Page 18 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 17

G rantham Lodge—so still, so silent, so reassuringly tomblike on the best of days—had descended into chaos in the blink of an eye.

Max stood in the midst of the melee doing his best to hide a scowl, but it was there at the corners of his lips, threatening to spread to the rest of his mouth. How in the world could he ever have thought a house party was a good idea?

Alas, short of tossing his guests out the door and cursing them all to the devil, there wasn’t much he could do to stop them coming. No, there was nothing for it but to paste a charming smile to his mouth as they descended upon him, barreling right over poor Monk, who was doing his best to welcome them and stay upright under the stampede at the same time.

And the carriages were still coming. Soon enough, the drive was crowded with them. Harnesses jingled, and horses snorted as the coachmen darted about, lobbying for space. Carriage doors opened, and then slammed closed again after disgorging their passengers, all of whom were shrieking, gossiping, and creating unholy mayhem.

Good God, what a commotion. How many people had he invited? It looked as if all of London had just appeared at his front door. The walls were shaking from the tumult.

If he could have escaped, he would have fled in an instant, hospitality be damned, but it was too late for a dignified retreat. Monk, curse him, had opened the door the instant the first carriage appeared at the top of the drive, and now aristocrats were crowding into Max’s entryway like a swarm of fashionable bees.

Or a plague of buzzing locusts.

Lady Emily was the first through the front door. She spied him at once, swept forward like an advancing army of one, and promptly took possession of his arm. “Grantham! My goodness, I thought we’d never arrive, but here we are, at last!”

“So, I see.” He bowed and skimmed his lips over the knuckles of her glove. “How do you do, Lady Emily?”

“Well, much better, now .” She beamed up at him, a coquettish smile playing on her lips. “But I’m afraid it was a dreadfully tiring journey. Gloucestershire is ever so far away. Why, I almost imagined we’d left England entirely. I never conceived it could be such a distance!”

“How d’ye do, Grantham.” Montford appeared at Lady Emily’s elbow. “It’s about time you invited us to your country seat. Rather rude of you to wait two decades, eh?”

“London is as dull as a tomb without you, Grantham,” Lady Emily gushed. “Hasn’t London been a deadly bore without Grantham, Montford?”

“Has Grantham been away?” Montford smirked at Max. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Lady Emily let out a tinkling laugh. “Shame on you, Your Grace!”

“I’m only jesting, Grantham. London has been as tiresome as a long Sunday sermon since you deserted us. I don’t know how I endured it.” Montford grinned. “What’s prompted this uncharacteristic burst of holiday spirit? After such a lordly summons, I expect to be wildly entertained.”

“What will you have, Montford? Pantomimes, Mummers, and Christmas pudding?” It all sounded damned unpleasant to Max, particularly the pantomimes, but he couldn’t help grinning back at Montford. He, Montford, and Basingstoke had been friends since his first year at Eton, and they were among the few people with whom he felt utterly at ease.

“Why, all of it, of course. We didn’t come all the way from London to sit on our hands, did we, Lady Emily? Now, where has my duchess got to?” Montford turned and scanned the entryway. “Ah, there she is, talking to . . . by God, that looks like Dunwitty.”

Well, that hadn’t taken long. “It is Dunwitty.”

Montford turned back to Max, his eyes narrowing. “I didn’t realize you and the viscount were such close friends, Grantham.”

Max glanced over Montford’s head. Yes, there was Dunwitty, just as his uncle had promised he would be. He was chatting with the Duchess of Montford, who was dusting the snow from her cloak. Just behind them was Basingstoke, handing his hat and stick to Monk, his duchess’s arm linked with his, her cheeks pink from the cold.

Everyone was here, then. Everyone, that is, except Rose St. Claire.

Where was she? He pulled his pocket watch from his coat and glanced down at the face. It was half past noon. Had she somehow slipped down the stairs without his noticing? Perhaps he should check the kitchens—

“—confess I find myself quite curious about Grantham Lodge, Your Grace.”

He jerked his attention back to Lady Emily, who was simpering up at him, eyelashes fluttering, her lips pursed in a pretty little pout. “I beg your pardon?”

“Grantham Lodge. I don’t mind saying I didn’t know quite what to expect, as you’ve kept it such a deep, dark secret, you naughty man.” She let out a throaty laugh. “But it’s ever so lovely! Such a perfect place for a fortnight of Christmas festivities! Really, Your Grace, I can’t think why you haven’t hosted a house party before now.”

Because he detested Fairford? Because he detested Grantham Lodge? Because he detested Christmas? No, none of those replies would do, would they? Pity, as they were all the truth.

But somehow he managed to dredge up a charming smile for Lady Emily. “I prefer London to the country, my lady, but when business called me to Gloucestershire, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make the most of a winter’s visit to Fairford.”

There. That was an acceptable lie.

“Well, I’m overjoyed that you did, Your Grace.” She cast him a smoldering glance from under her thick, dark lashes, her blue eyes gleaming under her heavy lids. “What’s Christmas, after all, without a house party?”

“You’re very good to come all this way, my lady, especially given the suddenness of the invitation. I had thought we might . . .” He trailed off as a movement to his left caught his eye, and he whirled toward the staircase, his pulse thumping.

Even before he turned and his gaze landed on her face, he knew who he’d find.

And there she was, outside her bedchamber at last. Today Miss St. Claire was wearing a simple, violet-colored day dress that, for all that it was an ordinary enough garment, appeared to his fevered gaze to cling most scandalously to her curves, emphasizing every graceful arch and hollow of her slender frame.

She hesitated on the first-floor landing, her green eyes wide as she took in the crowd of people milling about the entryway.

“You were saying, Your Grace?” Lady Emily laid a proprietary hand on his arm.

He didn’t answer, because he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Miss St. Claire. Her gown wasn’t fashionable or elegant. Indeed, it was rather worn, the cuffs and collar a bit threadbare, but it skimmed her curves in a way that was both innocent and seductive at once.

Look away, man! For God’s sake, look—

“Who is that young woman, Grantham?” Lady Emily turned toward the staircase, her gaze following his. “Is she one of your maidservants?”

His maidservant ? She might not be dressed in the height of fashion, but there was no mistaking Rose St. Claire for a servant. “Hardly, Lady Emily.”

His voice was a touch louder than it needed to be, and abruptly the chatter around them faded to silence as every head turned toward him. He wasn’t the center of attention for long, however. Once they caught sight of Miss St. Claire, many of them turned to watch her as she made her way down the last few steps.

What was it about her that held his gaze? She was lovely, yes—he’d long since stopped pretending otherwise—but there were a half dozen lovely ladies in the entryway, and he wasn’t mesmerized by the sight of any of them .

She paused on the final step, her cheeks flushing scarlet as she noticed she’d become the center of attention. She glanced behind her as if she were considering scurrying back up the stairs and vanishing into her bedchamber.

That wouldn’t do. He needed her downstairs, with him.

No, not with him , but with Dunwitty, of course.

He stepped forward and held out a hand to her. “Ah, here you are, Miss St. Claire.”

She cast an apprehensive glance at his hand, but she could hardly refuse to accept it, and after a moment she placed the tips of her fingers in his palm. “Your Grace.”

His fingers closed around hers, and he drew her into the entryway. By then, the guests had converged near the bottom of the staircase, and all of them were regarding her with varying degrees of curiosity. It was the oddest moment, with their excited chatter all quieting at once. It was as if they knew her appearance among them must be significant, somehow.

It made no sense. There was no way they could possibly know he—

What? That he what ? The only reason Rose St. Claire was here was because she was in his way , and he wanted her out of it. That was all. Otherwise, she was of no importance to him whatsoever.

He released her hand and took a step back. “This is Miss St. Claire. She’s, er . . . an old acquaintance of my family who has graciously agreed to attend the house party.”

“You mean to say she’s your guest , Grantham?” Lady Emily glanced at Rose and a smirk lifted one corner of her lip. “How curious.”

No one seemed to know what to say to that, and a brief, uncomfortable silence fell. A hot flash of anger heated Max’s blood, but before he could say a word, Francesca, the Duchess of Basingstoke, and Prue, the Duchess of Montford hurried toward Rose with warm smiles. “This must be the young lady we’re to chaperone these next few weeks. How do you do, Miss St. Claire? I’m the Duchess of Basingstoke, and this lady here is the Duchess of Montford.”

“It’s lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss St. Claire.” Prue took Rose’s hand. “You must promise to show us around Fairford. I hear it’s a charming village, and I believe you grew up here?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Rose gave her a shy smile. “Though I’m afraid it will be rather a quick visit, and I daresay you’ll find it terribly dull. Fairford is tiny.”

“No matter.” Prue waved away the objection. “I grew up in the Wiltshire countryside, in a little burg very much like Fairford, and Francesca spent a good part of her childhood in a small village in Herefordshire. I daresay we’ll be endlessly diverted, will we not, Francesca?”

“Indeed.” Francesca nodded, smiling.

Rose’s shoulders eased at their warmth. “I’d be pleased to show you Fairford, Your Graces.”

Max let out a silent breath. It had been a stroke of genius, asking Prue and Franny to chaperone Rose. They’d take good care of her, leaving him free to get on with the business at hand. All he needed was a private word with Dunwitty to set the scheme in motion.

“Mrs. Watson.” He nodded to his housekeeper, who was waiting by the doorway with Monk. “If you’d be so kind as to show my guests to their bedchambers?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Watson bustled forward, a small army of housemaids following behind her. “Why, you all must be frozen half-solid after such a journey! I daresay you’re anxious to be out of your damp things.”

Mrs. Watson took charge of the two duchesses and assigned a housemaid to each of the other guests. Within minutes the entire swarm was clambering up the staircase.

Peace, at last!

But before he could take Dunwitty aside, Montford and Basingstoke descended on him, their eyebrows raised.

“What is it? Why are you two gaping at me?” Max waved a hand at the staircase. “Go with your wives.”

Basingstoke glanced at Montford, who let out a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, Grantham, but I would have sworn you said that young lady’s surname is St. Claire.”

Damn it. What had he been thinking, inviting Montford and Basingstoke? They were far too adept at ferreting out his secrets. “Yes. What of it? I don’t see why it should concern—”

“St. Claire, as in Ambrose St. Claire, the gentleman you’ve been vowing revenge upon since we were all together at Eton? Your nemesis, your sworn enemy, your—”

“I know what a nemesis is, Montford.” God above, had there ever been two nosier dukes than these? Still, there was no sense putting it off, as neither of them would rest until they got his confession. “Miss St. Claire is, ah . . . Ambrose St. Claire’s . . .”

“Yes?” Basingstoke’s eyebrow inched up another notch. “His what , Grantham?”

Max huffed. “His adopted daughter.”

“His daughter ?” Basingstoke’s face darkened. “What the devil are you up to, Grantham?”

“Not a blessed thing, I assure you.” Nothing that wasn’t for the girl’s own good, at any rate. “Miss St. Claire’s house is in disarray, so I invited her to stay at Grantham Lodge. I’m merely doing her a favor.”

Montford crossed his arms over his chest. “And what house would that be, Grantham?”

Max sighed. Only a duke would dare to question another duke, which was why it was exceedingly unfortunate that Montford and Basingstoke were his best friends. Nothing good ever came of three dukes in one house. “Hammond Court.”

Silence. Finally, Basingstoke cleared his throat. “I repeat, Grantham. What the devil are you up to?”

“Nothing you need worry yourselves about.”

Basingstoke’s eyes narrowed. “Grantham—”

“Might we delay this discussion until a later time? I’ve some business to attend to.” It wasn’t a lie. He did have business—rather important business—and Dunwitty had already vanished up the stairs.

His friends glanced at each other, then Montford gave a curt nod, his lips tight. “Very well, Grantham, but I warn you. We’ll have it out of you one way or another.”

With one last threatening scowl, his friends marched up the stairs after their wives.

Max retreated to the study, seated himself behind his desk, and rang the bell. A few minutes later, Monk appeared. “Your Grace?”

“Fetch Lord Dunwitty to my study, Monk. I need to have a word with him.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Right away.”

* * *

There was really only one place where a lady who was determined to hide from a houseful of aristocrats could go.

The kitchens. Aristocrats weren’t known for frequenting the kitchens.

So, while Mrs. Watson and the housemaids were occupied with herding the guests up the stairs, Rose took the opportunity to slip through the crowd. Fortunately, the duke was busy with the Dukes of Basingstoke and Montford and didn’t see her disappear down the back staircase.

Imposing gentlemen, those dukes. Very, er . . . ducal, and both of them extraordinarily handsome. Neither were as striking as the Duke of Grantham, but there was no denying they were pleasing to look at. It hardly seemed fair. Didn’t dukes have enough advantages without being handsome, as well?

The kitchen was deserted. That was rare enough, but everyone was occupied with the guests, and the kitchen boy had likely slipped outside so he might see all the grand horses and carriages.

She had it all to herself, so she may as well do something useful. She’d already furnished Mrs. Watson with some very nice iced tea cakes for afternoon tea, but perhaps a baked custard for supper wouldn’t go amiss.

She’d laid out her ingredients, and the pretty etched-glass custard cups, and was just fetching the eggs from the cook’s pantry when a deep voice startled her. “Miss St. Claire?”

She jumped, and one of the eggs she was transferring to a bowl slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor. The shell cracked, and yellow yolk oozed out. “Drat.”

“I do beg your pardon.” A fair-haired young man was peeking around the edge of the pantry door. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She glanced up from the mess and into a pair of velvety brown eyes. He was one of the duke’s guests—she’d caught a glimpse of him when she’d come down the stairs—but they hadn’t been properly introduced, and she didn’t know his name.

He’d remembered hers, though, which was surprising.

“I . . . it’s quite all right.” She took up a cloth from the table and quickly wiped up the mess, dropping the broken shells into the bowl. “Have you lost your way?”

What in the world was he doing down here, otherwise?

“Oh, no. I came in search of James, the footman who showed me to my bedchamber. He dropped this.”

He held up a gold button, and she recognized it as one from the footmen’s livery.

“I thought I might return it to him.” He sauntered closer, his brown eyes fixed on her face with a look she couldn’t quite read, but that nonetheless made heat flood her cheeks.

“I haven’t seen James, but I’ll make certain to return it to him.” She held out her hand, and he dropped the gold button into her palm. She expected him to turn and leave at once—aristocrats and kitchens, after all—but he remained where he was, his gaze lingering on her face.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, er . . . my lord?” Was he a lord? She hadn’t the vaguest idea, but it seemed a safe guess, given that the house was teeming with London’s upper ten thousand.

“I do beg your pardon—again. Lord Dunwitty. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss St. Claire.”

“I—thank you.” Goodness, how strange. What could he want with her? And now she thought of it, what sort of lord came all the way down to the kitchen to return a button to one of the footmen?

No sort of lord she’d ever heard of.

“That’s a great many eggs you have there, Miss St. Claire.” He peered over the edge of the bowl. “What are you making?”

“I thought I’d make a baked custard for pudding this evening.”

“Lovely! I do adore a baked custard.”

He grinned at her—a sweet, boyish grin. Very charming, indeed, and she did like the way his fair hair flopped into those playful brown eyes. He was handsome—all of the duke’s gentlemen friends were handsome, it seemed—but as pretty as he was, he didn’t make her heart thrum in her chest like—

Well. Like no one at all.

It was just as well, too, as the Duke of Grantham’s breathtakingly beautiful future betrothed was now here, and rather possessive, if the jealous grasp she’d had on his arm was any indication.

But then she was his betrothed. Surely, she had the right to grasp him wherever she—

No. No, that wouldn’t do. The duke’s romantic affairs weren’t her concern, and she wouldn’t think on it. It wasn’t as if the duke was likely to initiate a second kiss with her . No, there would be no more pounding hearts, heated flushes, or breathlessness.

No more kissing. Certainly, no more kissing.

“May I stay and help?”

Lord Dunwitty fluttered his eyelashes at her. He was shameless, yet she couldn’t prevent her laugh. “Have you made many custards, my lord?”

“Not a one,” he admitted cheerfully. “But if you’ll permit me to stay, Miss St. Claire, I promise to make myself as useful as possible.”

“How do you propose to do that, then?” She cast him as stern a look as she could manage, but the twitch of her lips rather spoiled the effect.

“I could measure your ingredients for you. If I acquit myself well enough, then perhaps you’ll permit me to stir the custard. Will that do?”

She let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose it will have to, won’t it?”

“Wonderful!” He pulled one of the kitchen stools free of the table and sat down, giving her a grin that had no doubt charmed every young lady in London. “Perhaps later, you’ll consent to a walk through the grounds. You may show me all the secret nooks in Grantham’s gardens.”

“Certainly not, my lord.” She gave a haughty sniff. “I can’t wander about the grounds alone with you. We haven’t been introduced.”

“Of course, we have. Don’t you recall it? I am Viscount Dunwitty, and you are Miss St. Claire.”

“ Properly introduced, my lord.”

“Oh, dear. That is a problem, isn’t it? Well then, once we’ve finished the custard, perhaps we might go in search of the Duchesses of Basingstoke and Montford. I’ll politely request a proper introduction to the lovely Miss St. Claire, and we’ll invite them to accompany us on our walk. I daresay they’ll agree, after such a long drive in the carriage. Will that do?”

There could be no objection to that, surely? “Very well, my lord. If Their Graces agree to join us, then I can’t see any reason why I should object.”

“Wonderful! Now, where shall we begin with the custard? This French brandy seems as promising a start as any.” He nodded appreciatively at the bottle. “I do adore a pudding made with French brandy.”

“We begin with boiling the water, my lord,” she replied primly.

“Oh.” He let out a glum sigh, cradling his chin in his hands. “That’s rather less exciting.”

She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from her lips. He was perfectly ridiculous, of course, but between the two friendly duchesses and lively Lord Dunwitty, perhaps this house party wouldn’t be as dreadful as she’d feared. “Don’t despair, my lord. If you’re very good, I’ll let you grate the nutmeg.”

“Well, that’s something, at least. I’ll endeavor to acquit myself with—”

“Miss St. Claire? What are you doing down here?”

Rose had just set the kettle to boil and gathered a handful of nutmegs, but at the sound of the abrupt voice, they slipped from her fingers and rolled under the worktable. “Oh, dear. I—”

“Not to worry, Miss St. Claire.” Lord Dunwitty stood. “I’ll fetch them for you.”

“Thank you, my lord.” But she hardly spared Lord Dunwitty a glance, because standing in the kitchen doorway was the Duke of Grantham, his gaze flicking between her and the viscount, the strangest expression on his face. Beside him stood a small, dark-haired gentleman with pinched lips and a Gallic nose. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I was just making a baked custard for—”

“Baked custard!” The little gentleman beside the duke gave a disdainful sniff. “My dear madam, if His Grace requires a custard, I will prepare cannelés de Bordeaux .”

Was that a pudding? She’d never heard of it.

The haughty little man peered at Rose, the tip of his nose twitching like an outraged mouse. “I am not accustomed to sharing my kitchen, Your Grace. Custard, indeed! C’est intolérable! ”

His kitchen? Ah, this must be Monsieur Blanchard, the duke’s French cook from London. Why, what a thoroughly unpleasant little man! He might have his kitchen all to himself, and welcome.

But the duke didn’t reply to Monsieur Blanchard. He didn’t give any indication he’d even heard him but continued to stare at Rose, his dark brows drawn together in a scowl.

Goodness, what in the world was the matter with him? Was he angry at her for making use of the kitchen? He never had been so before, but—

“Here you are, Miss St. Claire.” Lord Dunwitty emerged from under the worktable and offered her the nutmegs. She took them in trembling fingers.

“I see you’re making productive use of your time, Dunwitty.” The duke’s voice was perfectly civil, but the look in his eyes . . . dear God. He looked as if he could happily wring someone’s neck.

No, not someone’s . Lord Dunwitty’s.

But if the viscount noticed, it didn’t seem to trouble him in the least. He leaned a hip against the worktable and offered the duke a bland smile. “Always, Your Grace.”

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Monsieur Blanchard interrupted in a petulant tone. “I must insist that your servants stay out of my kitchens. I can’t have les filles idiotes running about, distracting me with their custards. I must have quiet when I am working on mes créations —”

“Miss St. Claire isn’t my servant.” The duke’s gaze slid from the viscount to Rose, and his hard expression softened ever so slightly. “And she may do as she pleases in the kitchens, whenever she pleases. Are we clear, Blanchard?”

Monsieur Blanchard shot Rose a resentful look, but he muttered, “ Oui , Your Grace.”

“Good.” The duke didn’t linger. After one last narrow glance at Dunwitty, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the kitchen door without another word, leaving Rose with an outraged French cook, a flirtatious viscount, and a handful of nutmegs.