Page 13 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 12

“I can’t find the lemon peel.” Rose rummaged through the spice chest in the corner of the kitchen, pulling open the little drawers and examining the contents within. “There’s parsley, marjoram, dill, mustard, and so on, but none of the spices used in sweets.”

What would become of the Christmas pudding? One couldn’t have Christmas pudding without lemon peel, or . . . no, there was no orange or candied citron, either, and no almonds or cinnamon. Perhaps she could make do without the citron, though it wouldn’t be the same without it, but for pity’s sake, what was a Christmas pudding without cinnamon?

She turned to the housekeeper, who was fussing with the duke’s tea tray. “Is there no cinnamon, Mrs. Watson?”

“Oh, dear. There may not be, I’m afraid. We eat rather simply here at Grantham Lodge, Miss St. Claire.”

Simply? How odd. Grantham Lodge was many things, but simple wasn’t one of them. Why, she’d imagined the kitchen in such a grand estate would be stuffed to the brim with the finest of everything a cook could desire, from the most delicate mace to the sweetest vanilla.

Really, it was excessively disappointing, but then Grantham Lodge was a strange place, wasn’t it? Both luxurious and empty at once. “Does the duke’s cook not bake, Mrs. Watson?” Perhaps the duke didn’t care for sweets. Perhaps even sacks full of the finest white sugar couldn’t turn that sour tongue sweet.

“Well, as to that, we don’t have a cook. Not a formal one, leastways.”

“No cook ?” An estate this size, with no cook? Why, such a thing was unheard of. She must have misunderstood. “You mean to say the Duke of Grantham doesn’t keep a cook?”

“There’s Mrs. Cowles who comes in on weekdays to prepare meals, but otherwise, no, and she’s no baker, is Mrs. Cowles. Oh, she does the bread and the odd scone here or there, but no sweets to speak of.”

“But, this kitchen, Mrs. Watson!” Rose glanced around the spacious, light-filled space. For a man who didn’t employ a cook, the duke had the loveliest kitchen she’d ever seen, with every convenience one could imagine, as if it had been designed for one of those uppity French chefs the aristocrats were so fond of these days. She’d nearly swooned when she walked through the door. “Why, it’s criminal, that such a kitchen as this should have no cook!”

It was like a horse with no rider, or a barn with no cats. A Christmas pudding with no cinnamon, or . . . or . . . a duke, with no duchess.

Now, where had that thought come from?

She pushed it aside and turned her attention back to Mrs. Watson, who’d taken the kettle off the stove and was pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves. “We haven’t had any need of a cook, Miss St. Claire, what with the duke keeping away from Grantham Lodge as he has. There’s not much call for fancy meals without a duke to feed, is there?”

“I suppose not, but that will have to change now.” Rose nodded at the tea tray, where Mrs. Watson was arranging two withered-looking tea cakes.

“Aye, I suppose it will, at least as long as he remains in Fairford. Mrs. Clancy, His Grace’s London housekeeper, is sending their chef, Monsieur Blanchard, to us for the duration of the house party, and thank goodness for it. I do hope he arrives before the guests.” She cast a disconsolate glance at the two pitiful tea cakes. “Oh, dear. They don’t look particularly appetizing, do they?”

“I’m afraid not, but never mind. I’ll make up a fresh batch for the duke’s tea.” Rose took the plate with the tea cakes off the tray and set it aside. “I daresay you have flour, eggs, and milk? Is it too much to hope that you have currants?”

“Why, how kind of you, Miss St. Claire. But you must be done in after your ordeal at Hammond Court. I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask, Mrs. Watson. I offered, and I’m pleased to do it. I love to putter about in the kitchen, especially one as pretty as this one. I’m quite a competent baker if I do say it myself. Not a cook, mind you, but I can be trusted with sweets.”

“Well, if you insist on it, I won’t naysay you.” Mrs. Watson stood back, watching as Rose moved about the kitchen, gathering her ingredients. “I daresay the duke will appreciate it, after enduring Mrs. Cowles’s confectionary efforts these past few days.”

The duke, appreciative? Rose held back an unladylike snort. She doubted there was anything she could do that would please the Duke of Grantham, but she kept this petty observation to herself and went ahead with her work, busily mixing her ingredients with the ease of years of practice.

“My goodness, child, you have a quick hand with the business, don’t you? Where did you learn to bake?”

“My mother taught me. You recall she was Mr. St. Claire’s cook for years before she passed away? I used to spend hours with her in the kitchen when I was a child. Everything I know, I learned at her knee.”

“Of course, dear. How could I have forgotten?” Mrs. Watson patted her arm. “She was a fine lady, your mother. I daresay Mr. St. Claire must have missed her terribly after she passed away. It’s been some years now, has it not?”

“Nine years,” Rose murmured, her throat too thick to venture another word. Ambrose had missed her mother, and not just as his cook, but as his friend, and no friend could have been more loyal to them than Ambrose had been. He’d been the only one of her mother’s childhood friends who’d stood by her in her hour of need.

Their hour of need. She hardly remembered it, of course, having just turned four years old when she and her mother came to Hammond Court. But her mother had reminded her over and over throughout the years that Ambrose had taken them in when all their other friends had turned their backs—that a true friend like Ambrose was rare indeed, and that they owed him everything.

Not that her reminders had been necessary. Rose had loved Ambrose almost on sight, because who could resist such a kind man? To see Ambrose’s face, to bask in the warmth of the sunshine of his smile was to love him.

She cleared her throat. “My mother was a wonderful cook, but she wasn’t fond of baking. I never took much of a liking to cooking, so once I was old enough I took over the baking for her, and I’ve been doing it ever since.” She smiled at Mrs. Watson. “Did you happen to find any currants?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Watson sighed, shaking her head. “It’s a pity, because I do love currants in my tea cakes. Sarah’s doing the marketing today. I’ll have her fetch some, shall I? Is there anything else you need?”

Rose hesitated. The kitchen was not well provisioned, but she was a guest here, and in no position to demand currants, or anything else. Still, there was the Christmas pudding to consider.

“It’s all right, Miss St. Claire,” Mrs. Watson said, guessing at the reason for her hesitation. “His Grace doesn’t concern himself with the doings in the kitchen. We market as we please, and I daresay it will please everyone to have currants in their tea cake, and whatever other culinary delights you can dream up.”

“Well, if you’re certain it’s all right, we really should make up the Christmas pudding today, so there’s a chance it will set up properly in time for Christmas dinner. Each of the servants must have a turn to stir, so they might make their Christmas wishes.”

“What a lovely idea!” Mrs. Watson beamed. “I can’t recall the last time I made a wish over the Christmas pudding. You’ll have us all in the holiday spirit yet, Miss St. Claire.”

Rose smiled, but in truth, she hadn’t been feeling very merry this season. She always felt her mother’s absence more keenly at Christmas. Now Ambrose was gone as well, and most of the servants from Hammond Court had been forced to find new places after the financial hardships of last year.

In truth, she felt more alone than she ever had.

The Christmases she’d spent at Hammond Court would soon be only memories, fading to ghosts of themselves as the years passed. How na?ve she’d been, to think those Christmases would never end. How silly, to imagine time wouldn’t take them from her, one beloved person after the next.

But it wasn’t quite over yet. That is, it was the case that she’d be spending this Christmas with a dour duke who, despite having done her a marked kindness this morning, still clearly despised her. But Mrs. Watson was a kind soul, and it was difficult not to be cheered by her enthusiasm.

If she could bring just a bit of Hammond Court’s Christmas cheer to Grantham Lodge, she’d consider her time well spent. And if it did soften the duke’s heart just a touch, all the better. “We must have brandy, too, Mrs. Watson, and plenty of it, as we’ll need to add more to the pudding as it dries.”

“Yes, of course. Now, what have I done with my paper and pencil?” Mrs. Watson rummaged in her apron pockets with a frown. “Dear me, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached. I’ll just go find it, and we’ll make a list, and send Sarah off to the market at once.”

* * *

By the time Max finished his last letter it was snowing again, the flakes like tiny white stars falling from a steely sky. Long shadows had gathered in the corners of his study, and without the scratch of his pen against the paper, it was utterly silent.

Too silent.

“Where the devil has everyone gone?” He tugged the cord with a bit more force than necessary, but none of his servants appeared. He pulled his pocket watch out, flipped open the lid, and checked the time.

It was half past four. Well past his teatime.

He threw down his pen, rose from behind his desk, and poked his head into the corridor outside his study door. “Townsend?”

Silence. Even Townsend, who seemed always to be hovering within shouting distance, was nowhere to be found.

He marched out into the hallway, and from there into the library, the music room, and the drawing room, but they were all equally deserted, and none of the seemingly endless number of housemaids he employed were anywhere about, their polishing cloths in hand, ducking their heads like frightened rabbits when he appeared.

For God’s sake, where was Mrs. Watson? He wandered back into the entryway, the thud of his boots echoing in the emptiness. Where was Monk? Wasn’t his butler meant to be guarding the entryway at all times? His entire household was missing, vanished into thin air.

He paused near the staircase, and that was when the most heavenly scent found his nose. Cloves, oranges, and cinnamon, with another, richer scent layered underneath it. He couldn’t quite place it, but it smelled like . . . he drew in a deep breath, his nose twitching.

Dark sugar, sticky and sweet, and warmed brandy.

He’d never smelled anything more delightful in his life. Even Monsieur Blanchard, his chef in London, had never produced such a tempting scent as that.

It was coming from his kitchen, wafting up the back stairway, beckoning like a crooked finger. He opened the door and made his way down the narrow staircase, the delectable scent leading him by his nose into the kitchen and tugging an irritable whine from his stomach.

Was this where all the servants were, then? Sitting about in his kitchen, drinking warmed brandy? As if in answer, there was a burst of raucous laughter and the sound of excited voices coming from the other side of the door.

He jerked it open, then stood there gaping, amazed.

Every servant in his household was squeezed into the kitchen, which was quite a trick, really, despite the size of the room, as he employed a great many servants. Damned if he knew all their names, or any of their names, come to that, but here were half a dozen footmen, all the missing housemaids, Mrs. Watson, and Monk, and, yes, there was Townsend, a ridiculous grin on his face as he peered into the iron kettle hanging over the fire.

They were all so preoccupied with whatever they were doing, they didn’t even notice he’d entered the kitchen. Why, he might have sat in his study all bloody night, perishing from hunger and cold, and not a single one of them would have been any the wiser.

He opened his mouth to let out a proper ducal howl, but then snapped it closed again when he saw who was presiding over the kettle.

Well, he might have bloody known, mightn’t he?

There, right in the middle of the melee was Miss St. Claire, a spoon in her hand, peering down into the contents of the kettle, as if waiting for something. Locks of her fair hair had escaped the ribbon at the back of her neck and were flying about her face in a wild profusion of corkscrew curls from the steam rising from the kettle.

The apron she wore was at least two sizes too large for her and had been wrapped twice around her petite frame. The front of it was stained with some sticky substance that looked like beaten eggs. There were breadcrumbs in her hair, and a daub of flour dusted one of her cheeks.

It was not charming. No, there was nothing at all charming about this chit taking over his kitchen and kidnapping his servants. Still, he froze for an instant, a strange sensation in his chest that felt a bit like longing.

Which was utterly ridiculous, of course, as there wasn’t a single thing here he wanted. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest to keep any unwanted emotions from sneaking back in, and barked, “Having a pleasant time, are you?”

His voice rang out through the kitchen, cutting through all the chatter. Dozens of heads all jerked toward him at once, and one by one, the big smiles on his servants’ faces faded, replaced with looks of horror.

Every face, that is, but one.

Miss St. Claire turned toward him, her cheeks rosy from the heat, and her face wreathed in smiles. “Oh, Your Grace! You’ve come just in time!”

“Just in time, Miss St. Claire?” He marched across the kitchen toward her, the servants stepping back to allow him to pass, parting for him as if he were Moses, or, well . . . admittedly, something less miraculous. “I’d sooner say far too late.”

If she noticed the servants’ uneasy shuffling, she paid no mind to it. “Not at all, Your Grace. You’re just in time to have the first stir of the Christmas pudding.”

“I’m referring to my tea, Miss St. Claire. It’s late .” He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and made a show of studying the face. “Forty minutes late, to be precise,” he added, with a cool glance at Mrs. Watson. “I might have perished from hunger, with none of you any the wiser.”

Mrs. Watson darted forward, wringing her hands. “Oh, dear. I do beg your pardon, Your Grace. We were just—”

“Perish, from a late tea? Why, what nonsense.” Miss St. Claire laughed and offered him the spoon. “Come, Your Grace, have a stir, and make your wish.”

“What I wish for, Miss St. Claire, is my tea.” He eyed the spoon in her hand. “I don’t recall expressing a desire for Christmas pudding, or authorizing the making of one at the expense of my tea.”

Her brows drew together. On a less open face, that expression of innocent confusion might have looked like a ploy, but she appeared genuinely baffled. “But it’s well past Stir-up Sunday already, Your Grace. The Christmas pudding is meant to be prepared on Stir-up Sunday. No one in the household has had a chance to make their Christmas wish.”

“I despise Christmas pudding. Mrs. Watson, my tea, if you would be so kind. As for the rest of you, I daresay you have something else to do?”

He turned to go, but he only made it a few steps before Miss St. Claire stopped him with a word. “No!”

“ No ?” He whirled around to face her, not so much angry as stunned. “Did you just say no to me, Miss St. Claire?” No one said no to him. Ever.

Given the way everyone else blanched, she should have realized her mistake at once and slunk away in shame, but instead, her chin shot up, and she met his gaze without flinching. “I did, indeed. You might not care for it, Your Grace, but I daresay the others would like to make their wishes.”

“Wishes, Miss St. Claire, are for children.”

That stubborn chin rose a notch higher. “Stir-up Sunday is a tradition, Your Grace.”

Tradition be damned. He didn’t care one whit for it, and he nearly said so aloud, but the words stilled on his tongue when he noticed the expressions on his servants’ faces, the way they shuffled their feet, and averted their gazes.

Very well, perhaps the chit had a point. As foolish—no, as useless as Christmas wishes were, his servants did appear to want theirs, and . . . well, as much as he scorned such sentimentality, he found he couldn’t quite deprive them of it.

Not with Miss St. Claire’s accusing green eyes fixed on him.

“Very well. Have your wishes. Then may I have my tea?”

“Oh, yes, Your Grace. I’ll bring it up at once. You see your tray is right here, all ready to go, and Miss St. Claire made some lovely tea cakes for you.”

He glanced at the tray, where a pot of tea was steeping, and beside it a plateful of what looked to be very nice tea cakes.

Very nice, indeed.

He edged closer to the tea tray, his mouth flooding with saliva, reached for one of the perfectly browned cakes, and took a cautious bite.

His eyes dropped closed, an involuntary groan escaping his lips. God, they were perfect. Fluffy, as light as air, and bursting with sweet currants, just as a tea cake was meant to be. He devoured the rest of the cake in one bite, manners be damned, savoring the treat until the last bit of the cake had melted on his tongue.

When he opened his eyes again, Miss St. Claire was watching him, her face unexpectedly soft, and a half smile curving her lips. “Do the cakes suit, Your Grace?”

He held her gaze for a long beat, then another, a strange fluttering in his chest. He couldn’t have said what expression he wore just then, but as they gazed at each other, her eyes went a dark, unfathomable green, like a forest hidden under a canopy of leaves, the warm, gold flecks in their depths like dappled sunshine.

They stared at each other, the moment going on and on, heavy with the crackling tension between them. He was dimly aware of the room falling silent, of his servants’ curious glances, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the curve of her parted lips. Heat thrummed through his veins, unfurling in his belly. He flexed his fingers, digging his nails into his palms to keep from reaching for her, and dragging the back of his knuckles across the soft, warm skin of her cheek.

What would her lips taste like?

Cinnamon and sugar, sweet, dark treacle—

“Your Grace?” She swallowed, her slender throat rippling. “The t-tea cakes?”

He stepped back and dropped his gaze. “They’ll do, I suppose.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, but turned on his heel and left the kitchen, shaken, her green-eyed gaze heavy on his back.