Page 19 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 18

“M y goodness, Grantham, what’s put you in such a temper this evening?” The Duchess of Basingstoke, who’d agreed to act as Max’s hostess for the evening, studied him over the top edge of her wineglass. “You’re positively glowering.”

Glowering? Nonsense. What did he have to glower about? “I’ve no idea what you mean, Francesca. I’m perfectly content.”

She snorted. “As content as a hunting dog who’s lost the fox, perhaps. That scowl of yours has put poor Lady Dowd off her baked custard. Rather a pity, really, as it’s delicious.”

Max pushed his custard cup aside. “It has too much nutmeg.”

Dunwitty’s fault, no doubt. What did a viscount know about custard? Miss St. Claire would have been better off keeping her custard out of reach of Dunwitty’s clumsy hands.

Not that it mattered to him what she did, of course. She might crack eggs and grate nuts all day long with Dunwitty, and he wouldn’t bat an eye. No, if he was out of temper, it had nothing to do with Rose St. Claire.

His plan was proceeding precisely as he’d intended.

The more perfectly conceived a scheme was, the greater the chances of a flawless execution, and that was what he was seeing at the dinner table this evening—the flawless execution of his wicked, deceitful scheme to see Miss St. Claire safely wed to Viscount Dunwitty.

He couldn’t be any happier about it. He was downright jubilant. So overjoyed, in fact, that if Dunwitty’s hand brushed Miss St. Claire’s shoulder one more time, he might just explode with . . . bliss.

“Take care with that glass, Grantham.” Francesca nodded at the wineglass clutched in his fist. “It’s one white knuckle away from shattering in your hand. It’s not quite the thing, bleeding at the dinner table, is it?”

“White knuckle?” He glanced down at his hand. Damn it. His knuckles had gone white.

He loosened his grip. He should have seated Francesca at the other end of the table, and not directly at his right, where she could witness his every frown and twitch.

She was far too perceptive, and there was little doubt she’d report everything back to Basingstoke, who’d be eager enough to listen. Both he and Montford had grown more frustrated with him with every day that passed, but they’d yet to pin him down for an interrogation.

Still, two nosier devils than Montford and Basingstoke never existed. It was only a matter of time before they cornered him, and once they did . . .

What then? Perhaps he’d tell them the truth about his schemes. He wasn’t a good man, but he’d always drawn the line at lying to his friends. Still, it would be best if the plan was a bit further along before he was called to account.

Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. Not in the least.

He’d arranged for Miss St. Claire to marry a viscount, for God’s sake. Surely, there was nothing he need reproach himself for in that? Most people would say he’d done her a good turn, putting Dunwitty in her way.

Indeed, by the looks of things, both Dunwitty and Miss St. Claire were vastly pleased with each other’s company. Dunwitty had hardly ceased talking for the entire meal. For his part, Max always found the man to be a bit on the dull side, but Dunwitty was unusually animated this evening, and if Miss St. Claire’s smiles were any indication, she found his conversation utterly charming.

Perhaps it would even turn out to be a love match.

“There’s that glower again,” Francesca murmured, raising an eyebrow. “Is it the viscount who offends you, Grantham, or is it Miss St. Claire?”

“Neither of them offend me.” Unless they were together.

Which was ridiculous, given he was the one who’d been so reckless as to throw them into each other’s way. But then, no good deed went unpunished. Or had it been a bad deed? He was no longer sure, but it did feel as if he were being punished for . . . well, something.

Francesca followed his gaze. “I can’t see how Miss St. Claire could offend you. She’s a lovely young lady, is she not?”

She was. Far too lovely. That was the very reason she offended him, damn her. If she’d been a trifle less appealing, his head wouldn’t be so muddled. None of this made any sense. He’d brought Dunwitty here so he could rid himself of Rose St. Claire, but now . . .

He’d found the idea of a marriage between them palatable enough at one time, hadn’t he? But somehow the reality of seeing them together every day was far less agreeable than he’d anticipated. And they were together constantly. Every bloody time he turned around, there was Dunwitty on Miss St. Claire’s heels, flirting with her, and making her laugh.

“As for Dunwitty, he’s harmless enough, and he seems quite captivated by Miss St. Claire.” Francesca turned narrowed, dark blue eyes on him. “It would be a wonderful thing for her if he fell in love with her. Don’t you think so, Grantham?”

He had done, once, but somewhere in the midst of his perfect scheme, he’d changed his—

No, damn it, he hadn’t. It was too late for that, and in any case, it was nonsense. He was as determined as he’d ever been. “I don’t like to disappoint you, Francesca, but I have no opinion whatsoever concerning Miss St. Claire’s romantic affairs. I couldn’t be less interested, I assure you.”

“Of course not, Grantham.” A sly smile curved Francesca’s lips, and her eyes danced as she plucked his wineglass from his hand. “We’ll just leave this on the table, shall we?”

He hardly heard her, because just then a bright laugh echoed down the table, and he turned just in time to see Miss St. Claire throw her head back, her cheeks flushed, and her pink lips parted in that laugh that struck him directly in the center of his chest.

When had her laugh become so familiar to him, so necessary? He’d only heard it half a dozen times, but it wasn’t the sort of laugh one forgot, once they’d heard it the first time.

So joyous a laugh as that could never be forgotten.

He’d never found Dunwitty at all amusing, but apparently, Miss St. Claire didn’t share his opinion. She was smiling as Dunwitty whispered some nonsense in her ear. Their heads were bent close together, and Dunwitty’s hand rested next to hers atop the table, so close he could have covered her fingers with his.

“It’s time the ladies retired, Your Grace.” He tore his gaze from Rose—that is, Miss St. Claire—and turned to Francesca. “If you’d do me the favor of taking them out.”

Francesca paused for an instant, far too much understanding in those clever blue eyes of hers, but then she nodded. “Very well, Your Grace.” She rose, and the chatter died away as heads turned toward her. “Ladies, I believe it’s time we left the gentlemen to their vices.”

The ladies rose from the table in a swish of silk skirts, but they may as well have been invisible, for all the attention he paid to them. Only one lady mattered, and she was the only one he could see.

Miss St. Claire offered Dunwitty a warm smile, but she didn’t linger.

Max’s gaze followed her as she passed out of the dining room, and a tangle of emotions swelled in her wake, twisting inside his chest like a nest of writhing snakes. They were so intertwined he could hardly tell one from the next, but as his gaze returned to Dunwitty at the other end of the table, one slithered loose and reared up, head weaving, tongue flickering, hissing its displeasure.

Jealousy. He was jealous of Dunwitty.

Jealous, and frustrated, and underneath it all lay a baffling regret. This was what he’d wanted, yet at the same time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that commanding Viscount Dunwitty to court Rose St. Claire may have been the worst mistake of his life.

* * *

“Miss St. Claire! Will you join us?” The Duchess of Montford patted the empty space beside her on a plump, green silk settee near the fireplace.

“Yes, do come, won’t you, Miss St. Claire?” The Duchess of Basingstoke, who was seated on the other end of the settee, beckoned her forward with a curl of her gloved fingers.

Goodness. Summoned not just by one duchess, but two? Given the cool reception the other ladies had given her, Rose had reconciled herself to a long evening of solitary reading. She’d brought a copy of Miss Burney’s The Wanderer to keep herself occupied, but it seemed the duchesses took their chaperone duties quite seriously.

And one didn’t naysay a duchess, did one? Certainly not two duchesses.

She set the book she’d been reading aside and hurried across the drawing room, the hair on her neck rising at the sensation of other ladies’ eyes upon her, but both duchesses greeted her with friendly smiles.

“Now, Miss St. Claire,” the Duchess of Montford began. “Do sit down and tell us all about yourself. How long have you lived at Hammond Court?”

All about herself? Oh, dear. This charming tête-à-tête was destined to end as quickly as it had begun, then, as duchesses did not generally waste their graciousness on the daughters of servants, particularly those daughters who were born on the wrong side of the blanket.

But she’d never been ashamed of who she was, and she wouldn’t hang her head now. “I was four years old when I came to Hammond Court with my mother, so nearly seventeen years now. She—my mother—was Mr. St. Claire’s cook.”

They’d shove her off the end of the settee now, or worse, get up and leave themselves, abandoning her in the middle of the drawing room with every eye upon her—

“Yes, I believe Mrs. Watson told me as much. She had a great deal of admiration for your mother,” the Duchess of Basingstoke said. “As I understand it, she was a treasured friend of Mr. St. Claire’s.”

Rose blinked. She hadn’t expected such kindness, and for one horrifying moment she felt tears press behind her eyes. “She was indeed, Your Grace.”

“Oh, you must call me Francesca. All of my friends do.”

“I’m Prudence, or preferably Prue, as Prudence is a bit too antiquated for me,” the Duchess of Montford added.

“Prue, and Francesca,” Rose repeated dutifully. “I’m afraid I haven’t ventured far from Fairford since then. I’ve never even been outside of Gloucestershire. Sadly provincial of me, I’m afraid.”

Prue patted her hand. “I think I mentioned before that Franny and I were both raised primarily in the English countryside. Franny spent part of her childhood in London, but I only visited for the first time the year before last.”

The Duchess of Basingstoke—Francesca—leaned closer, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Not all duchesses are as perfectly pedigreed as the aristocracy would have you believe, Miss St. Claire.”

“No? Well, I . . . that’s . . .” No. It was no use. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say in reply to that.

Prue laughed. “Oh, dear. We’ve stunned her speechless, Franny. However does that keep happening, do you suppose?”

“It does happen with astonishing regularity, does it not? Too much forthrightness, I imagine, but no matter. Come, Miss St. Claire, you may be at your ease with us, as we’re all certain to become the greatest of friends.”

Friends? For the duration of the house party, perhaps. After that, she’d likely never see either lady again, as they hardly moved in the same social circles. Still, they seemed in earnest, and she didn’t have many friends. Or any friends, really, and she’d quite like to, if only for a fortnight. “Thank you. I’d like that very much. You’re both too kind.”

“Well, now that’s settled, do tell us about yourself.” Prue gave her another smile. “I understand you and Mr. St. Claire were extremely close—as close as a father and daughter, Mrs. Watson said.”

“Very close, yes. I—I miss him dreadfully, I’m afraid.” Dash it, there were the tears again, pressing more insistently this time.

“You poor thing.” Francesca seized her other hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s dreadfully difficult, isn’t it? I lost my own father at quite a young age, and it felt as if my heart had been torn still beating from my chest.”

Rose cast her a grateful glance. “It does. I hadn’t been able to put words to it, but that’s exactly how it feels—as if you’ve lost some vital part of yourself.”

“Oh, my dear.” Francesca’s fingers tightened around Rose’s hand. “I’m afraid so, but the pain does ease after a time, and you’ll always have your memories of him. No one can take those away from you.”

No, they couldn’t. She wouldn’t let them.

The three of them were quiet after that, but both Prue and Francesca kept her hands in theirs, and after a time the tears receded, and her heart resumed its steady beat.

“How do you and Grantham get on?” Prue asked, breaking the comfortable silence. “He was no friend of Mr. St. Claire’s. I imagine that must make it rather awkward between you.”

“Yes, it . . .” She’d been about to say it had been awkward, but the truth was, since the day Sir Richard had revealed the terms of Ambrose’s will to them, and the bitter argument between them that had followed, the Duke of Grantham had been, well . . . perhaps one couldn’t say gallant , precisely, but in his own way, he’d been quite . . .

Indulgent? Was that the proper word to use?

He’d rescued her from the flood at Hammond Court, brought her to Grantham Lodge, and turned her over to the tender ministrations of Mrs. Watson. He’d permitted her to muck about in his kitchens, complimented her tea cakes, albeit begrudgingly, and had even taken her ice skating, though anyone could see he didn’t enjoy it.

“You were saying, Miss St. Claire?” Prue prompted.

“Please, you must call me Rose. I was about to say that it has been awkward, but while it is the case that the duke has never made any secret of his enmity for my father, and neither can he and I agree upon what’s to be done about Hammond Court—”

“Hammond Court!” Francesca glanced at Prue, her blue eyes wide. “Forgive me, Rose, but do you have a say in what happens to the house, then?”

“I do, yes. My father left Hammond Court to both the duke and me . . . together.” Now why should her voice have cracked on that last word?

“Together!” Francesca and Prue exclaimed, both of them at once.

Rose glanced around the drawing room, her cheeks going hot. If every eye in the room hadn’t already been upon them, they were now .

“Forgive us, Rose,” Prue whispered. “That was expressed a bit too enthusiastically. But goodness, how strange, that Mr. St. Claire has left the property to you both! What do you suppose he was thinking, doing such a thing?”

That Maxwell Burke, the Duke of Grantham needed saving, and that she was the one to do it, that’s what.

A lost soul . . .

She didn’t say so, however. Those few last precious moments she’d spent with Ambrose were between the two of them and no one else. So, she only shrugged. “I can’t be certain, but the duke wasn’t at all pleased.”

“No, I imagine not.” Francesca sat back against the settee, tapping her lips with a finger. “What had you been about to say, before we interrupted you? About it being awkward with the duke?”

“Oh, yes. Of course, it was awkward at first, but now the initial shock has passed, the duke has been rather good to me, all told.”

Francesca and Prue glanced at each other again, some sort of silent communication passing between them. “Has he? Well, Grantham is a gentleman, although a reluctant one at times.”

A reluctant gentleman. Yes, that was a good description of the Duke of Grantham. “He brought me here to Grantham Lodge after my bedchamber at Hammond Court flooded, and—”

“Flooded!” both ladies exclaimed, once again with perhaps a touch too much enthusiasm, but it hardly mattered now, as the other ladies in the room were already whispering among themselves, having given up pretending they weren’t eavesdropping.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The house is in sad disrepair.” It would likely stay that way, too, unless she could somehow work a miracle on the Duke of Grantham. “But the duke was kind enough to invite me to his house party, and he took me ice skating when I asked.”

“Ice skating,” Francesca repeated as if she’d misheard. “The Duke of Grantham went ice skating ?”

“Goodness, no! I did everything I could think of to coax him onto the ice, but he defied me at every turn. It’s rather a shame, really, because if ever there was a gentleman who needed a bit of fun, it’s the Duke of Grantham.”

This time, Francesca and Prue didn’t even attempt to hide the glance between them, or the wide smiles that rose to their lips. “I couldn’t agree more, Rose,” Prue said with a laugh. “Dear me, how I would have enjoyed seeing you attempt to lure him onto the ice.”

“Yes, well, I’m not very alluring, it seems, as he had no trouble at all resisting me.”

“Resist you , Miss St. Claire? Nonsense.”

The teasing voice came from behind them, and all three of them turned to see that the gentlemen had finished their port and were wandering into the drawing room. Lord Dunwitty came straight toward them and swept into an elegant bow. “I daresay there isn’t a gentleman alive who could resist you .”

“My goodness, Lord Dunwitty,” Francesca scolded, patting her chest. “What can you mean, sneaking up on us like that?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Lord Dunwitty paused by the settee and offered Francesca a charming smile. “Have I interrupted you at your secrets?”

“There’s not a single secret to be had here, my lord.” Franny waved a dismissive hand at him, but her lips were twitching. “Go on about your business, you wicked man.”

“Of course, there are secrets. All ladies have secrets. Come now, you can tell me.” Lord Dunwitty pressed a finger to his lips. “I won’t tell a soul. I promise it.”

Prue snorted. “Not a single secret shall pass our lips. You’re an inveterate liar, my lord, and a shameless flirt.”

Lord Dunwitty pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Your Grace. As punishment for your cruelty, you must forfeit Miss St. Claire to me this instant.” He turned his attention to Rose. “Do you play chess, Miss St. Claire?”

“I do, but very ill, indeed.”

“Ah, even better, as I hate to lose.” He held out his hand to her. “Come, and favor me with a game, won’t you?”

She hesitated, taking in his outstretched hand. His brown eyes were twinkling, and his lips were curved in a mischievous grin. Prue had the right of it—he was a shameless flirt—but he was great fun, and surely there could be no impropriety in a game of chess in the middle of a crowded drawing room?

“Very well, my lord.” She took his hand and let him assist her to her feet, but the Duke of Grantham appeared in the drawing room doorway just then, and the look on his face when he saw her hand on Lord Dunwitty’s arm . . .

Dear God, he looked positively murderous, his brows lowered over icy gray eyes, his lips pressed into a tight, grim line.

She paused, confused. “Your Grace?”

His gaze darted to her face, and God above, she’d never in her life seen eyes as cold as his were in that moment, like a tempestuous winter sea. If a look could have frozen her where she stood, she’d have turned into a block of ice in an instant.

“Going somewhere, Miss St. Claire?”

“I—I . . .” But it was no use. That icy gray gaze made the words tangle on her tongue, and she fell silent.

Lord Dunwitty came to her rescue, saying smoothly, “Miss St. Claire and I are having a game of chess, Grantham. With your approval, of course.”

A moment passed, then another. Rose held her breath. Surely, he wouldn’t forbid them a harmless game of chess?

But the duke seemed to shake off the displeasure that had seized him and waved a careless hand toward the games table in the corner of the drawing room. “By all means, Dunwitty. Miss St. Claire may do as she pleases.”

He swept past them without a backward glance and joined Lady Emily in a distant corner of the drawing room.

“Shall we, Miss St. Claire?”

Rose’s gaze had followed the duke, but now she turned back to Lord Dunwitty with a smile. “Yes, indeed.”

Lord Dunwitty led her to the games table, but only half of her attention was on the chessboard as he laid out the pieces. Her attention insisted on wandering back to the duke, who was seated rather closer than necessary to Lady Emily, an inviting smile on his lips.

Inviting, or was it more seductive? Was that what one would call the suggestive curve of those handsome lips? But then Lady Emily was his betrothed, or nearly so, and he might bestow as many lascivious smiles on her as he pleased.

For her part, Lady Emily was basking in his attentions, her cheeks aglow, and her air as she glanced around the drawing room decidedly triumphant. Rose could hardly blame her. It was no small victory, catching the eye of a gentleman like the Duke of Grantham.

But it was nothing to do with her . She jerked her attention back to Lord Dunwitty, who was making himself as agreeable as any gentleman ever could. Really, he was quite the most agreeable man she’d ever encountered. One couldn’t help but be charmed by him.

Indeed, she was excessively charmed.

Why, then, did her attention keep wandering to the opposite side of the room? Goodness knew there was nothing of any interest to her unfolding over there, though she couldn’t help but notice that for all of the duke’s protestations that it didn’t matter a whit to him what she did, he spent quite a lot of time glowering at her, his dark eyebrows lowered over those smoldering silver eyes.

“White or black, Miss St. Claire?”

“I beg your—oh. White, I suppose.” She dragged her attention back to the chess board and pushed one of her pawns forward two squares.

Smoldering. Yes, smoldering, drat him, all the ice from earlier melting in that smoky heat, hotter with every moment that passed, until that dark gaze was positively singeing her skin, until bit by bit, moment by moment, she could think of nothing else, her concentration, her calm, and her very wits deserting her. She was dizzy with heat, fire unfurling in her belly until she could hardly keep her seat—

“Pawn to E4, Miss St. Claire.”

“Er, yes. Pawn to . . . to . . .” She closed her fingers around her own pawn, but it was no use.

In an unguarded instant, her eyes locked with the duke’s, and there was no escaping him, no looking away. Flames engulfed her, scorching heat rising higher and higher, his eyes tracking her flush as it surged into her cheeks, and flooded her chest and throat.

“Take care, Miss St. Claire. You’re about to lose one of your rooks.”

Her what? Her . . . oh, her rook. Chess. She was playing chess with Lord Dunwitty. “Yes, of course. Pawn to . . . to . . .” Her breath was short, and the board was swimming before her eyes. “Forgive me, Lord Dunwitty, but I’m afraid I have rather a bad headache.”

He looked up from the chessboard with a frown. “You do look a bit flushed.”

“Yes. I think it’s best if I retire.” She rose, her knees shaking.

He shot to his feet. “You’re unwell, Miss St. Claire. Please take my arm.”

“No, no, it’s quite all right, my lord. I—it’s only a bit of fatigue. Perhaps we might finish our game tomorrow?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but she didn’t wait for a reply.

She fled the drawing room like a perfect coward before her wobbly legs gave out on her. A blur of startled faces turned to follow her—Francesca’s and Prue’s, their mouths falling open as she darted past them without a word. Lady Emily, her pretty lips turned up in a smirk, and poor Lord Dunwitty, who was no doubt wondering what it was he’d said or done wrong.

As for the Duke of Grantham—she took great care not to glance at him as she hurried past, but she could feel that blistering gaze on her, as palpable as fingertips drifting down her spine, the touch searing her like a brand.