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Page 2 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 1

Fairford, Gloucestershire December 12, 1819

I t was snowing inside Rose’s bedchamber.

The chill woke her, the draught of wintery air biting at her nose and setting her toes atingle, rousing her from a fitful sleep. She struggled onto her elbows and peeked over the edge of the coverlet. Muted morning light filtered through the thin draperies, catching the pale gleam of downy snowflakes swirling through a jagged fissure in the window.

The snowflakes were pretty, but alas, it wouldn’t do. A glittering flurry of harmless flakes could become a blizzard in the blink of an eye, and the steely gray clouds beyond the window promised more snow.

More snow, and here was Fairford, already half smothered in it as it was. It had begun snowing in early November and had hardly let up for a single day since.

Now the dratted flurries had found their way indoors.

She tossed the coverlet aside with a sigh. If it had been any window, in any other bedchamber, in any other manor house, an indoor squall would have been shocking indeed, but at Hammond Court, the boundary between indoors and outdoors had grown increasingly indistinct as the golden days of autumn slid into the deep chill of winter.

At least, that’s how Ambrose would have put it. He’d always fancied himself something of a poet. It was one of the things she’d loved most about him.

A hot ache pressed behind her eyelids, but she shook off the tears that threatened with an impatient jerk of her head. He wouldn’t have wanted her tears and mournful sighs. Why, if he could see her now, he’d scold until her ears burned.

Anyway, when had sniveling ever helped anything?

She rolled out of bed, snatched up the coverlet, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then skidded over the wooden floorboards in her stockinged feet to inspect the snowdrift gathering under her window.

Or puddle, rather. A large puddle. It had been snowing for some time then, likely most of the night. She jerked the worn draperies aside to get a better look at the damage to the glass. It was early still, the gray light too weak to dispel the shadows lingering in the corners of the bedchamber, but there was no missing the fracture splitting one of the upper panes.

Well, that explained that menacing crack that had woken her last night. It hadn’t been a ghost after all, then. That was some comfort, at least. Not that she believed in ghosts, of course. She wasn’t such a fool as that. But in the deepest dark of the night, with the house creaking and moaning around her, it had occurred to her that if there was ever a man who’d find a way to walk amongst the undead, it was Ambrose.

Yes, he’d take great delight in haunting her, the scoundrel.

She edged closer to the window, careful to avoid the puddle, and squinted at the crack in the gloomy light. Yes, it was certainly longer than it had been. She’d marked the end of it yesterday with a smudged thumbprint, and it was well past that point now. It reached the top edge of the windowsill and was surrounded by a spiderweb of finer cracks, like wrinkles fanning out from the corner of an eye.

It was spreading, along with the dozens of other cracks that decorated the walls.

She could stuff rags into the gap at the top, but already the windows were more rag than glass. It was a wonder the ceilings hadn’t toppled down upon their heads by now. If she didn’t come up with some way to put a stop to the deterioration, they’d have to leave.

“Well, that’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”

Rose turned around to find Abby hovering in the doorway, her grizzled gray hair standing on end. “It’s just a bit of water, Abby. Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.”

“It’s a miracle you haven’t caught your death in this damp, drafty room.”

“All the rooms are damp and drafty.”

“None so much as this one.” Abby pointed an accusing finger at the puddle. “For pity’s sake, Rose, why won’t you come and share my bed with me? It’s dry, and we’d both be warmer that way.”

Warmer, yes, but not safer. She’d taken to sleeping in this room after one of their creditors in the village had appeared on their doorstep in a rage, demanding payment and making all manner of unpleasant threats. Fortunately, she’d managed to intercept him before he broke the door down, but he wouldn’t be the last of them.

They had a great many creditors, and all of them as angry as spitting cats. She didn’t fancy being caught unawares again. This bedchamber looked down onto the front drive, and so here she would stay. “I like this room. It’s, er . . . cozy.”

Abby snorted. “Cozy, is it?”

“Quite so, yes.” The lie slipped easily enough from her tongue, but Rose took care not to meet Abby’s eyes. Abby could always tell when she was lying, and she didn’t fancy a blistering scold just now.

“Cozy, my eye.” Abby turned on her heel and disappeared through the bedchamber door, her slow, heavy tread echoing down the hallway. When she returned she was carrying a bundle of dark red cloth in her arms. “Here, help me with these.”

Rose skirted the puddle and crossed the bedchamber, taking up a fold of the cloth from the bundle, but she paused with it clutched in her hands. “This isn’t a rag. It looks like—”

“It’s one of the silk panels from Mr. St. Claire’s bed hangings.” Abby thrust her chin into the air. “Now, don’t fuss, pet. We’re nearly out of rags, and anyway, the silk is thicker. This will keep the draughts out much better than some old kitchen scrap.”

“But it’s silk .” It was a ridiculous objection, of course. What use did they have for silk bed hangings? It was too old and worn to be of any value, and yet . . .

These had belonged to Ambrose, once. She resisted the urge to bury her face in it, knowing she’d get nothing but a nose full of dust for her troubles, but it seemed wrong that a person should leave so many odds and ends behind when they died—wrong, that all these things that had been so secondary to Ambrose during his lifetime, mere afterthoughts, should have somehow outlived him, and be all that remained of a once-vibrant man.

She expected Abby to scold, but when she looked up, Abby was staring down at the red silk panel, her faded blue eyes damp with tears. “Curse him, anyway,” she whispered, dragging the back of her hand over her eyes. “I can’t think why I miss him so much, the troublesome old villain.”

“He was troublesome, wasn’t he? And it’s just like him to go off and die right before the weather turned foul. I daresay he planned it out that way. It’s the sort of thing he’d do.”

Abby gave a shaky laugh. “I daresay he did.” She grabbed the other silk panel from the pile and made her way to the window.

“Mind the puddle there. Don’t get your stockings wet.” Rose trudged across the bedchamber and got down on her hands and knees to wipe up the puddle. The icy water soaked through the silk, turning her fingers numb.

Perhaps this would be the last of the snow for a while. Perhaps she’d wake tomorrow to find the sun had emerged from behind the clouds. It would warm up a touch then, just enough to take the bitterest edge off the cold. Perhaps good fortune was just around the corner. Perhaps it would find them today, even, and then—

“My goodness, who can that be?”

Rose stilled, the dripping silk panel clutched in her hands. “What?” But she could already hear the carriage wheels rattling up the drive.

“There’s a carriage.” Abby peered through the glass, her brow creased. “How strange. It’s not yet seven o’clock in the morning. Who would be coming here so early?”

Who, indeed? No one they wished to see, that was certain. Rose leaped to her feet, the puddle forgotten. “Come away from the window, Abby.”

But Abby didn’t come away from the window. She remained where she was, in plain sight of anyone who happened to look up at the house, staring down at the drive as the grind of the carriage wheels over the ruts grew louder. “Heavens. That’s no ordinary carriage, but a right fancy one, and I think . . . Rose, come and look! Is that a crest on the door?”

A crest? Good Lord, she hoped not. Nothing good ever came in a crested carriage.

“We can finish this later.” Rose took the silk panel from Abby’s hand, then herded her away from the window toward the door. “Go on back to your bedchamber now and let me take care of our visitors. No doubt they’ve come to offer their condolences and will be gone again in a trice.”

Condolences, indeed. No one came to offer condolences at seven o’clock in the morning. No, they’d come for something else entirely.

Whatever it was, they’d almost certainly be obliged to leave without it.

“Did Ambrose know any lords?” Abby peered over Rose’s shoulder, trying to see out the window. “Because I’m certain I saw a crest—”

“I daresay he must have known a lord or two. Ambrose knew everyone.” More to the point, they knew him . “I’ll come and tell you all about them once they’ve left. Go to your bedchamber until then, and stay there until I come and fetch you, all right?”

Abby gave her a worried look, but she shuffled toward the bedchamber door. “Yes, all right, but come up as soon as they’re gone.”

“I will, but promise me you won’t venture out of the bedchamber until I come for you.” Rose hesitated, then added, “No matter what you hear.”

Abby’s eyes widened. “My goodness. I don’t like the sound of that.”

No, but whatever was about to unfold downstairs, odds were she’d like the look of it even less. “Promise me, Abby.”

“I promise, but you be careful, pet. You hear me?”

“Yes, I will.” Rose waited in the doorway until Abby had hobbled down the hallway to her bedchamber and disappeared inside, closing the door behind her.

Then she flew back into her own bedchamber and peered out the window.

The carriage had come to a stop halfway up the drive. She stared down at it, her heart pounding hard enough to reduce her rib cage to a powder. Abby was right. It was no ordinary carriage, but a vision in glossy black lacquer, with shiny black wheels, gold spokes and fittings, and a sleek pair of matched bays dancing restlessly in the traces, their dainty feet pawing at the ground.

The word “grand” didn’t even begin to describe it. It was the sort of elegant, fashionable equipage one might find promenading in Hyde Park. At least, she imagined it was, having never set foot in Hyde Park herself, or anywhere else in London.

There was a crest on the door, too, something in black, gold, and royal blue. She couldn’t make it out from this angle, but that combination of colors was familiar. Hadn’t she seen something similar on some of Ambrose’s correspondence?

She waited for the occupants to emerge, her breath held, but no one came out. A minute passed, then another, but just as she’d begun muttering a prayer that they’d go away again, the driver descended from the box, leaped out onto the drive, and opened the carriage door.

Whoever was inside felt no urgency to alight, but left his coachman standing on the drive, his greatcoat flapping about in the wind, and snowflakes gathering on his shoulders, until finally, finally , a long leg encased in a pair of fitted, dark gray pantaloons appeared, ending in a shiny black boot with handsome gold tassels.

A large, immaculately gloved hand landed on the top edge of the door, and then the rest of the man unfolded himself from the carriage. He turned to say something to his coachman, then marched up the drive until he was standing directly below her window.

Rose sucked in a breath. This man was undoubtedly the owner of the carriage.

He was . . . goodness, she’d never seen anything like him before. His face was partially obscured by the brim of an elegant beaver hat, but she caught a glimpse of a straight, aristocratic nose and a mass of thick, dark hair. He was exceptionally tall and broad shouldered as well, perhaps the largest and most ideally formed gentleman she’d ever laid eyes on, the power of his body tightly leashed, like a coiled spring.

He marched toward the house, his stride loose limbed and confident, like a man who was accustomed to everyone scurrying out of his way. A moment later there was a brisk knock on the front door, the thud echoing throughout the house.

She waited, her every muscle tensed, her hands clenched, fingernails biting into her palms.

Go away, damn you. Just go—

Her only answer was a second thump, this one louder and more impatient than the first, and then, after a few moments of decidedly ominous silence, there was another thud, followed by a cracking noise like wood splintering.

Her hand flew to her mouth to smother a shriek. Was he attempting to break down the door? No, surely not! Even the most determined of Ambrose’s creditors wouldn’t dare to force their way into—

Thump!

She gasped, her heart vaulting into her throat.

Dear God, he was ! He was breaking into her house, forcing his way inside like a common criminal. She backed away from the window, her legs shaking, and crept toward the clothes press on the other side of the bedchamber.

Ambrose’s pistol was already loaded. After their last unwelcome visitor, she always kept it so. She threw her cloak on over her nightdress, stuffed the pistol into the pocket, and slipped from her bedchamber in her stockinged feet.

She paused when she reached the landing, taking care to keep out of sight, and froze, listening, her fingers tight around the pistol.

The noise had ceased. She peeked around the corner, then darted back out of sight behind the edge of the wall. The front door was wide open. It appeared to be still intact, but goodness only knew what his next target would be. He hadn’t barreled his way inside with such viciousness only to give up now.

This man . . . he was the sort accustomed to getting what he wanted. His carriage, with that elaborate crest, his arrogant stride, that costly beaver hat, and those gold-tasseled boots—anyone could see at a glance that he wasn’t the sort to trifle with.

But then, neither was she.