Page 21 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 20

M ax paced from one end of the entrance hall to the other, taking care to avoid Monk’s curious gaze, the thump of his boots against the marble floor seeming far louder than they ever had before.

Thump, thump, thump . . .

God above, what an unholy commotion. Couldn’t a man pace his own entryway without every guest in the entire house overhearing it? He felt like a fool. He’d be better off retreating into his study just as he did every morning, and forgetting this nonsense entirely.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

He whirled around at the sound of that light, musical voice, and there, on the second-floor landing stood the lady he’d been waiting for. He’d thought of nothing else but her since he’d abandoned his bed before sunrise.

She was wearing a woolen day dress this morning, of some indeterminate shade of green that turned her eyes the color of a winter sea.

“You’re up rather earlier than usual, I think?” Her pretty pink lips curved in a sweet smile and damned if his knees didn’t go weak, and his tongue tie in knots.

“Good morning, Monk.” She reached the last step and turned her dimpled smile on the butler. “How does Mrs. Monk do? Is she over her cold yet?”

There was a Mrs. Monk?

“She’s much improved this morning, thank you, Miss St. Claire. Nearly herself again. I’ll be certain to tell her you enquired after her.”

“Yes, please do, and don’t forget to bring home the almond cake I made for her yesterday. Perhaps it will tempt her appetite. You did say she was fond of almond cake?”

Monk beamed. “I did, indeed. It’s kind of you to think of her, Miss St. Claire.”

Max glanced at Monk, then back at Rose, lingering on the smile that had won her the never-ending adoration of every servant at Grantham Lodge. How had he ever imagined he could steal Hammond Court from her?

As of this morning, he’d abandoned his diabolical scheme, and a good thing, too, because one of his servants likely would have bludgeoned him in his bed for daring to hurt Miss St. Claire.

But this wasn’t a day to dwell on bludgeoning, or wicked deeds that would never come to pass. No, today was about something else entirely. “Have you breakfasted yet, Miss St. Claire?”

“I have, Your Grace. I’m afraid I was quite lazy this morning. Abby was kind enough to bring me a tray in my bedchamber.”

He shuffled his feet. “I see. Then you’re at leisure today?”

“Indeed, I am. It did occur to me that some more Christmas baking might be in order. Do you care for plum pudding, Your Grace?”

“Plum pudding? Yes, plum pudding is very well, but I, ah, I thought I might . . . that is, it occurred to me you might enjoy . . .” He glanced down at his feet, the tips of his ears heating.

She ducked her head, trying to catch his eye. “Yes, Your Grace? Is something amiss?”

“No, nothing. I just wished to enquire whether you might like to . . .” He paused to swallow. Why was his throat so dry?

“Yes? Might like to what, Your Grace?”

“Perhaps you don’t recall, but before the house party commenced, you mentioned the need for Christmas greenery.”

Monk made a faint choking sound, then hastily cleared his throat to cover it, but it sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh.

Rose glanced at Monk, her brows pulling down in a puzzled frown. “Yes. It’s tradition to decorate on Christmas Eve.”

“Right. Just so.” Good Lord, this was torture. Just say it, man.

He took her arm and led her to the opposite end of the entryway, out of Monk’s hearing. “It occurs to me, Miss St. Claire, that perhaps you have a point about the Christmas decorations.”

“I do?”

She sounded so shocked his lips twitched, in spite of himself. “Oh, I assure you I still find it tiresome in the extreme, and a great waste of time. I fail to understand why anyone would find hanging prickly garlands to be an enjoyable activity, but I suppose you’re correct in thinking my house party guests might find it pleasurable.”

“Such a generous acknowledgment, Your Grace. You quite stun me.” She bit her bottom lip, but there was no stifling the quirk at the corners of that sweet, pink mouth.

Good Lord, that smile. Had he actually managed to persuade himself it wasn’t charming?

“Shall we walk the grounds a bit then, Your Grace?” She glanced over his shoulder toward the entryway door. A cheerful stream of morning sunshine poured through the glass, illuminating the spotless white marble floor with a blinding glow. “We’re certain to find any number of trees that will lend their boughs to our cause, and it is a lovely day for a stroll.”

“Well, I thought perhaps we might go out in the sleigh, instead.” He’d never fancied sleigh riding himself. As recently as just a few weeks ago he could hardly have conceived of a more tedious activity than being dragged about the snow while crowded into a narrow sleigh.

But if he were crowded into a sleigh with Rose St. Claire, well . . . the narrower, the better, and what else were they meant to do with such egregious piles of snow everywhere? As for decorating for Christmas, that did seem the sort of thing that might keep a pack of bored aristocrats amused for an afternoon.

A proper host would have invited the entire party, of course, but in this case, the entire party happened to include Dunwitty, and he didn’t fancy the idea of sharing Rose with the viscount. It wasn’t that he was stealing her away. Of course not. Nothing so dramatic as that—

“Sleigh riding!” She let out a squeal, and his gaze shot back to her.

Did she approve of his suggestion? Was she pleased? He could hardly tell, what with her gaping at him as she was, and an unpleasant pang of uncertainty seized him. He’d hoped to please her with the suggestion. Had he made a mess of it? God knew he wasn’t at all in the habit of pleasing anyone other than himself.

“If you like the idea, I thought we might go out this morning, and see which trees have the lushest greenery to offer,” he added, awkwardly enough.

“I like it very much, and we’re just in time, as tomorrow is Christmas Eve.”

“We’ll bring the entire party out tomorrow morning to cut the garlands, along with the wagon to haul them.” No doubt she saw right through his rather flimsy ploy to get her to himself. Monk certainly did, if the restrained snort from the other side of the entryway was any indication. “But if you’d prefer to wait and go with the others tomorrow—”

“No! No, I—I’d be delighted to go sleigh riding with you.” The smile he’d become obsessed with found her lips then. “Why, it’s just the thing, Your Grace! I wonder I didn’t think of it myself.”

Just like that, the tightness in his chest eased. “Very well. Go and fetch a wrap, Miss St. Claire, the warmest you have. The wind is brisk, and it’s rather cold, despite the sunshine.”

“Yes, of course!” She turned without another word and flew up the stairs, her skirts billowing out behind her. He watched her go, then resumed his pacing, marching from one end of the entryway to the other. Halfway through his third turn, he caught Monk’s eye.

His normally taciturn butler was smiling. Smiling , like an utter fool.

Max rolled his eyes and turned and marched back in the other direction.

It wasn’t until he’d completed another full rotation through the entryway that he realized he was smiling, too.

* * *

The Grantham Lodge sleigh was, like everything else at Grantham Lodge, a particularly fine one, but unlike the stiff settees and spotless fireplaces, Rose couldn’t find fault with it.

Who could possibly find fault with anything , on such a day as today, least of all the snug little two-seater sleigh, a handsome, lacquered green affair with gold striping outlining the panels. The doors were embellished with the prettiest gold-leaf pattern as well, and the interior was a rich, red velvet.

It was like something out of a fairy tale. Joy curled inside her like a sleeping cat, warming her as they skimmed over the snow.

“Are you warm enough, Miss St. Claire?”

He’d frowned when she’d reappeared in the entryway in the same coat she’d worn to the skating pond last week. It was a bedraggled-looking garment, to be sure, and worn rather thin, its best days behind it, but instead of scolding, he’d merely ordered more rugs to be piled into the sleigh.

“Yes, very cozy, Your Grace.” She drew one of the soft, fleecy rugs to her chin and tucked her feet closer to the hot bricks one of the footmen had placed on the floor.

But the warmth at her feet paled in comparison to the warmth of his body pressed so closely against hers, a muscular column of heat running the length of her leg from her ankle bone, and all the way up her thigh to her hip. It was quite distracting, really, but even if she’d wanted to move away—and she wasn’t at all sure she did —there wasn’t a sliver of spare space to be had.

She was at the mercy of the hard thigh pressing so close to hers.

Cozy, indeed.

The duke had a second sleigh, a much larger one that could seat eight people comfortably. She’d noticed it tucked into a corner of the carriage house, but he’d chosen this much smaller one for today, along with a pair of beautifully matched black horses to pull it.

Perhaps this smaller sleigh was faster. Perhaps he wanted to have their outing over with as quickly as possible, but it didn’t seem so. If he wished to avoid her, as she’d half expected he would after their kiss last night, he wouldn’t have suggested this sleigh ride in the first place. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to hide away in his study, as he usually did.

He was a confusing gentleman, the Duke of Grantham.

Maxwell. Max . The name suited him.

She pressed her fingers to her mouth, her lips tingling at the memory of their kiss. Such a revelation, that kiss! As it turned out, passionate kisses like the one they’d shared weren’t confined only to the lips.

She’d felt that kiss everywhere .

But after the abruptness with which he’d pulled away from her and sent her off to her bedchamber, she’d expected he’d put as much distance between them as possible today.

Instead, it appeared as if he’d been waiting for her this morning.

Abby wasn’t going to be pleased when she found out about this sleigh ride, especially not after the two hours she’d spent last night lecturing Rose about the dangers of trifling with aristocratic gentlemen.

Especially dukes. According to Abby, dukes in general—and the Duke of Grantham, in particular—were horrible, wicked creatures who’d think nothing of ruining a young lady like her, then hurrying off to London without a backward glance.

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He didn’t look wicked now , with his thick, dark curls blowing in the wind and one of his rare smiles softening the corners of his lips.

But she wouldn’t puzzle over it now. She would simply enjoy the cheerful crunch of the runners as they whooshed over the snow, the wind whipping through her hair and biting color into her cheeks. “Look, Your Grace! See how the sun sparkles on the snow? It’s as if we’re flying through a field of diamonds!”

He turned to her, that grin still playing about his lips. “What a fanciful description, Miss St. Claire. Are you a poet?”

Hardly. Ambrose had had a knack for turning a phrase, though. Perhaps some of it had rubbed off on her. She didn’t say so, however, but only laughed, the wind catching the sound in its fist and sending it whirling into the blue sky. “Not a bit, I’m afraid, but I daresay a day like today might turn even the dullest scholar poetic. But do you know, Your Grace, what would make this even more delightful?”

“I’m afraid to ask,” he said dryly, shifting the reins between his gloved fingers with ease, turning the horses’ heads to the right, toward a line of towering trees in the distance, their massive branches heavy with snow. “But I daresay you’ll tell me anyway.”

“Bells! I can’t think of a single thing more festive than bells at Christmastime.”

“Oh, something tells me you can, Miss St. Claire. You have a distressingly fertile imagination.”

“Just imagine it, Your Grace. The sun shining down from a blue sky, the bells strung onto the horses’ harnesses jingling merrily and echoing in the crisp morning air with their every prancing step.”

“Very well, I’ll admit that doesn’t sound entirely unpleasant. Is there anything else you require?”

“Bells, and flasks of hot cocoa and cider, and caroling, and . . . oh!” Without thinking, she seized his arm. “Have you ever gone on a moonlit sleigh ride, Your Grace?”

“What, sleighing at night? That sounds dangerous, not to mention freezing cold.”

“Well, it must be done on a clear night, but you’d be amazed, Your Grace, at how well you can see in the moonlight. It’s quite as bright as daylight, under a full moon.”

He was quiet for a moment, then. “You speak as someone who’s been on a moonlit sleigh ride.”

“Only once, years ago.” It was before her mother had died, the Christmas before she’d turned twelve. It had been Ambrose’s idea, and she’d never forgotten it. But she wouldn’t speak of Ambrose now, or indeed, ever—not to the Duke of Grantham, as it was the one subject on which they would never agree.

It was strange, though. Ambrose had invariably spoken of the previous duke, Max’s father, with barely concealed disdain, but whenever he spoke of Max, it had always been with a note of tenderness in his voice, even after the rift between the families had dragged on for years.

Her sympathies had always lain with Ambrose, of course. It had been easy for her to blame the Ninth Duke of Grantham for the ugliness, and to despise his entire family for it, but now . . . she cast a surreptitious glance at Max.

What must it have been like for him, to have his home taken from him by a man he’d trusted? A man he’d considered a second father? Oh, she didn’t blame Ambrose. She might not know the whole story behind that ill-fated wager, but she was certain he must have been thinking of Max and his mother when he wagered for Hammond Court.

But Max had only been a child then, and too young to understand. No doubt his father had poisoned him against Ambrose, and from there, it had only gotten worse.

Within only a few years, Max’s father was dead, and Max was alone.

Such a dreadful loss. Was it any wonder he hated Ambrose? His resentment was misplaced, yes, but being here with him now, in the sleigh beside him, her limbs tucked tightly against the warmth of his, her heart gave a sympathetic wrench in her chest.

Where had all his righteous anger, all his resentment gotten him? He was a wealthy, powerful duke, yes, part of the haute ton , with dozens of fashionable, titled friends, and yet . . .

He was alone. More alone than any man she’d ever known.

It wasn’t right, that he should have lost everything.

“There’s a gathering of tall pine trees just over the next rise. I thought their boughs might do for our decorations.” He gave her a slight smile. “But I will, of course, defer to your superior knowledge, Miss St. Claire.”

“How gentlemanly of you, Your Grace.” They were nearing the tree line that had been only a distant blur before, so close now she could make out the spiraling branches of a grove of massive pine trees, the tips of the needles white with snow.

“Goodness. They’re magnificent.” The Cotswolds abounded with ancient trees—there were a great many large pines on Hammond Court’s land, as well—but she’d never seen any as massive as these before.

“They’ll do, I suppose, if the guests insist upon smothering my house in greenery on Christmas Eve.”

“I daresay they will insist upon it. One must have garlands on Christmas Eve, Your Grace. It’s tradition.”

He grunted. “More trouble than it’s worth if you ask me.” But he brought the sleigh to a stop underneath the trees and tipped his head back to study the thick, gnarled branches. “Which ones do you like best, Miss St. Claire?”

“I hardly know. Goodness, they’re enormous.” Many of them were wider than her thigh.

“Indeed. No doubt some fool will insist upon climbing them tomorrow, only to fall and break his neck.”

Well, wasn’t that a cheerful thought? “There are plenty of low-lying branches. They’ll make lovely garlands.”

“I’m pleased you approve, Miss St. Claire.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her face. “Perhaps we should return to Grantham Lodge before too long. I’m afraid you must be cold. Your cheeks are as rosy as winter apples,” he murmured, a husky note in his voice.

“Are they?” And still redder now, if the heat surging into them was any indication. She clasped her gloved hands over her cheeks, suddenly shy. “I’m happy to return whenever you are, Your Grace.” She peeked up at him from under her lashes. “But I’m not at all cold.”

Quite the opposite, in fact.

He didn’t move, the reins slack in his hands as he stared at her, his gaze moving from her eyes to her lips, then back again. “I, ah, I don’t believe I ever thanked you, Miss St. Claire.”

“Thanked me? For what?”

“The ginger biscuits. It was kind of you to make them for me.” His throat moved in a rough swallow. “It reminded me that I do have some happy memories of my time at Hammond Court.”

It was, of all things, the one she wished most to hear him say, and hope, bright and warm, burst inside her chest. This was what Ambrose had wanted from her—she felt sure of it. Yet somehow, between the pistol shot and the broken doorknob, the collapsed ceiling and the ginger biscuits, this business between her and the Duke of Grantham was no longer about the favor Ambrose had asked of her.

This was no longer about Ambrose at all. It had been weeks since her courtship—for lack of a better word—of the Duke of Grantham had been about fulfilling a promise to Ambrose.

Now, it was about the duke himself.

She couldn’t pinpoint the moment it had happened—perhaps it had been the ice skating, or the ginger nuts, or the kisses that made her heart pound—but somewhere along the way, without her realizing it was happening, the duke’s happiness had become what she wanted, too.

Even if it meant losing Hammond Court. Surely, that was what Ambrose had intended all along? This had never been about the house. It had been about Maxwell Burke from the very beginning.

Hammond Court was always meant to be Max’s. It was his family’s home and a part of his legacy. It would hurt her to leave it—oh, so much! It would be like tearing loose one of her limbs, but if she might see the tightness ease from the duke’s jaw, the cold watchfulness fade from his eyes, and a smile touch those stern, straight lips, well . . . how could she ever regret that?

It was still far too rare, his smile, but perhaps by the time this strange interlude between them ended, she’d have that pleasure. If she had that, then perhaps she could leave Hammond Court behind without any regrets.

“If you’re truly not cold, shall we go on for a bit, Miss St. Claire?” He glanced up at the sky, then back at her, the sun lighting his eyes, turning them a clear, translucent gray. “There’s not a cloud to be seen. As long as the weather holds, and you’re not too chilled, we might go for a bit longer if you like.”

“I would like that, very much.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Perhaps we might go by Hammond Court, on the way back? I have a bundle of wood shavings from last year’s Yule log I need to fetch.”

“A bundle of wood shavings?” He stared at her. “Why would you save such a thing?”

Goodness, didn’t he know anything about Christmas? “Why, so we might use them to light this year’s Yule log, of course.”

He groaned. “You mean to say we need a Yule log, as well?”

“Why, of course, we do, Your Grace. You can’t possibly have Christmas without a Yule log. It’s—”

“Tradition?”

“Just so.” She gave him her most angelic smile. “It must be a very large, grand log—thick enough so that it will continue to smolder until Twelfth Night has passed.”

Another groan. “Can’t we just light a candle?”

“Oh, yes! We must have a Yule candle, as well. I nearly forgot!” She tucked the rug more firmly around her as he flicked the reins, and the horses bounded forward, their tails twitching. “How good of you to remind me, Your Grace.”