Page 16 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 15

T he ride from Hammond Court back to Grantham Lodge was silent. When the carriage stopped in the drive, the duke politely handed Rose down, but he avoided her gaze and vanished into his study as soon as they were through the front door.

Monk raised an eyebrow at her, but she could only give him a helpless shrug.

Something had happened at the pond, something she hadn’t expected. That he’d touched her at all was shocking enough, but the gentleness of his fingers in her hair, and his expression when he’d gazed down at her had been . . .

She hardly knew what. She didn’t have the words to explain it, but it had made her belly quiver.

She climbed the stairs slowly, made her way to her bedchamber, and perched on the edge of her bed, her fingers tight around the bundle of papers she’d folded and secreted in her pocket when they’d passed through Hammond Court’s stillroom on their way back to the carriage.

She couldn’t say whether or not the duke’s grandmother’s gingernut recipe was among the fragile pages, but she’d taken a moment to gather some of her own stores of preserved ginger and lemon peel from the kitchen, just in case. They were far superior to anything that could be had at the shops.

If she was going to make the duke ginger biscuits, then she was going to do it the way it was meant to be done. As for whether or not she was going to make them at all, well . . . she hadn’t decided yet, which was rather ridiculous, on the face of it. She’d made dozens of biscuits in her lifetime. Why should she be hesitating over making these?

They were just biscuits, for heaven’s sake.

Except, of course, that they weren’t . She had only to recall the expression on the duke’s face when he’d spoken of them to know that. There would be no going back again once she’d plucked on this thread, and the duke might not thank her for dragging his painful past into the light.

But she’d never been good at minding her own concerns. Perhaps that was why Ambrose had assigned her this task—because he’d known once she got the barest glimpse behind the duke’s grim fa?ade, she’d poke and pry at it until she’d wrenched it loose.

Of course, she may not have the recipe at all. She withdrew the thin bundle of papers from her pocket and leafed through them one by one, unsure if the quivery feeling in the depths of her belly was a hope she’d find what she sought, or a hope that she wouldn’t.

She took up the first paper, smoothed it carefully against her knee, and leaned over, squinting at the faded ink. Marrow pudding. Marrow pudding? Dear God, that sounded dreadful.

She rifled through the pages one by one, the brittle paper crackling in her fingers, struggling to decipher the spidery handwriting. Venison pasty. Fish sauce with lobster. Oxford pudding. Yorkshire pudding. Boiled plum pudding.

The Grantham family, it seemed, was fond of puddings.

This could be a bundle of Christmas recipes—any one of these dishes might well grace a Christmas table—but they were main dishes only. She neared the bottom of the pile without finding a single recipe for sweets or confections until only a few scattered papers remained. She took up the second to last page, but her heart was already sinking. Well, then, it seemed she did want to make the duke’s ginger biscuits, after all, fool that she was.

Gooseberry Fool. Wait. Gooseberry Fool? That was a sweet, surely?

She reached for the final paper, her hand shaking, and there, written across the top of the page, she found what she was looking for.

Max’s Ginger Nut Biscuits. She scanned the paper, breath held. Flour, sugar, butter, three ounces of bruised caraway seeds, four ounces of pounded ginger, and . . .

Three and a half pounds of treacle.

She stared down at the paper, her heart slamming against her ribs. Somehow, this tiny scrap of paper had survived three generations of Granthams, only for her to find it, against all odds, tucked into an old weather-beaten wooden box on a forgotten shelf in the stillroom.

It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

It must be a sign, surely? Surely, she was meant to find it?

She leaped up from the bed, the scrap of paper still clutched between her fingers, and rushed across her bedchamber, ready to dash down to the kitchen and begin pounding ginger at once, but she paused at the door.

No. Not yet.

After yesterday’s fanfare over the Christmas pudding, she’d have the attention of every servant who wandered through the kitchen door before she’d even laid her ingredients out, and soon enough they’d all be clamoring for ginger nut biscuits.

It wouldn’t do.

These were for the duke, and the duke alone. It even said so at the top of the recipe.

Max’s Ginger Nut Biscuits .

Perhaps it was silly of her, but some instinct inside her recognized that he wouldn’t wish for the others to know anything about this.

These weren’t just biscuits to him.

They were a memory, and memories were private.

So, she waited, sitting quite still at the edge of her bed. At some point, Abby bustled in and clucked disapprovingly at Rose’s damp hems, and helped her change into a dry gown before bustling off to fetch her a dinner tray.

It remained untouched on the table beside the bed.

The sun sank lower, the hard, bright blue of the afternoon sky giving way to a gold-streaked sunset, then a deep lavender twilight, and still she waited until the sound of voices and footsteps faded, and the household settled down to rest with a creak and a groan.

Only then did she creep out of her bedchamber and steal down the staircase into the entryway below. It was deserted. She peered down the hallway that led to the duke’s study, but all was dark and quiet.

Yes. This was what she wanted. Silence, and privacy.

Her skirts swished against the marble floors as she turned and made her way down the servants’ staircase to the kitchen below.

Mrs. Watson had banked the fire and placed the covers over the stove, but it was lovely and warm still, with every surface scrubbed clean. She lit several lanterns to work by, placing them on the long, wide table in the center of the kitchen, then dragging the heavy sacks of flour and sugar from the larder, and the butter and cream from the cook’s pantry.

The gentle lantern light cast a soft glow over the kitchen, and it wasn’t long before she’d lost herself in the scent of the spices, and the give of the dough between her fingers. She hummed under her breath as she worked—“The First Noel,” one of Ambrose’s favorites—and the biscuits took shape under her hand, as if by magic.

* * *

Max hadn’t bothered to light the lanterns.

He hadn’t, in fact, moved from the chair he’d thrown himself into when he’d retired to his study after he and Miss St. Claire had returned from Hammond Court.

Rose . The name suited her. One couldn’t look at her face, her lips, without thinking of rose petals.

It had been hours, but he sat here still, a half-empty glass of brandy cradled between his fingers, surrounded by darkness, aside from the flickering light of the fireplace in front of him.

Sitting alone in the dark had become a habit of his since he’d returned to Grantham Lodge. Sitting in the dark, and thinking of . . . nothing. He stared at the flames, reassuring himself that his mind was indeed blank—not a single thought in his head—until gradually he became aware it wasn’t true.

There was something in his head. A lady with green eyes and laughing pink lips.

Laughing . Even now, hours later, he couldn’t puzzle it out. What had there been for her to laugh about? It didn’t make sense.

She didn’t make sense.

It had been a mistake to allow her to persuade him to take her to Hammond Court today. A mistake to watch her as she twirled about on the ice in the sunshine, a mistake to tell her about . . . well, anything at all.

Even now, he wasn’t sure why he’d done it, except that she had the most disturbing way of prying into his head, of casting a narrow band of bright light into the darkness, sending all the ugly thoughts hiding there scattering. She hardly needed to say a word, and he was flayed open like a split oyster, black pearls exposed, and no chance of returning them to their safe, tight shell.

No, they were out now, rolling about causing mayhem, and he had no bloody idea what to do with them.

But he knew what he wouldn’t do—remain in the dark a moment longer, staring into his fire and daydreaming about a lady he didn’t understand, and didn’t even like .

He raised the glass to his lips, drained the last dregs of his brandy, and rose to his feet. He’d go to his bed and hope that tomorrow would bring Basingstoke and Montford to Grantham Lodge, and put an end to all this wretched thinking .

God knew, he needed the distraction.

He wandered from the study into the darkened hallway, then down the corridor to the staircase, but paused with his foot on the bottom step.

Something was amiss.

He stilled, listening, but the only sound was the soft ticking of the grandfather clock on the first-floor landing. There was no one about, not a stray servant to be seen, yet there was some disturbance, one he could sense more than anything, and without thinking he turned from the stairs and made his way around the corner to the back staircase that led to the kitchens.

The door at the bottom of the steps was closed, but there were faint stirrings coming from the other side of it—the drag of a bowl across the wooden surface of the table, the soft rustle of a burlap flour sack.

He knew what he’d find before he opened the door, yet at the same time, he wasn’t prepared for the sight that met him once he did.

The light was low, just the barest, soft glow centered around the flour-dusted table. A few bowls and a rolling pin were set to one side, and several small piles of what looked like crushed spices were mounded in a corner.

Presiding over this fetching domestic scene was Miss St. Claire, her head bent over her work, a thick length of dark golden dough spread beneath her fingertips. The heavy scents of treacle and ginger hung in the air, and above that, the rich, dark sugar scent of his grandmother’s ginger biscuits baking.

The scent struck his chest, nearly sending him to his knees.

It was so achingly familiar, that scent. How could it be so familiar still, after so many years? He sucked in a silent breath, his head swimming with the peppery, citrus scent of the ginger, and for an instant it was as if he were a boy again, running into the kitchen, his cheeks red from the cold and his belly growling, straight into his mother’s waiting arms.

It smelled the same as he remembered, sharp but still sweet, and so very much like home, before everything fell apart.

“Ginger nut biscuits.” He drew closer, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears. Too hushed, almost reverential.

Miss St. Claire froze, not looking up, her busy hands stilling on the dough. “Yes.”

“How?”

She looked up then, an uncertain smile on her lips. “Ginger biscuits are a common enough sweet, Your Grace.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not those. Those are my grandmother’s biscuits.”

She reached for a cloth and took her time wiping her hands clean of the dough, taking care to avoid his gaze. “When you mentioned them today, I recalled I’d seen a small cache of recipes tucked into a wooden box in Hammond Court’s stillroom. I thought I might find the biscuit recipe among them, and I did.”

“Is that why you insisted we go into the house? So you could fetch the recipes?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her, unfamiliar heat rising in his cheeks. Even his fiercest grumbling hadn’t deterred her from returning to the house. He’d made an almighty fuss, but she’d held firm, and all the while, she’d been hoping to do something kind for him. “May I see the recipe?”

“Of course.” She reached into her apron pocket, took out a brittle bit of paper, and held it out to him. He drew closer, his fingers brushing her softer ones, still slightly sticky from the dough.

He took the paper, and yes, there it was, so faded now it was nearly unreadable, but he knew his grandmother’s handwriting, and if there’d been any doubt, his name was scrawled right across the top.

There was no mistaking it, this little piece of his grandmother, and his mother as well, right in the palm of his hand. For an instant, he had a profound urge to clutch the scrap of paper to his chest, but he held it back out to Miss St. Claire, clearing his throat. “You, ah, you made the biscuits for me, then?”

It was a foolish question, perhaps, yet it seemed incredible she should have done him such a kindness when he’d been anything but kind to her.

But she merely shrugged, the small smile still playing about her lips. “It’s nothing so marvelous, Your Grace. Once I found the recipe it was a simple enough matter to make them, and so I did. Anyone else would have done the same.”

Would they? No, he didn’t think so. No one had ever done anything like this for him before. He stared at her without speaking, because not a single word came to his lips. He might have thanked her—yes, that would have done nicely—but it didn’t seem adequate, somehow.

But she didn’t seem to expect a thank-you, or anything else. “I have a batch of biscuits in the oven nearly ready to come out. Will you stay and have some?”

“I—yes, of course.” How could he not?

He seated himself on the bench to one side of the table. She returned to her dough and a silence that should have been awkward stretched out between them. He didn’t speak—he’d never been one for idle chatter, and there was a strangely tenacious lump in his throat—but sat quietly, the warm, rich scent of treacle and ginger wrapping around him as he watched her work the dough, her small, dainty hands a blur of motion.

She laid out another tray with tidy rows of biscuits, and walked them to the stove, fetching the first tray out before sliding the new one in. When she returned to the table, she bore a plate with biscuits piled high in the center, a mouthwatering curl of steam rising from them.

“Here we are, Your Grace.” She set the plate in the center of the table, then returned to the stove and fetched a tray holding two silver cups and a silver chocolate pot. She put the tray next to the biscuits, then slid into the chair across from his.

“Ginger biscuits, and chocolate?” His grandmother had always served her ginger biscuits with chocolate, as well, and his mother had continued the tradition. The two treats were inextricably linked in his memories, but he hadn’t mentioned chocolate at the pond today. Unless Miss St. Claire was some sort of sorceress, she couldn’t possibly have known it.

Though looking at her now, with the glow of the lamplight framing her face and gilding her hair, he could almost believe she was a sorceress. She was certainly not like any other young lady he’d ever known.

But she only shrugged. “They go together quite nicely, do they not?”

“They do.” He nodded at the silver pot. “I didn’t realize I owned a chocolate pot.”

“I don’t believe it’s ever been used before. Rather a pity, really, as it’s a pretty one.” She cocked her head, considering the pot for a moment, then nudged the plate of ginger biscuits closer to him. “Biscuit, Your Grace?”

He reached for one. They were still warm, thick, and dense, but soft enough that he might leave his thumbprint in them, as he’d done as a child. They were just as they should be, the butter slick under his fingertips, the scent teasing his nose.

And, dear God, the taste .

The snap of the ginger, the dark sweetness of the treacle . . . he closed his eyes, and for an instant he was a little boy again, sitting at the table with his mother and grandmother, his fingers and toes still numb from his play outdoors, the spicy taste of ginger nipping at his tongue.

Neither of them spoke. He kept his eyes closed, living inside the memory while it lasted. Across from him, Miss St. Claire didn’t speak either, only munched quietly on her own biscuit.

But when he opened his eyes again, she was watching him, a faint line between her brows and her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Are they as you remembered them, Your Grace?”

He gazed at her through the gloom. “They’re perfect.”

And they were. Not just their scent, or the flavor of them melting against his tongue, but perfect in the way a thing could only be if it was done utterly unselfishly.

“I’m glad.” She nodded and rose to her feet, picking up the tray and taking it with her.

There was nothing for him to do then but rise as well, and make his way to the kitchen door. But he paused halfway there and turned back to her, and the next thing he knew, he’d taken her hand in his. “Thank you, Miss St. Claire, for . . .” He searched for the proper words, but they didn’t come. How did you thank someone for giving you back a piece of yourself you’d thought was gone forever? “Thank you.”

She smiled. “You’re most welcome, Your Grace.”

He raised her hand to his mouth. It was fleeting, not a kiss so much as a brush of his lips across her knuckles, but he lingered long enough to inhale her, to feel the silky glide of her skin against his lips.

It was long enough to snatch a shuddering breath from his lungs, to weaken his knees. Long enough to make him do something exceedingly foolish—something he never would have done if he’d been in his right mind, but with the soft glow of the lamplight on her face, the sweetness lingering on his tongue, and the scent of ginger swirling in his head, it was as if he’d stepped into another world, one she’d weaved around him with an act of pure kindness.

He eased her closer, her skirts brushing his pantaloons, ducked his head, and let his lips touch hers. She let out a soft gasp, her hands flying to his chest. “I . . . Your Grace . . .”

He waited, a shuddering breath on his lips, expecting her to jerk back, to push him away, but the seconds ticked by, and she only gazed up at him, her eyes a dark, stormy green, her fingers pressed against her lips as if holding his kiss there.

He didn’t think anymore then, but caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the fingertips that had rested on her lips only moments before. Then he cupped her cheek in his palm, and teased his mouth against hers again, pausing to suckle lightly on her plump lower lip.

She made a low, needy sound, her warm breath drifting over his lips, and God, that sound, the hunger in it—a rush of desire flooded through him, heat settling low in his belly, and there was nothing he could do then but sweep his tongue against the seam of her lips, seeking entry.

Did she know that was what he wanted? Had she ever kissed a man before? Her lips remained closed, but she rose to her tiptoes and wound her arms around his neck, her slender body pressing against his, and all at once he was drowning in heat, his head swimming with desire for her.

This was the moment to stop—to set her gently away from him and bid her good night before his desire overwhelmed his reason, but that wasn’t what he did. Instead, he teased her lips open, desperate to surge into her welcoming heat and tangle his tongue with hers.

“Open for me,” he murmured against her mouth, licking gently at the seam of her lips, coaxing her to let him inside. He nibbled at her, pressing soft kisses on one corner of her mouth, then the other, the spark of his desire swelling hotter in his belly until it flared into a conflagration.

A low groan tore from his chest as he dragged his tongue over her luscious bottom lip, so tender and plump. His hands fell to her hips, cupping her slender curves as he traced his tongue over the perfect, tiny bow of her upper lip. “I want to taste you,” he whispered against her trembling mouth.

She let out a breathless little moan. “Yes.”

It was the softest whisper against his mouth, and then, so slowly he thought he might go mad, she parted her lips for him. He froze for an instant, afraid the slightest twitch on his part would frighten her away, but she let out a breath, and melted against him.

“ Yes .” He locked his arms around her, pressing his palm into the arch of her back. She tasted like cinnamon and ginger, sweet, dark treacle, and seductive heat. He stroked her tongue with his, urging her to open wider for him, a low growl rising from his chest as she obeyed, her lips parting further, her tongue seeking his.

There was no going back, then.

He was mad for her, drowning in the taste of her, catching her breathy sighs and moans on his lips, the scent of sugar and spices whirling in his head, dizzying him.

She kissed him back hesitantly at first, her tongue grazing his shyly, but she was holding him tightly, her fingers curled into fists against his chest, gripping handfuls of his waistcoat, and a low, pained groan tore from his throat.

God, what was happening to him? He’d kissed women before—dozens of women—but it had never been like this, with the blood roaring through him like a raging current, sweeping everything before it.

Logic, reason, cautiousness—they all fled with the sweet stroke of her tongue against his, and for one breathless instant he was in danger of crushing her against him and taking her mouth roughly, all the pent-up desire from . . . when? The first moment he’d seen her, pistol in hand, ordering him from her house?

Or had it been after that? Had it been today, when he’d watched her spinning on the ice, her arms out and the sun illuminating her, turning her into a blur of light and motion?

He didn’t know—God, he didn’t know —he knew only that he wanted to kiss her forever, to crush his lips to hers and swallow her soft whimpers, but he held himself back, letting just the tip of his tongue tease hers before sucking her bottom lip into his mouth.

He slid his fingers under her chin, keeping her face tilted up to his as his tongue twined once again with hers, deepening the kiss, the pads of his fingers stroking the soft skin of her jaw as he took her mouth deeply, searching every secret corner for the taste of her.

She met him, every slide and stroke and thrust, her breathless pants matching his, their lips clinging together, and God, how was it so good? It was just a kiss, yet he was on fire for her. He cupped her cheek to urge her closer and dragged his lips down the front of her neck, his fingers tracing the smooth, warm skin of her throat, lingering over her pulse point, a dangerous surge of desire swelling in his belly when he felt it racing against his fingertips.

Did she want him? Was that what the wild beating of her heart meant?

The thought that she might desire him maddened him, and before he knew what he was about he’d grasped her hips, and was lifting her onto the table, his hand fisting her skirts, desperate to . . .

To what ?

To take her? She was innocent and under his protection.

He wasn’t a good man, and hadn’t been, not for years—no, decades. He ruined men as easily as snapping his fingers and rarely felt an instant’s regret over it.

But this . . .

Would he steal the virtue of a young lady grieving the only father she’d ever known? A young lady who had nothing, and not a single soul aside from her elderly nursemaid to protect her?

Would he ruin her?

No. That was too heartless, even for the Duke of Ice.

He released his grip on her skirts and smoothed them down over her legs before backing away from her. “I . . . this is . . . I beg your pardon, Miss St. Claire. This wasn’t well done of me.”

“Your Grace, I . . .” She trailed off, biting her lip.

“Go up to your bedchamber, Rose.” He dragged a hand through his hair, his gaze averted, because if he looked at her, he’d take her into his arms again, and God help them both then. “Go.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen door, his voice harsher than it needed to be. “ Now .”

She didn’t move, and for an instant, he thought she might argue, but for the first time since he’d laid eyes on her, she didn’t say a word. She remained still, and he could feel her gaze on him, but when he didn’t look up, she did as he’d bid her, her footsteps quiet against the stone floor of the kitchen.

The door opened, then closed again.

Only then, did he look up. The plate of ginger biscuits was on the sideboard, right where she’d left it, the tray with the chocolate pot and cups beside it.

But she was gone.