Page 14 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 13

T hat night, Rose dreamed of tea cakes stuffed with currants, the rich scents of brandy and cinnamon, and dark, heavy eyelashes hiding a pair of smoky gray eyes.

Why were the best dreams always so fleeting? She would happily have lingered in the warm, scented silence of that dream for hours, but she woke with a thousand worries rushing through her mind at once, and the dream dissolved like sugar on her tongue.

Had another window cracked? Had a blizzard overtaken her bedchamber while she slept? Was Mr. Turnbull at the door, shaking his fist and demanding payment? Was the roof leaking?

But no, the customary chill was absent. She was surrounded by warmth, suspended in softness as if cradled in a cloud. She opened her eyes. Above her, the pale green silk bed hangings shimmered in the morning light pouring through the window.

Ah, yes. She was at Grantham Lodge. Grantham Lodge, which, as cheerless as it was, could at least boast roaring fires and snug beds.

She permitted herself a luxurious stretch, reaching her arms above her head and curling her toes against the fine linens before she tossed the coverlet aside and hurried to the window. A riot of snowflakes had been whirling about when she went to her bed last night, but now the sun was shining as bright as a gold sovereign, illuminating a beautiful blue sky.

It was an ideal winter morning. The sort of morning when Ambrose would have rousted them early from their beds, so they might go skating on the pond at the bottom of the hill behind Hammond Court.

She traced a fingertip over the lacy patterns of frost on the glass, the ice sparkling like diamonds in the sun. How lovely it would be to skate this morning! To twirl about on the ice, her head back and her arms raised to the sky.

A pang of loss pierced her chest, and she might have given way to the tears hovering on her eyelashes, but before they could fall, a soft knock on her bedchamber door made her turn.

“Rose?” Abby peeked around the edge of the door, her tentative smile vanishing when she caught sight of Rose’s face. “Oh, my poor lamb. Come here.”

She opened her arms, and Rose dashed across the room and threw herself into them, burying her face in Abby’s soft bosom.

“What’s this, now? I thought to find you all smiles this morning, as pretty a day as it is. What’s happened now?”

“It’s nothing, really. I was just thinking it’s the perfect day to go skating, and wishing . . .”

Wishing for things that could never be.

It wasn’t much of an explanation, but Abby understood at once, just as she always did. “There, there,” she murmured, stroking Rose’s hair.

They stood silently for a while, Rose sniffling into Abby’s shoulder while Abby soothed her, but she didn’t indulge her tears for long, if only because Ambrose would have disapproved of spending such a lovely day as this weeping.

“There now, that’s better.” Abby dried Rose’s cheeks with the corner of her apron. “Just a bout of the megrims, eh? Well, that’s to be expected. I thought perhaps that wicked duke had said something to upset you.”

“No. He’s been . . .” She trailed off, uncertain how to finish that sentence.

That scene over the Christmas pudding yesterday had been both predictable and surprising at the same time. Predictable in that the duke had behaved precisely as she imagined a spoiled aristocrat would when he’d been made to wait a few extra minutes to be served his tea.

That is, like a child denied a sweet.

He’d been as close to throwing a tantrum as she’d ever seen a grown man come, though he’d done it with the sort of withering arrogance one would expect from a fashionable duke.

Still, a tantrum was a tantrum, no matter how elegantly it was thrown.

But then, against her every expectation, he’d yielded to her demand that he permit his servants to have their Christmas wishes. Despite his fury—and he had been furious, if that vein pulsing in his temple could be trusted—instead of tossing her out into the snow, his gray eyes had met and held hers, and she’d seen something in those shadowy depths, something that had surprised her.

She couldn’t say what it had been, but it was like a closed door opening a tiny crack, just enough so one might get a glimpse of what lay on the other side.

For all his professed loathing of Christmas wishes, he’d permitted his servants to have theirs. Oh, he’d acquiesced with bad grace, of course, yet that fleeting moment when he’d yielded had struck right at the tenderest part of her chest.

He hadn’t stayed to make a wish for himself, which was a great pity, because if ever there was a man who needed to believe in wishes, it was the Duke of Grantham.

A lost soul . . .

She glanced back out the window, gazing at the sun sparkling on the spirals of frost painting the glass, and at the pure blue of the sky above, turning an idea over in her mind. “I wonder, Abby, if I might go skating today, after all.”

“Oh? And how’s that? Bit of a walk to Hammond Court, and in this cold? Your fingers and toes will be frostbitten before you’re even halfway there.”

There was no arguing that point. Even as warm as the bedchamber was, there was a distinct chill near the window, with the wind sneaking past the duke’s costly glazing.

She turned away from the view, her chest swelling with anticipation as the idea took shape in her mind. It wouldn’t be easy—goodness, no—but if she could manage it, perhaps that crack she’d seen in the duke’s fa?ade yesterday might open again, only this time wide enough for her to slip through.

“Perhaps I can persuade the duke to take me. I might even coax him to skate himself.”

Abby stared at her, her hands braced on her hips. “Just how do you suppose you’ll manage that, eh? He doesn’t look much like the fun-loving sort to me.”

No, he didn’t, but surely that was even more reason to go ahead with her plan? Why, it would do the duke a world of good to do something solely for the pure pleasure of it, and what could be more pleasurable than spinning on the ice?

Then again, a gentleman who was so ill-tempered as to find fault with Christmas pudding wasn’t likely to be tempted by blue skies and smooth ice and spinning, was he?

For pity’s sake, what sort of person didn’t love Christmas pudding? She’d never heard of such a thing.

Well then, she’d have to come up with something else, wouldn’t she? Some other reason to lure him out of that grim, dark study of his and into the fresh air and sunshine. “If I could persuade him that his house party guests might wish to skate, perhaps he’d agree to come and see the pond, at least.” As for getting him out onto the ice, well, she’d worry about that once she’d gotten him there.

“Well, I suppose he’s got to do something with them, doesn’t he? Those high and mighty sorts are used to being entertained at every moment.” Abby gave her a doubtful look. “But I’m afraid you’ve got your work ahead of you, convincing him. I’ve never seen a man less inclined to merry frolics than the Duke of Grantham.”

Neither had she, but Ambrose must have had some faith in the duke, or else he wouldn’t have lured him to Fairford, and right to her doorstep. She couldn’t be certain he’d meant for her to undertake a quest to help the duke find joy where before there’d been only shadows, but it was a worthy cause, regardless.

The duke had done her a favor yesterday, after all, by bringing her to Grantham Lodge. Surely, she could do this much for him? “Help me dress, won’t you, Abby?” Rose hurried to the clothes press to fetch her green woolen day dress, her mind made up.

She’d made Ambrose a promise, one she wouldn’t go back on, even if it meant enduring an afternoon of the duke’s sharp tongue, and that infuriatingly arrogant scowl.

* * *

“Ice skating?” Max gazed over the top of his spectacles at Miss St. Claire, who was standing in front of his desk, her green eyes wide with a hopefulness that was utterly absurd, given the request she’d just made. “Forgive me, Miss St. Claire, but did you just say you want me to take you ice skating ?”

“Yes, Your Grace. That’s what I said.” She folded her hands in front of her, a perfect picture of innocence. “The pond at the bottom of the hill behind Hammond Court will almost certainly be frozen by now. It’s quite a large one, and lovely for skating.”

The girl had lost her mind. “Allow me to congratulate you, Miss St. Claire.”

A pucker appeared in that smooth white brow, one that should have marred that angelic face, yet somehow made her look adorably confused, and only enhanced her appeal.

“Congratulate me? Whatever for?”

“You, Miss St. Claire, have managed to hit upon the one activity I detest above all others. I commend you on your fertile imagination. Now, run along, and find something useful to occupy yourself.” He waved a dismissive hand toward the door. “More of those tea cakes wouldn’t go amiss.”

Miss St. Claire was without a doubt the most troublesome lady alive, but there was no denying she made delicious tea cakes.

But of course, she didn’t run along, but crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest, because she was incapable of doing a single thing asked of her without an argument.

“What can you possibly have against ice skating, Your Grace? It’s lovely, especially on such a sunny day as this.”

“It’s cold and wet, and the skates pinch.” At least, he assumed they did. It had been so long since he’d gone ice skating, he couldn’t remember.

She scoffed. “Oh, what nonsense.”

Nonsense? The gall of the chit.

“You do realize, Your Grace, that you’ll need to provide some sort of entertainment for your house party guests.”

What the devil? “You mean to tell me, Miss St. Claire, that in addition to feeding them, housing them, and permitting them to drink all my best port, I’m meant to entertain them, as well?” No, surely not. That couldn’t be right. Why would anyone ever host a house party, if that were the case?

She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to determine whether or not he was jesting, then threw back her head in a laugh. “Why, of course, Your Grace! Have you never hosted a party before? An ice-skating outing would be just the thing. I believe ice skating is quite popular among the fashionable set, and the Hammond Court pond is ever so much nicer than the Thames.”

He tore his spectacles off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. She’d been in his study for fewer than ten minutes, and a headache was already pulsing behind his eyes. “There will be no ice skating, Miss St. Claire. I assure you, any further argument on this matter is a waste of your breath.”

“Very well. I’ll go by myself, then.”

She turned with a flounce of her skirts, and the next thing he knew, he was on his feet. “No. You’re not going alone. It’s out of the question.”

“I don’t see why it should be.”

“What if the ice is unsound? You could crash through, and there won’t be a soul there to fish you back out again.”

She shrugged. “The pond isn’t terribly deep, Your Grace. Besides, I’ve skated on it by myself dozens of times before. I know how to check the ice for soundness. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“You’ll be frozen through before you ever get to the pond, and if you do fall through, it’ll be a long walk home with wet clothing.” Not but that a dousing in an icy pond might do her a world of good by cooling some of the heat from that saucy tongue of hers.

“You could send me in your carriage.”

“No. I can’t spare the driver, or the carriage today.” It was a bald-faced lie, of course. He had nowhere to go, and even if he had, he owned several carriages and employed an under coachman.

“No matter.” She turned toward the door with a toss of her head. “The walk will keep me warm enough.”

Damned if she didn’t have an answer for everything.

She had a hand on the doorknob before he managed to dredge up another objection. “You don’t have any skates!” Good Lord, he sounded half-hysterical.

“Not to worry, Your Grace. There are dozens of pairs of skates at Hammond Court.”

“Hammond Court!” He was around the desk in an instant and at the door, looming over her. “Has it escaped your memory, Miss St. Claire, that Hammond Court’s roof caved in? Do you not recall nearly being crushed under a pile of rubble only yesterday?”

“A pile of rubble! Why, it was only a few bits of wood and flakes of plaster, for goodness—”

“Don’t forget the slate tiles I found littering the grounds in front of the house. Those jagged edges are sharp, and could leave a nasty—”

“And it wasn’t the roof, Your Grace,” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “It was the ceiling, and only a part of it, at that. The rest of the house is safe enough, and as it happens, the ice skates are in the stillroom, far away from my bedchamber. I’ll just pop through the door in the back courtyard and fetch them. I’ll be back out again in a trice.” She gave him a sunny smile. “See? There’s nothing at all to worry about.”

Worry? Who was worried? Not him.

She marched to the door and would have left the study, as cool as you please, if he hadn’t stopped her with a hand on her arm. “One hour, Miss St. Claire. One hour, and not a moment longer. Do you understand me?”

She grinned, and his gaze caught and held on the sweet curve of those pink rosebud lips. She had the most damnably distracting mouth.

“You’ll come, then? How wonderful!” She clapped her hands together, gleeful. “You won’t regret it, Your Grace.”

“On the contrary, Miss St. Claire. I already regret it.”

“Nonsense! It’s the most pleasurable thing ever, gliding about the ice.”

“I won’t be going anywhere near the ice, I assure you.”

Disappointment flickered in her eyes, but the irrepressible smile was soon back. “When you said an hour, you meant an hour of skating , of course, didn’t you, Your Grace? Because it will take us at least half that time to get there, and that would hardly be fair, you know.”

She was still talking as she made her way into the hallway, but he paid her no mind as he trailed along after her, letting her prattle on as he ordered Monk to have the carriage made ready. What was the use in arguing, when every day that passed showed more plainly than the one before it that Miss St. Claire would have her way, no matter what he said?

He’d thought he was stubborn.

He hadn’t had the faintest idea what he was getting himself into when he’d brought her here. She was too cheerful, too tempting, with that wide smile of hers, and that glint of mischief in her lovely green eyes. She was too skilled at wrapping people around her little finger, just as Ambrose had been.

He’d do well to remember that.