Page 22 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 21

T hey approached Hammond Court from the east, in order to save the horses’ hooves and the sleigh’s delicate runners from the deep furrows of frozen mud cratering the front drive.

Max brought the sleigh to a stop in the courtyard behind the kitchen, but they didn’t stir. They both remained in the sleigh for a long moment, staring up at the house, neither of them speaking.

Great swathes of ivy climbed up the pale, weathered stone. Rose had always loved the romantic extravagance of the ivy, with its trailing vines and thick, glossy leaves, but Ambrose hadn’t been as fond of it. He claimed it damaged the stonework, and every winter he’d insisted on its being cut back. Now he was gone, it had run rampant, twining around the arched sills of the windows all the way up to the second floor.

The house looked different to her, somehow. It wasn’t, of course. It was the same dilapidated house she’d left several weeks earlier—the same home she’d always known, but it looked lonelier.

For all its flaws, it had never looked lonely to her before.

Was this how it would always look, once she was gone? So dark, empty, and deserted? Her heart sank at the thought. Such a house deserved a family, with young children scampering up and down the hallways, their little fingers leaving smeared prints on the doorknobs, and smudges on the woodwork.

Could Max ever put aside his hatred of Ambrose, and learn to love Hammond Court as she had? Or was it destined for ruin, with only the thick branches of ivy holding the crumbling walls together?

“You look troubled, Miss St. Claire. I daresay you have some unpleasant memories from the last time you were here. Would you prefer we not go in, after all?”

She shrugged off the strange melancholy that had seized her and shook her head. “No, no. We must have the shavings from last year’s Yule log. It’s—”

“Tradition.” A smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

She turned toward him, and the sight of his faint grin thawed the ice in her veins as if she were a blossom turning toward the sun. “Oh, have I mentioned that, then?”

“Once or twice, yes.”

He stepped out of the sleigh and reached to hand her out, the warmth of his hand closing around the tips of her fingers sending a shower of sparks down her spine.

The hinge of the outer door protested, releasing a halfhearted squeal as she pushed it open. She crept down the darkened hallway toward the archway that led into the stillroom—yes, crept, because she felt oddly like an intruder, sneaking about a home that was no longer hers.

It was dark, and the faint smell of decay tickled her nose. Had it always been so? Could she have grown so accustomed to it over the last year that she no longer noticed it?

It was a distressing thought, and more distressing still was the hollow thump of her footsteps on the floor, the echo of it, as if it had been centuries since anyone had walked here, and the house didn’t know what to make of the sound.

The door that led to the stillroom stood open, and . . . oh, dear. It looked shabbier than ever, after the luxury of Grantham Lodge.

Shabbier, and cold . A shiver raced through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “Goodness, it feels like an icehouse in here. The sooner we fetch the shavings, the better.”

“Lead the way, Miss St. Claire.”

She rummaged in the drawers until she found the bit of cloth she’d wrapped the shavings in. She slipped them into her pocket, then turned toward the kitchen. “Since we’re here, I may as well fetch the last of my preserved ginger, in case we want more ginger biscuits.”

An involuntary sigh left her lips as she passed through the door into the familiar space, the duke— Max —so close behind her, she could feel the warmth of him against her back.

The stove and the scrubbed kitchen table were just as she’d left them.

So familiar, this room, so much the home she remembered.

The kitchen had always been special to her—her own little place tucked under the staircase, rather like a secret. How many years had she spent here, at her mother’s knees? Nearly eight years, before her mother had passed away. How could the time feel so brief now?

One blink, and it was gone.

She smothered a sigh, and made her way over to the spice cabinet, but stopped halfway across the floor, frowning down at the smooth wooden boards under her feet. “How curious. The floor has been repaired.” The gaping hole left when the pistol ball had struck the floor had vanished. “Billy must have been here, and seen to it.”

Except, had it been Billy? Where would he have gotten such fine boards? They were the same warm oak as the older boards, the match nearly flawless.

“Yes, I suppose he must have done.” Max took her arm and led her toward the spice rack in the opposite corner of the kitchen. “It’s a cozy room, isn’t it? I’ve always thought so.”

“It is, yes. It’s my favorite room in the house.” She paused, unsure whether or not to voice the question hovering on her lips, but Christmas was nearly upon them, and Twelfth Night soon afterward, and then Hammond Court would be his.

All she wanted, all she hoped for, was that he would allow himself to love it as she had. The house deserved it, but perhaps even more than that . . .

He did. After all these years, Max deserved to come home.

She cleared her throat. “Then you do have happy memories of your time here?”

He didn’t answer at once, but wandered toward the window, his back to her as he looked out onto the courtyard to the stables beyond, and behind them the crest of the hill, where the sun gilded the snow with a warm, golden glow. You couldn’t see it from the window, but at the bottom of the hill was the pond where they’d skated.

Well, where she’d skated. He’d mostly scolded. A smile rose to her lips at the memory. Strange, that it should somehow have become a happy one.

“My mother and I used to sit at that table and drink chocolate together on cold winter afternoons.” He nodded at the kitchen table before turning his gaze back to the window. “I learned to ride my first pony on Hammond Court’s grounds. I sat at my grandmother’s side on the pianoforte bench in the drawing room while she played, more times than I can count.”

He stood tall, his back straight, but there was something in his voice that tore an ache into her throat. It hurt him, to remember it—she could sense it in every ragged breath he drew into his lungs. She drew closer, afraid to make a sound lest she startle him, and he reverted back to the silence he’d maintained for two long, lonely decades.

“So, to answer your question, Miss St. Claire. Yes, I do have happy memories of Hammond Court.” He braced his hands on the windowsill, his broad shoulders rigid, and added softly, “Many happy memories.”

She never meant to touch him. There was no distinct moment in which she made the decision to rest her hand on his back. It was as if her arm moved of its own accord, her palm landing gently between his shoulder blades, the fine wool of his greatcoat soft under her fingertips.

He went still, the muscles of his back pulling tight, but before she could step back and beg his pardon, his entire body seemed to melt under her touch. This man—the hardest man she’d ever known—calmed and stilled underneath her fingers, his head dropping between his shoulders.

She had no defense for that, no way to guard herself against such a profound act of trust.

“Rose.” So quiet, the sound of her name on his lips, just a rasp, hardly a word at all.

She slid her hand up his back, her fingertips grazing the ends of his hair, then sliding down to stroke the sliver of bare skin at the back of his neck.

He turned to her then, a low groan falling from his lips.

He was going to kiss her. It was there in his hot silver gaze, the suggestion of a kiss throbbing between them, the intent of one, just waiting to be breathed into life, and she wanted his mouth on hers. Had wanted it since that night in the kitchen at Grantham Lodge, when she made him ginger biscuits and tasted the sweetness of dark sugar and ginger on his lips.

She waited, her heart beating a mad tattoo in her chest, her body trembling. He moved closer—so close she could hear the rasp of his breath sawing in and out of his chest, and in that instant, she would have sworn she could feel his heart, beating in time with hers.

He came closer still, his warm breath drifting over the shell of her ear.

Yet still, he didn’t touch her.

It might have only been a moment, but it felt as if an eternity passed as they gazed at each other, his eyes so dark, darker than she’d ever seen them before.

“What do you want, Rose?” He lowered his head, his lips hovering over hers.

“I—I—” Her murmur dissolved in a soft gasp, her eyes dropping closed as he traced a fingertip over her lips.

“No, Rose. Look at me.” He dragged his knuckles down her cheek. “Open your eyes, and look at me.”

Her eyelids were curiously heavy, the heat he always seemed to call forth in her unfurling in her belly. But she did as he bid her, holding his gaze, the blazing heat she saw in those depths searing her, setting her every nerve ending alight.

“Yes, like that,” he whispered, before asking again. “What do you want, Rose?”

What she wanted . . . oh, it was something she shouldn’t want, something that was certain to end in disaster and heartbreak, but even so, she was already leaning into him, his heat drawing her closer—so close it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rest her palms against his chest and slide her fingers into his hair. “You. I want you, Max.”

It was true. He was a duke , a man destined to leave her behind with nothing but memories to comfort her, but God help her, she couldn’t deny the truth.

She wanted him. She’d wanted him for weeks now, it seemed.

He let out a breath then, long and deep and slow as if he’d been holding it, the soft drift of it tickling the wispy curls at her temples, and then he was reaching for her, sliding his fingers into her hair, his palms brushing the sensitive skin at the back of her neck, and this time it was she who held her breath, held it as his lips drew closer, then closer still . . .

When the kiss came at last, it was so soft, so light, she might almost have imagined she was dreaming it, the tender press of his firm lips against hers. But it was no dream, for all that he took her mouth gently, the tip of his tongue dancing against the seam of her lips, and dear God . . .

Dear God . Her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes drifted closed, all the reasons why they shouldn’t be here, like this—Ambrose and Hammond Court, Lady Emily, and his imminent return to London—fading from her mind with every brush of his lips.

She could do nothing but twine her arms around his neck, sink into his kiss, and give way to the passion rushing through her blood.

She’d never known desire could be like this—so powerful it stole her reason, her logic, and snatched every thought from her head as it swept her up in its undertow, drawing her deeper and deeper until she’d gone too far, and she was drowning in it.

Drowning, with no wish to surface.

Perhaps he knew, then—perhaps he felt her surrender—because a low growl ripped from his chest. She opened her mouth to him, and he grew more ravenous, his fingers tangling in her hair as he swept his tongue into her welcoming mouth, stroking inside again and again. “So sweet, Rose,” he whispered against her lips, his voice hoarse. “How can you taste so sweet?”

She tried to answer, but she had no words. A soft sound left her lips instead, a sound unlike any she’d ever made before—not a word, but a moan, or perhaps a sigh, but he didn’t need words to understand what she was asking for, what she needed. He simply gave it to her, his big hands sliding lower, one settling into the arch of her back and the other cupping the curve of her hip. He eased her closer until she was pressed against him, her breasts crushed to his chest, his thighs touching hers, a thick column of heat throbbing against her belly.

She knew what it was, and what it meant. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. It was madness, a mistake, yet she found herself pressing closer, the sensitive tips of her breasts hardening.

Just one more kiss. One more . . . surely, one more little kiss wouldn’t matter? One harmless little kiss, then she’d force herself to slip free of his arms.

But it was no use. She was falling deeper into him with every moment, her breath catching as his hands moved over her, unfastening the buttons of her cloak, and she was helping him, their frantic fingers tangling together as they worked them loose one by one, and this was no longer just an innocent kiss, no longer innocent at all, but she couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.

“Wrap your arms around my neck, Rose,” he murmured, before taking her lips in another wild kiss.

She obeyed without protest, without thinking, because in that breathless moment, she could deny him nothing. She rose to her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, and the next thing she knew, the floor vanished from beneath her feet. “Max?”

“Shhh. I’ve got you.” He swept her up into his arms and cradled her against the hard plane of his chest as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.

As if she were precious.

He carried her to the kitchen table, set her down carefully, and stepped into the open space between her thighs. He made quick work of the buttons at the back of her dress, loosening the half dozen at the top, then pushing the fabric aside so he could touch his lips to her throat, her neck, the hot drift of his breath against the trace of dampness his lips left on her skin driving her mad.

She squeezed her eyes closed on a desperate groan, twisting the wool of his coat between her fingers to drag him closer, closer, her head thrown back to give him access, because dear God, how could anything feel as heavenly as his mouth on her neck?

“Max, I want . . .” What? What did she want? She hardly knew, but—

More. She wanted more. More of his mouth, more of his teasing lips, more of his heart thrashing against her palms, more of his whispers in her ear, and his breathless groans.

“What, Rose?” He brushed his lips over her collarbone and nipped gently at the hollow between her neck and shoulder, making her tremble in his arms. “What do you want? Say it again.”

She drew back so she could look into eyes gone a deep, smoky gray, her heart hammering, and her breath stuttering in her chest. “You. I want you, Max.”

He gazed down at her with burning dark eyes, lingering on her eyes, her lips, the pale bare skin of her throat, and slowly, slowly he lowered his forehead to hers. “Then I’m yours.”

Hers . For now, yes. Just for these few stolen moments.

There was no escaping that truth, but even as she knew it—knew that this could only lead to heartbreak—she touched her parted lips to his.

Because it was already too late. It had been, since the first moment his mouth touched hers.

She was already lost.

* * *

He couldn’t get enough of her. The glide of her soft skin under his fingertips, her breathy little gasps and sighs, her panting breaths in his ear, and the sweetness of her lips against his.

It had never been like this for him before. Of all the ladies he’d kissed, all the sophisticated beauties he’d taken to his bed, never—not once—had he ever been consumed by such an insatiable hunger for a woman as he was by her .

It was a kind of madness, the depths of his desire for her.

It was dangerous. Ruinous. It made a man careless, reckless.

But she was clinging to him, kissing him, needy little pleas falling from her lips, and the thought was there and then gone again, no match for the wild passion burning between them.

He dipped his head, pressing his nose into the soft skin behind her ear and breathing deeply of the scent that clung to her—fresh air, snow, pine needles, and her . She made his head spin, and his cock surge desperately against his falls.

“ Rose .” His voice was a husky, guttural growl as if he’d gone feral. “I need you closer.” He caught her by the hips and slid her toward the end of the table, her legs dangling off the edge, and then he pressed closer, wedging himself into the sweet vee between her legs.

He reached down to fist her skirts, tugging them up, up . . .

No . It was too much. He’d lose control, and she was an innocent.

But it was as if she’d read his mind, because in an instant she’d wrapped her legs around his waist and was urging him closer, her heat burning him through the cloth of his pantaloons. “Yes,” she whispered against his ear. “Like this.”

Yes. This was what he wanted. To lose himself in her.

He tugged her earlobe into his mouth and gave it a sharp nip, desire roaring through him when she let out a little cry and jerked in his arms. “I’ve thought of nothing but our kiss since that first night.” He traced his thumb over her mouth, parting her lips. “Open for me, sweetheart.”

He leaned down, drawing closer, Rose’s breath rushing from her lungs as his lips brushed over hers. Her mouth was warm, her lips soft and giving, and somehow kissing her was nothing like he’d imagined it would be, yet at the same time it was familiar, too, like coming home.

“Max.” She gasped as he kissed his way over her jaw, then down her neck to her throat, pausing to drop a soft, quick kiss on the dimple in her chin before taking her lips again, delving deeply into that warm cavern where she was sweetest, his body trembling with barely leashed desire.

He couldn’t get enough of her. Would never get enough of her.

He wanted her. He wanted her so badly he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe , and she wanted him. Somehow, against every odd, every law of fair play, this lovely, kind, joyful spirit wanted him .

He brushed a few wispy locks of hair back from her face and pressed his lips to the pulse point at the hollow of her throat, triumph roaring through him when he felt the frantic flutter of it against his tongue. “All day, and every night, your kiss has haunted me, Rose.” He let his fingers drift down her neck to the secret space between her breasts. “You’ve bewitched me.”

“I . . . oh.” She dug her fingers into his shoulders when he cupped one of her breasts in his palm.

“You’re so pretty here, Rose.” She was tiny, her curves slight, and never— never —had he touched anything as perfect as her. “Look at me. I need to see your face when I touch you.”

Her eyelashes fluttered against her flushed cheekbones, but she was no coward, his Rose, and she raised her face to his, her green eyes as dark as emeralds under heavy, slumberous lids.

“Yes, that’s good.” He cupped her cheek in his palm to keep her from looking away, then slowly, gently dragged his thumb over one of her nipples. Once, then again, his breath turning ragged as it peaked under his caress.

“Ah.” Her flush deepened, her lips parting.

“You’re sensitive here.” He slid the pad of his thumb over the hungry nub again, his belly tightening with want when she gasped, her hands grasping his shoulders. “Does it feel good when I touch you here, Rose?”

She nodded, her teeth catching her lower lip, still red and swollen from his kisses. He made quick work of the rest of her buttons, tearing them loose with clumsy fingers until her dress hung loosely around her neck, and he could slide it from one of her shoulders, his breath stuttering in his lungs as he revealed an expanse of silky, creamy flesh.

His gaze dropped to the tender points of her nipples, the palest blush pink visible through the thin cotton of her shift. He imagined trailing his lips over that vulnerable skin, kissing and licking it. Biting it. He swayed forward, gazing at her pouting nipples, mesmerized by them.

What would she taste like?

“Oh, I . . . Max .” She trembled in his arms as he ducked his head and closed his lips around her nipple, and God, she was perfect, delicious. He nipped and suckled and teased until the sensitive peak darkened to a deep, cherry red, standing out in sharp relief against the damp cotton of her shift.

“You’re so lovely,” he whispered, drawing back to blow softly on the hard peaks. She cried out, her fingers sliding into his hair and gripping hard, holding him against her as he devoured her, running his thumb in lazy circles around one delicious peak while he suckled the other. “Do you think about me, Rose?”

She nodded, but that wasn’t enough for him. “Say it.”

“I—I think about you, Max.”

He caught her chin in his hand, raising her face to his, his thumb still working her swollen flesh. “What do you do when you think about me?”

She could only stare at him, her cheeks coloring.

His hand shook as he slid it over her hip, caught a handful of her skirts in his fist, and raised them, the fabric sliding up her shins and over her knees, then higher, until inch by inch, he revealed the prettiest pair of thighs he’d ever seen. “Do you touch yourself, Rose?”

She sucked in a breath, a flush racing down her neck and flooding her chest. “I . . .”

“Like this?” He dragged his palm over her belly, the tips of his fingers grazing the soft thatch of hair between her legs. “I want to make you feel good. May I touch you, Rose?”

Her tongue darted out to lick the corner of her mouth, her eyes burning. “Yes.”

Slowly, carefully, he slid his hand closer to the damp curls between her legs, groaning when he found her wet for him. Her eyelids fluttered closed again, but her hips shifted, straining toward his touch. “Please.”

“Open your eyes. I want to see your eyes.” She obeyed at once, the green eyes that had so mesmerized him fluttering, and her legs sliding open, welcoming him inside.

He made a low, crooning noise in his throat. “Yes, like that. So good, Rose.”

Her hips jerked forward when he touched a fingertip to her core, her entire body shuddering as he drew lazy circles around her slick center.

“Oh, please , Max.”

“God, yes. You’re so wet for me, Rose.” He grazed his thumb over that tight, slick knot of flesh that was straining for his touch.

“ Ah .” Her neck arched and her hips jerked as he stroked her again, and then again, his chest rising and falling with each of her quickened breaths, his cock surging against his falls. He was ready to explode just from the sight of her, the way she writhed against him, her mouth slack with pleasure, whimpers and broken pleas falling from her lips.

He eased closer, one hand on her thigh to keep her open to him, stroking and teasing her with the other until she was panting for him, then he sank one long finger inside her and thrust gently. “That’s it, love. Find your pleasure. I want you to fall apart for me.”

Her hips were moving faster with his every stroke, rising to meet his caresses, then all at once she tensed. “ Max .” Her body went rigid against his, and an instant later she fell over the edge with a breathless cry, her back bowing. He stayed with her until the spasms subsided and she went limp, her head falling onto his shoulder.

He was painfully hard still, his cock twitching insistently, but he made no move to satisfy it. He simply held her as her small body trembled against his.

“Don’t let go, Max.” She nuzzled her face into his neck, her breathing gradually calming. “Not yet, please.”

Something stirred to life inside his chest then, the ache of it both painful and sweet at once. “Never.”

Neither of them spoke again, but he cradled her against his chest, his fingers tracing up and down the delicate line of her spine, a half smile on his lips.