Page 15 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 14

T he Duke of Grantham wasn’t pleased. No, he was most decidedly displeased, so much so one would think he were on his way to witness a hanging, rather than to enjoy a lovely afternoon of ice skating on a sunny winter’s day.

“It’s fortunate it’s been so cold lately, is it not, Your Grace? The pond is certain to be frozen all the way through, even in the middle, where it’s deepest. It’ll be ever so spacious for your guests.”

Silence.

Rose turned to him, a determined smile on her lips, but it faded at the sight of the duke’s dark glower. Oh, dear. His grim frown was enough to frighten the sun itself behind a cloud.

“We’ll have to fetch the rest of the skates from Hammond Court on our way back, so everyone might skate together if they wish,” she went on, with determined cheerfulness. “Why, it’ll be like the frost fair on the Thames five years ago, with all of us out on the ice together. Perhaps we might even have warm cider.”

No response. If the duke had any opinions about the frost fair, he didn’t share them.

“I daresay you must have seen the frost fair, Your Grace?” He would have been in Town at that time, and nearly all of London was meant to have turned out for it. “From what I heard of it, there was skating and dancing, hot apples and gingerbread, and even nine-pin bowling on the ice. Oh, how I would have loved to have seen it myself! Do you suppose we might attempt to recreate it? I daresay your guests would be delight—”

“Do you ever cease talking, Miss St. Claire?”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His dark brows were drawn together in a frown, his lips were tight, and the hint of warmth she’d thought she’d glimpsed in his eyes last night was nowhere to be seen today. Those gray depths were as frozen as the thick layer of ice over the pond.

Perhaps she’d imagined it.

His words, and the quelling tone in which he said them would most certainly have silenced many a young lady, but she’d never been one to hold her tongue, no matter if it was a duke who’d hushed her.

In any case, he’d likely had enough silence to last him a lifetime.

“Not often, no,” she replied cheerfully, as they made their way down to the pond below Hammond Court, the skates she’d thrown over her shoulder bouncing against her back as she walked. “Have you any ice skates of your own at Grantham Lodge, Your Grace?”

Somehow, she doubted it. They didn’t even have citron for the Christmas pudding at Grantham Lodge. It seemed wildly optimistic to imagine he kept a pair of ice skates.

“Humph.”

She waited, but that solitary grunt was the duke’s only reply.

Well, it was something, anyway. Better than the ominous silence he’d maintained since they’d climbed into the carriage at Grantham Lodge. Still, she was obliged to smother a sigh as they reached the pond’s edge.

Goodness, this was quite a task Ambrose had given her, wasn’t it? She wasn’t sure she was equal to it. She’d never come across anyone more determined to be displeased with everyone and everything than the Duke of Grantham. It was stealing her own joy in the beautiful day, like a cloud obliterating the sun.

What must it be like to be a young, handsome, powerful duke—a man with the world at his fingertips—yet still unable to find a single moment’s pleasure in anything? To see the sun’s rays upon the ice, setting it alight like a sea of glittering gems, and to feel nothing but discontent?

She seated herself on one of the large, flat rocks that surrounded the pond, tugged her gloves off, and bent to fasten the leather straps of her skate to the ankle and toe of her boot, but it was dreadfully cold, and she was obliged to keep stopping to blow on her hands.

Beside her, the duke let out an irritable sigh. “For God’s sake, Miss St. Claire. We’ll be out here all night at this rate.”

“I do beg your pardon, Your Grace, but my fingers are a trifle stiff.”

“Move over.” He waved an impatient hand at her when she merely gaped up at him. She slid across the rock, stifling her gasp when he plopped down beside her and held out his hands. “Give me your foot.”

Did he mean to . . . ? No, surely not.

He huffed out a breath. “Your foot, if you please, Miss St. Claire. I’d rather not spend the afternoon in the freezing cold while you fuss with your skates, if it’s all the same to you.”

Well, then. This was unexpected. But she offered her foot as commanded, biting off another gasp when the duke’s warm, gloved fingers wrapped around her ankle. He rested her foot on his thigh and began to wrestle with the straps of her skates.

She stared, mesmerized, as those long, clever fingers maneuvered the buckles, his knuckles brushing the hem of her skirts as he worked. He had wonderful hands, strong and confident, and as for his . . . well, she hadn’t anything to compare it to, not being accustomed to touching gentlemen’s thighs, but his seemed exceptionally sturdy.

He made quick work of fastening both skates onto her feet. “All right then, Miss St. Claire. Get on with it,” he muttered, jerking his head toward the pond.

Goodness, her knees were a trifle wobbly now, but once she’d made her way across the snowy bank and onto the ice, she regained her balance and was soon gliding about with the ease of long practice. She circled the edge of the pond a few times, admiring the bare branches of the trees surrounding the banks, their dark bark frosted with an icy crust of snow.

But soon enough she struck out for the smoother ice near the center of the pond, the soothing hiss of the blades rolling over the blue-tinged ice whispering in her ears, until she forgot where she was and drifted along, one foot chasing the other, and her skirts floating out behind her.

It was just as it had always been. Ambrose was gone, and her beloved Hammond Court was soon to follow, slipping from her fingers even now, but somehow, this moment felt as it ought to feel, as it had always felt.

It was just as she remembered it.

Perhaps that was what came of doing it year after year. No matter how much time passed between one skate and the next—those long summer months when skating seemed an impossible thing, a mere fantasy—once winter came and the pond iced over again, it was like coming home.

It was another Christmas tradition, one of Ambrose’s favorites. He’d given her this moment, and every other moment before it.

A lifetime of memories.

“Take care, Miss St. Claire.”

The duke’s voice rang out across the pond, echoing around her. She slowed, dragging her heel across the ice to stop, and turned to face him.

She’d gone farther than she realized, far enough so he was only an outline now, a lone figure standing at the edge of the pond, his hair rustling in the breeze, his dark coat stark against the landscape of white surrounding him.

He looked terribly alone.

Slowly, she went back the way she’d come, toward him, her heart heavier than it had been when she’d set out across the ice, though if someone had demanded she put words to the strange weight of emotions in her chest, she couldn’t have done so.

Something about him standing there, more alone than any man she’d ever seen—

“For God’s sake, Miss St. Claire, are you daft, skating so far away from the bank?”

She blinked at him. Goodness, he seemed unaccountably angry. “It’s perfectly safe, Your Grace.”

“You can’t be certain of that, especially farther out. Who did you imagine was going to fish you out, if you fell through? By the time I reached you, you’d be lost under the ice.”

She stared at him. Had he actually been concerned for her welfare? “I beg your pardon for worrying you, Your Grace, but—”

“Don’t be absurd. I wasn’t worried ,” he snapped. “If anything, I’m annoyed with your carelessness. I don’t fancy a dunking in an icy pond, Miss St. Claire. This coat is a Weston.”

Annoyed. Yes, that was an easier emotion than worry, wasn’t it? “Your coat is safe, Your Grace. As I said before, I’ve been skating on this pond dozens of times. I know this ice as well as I know the back of my hand.”

“Dozens of times? How tedious.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to subject yourself to it over and over again.”

“Tradition, Your Grace. Do you not have any Christmas traditions of your own?”

But perhaps not. Ambrose had told her that after the duke’s mother passed away, he was sent off to Eton, and he only ever returned to Fairford for school breaks after that. By then his father, the Ninth Duke of Grantham, had become something of a hermit, and rarely permitted his son to leave his sight.

What had happened to him, during those years? Had he had any friends? Had his father cared for him, as Ambrose had done for her? Or had he been alone, the Christmas traditions he’d once cherished becoming hopelessly entangled with darker, lonelier memories?

She waited, but he didn’t answer—rather a habit of his—but just as she was about to give up, he spoke. “Ginger.”

That was all—just that one word, but she leaped upon it like a thief on a golden guinea. “Ginger? Do you mean gingerbread?”

“No. Ginger biscuits.”

He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixed on some point above her head, as if ginger biscuits were something scandalous to wish for, something to be ashamed of wanting. “I’ve made dozens of batches of ginger biscuits, Your Grace. I’d be happy to make some for you, if you like.”

He let out a short, hard laugh. “You can’t, not like these. It’s an old recipe, long since lost. My maternal grandmother used to make them for me when I was a boy, and my mother after her. They’re made with treacle, I believe.”

Ginger biscuits, made with treacle? Years ago, she’d found a loose clutch of old, handwritten recipes in the stillroom, the paper brittle and yellowed with age. Mightn’t she find the recipe there? “Well, they sound lovely.”

He didn’t reply, and this time she waited to no avail. His lips remained sealed. She let out a quiet sigh and turned back toward the ice, taking care to remain closer to the bank this time, so as not to annoy him again.

* * *

Ginger biscuits, of all things. Such a foolish thing to wish for, such a ridiculous memory to have held on to for all these years, but they’d been lovely, those ginger biscuits. Or perhaps they were called ginger nuts? The memory was hazy, but hadn’t his grandmother referred to them as ginger nuts?

Of all the things Max had managed to forget about Christmases at Hammond Court, he’d never quite been able to forget those blasted biscuits, no matter how hard he’d tried. They’d been delicious, yes—light, and sweet with treacle, but with a tiny bite from the molasses.

But it was their scent that made them linger in his memory.

It was strange, the small details the mind held on to. The warm, spicy scent of them had permeated the entire house, from the kitchen all the way to his bedchamber. No other scent spoke of Christmas to him as powerfully as the scent of ginger. Even years later, the merest whiff of it made him ache with longing.

But he didn’t want to think of it—not here, and not now, with Miss St. Claire’s inquisitive green eyes upon him.

Not anywhere, come to that. Not after he’d done his best to forget everything about those early years at Hammond Court. What good did it do, to remember? Any warm, safe feelings he’d ever had about those years had long since disintegrated into anger and resentment.

It was far easier not to take the chance—far easier not to remember. He shouldn’t have even mentioned it to Miss St. Claire at all. He wasn’t sure why he had, except she’d looked so earnest when she’d asked about his Christmas traditions.

Perhaps he’d had other traditions at one time, but the only one he could recall with perfect clarity was lingering on the drive outside Hammond Court, his toes and fingers numb with the cold, watching through the windows as the Christmases he recalled from his childhood had gone on without him.

It was rather a far cry from Miss St. Claire’s tradition of ice skating.

He watched her twirling in a circle, her arms outstretched to the sky, the sun catching on the golden hair that had escaped her hat, lovingly caressing the sunny locks, as if they were long-lost kin. It was a clumsy enough maneuver, that twirling, her skates threatening to skid out from underneath her with every turn, but the awkwardness didn’t make it any less fascinating to watch her.

Perhaps it made it more so.

She spun as if she hadn’t a care in the world, a picture of pure, perfect joy. Even now, with all her troubles, she could still spin on the ice, such a brilliant smile lighting her face he couldn’t tear his gaze away from it.

She’d learned that smile from Ambrose. He may have been a scoundrel, a cheat, and a liar, but one couldn’t say of him that he’d squandered his life. The man knew how to seize a moment, and he’d taught his daughter to do the same. He’d always been good at that—at plucking beauty out of thin air and shaping it, stretching it, making the most of moments everyone else saw as ordinary.

A pain pierced him at the thought, sharp enough to make him catch his breath. It wasn’t grief—no, not that. Never that, not for Ambrose. No, the emotion swelling in his chest, pressing against his ribs and flooding his mouth with bitterness wasn’t grief.

It was fury .

This was what Ambrose had been doing, while he’d been moldering away at Grantham Lodge with his drunken father during the holidays? Ambrose had been here , watching his beautiful daughter spin on the ice. Perhaps he’d even taken her hands in his and spun with her.

He took a step forward, his feet sliding against the snowy bank, damp seeping into his boots. Another step, then another, until he was right on the edge, close enough to see the wind tossing her hair about, strangely incredulous at the sight of her, her arms still open wide, as if gathering the sun to her chest, and—

“Oh!” The hard scrape of a blade against the ice snapped him out of the trance he’d fallen into, just in time to see her stumble over the hem of her skirts. Her arms pinwheeled, and then she was falling, her backside slamming into the ice with a hard thud.

“Rose!” Somehow, it was her given name that burst from his lips, despite his never having thought of her as anything other than Miss St. Claire. He darted forward, the ice slipping beneath his feet as he stumbled over to her and caught her hands in his. “Are you all right?”

She said nothing, but her slender body trembled against him as he eased her up onto her feet, keeping her upright with his hands wrapped around her waist. “Are you hurt?”

Her shoulders were shaking, her breath coming in great, gasping pants. Good God, had she broken an arm? A leg? “Miss St. Claire! Are you injured?”

She tipped her face up to his, still gasping, her pretty, pink lips split wide in a grin. “No, Your Grace. I’m fine.”

She was laughing. Laughing .

All at once, the ugliness inside him, the hatred and fury and bitterness, dissipated, drifting away on the wind.

What must it be like, to have such reserves of joy inside you? To have a smile always hovering on your lips, a laugh always waiting to burst forth, as she did? She was motherless, fatherless, penniless—a young lady of no consequence, tainted with the stain of illegitimacy, and utterly alone in the world, yet here she was, smiling and laughing and spinning on the ice as if she held everything she could ever want right in the palm of her hand.

Was it any wonder the sun sought her out?

He gazed down at her, his heart pounding, mesmerized by those laughing pink lips. If he touched her, dragged his fingertips across her cheek, or grazed her bottom lip with his thumb, could he touch the happiness that lived inside her? Absorb it, through the layers of their skin?

Slowly, he reached for her and caught a lock of her hair in his hand. It was soft, sun warmed, the silky strands glinting like threads of gold between his fingers.

“Y-your Grace?” She was no longer laughing, but she didn’t pull away, only stared up at him, eyes wide, her shallow breaths trembling on her lips.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured, only half-aware of what he was saying. “How can you be so . . . how can you have so much joy inside you?”

A soft sigh left her lips, and for a moment, one wild, heart-stopping moment, she turned her face toward his hand, her soft cheek nestling against his palm. “Joy is a choice, Your Grace.”

Was it? Or was it a gift given to some, and denied to others?

He released her hair and took a step back. “We’ve stayed too long, Miss St. Claire. It’s time to return to Grantham Lodge.”