Page 12 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 11

“A Christmas house party?” The Duke of Grantham was hosting a fortnight of jolly festivities to celebrate the wonders of the season? “ You’re hosting a Christmas house party?”

“I believe I just said so. But you look surprised, Miss St. Claire. Is there some reason, in your estimable opinion, why I should not host a Christmas house party?”

Under the cover of her lashes, Rose gazed at the man perched on the edge of the desk. His shoulders were stiff, his lips turned down in a stern frown, his gray eyes as frosty as winter clouds shrouding the sun. “Why, no. No, of course not, Your Grace. It’s just that . . .”

Well, he wasn’t precisely bursting with merriment, was he? In fact, of all the gentlemen she was acquainted with, he was the very last one she would have imagined would host a grand holiday celebration.

Indeed, it would perhaps be best if he didn’t attempt it, for it was bound to be a grim, cheerless affair. “It’s just that I was under the impression you detested Fairford, and couldn’t wait to return to London.”

He blinked. “Whatever gave you that idea? You have a most fertile imagination, Miss St. Claire. If I ever did imply such a thing, I can assure you, that was before.”

She waited, but he didn’t continue, just stared at her with those molten eyes. “Yes, Your Grace?” Before he realized how charming Fairford was? Before he was taken with a sudden and all-consuming passion for the holiday season? Neither seemed likely. “Before what ?”

“Before I . . . that is, before my . . .”

She cocked her head, studying him. It was a simple question, but the duke appeared uncharacteristically flummoxed. “Yes?”

“Before I . . . before I made up my mind to marry! Yes, that’s it. I wish for my, er . . . my future duchess to spend a Christmas at Grantham Lodge.”

He folded his arms over his chest, looking pleased with himself.

“You’re betrothed , Your Grace?” It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. He didn’t behave as if he was betrothed. Not that she had the least idea how a betrothed gentleman was meant to behave, and, of course, the duke might do as he pleased.

It was nothing to her.

Still, it was curious that little morsel of gossip hadn’t reached them here in Fairford, even considering their distance from London. The good citizens of Fairford tended to keep alert for rumors regarding the Duke of Grantham, and rumors of a soon-to-be-installed duchess were important news, particularly for his tenants.

“Er, well, not betrothed, exactly, but I may be so, very soon.”

“I see.” She didn’t, though. This betrothal seemed to have come on quite suddenly, rather like an attack of the vapors, much like the Christmas house party itself had done. Indeed, there was something strange about this entire thing, not the least of which was the duke’s shifty expression.

But in the end, did it matter? He might wed whomever he pleased. He might host the merriest Christmas party Fairford had ever seen to impress his future betrothed. He might festoon every corner of Grantham Lodge with greenery, sing Christmas carols until his lungs gave out, then drown himself in a bowl of wassail—

Ahem.

The point was, the duke’s Christmas party made no difference to her . She couldn’t possibly remain at Grantham Lodge for it. Indeed, there were a dozen reasons to be wary of his invitation, not the least of which was his reputation for ruthlessness. If she agreed to remain under his roof, she would be putting herself directly in his power.

Then again, if she wanted to fulfill her promise to Ambrose, what choice did she have? If she was going to persuade the duke to make peace with his past, she needed access to him, and it wasn’t as if he were likely to bring his fine London friends to visit Hammond Court, was it? It was hardly fit for guests, with its broken windows and collapsed roof.

Even she couldn’t remain there for much longer. It wasn’t safe. It had only been the ceiling of her bedchamber last night, but tomorrow it could be the roof itself.

She was running out of time.

As for this Christmas party, well . . . she didn’t know quite what to make of it, but if His Grace truly was on the verge of marrying, and the lady was to come here to Grantham Lodge, it would certainly be best for Fairford if she approved of the place and wished to spend time here.

It was not in his tenants’ interest for the duke to remain an absentee landlord, and given Ambrose’s tenants would soon become the Duke of Grantham’s tenants, it was welcome news that the duke was considering marrying.

Yes, indeed. Very welcome news.

But what were the chances a lady accustomed to all the delights Town had to offer would find anything to please her in tiny Fairford? That is, it was a pleasing town, of course—why, there wasn’t a lovelier place in all of England—but a lady as elegant as a future duchess must be, might find it too small and rustic to be of much interest.

Now, if Grantham Lodge had been at all welcoming, perhaps it might have been different, but as it was . . . she glanced around the study. It was an elegant room, the furnishings in the height of fashion, as one would expect of a duke. The settee was done in a rich, dark blue silk, and the desk was a massive rosewood affair, every inch of it polished to a high gloss.

The same could be said of the other rooms in the house, as well, or at least the few she’d peeked into on her way to the study. There seemed to be an endless number of sitting rooms and parlors, each more lavish than the last, with costly silk wallpapers and massive, carved stone fireplaces.

Yet somehow, for all its grandness, Grantham Lodge wasn’t a welcoming place.

The beautiful silk settees looked as if they’d never been graced by a single backside. There wasn’t as much as a speck of soot to be seen in any of the grand fireplaces, as if nary a fire had ever been lit in any of them. The elegant brass doorknobs didn’t bear a single fingerprint. It was as if every trace of a human hand had been erased.

Everything was spotless, still, and cold.

It wasn’t a home . For all its spiders, leaky ceilings, and smoking fireplaces, Hammond Court was alive with the memories of the dozens of lives that had unfolded there. It had been lived in, loved, whereas Grantham Lodge . . . well, if she were the Duke of Grantham’s future duchess, she’d take one look at this house and flee for her very life.

“You look dismayed, Miss St. Claire.”

She startled. Goodness, she’d almost forgotten he was there. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your expression.” His cool, gray gaze was fixed on her, his eyebrows lowered in a frown. “What are you thinking about?”

“Thinking? Why, nothing at all.” She straightened her spine and tugged her skirts into place. “Though it does occur to me, Your Grace, that if you are to have house guests, there might be one or two ladies among them who would agree to act as a chaperone for me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “If there were any such ladies, Miss St. Claire? What then?”

She sucked in a breath, forced a smile to her lips, and sent up a quick prayer to the heavens that she wasn’t making a dreadful mistake. “Then it would be entirely appropriate for me to remain at Grantham Lodge through the holidays. There can be nothing shocking about my being one among many guests, surely.”

“Certainly not. Nothing shocking at all.”

“But I must have your permission to send for my former nursemaid, Abby Hinde, to join me here.” She couldn’t make do without Abby. She needed her dear old friend, now more than ever.

“You haven’t left her at Hammond Court, I hope?”

“Of course not, Your Grace. She’s staying with a Mrs. Sullivan, in Cirencester.”

“Very well. I’ll send a footman to fetch her this afternoon. Any other demands, Miss St. Claire?”

“Well, since you ask, Your Grace, I’d be pleased to help your servants with your Christmas house party.” She’d planned the holiday fete at Hammond Court for the past eight years, and they’d had some lovely celebrations.

“Yes, yes.” He waved a careless hand at her. “If you like.”

“Wonderful.” Perhaps she could weave some of her magic here at Grantham Lodge. “I have some truly inspired ideas regarding Christmas garlands.”

He blinked. “Garlands?”

“Of course. You have heard of garlands, have you not, Your Grace? Pine boughs, and kissing balls, and the like? Garlands at Christmastime are tradition.” Goodness, he did need her help, didn’t he?

Because as it was . . . she glanced around the room again, smothering a grimace. If ever there was a place meant to stifle any attempt at merriment, it was this one.

As for the Duke of Grantham himself...

She took him in, so stern and austere, clad from head to toe in somber shades of gray and black, aside from his cravat. It was a proper snowy white, but so rigid it looked as if it were strangling him, and the points of his collar were as sharp as blades.

Such ruthless elegance was off-putting. Alas, there wasn’t much she could do about his collar points, but she could see to it his house was made inviting, and . . . dare she hope it?

Merry.

“Then we agree, Miss St. Claire? You will remain as my guest at Grantham Lodge until Twelfth Night?”

“If there is a proper chaperone amongst your guests, then yes, Your Grace. I can’t think of any reason why I should not.” She offered him as cheerful a smile as she could muster. “It’s kind of you to have me.”

He frowned as if he hadn’t the first idea what to do with her smile or thanks. “Both the Duchess of Basingstoke and the Duchess of Montford will attend the house party. Can you make do with one or the other of them as your chaperone?”

Duchesses? Goodness. “I daresay I can manage, Your Grace.”

“It’s settled, then.” He rubbed his hands together, looking far too pleased with himself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss St. Claire, I have some letters to write.”

“Of course.” She rose from her chair. “Might I have your permission to have a word with Mrs. Watson and your cook, Your Grace?”

“Whatever for?”

“Why, because it’s already December the fourteenth.”

He frowned at her. “Yes? What of it?”

“The Christmas pudding, Your Grace. Stir-up Sunday is November twenty-first. We’re already weeks behind. If you want a proper Christmas pudding, it must be prepared today. Surely, you don’t intend to host a Christmas house party without a proper Christmas pudding?”

He gave her a flat look. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss St. Claire.”

“Then I do have your permission to speak to Mrs. Watson, Your Grace?”

“Yes, yes. Go on.” He waved a careless hand toward the door.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She left him alone at his desk, the frown still on his lips, and skipped out into the corridor, her heart lifting. She and Abby had always made the Christmas pudding together on Stir-up Sunday. It was a tradition at Hammond Court, and every year Ambrose pronounced it the best Christmas pudding he’d ever tasted.

It wouldn’t be the same this year, without him. How could it be?

But it was something.

* * *

Christmas pudding, of all the ridiculous things.

Miss St. Claire’s only home was a crumbling estate, the ceiling of which had collapsed on top of her mere hours ago. She was as destitute as the poor creatures who begged for coins in Covent Garden, and she’d just willingly placed herself in the clutches of a merciless duke who was determined to tear her house to the ground.

One would think a young lady with no money, no connections, and few friends would have enough to worry about without fretting over a Christmas pudding.

Still, fussing about with the pudding was as good a way as any to keep her busy, and thus out of his way. He rose from his desk to close the study door behind her, but a low, sweet sound made him pause with his ear pressed to the gap.

Miss St. Claire was making her way down the hallway, and she was . . .

Humming? By God, she was.

“God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” Comfort, joy, and all that nonsense.

He waited until the humming faded, the soft thud of her footsteps receding, then pushed the door closed, returned to his desk, and threw himself into his chair. Why must she be so bloody cheerful all the time? It was most tedious of her, and it made him feel like a perfect villain to take advantage of a lady who took such obvious delight in Christmas puddings and Christmas carols.

If he could so callously manipulate Miss St. Claire, what was next? Drowning kittens? Kicking puppies? Pulling a child’s hair?

Still, he’d solved his most pressing problem. Miss St. Claire would remain at Grantham Lodge until Twelfth Night, just as he wished.

Now, onto the next problem, and a daunting one it was. Not quite as daunting as managing a termagant like Rose St. Claire, but daunting enough.

The house party. Somehow, he’d have to lure a dozen or two of London’s most fashionable people away from their warm firesides on shockingly short notice, and persuade them to spend Christmas in the cold, muddy countryside.

Which would be quite a trick, given even he didn’t want to be here.

It was a damned good thing he wasn’t anyone less than the Duke of Grantham, or he never could have managed it. As it was, he’d need Basingstoke and Montford to see the thing done.

The ton wasn’t going to fancy the long hours of travel to Fairford, but they’d hurry off to hell itself if three dukes and two duchesses awaited them at the end of their journey.

He jerked open the drawer of his desk, snatched up a handful of paper and a new quill, and dipped the nib into the bottle of ink. He stared down at the blank page for a long moment, considering, then scrawled,

Basingstoke,

I’ve urgent need of you and your duchess in Fairford. Come at once, and bring Montford and the Duchess of Montford with you. Grantham.

There. It was a bit brusque, but they’d come, if only to satisfy their curiosity. He never spent any time at Grantham Lodge, and he’d certainly never invited any of his friends here.

Neither Basingstoke nor Montford could resist a mystery, especially Montford.

He read the note over once again. Yes, it would do. It was just cryptic enough to lure his friends here.

Now, as far as his mythical future duchess was concerned . . .

Damn it, why the devil had he told Miss St. Claire he was thinking of marrying, of all things? He wasn’t—not seriously, at any rate. Before he’d left London it had crossed his mind that Lady Emily Bolland might make a proper wife, but he’d hardly spared her a thought since he’d arrived in Fairford.

God knew the house party alone was bad enough without throwing a fictional betrothed into it, but she’d caught him off guard, and then she’d been gazing at him with those green eyes, and . . . well, he’d panicked.

It was too late to fix it now.

He’d have to invite Lady Emily. She’d come to Fairford at once if he beckoned her, if only because she fancied herself the future mistress of Grantham Lodge.

That might prove to be a problem.

He’d told Miss St. Claire he was courting this lady, so he’d have to play the part of the besotted swain, and Lady Emily was a touch too eager to be courted, and she could become a trifle irritable if she was thwarted in any way.

She was a renowned London beauty, but she was one of those sulky, petulant ladies that were so fashionable these days. There was no denying she had a lovely face, but he wasn’t much enamored of her sullenness. Why, he even preferred Miss St. Claire, who was an impertinent, cheeky bit of baggage, to a peevish, bad-tempered bird of paradise.

For all her other many flaws, Miss St. Claire did have a pretty smile.

She smiled with her whole mouth. Hers was a country girl’s smile, not the simpering half smirk so common amongst the fashionable ladies of London.

No, he didn’t fancy a fortnight of Lady Emily’s company, but if not her, then who?

There was no one. He didn’t have many friends in London. Aside from Basingstoke and Montford and their wives, there was no one he wished to invite to his home. He had no friends at all here in Fairford, which was . . .

Perfectly fine. Just the way he wanted it.

He reached for another piece of paper, and scrawled a terse note to Lady Emily, bidding her to come to Fairford. Then he set it aside and took up another piece of paper. Within the hour, he had several dozen briefly worded invitations, each sealed with the Grantham crest, and resting in a pile at the corner of his desk.

He sat for a while, staring at them.

He had one final invitation to write, but did he dare?

It was devious, to be sure. Underhanded, and unworthy of a gentleman. Breaking Miss St. Claire’s door down hadn’t been his finest moment, but this would be much worse. If he did proceed, and the scheme worked—and his schemes generally did—then the ramifications of it would be far-reaching.

But not necessarily bad. Indeed, when one considered how bleak Miss St. Claire’s current situation was, one could argue he was doing her a good turn. Didn’t every young lady want to marry a peer? It wasn’t as if Miss St. Claire had a prayer of making such a match without his interference—er, his help, that is.

Yes, his help. That was more accurate. She’d be made a viscountess, after all.

All it would cost her was half of a house.

His house. Perhaps not legally—not yet—but his all the same, and a part of the Grantham family property since his mother had wed his father. It had taken him years, decades, to retrieve each piece of the legacy his father had lost—years of watching, waiting, and meticulous planning—but bit by bit he’d gathered up the pieces of his past, like a boy collecting seashells on the sand—and put them back together again.

All but Hammond Court. Year after year, it had eluded him, the last piece of a puzzle that would make him whole again.

That it was his mother’s house, the house where he’d last known joy, the house that came closer to any other to being his home—mattered not a whit. In the end, it was merely another part of his past now, a piece of his history, one as shadowed by loss, anger, and grief as every other memory he had of the lonely years he’d spent in Fairford.

He’d tear it down, and once it was gone, the memories would no longer haunt him.

Slowly, he reached for another piece of paper, dipped his pen, and began to write.

Dunwitty. I require your nephew’s presence at a house party at Grantham Lodge, my country seat in Fairford. Send him at once. Grantham.

That was all, but Lord Dunwitty would know it for what it was. Not an invitation, but a summons, and one he wouldn’t dream of disobeying. No, he’d count himself fortunate to have the chance to discharge his debt with a favor instead of money he didn’t have, and he’d pack his nephew off to Fairford.

Just like that, it was done.

Some claimed he was ruthless, merciless—even cruel. Perhaps it was true, but it wasn’t as if he were dooming Miss St. Claire to a nightmare of a marriage. Viscount Dunwitty was handsome, fashionable, and wealthy, and by all accounts a decent fellow, if a trifle dull-witted.

He’d make the girl a tolerable husband.

He held the candle to the end of the stick of wax and watched it drip until a blood-red puddle formed on the seam of the cream-colored paper, then he stamped it with his seal.

The Grantham crest. Qui suffert, vincit .

He who endures, conquers.