Page 17 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 16

I t was the ginger biscuits that did it.

Max had risen early, and spent all morning in his study, sprawled in the chair behind his desk, unanswered letters in a pile before him, and the ink drying on the nib of his pen. Instead of working, he’d been staring out the window like a proper half-wit, the remembered scent of ginger twining around him like wispy clouds of fog.

In the end, there was no other explanation. The ginger biscuits had been his downfall.

Not the gleam of firelight on Miss St. Claire’s hair, or the seductive parting of those rosebud lips, or the sweet pink flush that had colored her cheeks when she caught his gaze on her.

Not the kiss.

Certainly, not the kiss. He’d kissed dozens of ladies and never lost his head before. No, it must have been the ginger biscuits.

There, then. That was settled. Now he could return his attention to his work.

He seized his pen and dipped it in the ink, but paused with it poised above the page. The trouble was, he couldn’t deny even to himself that he’d been caught in her spell from the moment he’d wandered into the kitchen last night. Like every other unwary fly before him, he’d only realized he was tangled in her silken web until it was too late to free himself.

Though to be fair, she was an exceedingly kind-hearted spider.

It wasn’t that she was the only one who’d ever done him a good turn. He was often the recipient of his acquaintances’ generosity, but with the exception of Basingstoke and Montford, such favors weren’t motivated by kindness. They were bribes, manipulations, and transparent attempts to ingratiate themselves with him. He was accustomed to such machinations, and on his guard against them.

Why, then, should he suppose Miss St. Claire’s ginger biscuits were anything other than another shameless attempt to curry his favor? God knew she had a powerful incentive to attempt to wriggle her way into his good graces.

That was the rub, wasn’t it? He had every reason in the world to question her motives, but damned if he didn’t think her entirely innocent, regardless, because . . . well, because he was a great fool, evidently.

He never gave anyone the benefit of the doubt. Never . He’d seen too much ugliness to trust in the goodness of human nature.

But there wasn’t a single ugly thing about Rose St. Claire.

It was the green eyes, damn her. One glimpse into those guileless green eyes, and it was impossible to suspect her. Either she was in possession of the purest heart he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter, or else she was a spectacular actress.

Those green eyes, taken in conjunction with the ginger biscuits was a fatal combination. Was it any wonder he’d lost his mind? Was it any wonder he was sitting here mooning over Miss St. Claire, like some ridiculous, starry-eyed schoolboy?

He needed to see her, that was all, but she’d been hiding from him all morning. He’d been waiting for hours for her to venture downstairs, so he might . . .

Might what ? Tell her that he regretted kissing her last night? He didn’t regret it. There wasn’t a man alive who could regret such a kiss. Was he to become a liar now, along with all his other sins?

Very well, then. He’d beg her pardon and promise that such a thing would never happen again. Yes, that would be the proper thing to do.

But how could he be sure it wouldn’t happen again?

It shouldn’t have happened the first time, but it had, and after such a thing as a kiss like that happened once, it would take almost nothing for it to happen again. A sidelong glance from the corner of those lovely green eyes, a flutter of dark eyelashes, a curve of those rosebud lips, the accidental brush of fingertips . . .

He’d been over that kiss a thousand times since last night—had run through the moments leading up to it over and over as he’d tossed in his bed. The soft glow of the lamplight on her face, in her hair, illuminating her smile. Yes, that was how it had begun. The lighting was to blame for this entire debacle.

Then, as soon as he’d touched her, it had spun dangerously out of control.

He’d spun out of control, in a way he never had before.

Touching Miss St. Claire was forbidden, for one, but also the height of foolishness, not to mention unforgivably selfish. As innocent as that kiss had been, if anyone had happened to witness it, it would be more than enough to ruin her.

For all his other wicked sins, he wasn’t in the habit of ruining innocent young ladies.

But even so, he couldn’t quite make himself promise he wouldn’t do it again, if given the chance. So, he’d simply have to make sure he didn’t ever get the chance.

He’d stay away from her, that was all. He simply hadn’t been himself last night. No, he’d been mesmerized by a pair of green eyes, and seduced by the scent of ginger, the flavor of dark sugar on his tongue. Of course! He’d only kissed her last night because he’d been . . . confused.

As soon as he saw her this morning, he’d find she was just an ordinary young lady, much like every other, and not the green-eyed goddess he’d dreamed about last night. Whatever madness had him in its grip would dissolve then, and he might get back to the business at hand.

Revenge. Revenge against her father , no less.

He tossed his pen aside and snatched his pocket watch up from the corner of his desk. It was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning, and she had yet to make her appearance downstairs.

Where the devil was she?

He rose, pushing his chair back with more force than necessary, and marched to the doorway, ignoring Townsend’s startled look. He wandered into the corridor, peering into the entryway beyond.

He wasn’t waiting for her. It was important he keep reminding himself of that, particularly given the curious glances Monk kept casting him every time he poked his head out of his study.

Yes, he’d risen earlier than usual, and it was true that once he entered his study of a morning, he rarely emerged for the rest of the day. Nor did he have a habit of pacing about up and down the corridor like a caged animal, but none of that had anything to do with the fact that the entryway had the best vantage point from which to monitor the staircase.

And yes, while it was also the case that Miss St. Claire couldn’t reach the ground floor without descending that particular staircase, that didn’t mean he was waiting for her. He was just a touch restless this morning, for no particular reason.

“Is there anything I may assist you with, Your Grace?” Monk edged closer, his gray brows drawn together. Monk had been observing him with increasing puzzlement as the morning waned.

Really, couldn’t a man linger in his own entryway without every servant in the house looking askance at him? It was his house, for God’s sake. “No, Monk. I’m merely, er . . . looking for Mrs. Watson.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I believe she’s in the linen closet with several of the downstairs maids. Shall I fetch her for you?”

“No, I—no, thank you, Monk.” Max sidled back down the corridor to escape Monk’s curious gaze, but not before he saw the man’s lips twitch.

Impertinent scoundrel.

Townsend looked up when he came back into the study, his forehead puckered with a frown. “All right, Your Grace?”

“Of course, I’m all right. Why do you ask, Townsend? Don’t I look all right?” Good Lord, was his idiocy visible on his face?

“Oh, yes, Your Grace. Very well, indeed. It’s just that you’re rather restless this morning.”

Max threw himself into his chair with a sigh. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about, Townsend. I’m not restless . I’m just a trifle agitated.”

Townsend bit back a grin. “Yes, Your Grace.” “What the devil are you grinning at, Townsend?” First Monk, and now Townsend. He was surrounded by impertinent scoundrels. Couldn’t a man get any peace?

“Nothing at all, Your Grace. Is there anything I can do to assist you?”

“No.” Nothing short of rousting Miss St. Claire from her bed and dragging her downstairs so he could be done mooning over her, that is.

“Very well, Your Grace, if you’re quite sure.”

He wasn’t sure of a single, bloody thing anymore. “Actually, Townsend, now I think of it, there is one thing.”

“Of course, Your Grace. How can I help?”

“Miss St. Claire’s bedchamber ceiling. Hire some villagers from Fairford to go to Hammond Court and repair it, will you?” Good Lord, what was he doing? He’d well and truly lost his wits.

Townsend blinked. “ Repair it, Your Grace?”

Max huffed. “Are you going deaf, Townsend?”

“Not that I’m aware of, Your Grace, but just to make certain, you want me to see to it the damage to Miss St. Claire’s ceiling is repaired?”

“You seem to have forgotten that it’s my ceiling as well, Townsend.” Max gave Townsend as withering a look as he could muster. “See to the roof, as well. Whatever tiles are missing or broken must be replaced, and any others that were loosened in the storm must be secured. While they’re at it, they may as well see to replacing the damaged windows.”

A wide smile lit Townsend’s face. “Of course. Right away, Your Grace.”

“Cease that absurd grinning at once, Townsend.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend pressed his lips together and bowed his head over his work.

Max rolled his eyes. For God’s sake, he might have known Townsend would make far more of this than the situation warranted. Did no good deed go unpunished?

Pursuing repairs was ridiculous, of course, given he intended to reduce the whole bloody place to a pile of rubble as soon as he got the chance. But odds were Miss St. Claire would end up back at Hammond Court after the house party ended, and he wasn’t so hardhearted he’d banish her to a flooded bedchamber and let her freeze.

She had gone to quite a lot of trouble with those ginger biscuits, after all, and he wasn’t a man who liked to let a debt go unpaid.

Silence fell over the study as he and Townsend turned their attention back to their work, but he couldn’t set his mind to the tasks at hand—not with Townsend stealing glances at him every few minutes—nauseatingly approving glances. More than once, Townsend opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it closed again.

But God knew the man couldn’t hold his tongue for long. It was only a matter of time.

Three, two, one . . .

“If I might just say, Your Grace,” Townsend finally burst out. “How commendable I think it is that you—”

“You may not say, Townsend. Not a single, blessed word.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend gave him a meek nod, but damned if he couldn’t feel the man vibrating with suppressed admiration for the rest of the morning.

* * *

Rose wasn’t avoiding the Duke of Grantham.

To be fair, it might appear that way to someone who didn’t realize how terribly busy she was this morning. She’d woken some hours ago, but it had taken her a disgraceful amount of time to emerge from the comforting nest of her blankets.

She’d washed and dressed quickly enough, but alas, just as she was on her way out her bedchamber door she spotted a tiny tear in a sleeve of the violet dress she’d chosen to wear, and there was nothing for it but to sit and mend it. She would have gone down once she’d completed that chore—certainly, she would have—but her hair chose that moment to stage a mutiny. No matter how long she sat in front of the looking glass, attempting to wrestle it into submission with her hairbrush, it refused to behave itself.

She wasn’t hiding. It was just that with one thing and another, it had edged past noon and she had yet to make her way downstairs. But that wasn’t the same thing as hiding . The Duke of Grantham had kissed her, yes, but that was neither here nor there. Certainly, it was no reason for her to cower in her bedchamber as if she were a naughty schoolgirl.

Of course, it wasn’t. Why, the very idea was absurd.

It was true she’d never been kissed by a gentleman before, so she had been a bit surprised at the shivers that had darted down her spine when he’d dragged his warm fingertips across her cheek, and the, er, the sounds that had found their way out of her mouth when he’d teased his tongue between her lips had been something of a revelation.

His tongue . Goodness.

Was that a thing aristocrats did? She’d never heard of such a thing before, but there was no denying it had been distracting. So distracting, in fact, that she hadn’t done a single thing to stop him.

So distracting, she’d, ah, kissed him back. Whoever could have imagined such a prickly man could have such soft, gentle lips? And his hair—she’d only touched it for a moment, sifting her fingers through the strands at the back of his neck, but it had been shockingly soft, like threads of silk between her fingertips.

Oh, dear. This was rather bad, wasn’t it? How was she ever going to look at him again without recalling how gentle his lips were, how soft his hair was?

She met her reflection’s gaze in the looking glass. A hot flush was rushing up her neck and into her cheeks, turning them scarlet. “Dash it!” She tossed the hairbrush onto the dressing table and pressed her palms to her burning cheeks.

She’d kissed the Duke of Grantham. What had she been thinking, kissing a duke? Especially that particular duke? Why, he was the closest she’d ever had to an actual enemy, and what had she done?

Kissed him. Or, to be fair, she’d kissed him back .

Surely, the first thing wasn’t nearly as bad as the second.

“Rose?” The bedchamber door opened behind her, and Abby entered, her furrowed brow clearing when she saw Rose seated at the vanity. “There you are. Have you not been downstairs yet?”

“No, I—I’ve been trying to tame my hair. It’s a fright this morning.” It wasn’t a lie. Her hair was a fright, but no more so than any other morning, and it wasn’t the reason she was lingering in her bedchamber.

Lingering, but not hiding.

“Why, you silly thing, why didn’t you ring?” Abby joined her in front of the glass, taking up the hairbrush. “You seemed fatigued this morning when I brought your tray, so I thought I’d let you sleep, but I confess I expected you to come down before this.”

“I was just on my way.”

Rose darted a glance at Abby in the mirror, then looked quickly away, but not before she saw Abby’s brow wrinkle. “Whatever is the matter with you, Rose? You’re dreadfully flushed. Are you ill?”

“There’s not a thing the matter with me, I promise you.” Rose toyed with the hairpins scattered across the top of the vanity, avoiding Abby’s gaze. “Is, ah . . . has the Duke of Grantham appeared downstairs yet?”

He had, of course, likely hours ago. Why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t as if she was the first young lady he’d ever kissed. Why, a handsome gentleman like the Duke of Grantham must have kissed dozens of young ladies. Hundreds, even. He likely hadn’t given her a second thought since she left the kitchen last night.

“The Duke of Grantham!” Abby had been running the hairbrush through Rose’s curls in long, soothing strokes, but now her hand froze. “I might have known he had something to do with it!”

“To do with what? I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” But the treacherous blush was deepening to a telltale magenta, the heat scalding her cheeks.

“Is that so? Then why are you turning as red as a summer strawberry?” Abby’s furious gaze met hers in the glass. “What’s that wicked duke done this time?”

Oh, dear. This had all the makings of a catastrophe. “Nothing at all, Abby, I promise you.”

Abby didn’t reply, but she assessed Rose’s reflection in the mirror with unrelenting intensity, her mouth pulled into a stern line. Rose gulped, but by some miracle, she managed to hold Abby’s gaze without squirming.

Whatever else might come of it, Abby could not find out the Duke of Grantham had kissed her last night, because if she did, Abby would see to it she removed Rose from Grantham Lodge before she could squeak out a word of protest, and then all of her plans would fall to ruins.

What did it matter if the duke had kissed her? It had been a single, isolated moment. If they hadn’t been alone in a dark kitchen, and she hadn’t done him a good turn with the ginger biscuits, it never would have happened at all.

It wasn’t as if the duke had any particular affection for her. Quite the opposite.

Perhaps he wasn’t accustomed to receiving unexpected kindness from people. Considering how snarly he was, that would hardly be surprising. He might just have been overwhelmed with gratitude, or . . . well, he’d been overwhelmed with something , certainly.

Either that, or he’d merely been toying with her. He was betrothed , for pity’s sake, or nearly so. Betrothed dukes didn’t kiss inconsequential young ladies like her for any reason other than mere diversion.

In the end, it didn’t matter why he’d kissed her, as long as it didn’t happen again.

But surely, there was no danger of that?

“I don’t like it, Rose.” Abby began working the brush through Rose’s hair again, her strokes considerably less soothing this time. “I don’t trust that man—or any duke, come to that—and it isn’t proper for you to be under the same roof with him.”

“At least his roof is intact.” Rose’s eyes watered as Abby gave a particularly vicious tug. “If you keep on that way, Abby, I won’t have a hair left on my head for you to brush.”

Abby set the brush aside with a sigh. “Look at me, dearest.”

Rose met Abby’s gaze in the glass. “I know what you’re going to say—”

“You don’t have to remain here, Rose. We have another choice, and you know it just as well as I do.” Abby laid her hands on Rose’s shoulders. “Give the Duke of Grantham Hammond Court, Rose. Take the money he’s offered you, and start a new life somewhere else.”

“I can’t do that, Abby.” Not yet, that is. “It’s not what Ambrose wanted.”

“Do you suppose he wanted this for you?” Abby waved a hand around the elegant bedchamber. “He loved you, child. He never would have wanted you to put yourself at the mercy of a scoundrel like the Duke of Grantham.”

Rose sighed. It was true that Ambrose couldn’t have foreseen how things would play out with the duke. How could he have done so? Yet he’d asked her anyway—no, begged her to see his last wishes carried out, and she wouldn’t fail him. Not after everything he’d done for her.

She shook her head. “And leave the tenants at the duke’s mercy? No, Abby.”

“There’s not a single one of them that would begrudge you your freedom, Rose.” But there was a note of resignation in Abby’s voice, and a moment later she took up the brush again. She ran it through Rose’s hair until it shone, then tied the curls back with a violet-colored ribbon.

“There.” Abby took in her reflection, a proud smile curving her lips. “You look as pretty as a spring flower. Go on down, now, and find Mrs. Watson. She was looking for you earlier.”

“I will.” Rose got to her feet and kissed Abby on the cheek. “Thank you, Abby.”

“You stay away from that wicked duke, you hear?” Abby called out just as Rose closed the bedchamber door behind her.

“I daresay he’ll take care to stay away from me ,” she muttered as she made her way down the corridor, dragging her feet with every step.

There would be no avoiding the duke entirely. This was his house, after all. But perhaps a day apart wouldn’t go amiss, and she could easily keep herself occupied in the kitchens for most of the day. The duke wouldn’t come looking for her there—not after what had happened between them last night.

But perhaps the less she dwelled on that , the better.

She’d nearly reached the landing when she heard it.

A cacophony of voices chattering excitedly. She tiptoed closer to the staircase, her breath catching as the unmistakably deep timbre of the Duke of Grantham’s voice rose above the others, welcoming them all to Grantham Lodge.

She stilled, nerves fluttering against her breastbone.

They were here.

The duke’s guests had arrived from London, and it sounded—goodness, it sounded as if there were dozens of them, all talking at once. A tinkle of high-pitched laughter, decidedly feminine, reached her ears, and then a low, rich laugh in response.

It was him . She couldn’t say how she knew, as she’d never heard him laugh before. The man hadn’t ventured even as much as a smile since he’d arrived in Fairford, but somehow, she recognized it at once as his laugh.

It was a quiet laugh, yet somehow it echoed inside her, swelling into every dark, empty corner. Who was making him laugh like that? She edged closer to the landing and into the entryway below.

A soft gasp rose to her lips.

It was filled with ladies and gentlemen, all of them dressed in elegant cloaks and hats, and all of them chattering to each other as if they were the best of friends. Monk and two of his upper footmen were scrambling about, collecting hats, gloves, and cloaks, and through the open door she could see a half dozen or so carriages in the drive, the coachmen at the horses’ heads.

Why, it looked as if all of London had come to Fairford.

In the midst of the melee stood the Duke of Grantham, and beside him one of the most stunning ladies she’d ever seen. She was dressed in a deep, midnight-blue cloak, and even from this distance, Rose could see the color matched a pair of wide eyes as blue as sapphires. A smart hat set rakishly atop a thick mass of dark, lustrous curls, and her crimson lips were curved in a coquettish smile.

The duke was holding her hands, and she was smiling up at him, and suddenly the very last thing Rose wanted to do was to venture downstairs and face all those elegant people.

She wasn’t one of them. They’d know it at once, and from what she knew of aristocrats, they wouldn’t hesitate to make her feel it. But there was no help for it. Either she went down, her head held high, or she hid in her bedchamber until Twelfth Night.

As tempting as it was, she wouldn’t get anywhere hiding in her bedchamber.

So, she gripped the railing, the wood slippery under her sweating palm, and placed her foot on the step below her. One step, two, another . . .

For better or worse, the house party had begun.