Page 23 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 22

“W hat the devil do you want now , Grantham?”

Max glanced up from the papers strewn across his desk to find Lord Dunwitty looming in his study doorway, his lips pinched together, and his brows lowered in a fierce scowl.

“Dunwitty.” Max waved toward the chair across from his desk. “Do sit down. It’s good of you to come.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a choice.” Dunwitty strode across the room, dropped into the chair, and fixed him with a baleful glare. “In any case, I’m here, just as you commanded, so I repeat, Grantham. What is it you want this time?”

“You look a trifle grim this morning, Dunwitty.” Tonight was the Christmas Eve ball, but the viscount didn’t appear to be anticipating it with any pleasure. He looked as if he were facing the gibbet, rather than an evening of merry holiday frolics. “Are you not enjoying your stay at Grantham Lodge?”

“I wouldn’t say that, Grantham. While I don’t care for being summoned to Fairford as if I were one of your servants—”

Ah. Not so much grim, then, as angry.

“—it hasn’t been quite the chore I anticipated. There have been certain diversions that have kept me entertained, some of them quite pleasing, indeed.”

Pleasing diversions. There was no mistaking the diversion Dunwitty was referring to, and he didn’t like it.

Still, he could hardly blame Dunwitty. The viscount was merely doing as he’d ordered. That was the trouble with these wicked schemes. If you coerced a man into marriage by threatening to ruin his uncle, he was likely to do precisely as he was told.

Which was rather awkward, now that Max intended to marry Rose himself.

But it couldn’t be helped. He’d been fascinated with Rose for weeks now—since the day she’d taken him skating—but it had taken their kiss in the kitchen at Hammond Court yesterday to make him realize the truth.

He was in love with Rose St. Claire.

Madly, wildly in love, and like most besotted fools, he didn’t care for the idea of another gentleman courting his beloved. So, Dunwitty would have to go, and the sooner, the better. “As loathe as I am to deprive you of your pleasing diversions, our marriage experiment is over, Dunwitty.”

Dunwitty raised an eyebrow. “Over?”

“That’s right. Over. I no longer wish for you to court Miss St. Claire. Or marry her. Or touch her in any way,” he added, in case Dunwitty had some clever notions about absconding with Rose. “I will, of course, still release your uncle from his obligations to me.”

He’d thought Dunwitty would be pleased, but his scowl intensified until his glower threatened to set the desk between them aflame. “You truly believe it’s as simple as that, don’t you, Grantham? It’s nothing more to you than moving pieces about the chessboard.”

The chessboard, again? Montford had said something similar, and it was damned insulting. Not to him, but to Rose. If Dunwitty knew her at all, he’d know she wasn’t some ivory chess piece to be tossed about on a whim. Yes, he’d seen her that way at first, but now . . .

She was everything to him.

But he wasn’t going to explain that to Dunwitty. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and gave the viscount a mocking smile. “Well, I am rather good at chess.”

“I suppose you intend to marry her yourself.” Dunwitty’s lip curled. “You don’t deserve her, Grantham.”

No, he didn’t, but by some miracle Rose seemed to think him worthy of her, and hers was the only opinion that mattered. “That’s not your concern, Dunwitty.”

Dunwitty eyed him, his arms crossed over his chest. “It would be convenient for you if I simply disappeared, but I’m not your pawn, Grantham.”

“Forgive me, Dunwitty, but that’s precisely what you are. Or were.”

He wouldn’t have been surprised if Dunwitty had leaped across the desk and grabbed him by the throat then, but the viscount only laughed. “Is that so? Tell me, Grantham, have you had any news from London recently?”

“No.” Who would send him news? He hadn’t any real friends in Town aside from Basingstoke and Montford, and they were here.

“Well, I have. Rather important news. Shall I enlighten you, Grantham?”

Enlighten him ? Arrogant pup. “No. Gossip doesn’t interest me.”

“This isn’t gossip. It’s the truth, and I think it will interest you very much. The Marquess of Oxenden died yesterday.”

“So did a number of other people, I imagine. I don’t see what that has to do with me, Dunwitty.” What did it matter to him if some ancient marquess expired?

“Were you at all acquainted with the marquess, Grantham?”

“Not well acquainted, no.” He’d met him once or twice, though not recently. The marquess was nearing eighty years, and rarely ever left his country estate in Oxfordshire.

“I see. Perhaps you don’t know, then, that the Marquess of Oxenden is—or was—my maternal grandfather.” Dunwitty smirked at him, looking for all the world like a cat with a bellyful of cream. “That rather changes things, does it not, Grantham?”

Oxenden, Dunwitty’s grandfather? How the devil had that little detail escaped his notice? Dunwitty had inherited the viscountcy years ago when his father passed away. That meant there’d been no troublesome elder brothers standing between him and his father’s title, but there could well be a dozen uncles preventing Dunwitty from taking his grandfather’s marquessate—

“I’m my grandfather’s sole heir, which makes me the current Marquess of Oxenden. I daresay you’re aware, Grantham, that the Oxenden title is a blessed one.”

As it happened, he was aware, because he made it his business to be aware of aristocrats’ changing fortunes. Or he had , before he began rusticating in Fairford.

By blessed, Dunwitty meant wealthy .

If he’d realized Dunwitty stood to inherit from Oxenden, he wouldn’t have chosen him to court and marry Rose. It was too risky, what with these ancient aristocrats dying off at the least convenient times and leaving their massive fortunes to their arrogant grandsons.

Dunwitty—troublesome pup that he was—hadn’t only traded the title of viscount for the considerably grander marquess, he’d also increased his modest fortune by tenfold, at least.

Alas, that sort of money made him far more difficult to manipulate.

“I see you understand me, Grantham. I’m more than capable of meeting my uncle’s obligations to you.” Dunwitty leaned over the desk, his eyes gleaming. “You have nothing to hold over me anymore—nothing left with which to blackmail my family.”

How na?ve the boy was. There was always something , some scandalous secret hidden away, like a mad aunt, or a ruined niece—something the family would prefer never saw the light of day. It was simply a matter of digging deep enough to find it.

Not that any of this mattered now. “What a happy coincidence, then, that I’d already made up my mind to put an end to the scheme.”

“The scheme, yes.” Dunwitty made a great show of studying the tip of his boot, but a smirk twitched at the corners of his lips. “But not necessarily the courtship.”

Courtship? What bloody courtship? There was no courtship any longer, unless . . . good God, did Dunwitty think to rival him for Rose’s affections?

A silence fell as they stared at each other, each weighing the other’s mettle, Max’s face aching from the effort of hiding his fury. Underneath the desk, his hands clenched into fists.

At last, Dunwitty broke the silence. “You understand, Grantham, that I was a trifle put out when I was torn away from my comfortable fireside in London and banished to the wilds of Gloucestershire.”

“Thankfully, your warm fireside still awaits you in London, Dunwitty.” It wasn’t quite the same as tossing him out of the house, but it was a broad enough hint.

“Gloucestershire, of all places. I’ve never seen so much bloody snow in my life. All this bother, to marry some chit I’d never laid eyes on.” Dunwitty gave him a slow, maddening smile. “Then, of course, I laid eyes on her.”

Max didn’t fall into fits of temper. He didn’t shout, or rage, or challenge other gentlemen to duels. He certainly didn’t engage in fisticuffs with his house party guests. But now, he would have happily leaped over his desk and hurled Dunwitty to the floor.

“Of course, there are plenty of pretty young ladies in London,” Dunwitty went on, heedless of the danger he was inviting. “But I’ve yet to come across a single one who has Miss St. Claire’s sweetness. It would be pleasant, would it not, Grantham, to have such a lovely, obliging wife?”

“What makes you think Miss St. Claire would have you, Dunwitty?”

Dunwitty laughed. “You think she’d rather have you ? Come, Grantham. Your reputation is well known. Surely, the rumors of your ruthlessness have made it as far as Fairford.”

Of course, they had. Rumors always did. But he’d never been the cold, merciless Duke of Grantham when he was with Rose. That is, he’d been curt from time to time, and arrogant, and his manners had been lacking on occasion. Then, of course, there’d been that business with her doorknob, and his loathing for her father, and—

Very well, damn it. He hadn’t always been at his best with her, but he hadn’t been at his worst, either, unless one counted his plot to manipulate her into a marriage with Dunwitty, then take Hammond Court from her.

God above, but he’d been a perfect devil, hadn’t he? He had to tell her, to confess the truth to her, and soon. What would she think of him, once she knew? His only saving grace was that he’d put a stop to his plans before any real harm had been done.

Except was that really true? Hadn’t he harmed Rose? She didn’t know it yet, but he’d betrayed her trust, lied to her, and manipulated her.

Christ, Dunwitty might be right. Why would she want him , after she knew the truth?

Particularly when she could have Dunwitty, with his brown eyes, fair hair, and easy smile. He was young, fashionable, and handsome, with charming manners and an impeccable character.

If that weren’t bad enough, he was also a bloody marquess now, and a wealthy one, at that. Dunwitty was everything a proper gentleman should be, what every young lady longed for.

Would it be so surprising if, given the choice between him and Dunwitty, Rose preferred Dunwitty?

But she’d kissed him , cried out for him , gazed up at him with her pink lips curved in that secret smile, and her beautiful green eyes hazy with desire. She’d touched him with such sweetness yesterday, such tenderness, and she’d fallen apart so beautifully in his arms.

Surely, that must mean something? Rose wasn’t the sort of lady who’d give herself to a man she didn’t care for. But would she still care for him, once she found out what he’d done?

“I see you understand me, Grantham.”

Max jerked his attention back to Dunwitty. “Perfectly, yes, but I’m not entirely certain you understand me . As you said, my reputation for ruthlessness is well known. I’m not the sort of gentleman you want as your enemy, Dunwitty.”

“It’s Oxenden now. And I don’t take orders from you, Grantham.”

Such arrogance. Max could almost admire it.

Dunwitty rose from his chair, but he paused at the door. “I’m leaving for Oxfordshire early tomorrow, to see to my grandfather’s affairs. But I will attend your ball tonight, Grantham, and I will dance with Miss St. Claire.”

“Just dance with her?” He didn’t like the sound of that. Just the thought of Rose in Dunwitty’s arms made bile crawl up his throat. But he’d endure it, and the next day, Dunwitty would be gone.

Dunwitty smiled. “That’s up to Miss St. Claire.”

* * *

There was an entire floor between Rose’s bedchamber and the ballroom, but the echo of laughter reached her as soon as she stepped into the corridor, coaxing a smile to her lips.

The Christmas Eve ball was to take place this evening. The guests were decorating the ballroom with the garlands they’d gathered on their sleigh ride this morning, and Grantham Lodge was positively shaking with the tumult.

Was there anything more pleasing than laughter at Christmastime?

Oh, dear. That was dreadfully sentimental of her, but such merriment put her in mind of the Christmases they’d had at Hammond Court.

If anyone had told her Grantham Lodge would be a scene of such an explosion of Christmas cheer, she wouldn’t have believed a word of it, but this house wasn’t at all the cold, joyless place she’d first thought it was.

It had been a lonely place, that was all. Now it wasn’t any longer.

She closed her bedchamber door and made her way down the stairs to the ballroom, pausing in the doorway to take in the scene unfolding before her, breathing deeply of the fresh, clean scent of the pine boughs.

It was every bit as chaotic as it sounded.

As far as the garlands, Max had been as good as his word. At his direction, they’d all risen early this morning and gathered in the entryway, still blinking the sleep from their eyes, to find three handsome sleighs waiting for them in the drive, the horses pawing at the ground, and the bells on their harnesses jingling.

They’d set off into a glorious morning, with blue skies above, and the sunrise gilding the new snow a pale pink. They spent all morning gathering greenery, then returned early in the afternoon to sit down to a splendid luncheon. Afterward, Rose had gone upstairs to rest before the ball, but she hadn’t wanted to miss the decorating.

Everyone was here, all of them talking at once, and the ballroom was already half-smothered in greenery. It was rather a mess, to be honest, but everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, and joyous occasions often were messy, weren’t they?

No one had noticed her yet, so she allowed herself to linger in the doorway for a bit, searching for a tall, broad-shouldered figure with wavy dark hair. She found him at once, as she always seemed to do these days, as if her heart were leading her gaze directly to him.

Romantic nonsense, yes, but the truth was, there might be a wild boar running loose in the ballroom, and Max would still be the first thing she saw when she opened the door.

He was standing near the fireplace, helping a group of ladies tie bits of gold thread to the ends of what looked like dozens of kissing balls, the clumsiness of his big hands on the delicate bundles causing peals of laughter to ring out from that corner of the room.

Lady Emily was by his side, smiling coquettishly up at him, her dark eyelashes fluttering, and Rose’s heart sank. Perhaps it would be best if she returned to her bedchamber and spent the rest of the afternoon contemplating her own foolishness in kissing a duke who’d made no secret of the fact that he was considering a betrothal to another lady.

But just as she was about to scurry out the door, a feminine voice called out to her. “Rose! Do come and help us with these boughs, won’t you? I’m afraid we’re making a mess of them.”

She glanced back to find Francesca and Prue beckoning her over. They were seated on a settee, a mountain of greenery on the floor beside them, and both of them were nearly buried in pine boughs.

“Thank goodness you’re here!” Prue waved a helpless hand at the pile of greenery in her lap. “However did we end up with so many boughs, Franny? For pity’s sake, what am I meant to do with them all?”

“Why, make kissing balls out of them, or prepare to answer to the kissing ball committee for your negligence.” Francesca nodded toward the group of ladies in the corner, her mouth twisting. “I confess I don’t see why we need quite so many kissing balls.”

“I daresay Lady Emily is plotting to steal a kiss from Grantham.” A sly smile curved Prue’s lips. “A lady must make the most of her opportunities, mustn’t she?”

Francesca snorted. “If she hasn’t gotten one from him yet, then she isn’t going to.”

“I daresay you’re right, and it’s just as well.” Prue cast a look in that direction then shrugged. “I don’t think they suit, and from what I’ve observed, neither does Grantham.”

Rose said nothing, but her cheeks were positively scorching.

“Do sit down, Rose.” Francesca patted the settee.

“What do you think?” Prue asked once Rose was seated, with a rather daunting heap of pine boughs in her lap.

Rose stared down at them in dismay. “I think I haven’t the faintest idea how to make a proper kissing ball.”

“Oh, as to that, simply cut the branches to a proper length, then tie the ends together with the ribbon.” Francesca passed her a pair of sewing scissors and a length of white silk ribbon.

“No, no.” Prue waved the ribbons away. “Never mind the dratted kissing balls. I meant, what do you think about Grantham and Lady Emily, Rose?”

Rose kept her head down, because her cheeks had burst into flames, and her friends were sure to notice it. “I don’t.”

It was nothing but the truth. She’d gone to great—some might say even extraordinary lengths— not to think of Max and Lady Emily, and consequently, she had no opinion regarding them at all.

No opinion whatsoever.

There was a heavy silence, then Francesca asked, “Do you suppose he’s kissed her?”

Kissed her. Max, kissing Lady Emily with those firm warm lips, his hands roving over her back, her hips, her breasts, his low voice rasping in her ear, telling her how sweet she was, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her—

Dash it, this was the very reason she didn’t want to think about it, but there went all her determination, scattered like leaves in the wind. “I couldn’t say. I, ah, I don’t know a thing about the duke’s kissing habits.”

Another silence, then Prue asked Francesca about . . . something. Rose couldn’t hear them over the sudden roaring in her ears.

Had Max kissed Lady Emily? He must have done, mustn’t he? That is, he hadn’t singled her out with any particular attention, but if he hadn’t kissed her since she’d come to Grantham Lodge, then surely he must have done so in London. If he had kissed her, then he hadn’t any business at all kissing Rose. Really, it was very badly done of him!

But she’d kissed him back, hadn’t she? Oh, why had she kissed him back? How could she have been so stupid? No proper young lady went about kissing a duke. Abby had warned her that no good would come of her permitting the Duke of Grantham to trifle with her.

But it hadn’t felt like trifling. It had felt like . . . love.

And there was her answer before she even had a chance to draw her next breath.

She’d kissed Max because she couldn’t not kiss him. Even before his lips had touched hers, when his mouth had still been hovering close, his breath warming her lips, she’d already been lost to him.

“What about you, Rose?” Francesca said, interrupting Rose’s guilty musings. “What—”

“ Me! Why should I have kissed the Duke of Grantham? I haven’t . . . I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .” But try as she might, she couldn’t quite push the rest of the denial past her lips. She had in fact kissed Max, quite a few times, and done much more than kiss him besides, and oh, why couldn’t she manage to tell one little lie without blushing? “It would certainly be very foolish of me to kiss the Duke of Grantham, wouldn’t it?”

Dear God, could she have made any more of a mess of that? For pity’s sake, that bumbling reply was as good as a confession.

Francesca made a faint choking noise. “Er, I asked what you intended to wear to the ball tonight.”

“Oh.” Oh, no . Rose opened her mouth but snapped it closed again without saying a word. What was there to say? And now here was that silence again, and a deafening one it was, too, teeming with unasked questions.

Rose waited, her hands clenched together, a patch of sticky pitch on her thumb and pine needles poking into her palms, for one of her friends to say something, anything, but she couldn’t help cringing when Francesca cleared her throat.

Oh, dear. Perhaps silence was better, after all.

“I’m going to wear my dark blue silk. Basingstoke asked for it particularly, which makes me think the foolish man has gone and bought me jewels to match it.” Francesca shook her head, but her voice was fond.

“You do look lovely in blue. I believe I’ve decided on my red velvet for tonight.” Prue laid a hand over Rose’s trembling one. “What about you, Rose? Have you anything in green? With your hair and eyes, I daresay you look stunning in green.”

Rose sucked in a calming breath, her eyes stinging. They were tremendously kind, her friends. “I’m afraid not. That is, I have my green wool, but it’s not nearly grand enough for a ball.” She didn’t have anything grand enough for a ball, which was rather a problem. Abby had promised they’d find a way to make do, but alas, one couldn’t simply pull a silk ballgown from thin air, could one?

But it couldn’t be helped. It might be better if she didn’t go to the ball, after all.

“I have just the thing! I brought a lovely, forest-green silk with me, just in case I changed my mind about the blue. I daresay it will fit you beautifully, Rose, as it’s a bit too tight for me. It’s so perfect, it might have been made for you.” Francesca clapped her hands together, gleeful.

Her , wearing a gown fit for a duchess? “Oh, but I couldn’t wear your—”

“Nonsense, Rose. Of course, you can. It doesn’t do anyone a bit of good sitting in my wardrobe, does it?”

“Franny’s right, Rose, and it will give us such pleasure to dress you.” Prue took her hand. “Promise you’ll meet us in my bedchamber after dinner, won’t you?”

How could she possibly refuse such a kind offer? “I—I promise, and thank you both. I confess I was a bit anxious about it.”

Francesca pressed her hand. “What are chaperones for, if not to provide silk gowns?”

“And jewels,” Prue added. “Don’t forget jewels. Emeralds, I think, to match your eyes.”

Emeralds? Goodness.

“But there will be no ball for us, and no dinner either if we don’t finish the task assigned us.” Francesca cast a dark look at the pine boughs overflowing her lap. “It’s rather nonsensical, really.”

“Indeed.” Prue cast Rose a sidelong glance. “If a gentleman is determined to kiss a lady, he doesn’t need a kissing ball to do it.”