as the silence stretched between them. “Your Grace?”

“I’m, er, er . . . well, the thing is, I’m . . .” What? Speak, damn it! But his brain, usually so reliably diabolical, failed to produce a single convincing lie with the weight of those green eyes upon him.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I really must be getting back to—”

“I’m hosting a Christmas house party, here at Grantham Lodge!”