Page 20 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 19

S hame scalded Rose’s cheeks as she ran down the corridor to the entryway.

How dreadfully rude she was, to not even pause to bid good night to the company, particularly Francesca and Prue, who’d been so kind to her! How ridiculous, as well, scampering off like a child fleeing a punishment!

Yet she couldn’t make herself stop, her slippers sliding across the marble floor of the entryway, her skirts clutched in her fist as she scurried up the stairs toward the safety of her bedchamber.

Up, up, up she fled, past the first-floor landing, the grandfather clock striking eleven, then up another flight—dear God, so many stairs—to the second-floor landing where her bedchamber lay—nearly there now, just three more doors! Abby would be there, waiting for her, and all would be well.

“Wait, Miss St. Claire!” A hand caught her wrist, halting her in her tracks.

Dash it, she’d been so close!

For an instant, she thought it must be Lord Dunwitty who’d caught her, but when she turned to face her captor, it wasn’t the viscount’s brown eyes that met hers, but a pair of intense gray eyes, some emotion she couldn’t define swirling in their depths. Instead of fair hair falling boyishly over a handsome forehead she found a mass of riotous dark waves, as if he’d been dragging his hands through the thick curls.

So impossibly soft, that hair, softer than any man’s hair should be, like a secret for her fingers alone.

“What just happened down there?” The duke—for of course, it was he—stared down at her, that fearsome frown that had chased her from the drawing room still puckering his forehead. “What happened? What did Dunwitty say to you?”

Say? Did he imagine it was Lord Dunwitty who’d sent her careening toward her bedchamber? She stared up at him, transfixed by those eyes that seemed to change color with his moods. They weren’t gray so much as a dark, molten silver now. They tended to become so when he was agitated.

She fell back a step, stunned. When—dear God, when —had she come to know that about him? When had she begun watching him so closely that she could read his moods in his eyes?

“Answer me, Miss St. Claire.” He released her wrist, his hands closing over her shoulders.

“Lord Dunwitty?” she repeated, dazed. What did Lord Dunwitty have to do with it?

“Yes. Viscount Dunwitty. That gentleman you were just playing chess with? You do remember him? Did he say something to upset you?”

“Upset me? No! No, of course not.” What could Lord Dunwitty have said to upset her? “He’s behaved like a perfect gentleman.”

He regarded her for a long, silent moment, searching her face, but at last, his hold on her shoulders eased, and he blew out a breath. “Good, that’s . . . good. But why then did you flee the drawing room? You bolted like a frightened horse.”

“I . . .” But what could she say? That it had been him she’d been running from? That a mere glance from his turbulent gray eyes could overset her in a way a thousand longing glances from Lord Dunwitty never could? That every time she felt his attention on her, she trembled? “It’s nothing so dramatic as you imagine, Your Grace. I’m just fatigued, that’s all.”

“ Is that all?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Forgive me, Miss St. Claire, but young ladies don’t flee the drawing room because they’re fatigued. It appeared to be a great deal more than that to me.”

“It wasn’t.” But of course, it was. It was the plunging sensation in her chest when he’d strolled into the drawing room this evening and gone straight to sit beside Lady Emily. The way he’d bent his dark head toward hers, and the smile on his face when he’d whispered in her ear.

All of which, of course, meant she was a great fool.

But she’d sooner die than reveal such a humiliating truth to him. So, she lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his eyes. “I don’t see what’s so surprising about it. House parties are terribly fatiguing, Your Grace.”

“Are they, indeed? But you didn’t appear to be fatigued at dinner. Quite the contrary.” Slowly, gently, he eased her backward, until her spine was pressed against the wall. “I don’t believe you are fatigued. I think there’s another reason you fled, Rose.”

Rose . Dear God, the aching sweetness of her name, when it slipped from the tip of his tongue. Such a plain, simple name, but when he spoke it, it became seductive and infuriating, tempting and tormenting at once, because what she wanted more than anything in that moment was to taste her name on his lips.

Even as his future duchess waited for him two floors below.

All at once, she was furious, both at him for tempting her, and at herself for longing for something she could never have. “You may think what you like, Your Grace. It’s nothing to me what you believe. Now, please let me pass. I have a headache, and I’d like to go to my bed now.”

“No, I don’t think so.” His gaze held hers, something she couldn’t define shimmering in the silver depths. “Not just yet.”

She forced herself to hold his gaze, but her body was trembling, her heart pounding. She might have ducked away—for all that he didn’t seem to want to let her go, he wasn’t preventing her from marching past him—and been safely tucked into her bedchamber in an instant, a locked door between the two of them.

But that wasn’t what she did.

No, she remained where she was, her blood racing through her veins, some ancient feminine instinct that had been slumbering inside her—slumbering while it waited, apparently for him —urging her to stay, to wait, to see what would become of his hot, silver eyes roving over her, heating every inch of skin they touched. “What do you want from me, Your Grace?”

He let out a soft laugh. “Ah, but you see, that’s the problem, Rose. Ever since the first day we met, when you threatened to put a pistol ball between my eyes, I don’t know what I want anymore.”

Something unfurled inside her then—an ache only he seemed able to call forth, sweet and dark and insistent, tugging low in her belly, and setting off a cascade of hot sparks down her spine. “How unfortunate. I’m sorry for you, Your Grace, but I don’t see that it has anything to do with me.”

“But it does have to do with you, Rose.” He reached for her, dragging his knuckles down her cheek. “It has everything to do with you, and those damnable green eyes.”

She sucked in a breath. “Me? You can’t be blaming me for—”

“Oh, but I do blame you, Rose.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her neck. “This whole debacle is entirely your fault.”

Debacle? What debacle? “How is it my fault? Because I have green eyes? Why, how dare you insinuate—”

“It has nothing to do with their color.” He reached for a loose lock of her hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “As lovely as you are, it’s not your beauty I’m referring to. I can assure you, there is no shortage of young ladies with fair hair and green eyes in London, but not a single one of them drives me as mad as you do.”

She was driving him mad? “I don’t understand. Why—”

“ Why? Damned if I can explain it.” He drew her closer, wrapping her in the warmth of his body. “Perhaps whoever said the eyes are the windows to the soul had the right of it. Romantic nonsense, if you ask me.” His gaze held hers as he pressed the lock of her hair to his lips. “Or I used to think so, until I met you.”

“M-me?” But why? There was nothing special about her . There wasn’t one man in a hundred who’d even spare her a glance while a ravishing creature like Lady Emily was in the room.

“Yes, you, Rose. My God, how can you have no idea?” He touched the pad of his thumb to her lower lip. “Did it escape your attention that I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight?”

“B-but you spent the entire evening glowering at me!” Such a glower he had, too. She was no coward, but even she’d fled that penetrating gray gaze tonight because it made her feel . . . well, things she’d much better not.

“I did, indeed. As I said, you’re driving me mad.” His eyes softened, the hard gray melting to a cloudy silver. “No man wishes to be driven mad by a lady, Rose, especially such a termagant as you.”

“Well, I . . .” What was she meant to say to that? Was it a compliment, or an insult? “I beg your pardon, then. It wasn’t as if I’ve been trying to drive you mad.”

“No?” He laughed, low and seductive, and nuzzled his face against her neck. “You must have a natural talent for it, then.”

He traced the tip of his tongue over the shell of her ear, pausing to nip at her earlobe. Heat flared in her belly, but instead of pulling away, as a proper lady should do, she swayed toward him, her fingers curling into his evening coat. “For driving gentlemen mad?”

Surely, that wasn’t a good thing?

“Not gentlemen , Rose.” He slid his palm down her throat, caressing the hollow at the base with light, teasing fingers. “Just me .”

“Oh.” Her eyes dropped closed, a helpless moan falling from her lips. “That’s . . . that feels . . .” But she didn’t have a single word that did it justice. How could anything feel so delightful?

“Maddening?” he asked, dropping a kiss in the arch between her neck and shoulder.

Maddening, delicious, intoxicating.

But there was no time for her to answer him—no time for her to do anything at all, because Max took her mouth then, his wicked tongue slipping between her lips, stealing her breath, her words, and her reason.

This. Ever since that first heated kiss between them in the kitchen, this was what she’d been waiting for.

He gave it to her. He gave her everything. Hot, slick, sweet . . . a raw moan rose in her throat at his taste, his heat. He kissed her and kissed her, and she took every slide of his tongue, every stroke, lick, and nip, all while straining toward his lips, greedy for more.

He teased and tormented, tracing his tongue over her lips again and again, until at last he gave in to her broken pleas for more. Then he took her mouth harder, tugging her lower lip between his own and sucking on it until she was panting for him.

He was insatiable, low groans breaking from his lips as he ravaged her mouth, but his hands were gentle—the long, slow slide of his palm down her spine, the light stroke of his fingertips against her jaw. He touched her with infinite care, with tenderness, and when he raised his hands to cup her cheeks, she saw they were shaking.

Something inside her gave way, then, some tiny but significant piece of her heart.

Yet this was madness, all the same. Any of his guests could wander into the corridor and see them. At any moment, Abby could open the bedchamber door and catch them in each other’s arms.

But she didn’t pull away. She waited, her body trembling as he drew her closer, his eyes as black as midnight as he lowered his head to kiss her again, tugging her lower lip into his mouth to suck on it. A low, needy whimper rose from her chest, shocking her.

Not once, in all her twenty-one years, had she ever made a sound like that before.

She wrapped her fingers around his forearms and held on as his tongue darted between her lips. He slid his fingers lightly down her throat, then lower, testing her collarbones with his fingertips, then swept his hands over the quivering skin of her shoulders, left bare by the gown she wore.

“Beautiful,” he murmured as his lips followed the path his hands had taken, his mouth lingering at the curve of her neck and shoulder. “Even more so than I imagined.”

“Y-you imagined this?” Muscles twitched against her palms as she reached up to trace the contours of his chest, then let her fingers slide lower, grazing the hard plane of his stomach.

He smiled against her throat. “Every single day since you forced me to go ice skating.” He skimmed his lips over her ear, his breath stirring the wispy hair at her temples. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you that day.” He chuckled, low and seductive. “I’ve never seen a lady spin that way before.”

“Or fall so clumsily, I daresay.” She twined her arms around his neck, pressing closer, and she might have remained there all night, gathered against his broad chest, her fingers sifting through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, if they hadn’t heard a footstep on the landing.

They both froze, but it must have been a servant, because they continued up the stairs to the attics.

He tore his mouth away, but rested his forehead against hers. They were both breathless. He touched his thumb to her lower lip, opening her mouth for him, then leaned over and placed a sweet kiss there before stepping back, away from her.

“I beg your pardon, Rose. We can’t . . . you should go to your bedchamber.” He sucked in an unsteady breath, brushed the loose locks of hair that had tumbled from her chignon back from her face, and pressed a quick, soft kiss to her forehead. “Quickly, before I forget myself.”

Rose pressed a shaking hand to her trembling lips. She should do as he said at once, fly into her bedchamber and put an end to this madness.

Because he wasn’t for her.

Never for her. How could she have forgotten that? He was a duke. A duke , and soon to be betrothed to another lady, and she . . .

She was no one.

“Yes, I think that would be best.” She ducked her head, avoiding his gaze as she made her way down the corridor to her bedchamber. She opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her, then fell back against it, her heart still hammering.

She’d kissed the Duke of Grantham. Again .

“Rose?” Abby bustled in from the tiny sitting room that was attached to the bedchamber. “I’ve been waiting for ages for you, pet. Where have you . . .” She trailed off when she caught sight of Rose, all the color draining from her cheeks. “Rose?”

Rose huddled against the door, but even if she could have escaped that keen gaze, she never kept secrets from Abby. A hot flush scalded her cheeks as Abby took her in from head to toe.

Disheveled hair, flushed skin, swollen lips . . .

“Oh, Rose.” Abby let out a low cry and brought a shaking hand to her mouth. “What have you done?”

* * *

The sun hadn’t yet risen when Max rose from his bed, dressed hurriedly, and made his way from his bedchamber down the stairs. The house was silent, the entryway deserted, so early the servants were still asleep in their beds.

No one saw him slip out the door and into the dark, silent grounds of Grantham Park.

He’d been pleased enough when he’d gone to his bed with Rose’s kiss still lingering on his lips, but he’d woken sometime in the night to find her sweet taste had vanished, leaving the leaden flavor of regret behind in its wake.

There’d been no hope of sleep again, after that.

He wandered through the gardens, his boots crunching over the icy pathways, heedless of his direction. It didn’t matter where he went. He simply couldn’t bear to be inside any longer with his thoughts haunting him, swirling about him like invisible ghosts.

But of course, his thoughts followed him as he wound from one end of the gardens to the other, as thoughts tended to do.

No answers, though. No, those were elusive, no matter where he was.

When had everything become so complicated? Until he’d arrived in Fairford, he’d known precisely who he was, and precisely what he wanted.

Vengeance, plain and simple. What was so bloody complicated about that?

He’d go to Fairford, make certain Ambrose St. Claire was good and dead, seize Hammond Court, and finally put to rest the bitterness and anger that had been plaguing him for two decades.

But there was no rest here. No, only more plague.

House parties, and ice skating. Ginger biscuits, and Christmas pudding.

Those things might be harmless enough if he’d been another sort of man, but he was the Duke of Grantham. Ruthless, cruel, and cold down to the depths of his shriveled black heart.

The Duke of Ice. What was the wicked Duke of Ice meant to do with a Christmas pudding?

Taken together with Hammond Court’s crumbling walls, Monsieur Blanchard’s temper tantrums, Lady Emily’s petulant pout, and—worst of all—Viscount Dunwitty’s handsome face and charming manners, what should have been a straightforward case of revenge had become tangled, indeed.

Then there were the green eyes. Lovely green eyes, and a joyful laugh that made him want things he’d never wanted before. That made him wonder, for the first time in two decades, what would be left for him after he’d enacted his revenge.

Or even if he wanted to enact it at all.

Come to Fairford, and claim your treasure . . .

What had Ambrose even meant by that? Because with every day that passed, Max became more convinced that he hadn’t been referring to Hammond—

“I might have known you’d do this the hard way, Grantham.”

Max whirled around to find a pair of tall figures advancing toward him down the pathway, their faces lost in the early morning shadows.

“Six days, Grantham.” Montford emerged from the gloom, his hands thrust deep into his greatcoat pockets. “Rather an admirable game of cat and mouse, but we’ve caught you out, at last. I can’t say I approve of the location. You couldn’t have chosen someplace warmer for your theatrics?”

“What theatrics? I’m not—”

“You might have waited until sunrise, at least,” Basingstoke grumbled, joining them on the pathway. “Who has theatrics before sunrise? It’s not very gentlemanly of you, Grantham.”

Good Lord, but he had the most interfering friends imaginable. “I told you, I’m not—”

“Of course, you are.” Montford sighed as if Max were a tiresome child. “You just don’t realize it yet. That’s why we’re here.”

“Indeed. So, what’s the trouble, Grantham? I do hope you haven’t torn Hammond Court to the ground while Miss St. Claire is otherwise occupied. Because such underhanded behavior would be beneath you as both a gentleman and a duke.”

Perhaps so, but at least such machinations on his part would make sense . “If you must know, I’ve asked Townsend to undertake some of the more urgent repairs at Hammond Court.”

Basingstoke glanced at Montford, eyebrows raised. “I’m pleased to hear it, Grantham. May we assume all of your intentions toward Miss St. Claire are as honorable?”

That depended on how one defined the term “honorable.” There were those who’d argue his plan to secure a viscount for Miss St. Claire was as honorable and selfless a deed as one could perform for an otherwise unmarriageable lady.

Except, of course, once they dug a little deeper, they’d find it wasn’t honorable at all.

Montford frowned when he didn’t answer. “Let’s back up a bit, shall we, Grantham? Did you, or did you not leave London and sneak off to Fairford without so much as a word to anyone, so you might seize Hammond Court for yourself, now Ambrose St. Claire is dead at last?”

“Seize it? What an ugly word, Montford. I merely came to investigate the circumstances and see if I could purchase it, and I’ll have you know Ambrose St. Claire himself summoned me here.”

“From beyond the grave? Forgive me, Grantham, but I find that a bit difficult to believe.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t be absurd, Montford. He sent me a note before he died, of course, bidding me to come to Fairford and seize my treasure, or something equally as dramatic and ridiculous as that.”

“Ah. But instead of an empty house, you found Miss St. Claire? Rather a nice surprise, I would think. She’s a pretty little bit of a thing.”

“A pretty little bit of a thing, is she, Montford? I’ll have you know that pretty little bit of a thing nearly put a ball between my eyes when I appeared on her doorstep.” After he’d broken into her house, that is, but the less his friends knew about that business with the doorknob, the better.

“Did she, really?” Basingstoke chuckled. “Well, it’s not at all surprising that Ambrose’s daughter is a young lady of spirit.”

Spirit? Is that what they were calling it?

“Miss St. Claire is, er . . .” Montford cleared his throat. “She’s Ambrose’s natural daughter, I take it?”

The circumstances of Rose’s birth weren’t their concern, but she’d never made any secret of it, and God knew neither Basingstoke nor Montford would let this business rest until they had every bloody detail. “She’s the natural daughter of Ambrose’s cook. The lady passed away some nine years or so ago, but Miss St. Claire remained at Hammond Court after she died.”

“Miss St. Claire is the illegitimate daughter of St. Claire’s late cook ?” Basingstoke shook his head. “Good God. That’s rather a difficult position for the young lady to be in.”

Exceedingly difficult, yes, but he’d never heard her bemoan her fate. She seemed to think herself the luckiest young lady in the world, to have been known and loved by Ambrose. “By all accounts, Ambrose was fond of the girl. So fond, he left her half of Hammond Court.”

“ What? ” Montford halted in the middle of the pathway. “Ambrose St. Claire left half of Hammond Court to Miss St. Claire?”

“Yes.” Max gritted his teeth. “I might have known he’d remain a thorn in my side, even after he died.”

When he’d first come to Fairford, he’d thought it ludicrous Ambrose was so devoted to his cook’s daughter that he’d made her an heiress, but that was before he knew Rose. Now, however . . . well, if ever there was a young lady who could burrow under one’s skin, wriggle under one’s breastbone, and insinuate herself into the tender tissue underneath, it was Rose.

“Her presence here at Grantham Lodge certainly makes a great deal more sense now,” Montford muttered. “I assume you’re after her half of Hammond Court?”

Was he? It had begun that way, certainly, but now . . .

Everything had changed. After decades of negotiations, Hammond Court was finally in his grasp, merely waiting for him to reach out and pluck it like a ripe bit of fruit, and instead, he was seriously considering letting it slip through his fingers, all because of a young lady with pretty green eyes. “It’s hardly a secret that I’ve been trying to get my hands on Hammond Court for years. It was my father’s house, and it rightfully belongs to me.”

“You intend to purchase Miss St. Claire’s half, then?” The glint in Basingstoke’s eyes belied his casual tone.

“Precisely. So, you see, it’s nothing so nefarious as what you two are imagining.” At least, not on the surface.

“If it’s as simple as you say, Grantham,” Montford asked, “then why is Miss St. Claire here at Grantham Lodge? Why haven’t you made the lady an offer, and taken possession of the house?”

“I did make her an offer, but the lady is, ah, reluctant to sell.” To put it mildly. “She insists that Hammond Court isn’t merely a house to her, but her home, or some such nonsense.”

But the inflection in her voice when she said the word “home,” the softness in her face . . . it made him want outlandish things. On one or two occasions, he’d even caught himself longing with everything inside of him for Hammond Court to be hers.

“That doesn’t sound like nonsense to—” Montford broke off, his eyes narrowing. “Wait a moment, Grantham. Is this business with Rose St. Claire what prompted your sudden house party?”

“Dunwitty!” Basingstoke groaned. “Don’t tell me you invited Dunwitty here to—”

“What?” Montford jerked his head toward Basingstoke. “What’s Grantham done this time?”

“Don’t you see, Montford? He’s brought Dunwitty here to—to—” Basingstoke turned his sharp gaze on Max. “Marry her? Christ, Grantham, I hope it’s to marry her, because if you’re scheming to turn that sweet young lady over to Dunwitty as his mistress—”

“No! Of course not, Basingstoke!” Had he really become such a villain that his friend would think so poorly of him? “What do you take me for?”

Basingstoke searched his face, then blew out a breath. “Thank God. I beg your pardon, Grantham, but this business with Ambrose St. Claire and Hammond Court brings out the worst in you.”

Max couldn’t deny it, and yet it stung, that Basingstoke had thought for even a moment that he’d do such a thing. He would never . . .

Or would he? If Miss St. Claire had been another sort of young lady—a bit less endearing, a trifle less angelic, might he have done the unthinkable? Had he strayed so far from the man he’d once been, as to do something so ruthless as that?

Montford shook his head. “Christ, Grantham.”

He glanced from Montford to Basingstoke and threw up his hands in disgust. Now they’d gotten this much out of him, he may as well confess the whole bloody thing. “I don’t deny I brought Dunwitty here with the intention of his marrying Miss St. Claire. After they married, he was meant to turn over her portion of Hammond Court to me.”

Basingstoke shook his head. “This is beneath you, Grantham.”

“Is it truly so terrible, Basingstoke, for me to arrange for Miss St. Claire to be made a viscountess? She’s a penniless, friendless young lady, born on the wrong side of the blanket. What other prospects does she have?”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible if you were doing it to help her, but you’re not. You’re doing it for yourself.” Basingstoke’s expression was grim. “It’s not the marriage itself, but the subterfuge behind it, Grantham.”

“Miss St. Claire and Lord Dunwitty aren’t pieces on a chessboard you may move about as you please,” Montford added.

“I’m not . . .” But he was, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that precisely what he’d been doing?

“I advise you to think carefully before you take this any further, Grantham,” Montford went on. “Is it really so important for you to have Hammond Court? After all these years, what does it matter any longer?”

It did matter. Or it had, once. It had mattered more than anything.

But did it still? Did it matter more than Rose? Was he so determined to have Hammond Court it didn’t matter that he’d have to hurt her to get it? She wouldn’t have any smiles to spare for him once he took her home away from her.

She’d despise him then, and he’d deserve it.

Ambrose had taken something precious from him, yes. He’d made a laughingstock of the Grantham name. He was the reason behind all those lonely years at Eton, with the other boys snickering behind his back. Ambrose had been at least partially responsible for his father’s deterioration, and his shameful death.

Max had carried that bitterness with him for decades. It had given him a purpose, but it had changed him, too. It hadn’t brought any happiness. Instead, it had made him harder, colder, and more ruthless.

Yet, who was he, without it?

“No serious harm has been done yet. It’s not too late to change your mind. You’re a better man than this, Grantham.” Montford laid a hand on his shoulder, then turned to follow Basingstoke down the pathway, back toward the house.

The shadows in the garden grew shorter as the sun inched over the horizon, but Max remained where he was, heedless of the passing time and the guests requiring his attention, turning one question over and over in his mind.

Was he a better man than this?

He didn’t have an answer.