Page 24 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 23

“F or a man with your aversion to all things merry, your Christmas ball appears to be a resounding success, Grantham.” Montford swallowed the last of his champagne, then set his glass aside on a table so smothered with pine boughs it looked as if an entire forest had sprouted in Max’s ballroom.

“Yes, well done, Grantham. I’m pleasantly surprised. I confess I don’t understand this, however.” Basingstoke frowned at the knot of greenery and ribbons dangling from the crystal chandelier above his head. “Where did all the bloody kissing balls come from?”

“The kissing ball committee got rather carried away, I’m afraid.” If ever there was a sentence Max would have sworn he’d never utter, it was that one.

“Kissing ball committee?” Montford gave him a blank look. “I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”

“Where ladies are involved, Montford, there’s a committee for everything. I overheard Lady Emily issuing orders to the other ladies regarding the proper way to decorate a ballroom, and I might easily have mistaken her for a military commander deploying his troops.” Basingstoke shuddered. “It was rather terrifying, really.”

“Speaking of Lady Emily, how do you and she get on, Grantham?” Montford helped himself to another flute of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. “Is she destined to become the next Duchess of Grantham?”

Basingstoke laughed. “Ah, now I understand. It’s not surprising you ended up with eight dozen kissing balls, Grantham. The lady is nothing if not hopeful.”

“What say you, Grantham? You’ll have to find a wife soon enough, unless you intend to ignore your obligations to your title.” Montford shrugged, but he turned a sharp gaze on Max. “Why not Lady Emily? She’ll make you a tolerable wife.”

Perhaps she would have, once, but in only a few short weeks, his life had changed so drastically he hardly recognized it as his own. He would have scoffed if either of his friends had told him one small lady could throw him into such chaos.

Then he’d kissed Rose, and nothing had been the same since.

But a ballroom stuffed to the rafters with gossiping aristocrats wasn’t the time or place to go into that . He’d spent most of today keeping a respectful distance from her, so as to keep the ton from whispering about her behind her back. He wasn’t going to blurt out his secrets now, where anyone might overhear him.

Of course, he’d also kept his distance from Rose to keep from kissing her again.

He’d have to take care to keep away from her until the house party ended, and his guests returned to London. He was far too besotted with Rose to risk even the briefest of glances at her, as it would be sure to give him away.

But it was Christmas Eve, and the house party was approaching its conclusion. Soon enough, he’d have her all to himself, and then—

“You should listen to Montford, Grantham.” Basingstoke sipped at his own glass of champagne, his gaze on Lady Emily, who was on the opposite side of the ballroom, smiling and flirting her fan as she talked to Lord Dowd. “I daresay Lady Emily will do for you well enough.”

Max snorted. “Is that what you said when you made your proposal to your duchess, Basingstoke? ‘I suppose you’ll do well enough’?”

“Good Lord, no. Not a bit of it, Grantham. I told her she was an angel, and deserved much better than me, then begged her to have me anyway, because I couldn’t live without her.”

“Well done, Basingstoke.” Montford nodded approvingly. “One thing a man in love knows how to do, Grantham, is beg. You may as well have Lady Emily, unless, of course, there’s another lady you love? A lady you can’t live without? A lady you’d fall to your knees for? I’d prefer to see you wed to a lady who can properly subdue you.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Why is that, Montford? Because you wish to curse me with your own fate?”

Montford grinned. “No. Because it’s far more amusing for me that way.”

“If there is such a lady, you’d better snatch her up, before someone else does. Oh, look. There’s Viscount Dunwitty, just coming into the ballroom.” Basingstoke nodded toward the doorway. “What appropriate timing. He appears to be searching for someone. Now, which young lady do you suppose has caught his eye, Grantham?”

Dunwitty stood in the archway, his arrogant gaze moving over the company like a king surveying his court—or like a marquess, at the very least. He was dressed in fashionable black pantaloons and a perfectly tailored coat, looking nauseatingly . . . golden.

“Oh, I can tell you that , Basingstoke. Dunwitty’s looking for Miss St. Claire. He seems rather enamored of her, doesn’t he? But never mind him. Lady Emily is just on the other side of the ballroom.” Montford gave Max a nudge. “Why not ask her to dance, Grantham?”

He didn’t want to dance with Lady Emily. All he wanted, all he cared about, was Rose. It was past ten o’clock. She hadn’t yet made her appearance in the ballroom, and he was growing more agitated with every moment that passed. Every time he caught a glimpse of golden hair, he jerked his head toward the doorway.

He’d done it so many times, he’d gotten a crick in his neck.

Yet still, no Rose. What was keeping her? Francesca and Prue had stolen her away directly after dinner, and he hadn’t laid eyes on her since. It had only been a few hours, but it felt like an eternity.

It was driving him mad.

Since their interlude in the kitchens at Hammond Court, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her for a single instant. Her fingers in his hair, her soft laughter, her passionate kisses, and her breathlessness when she’d cried out for him. God, the way she’d cried out for him. Just the memory of his name on her lips made him hard. He’d spent every minute since then with a cock as stiff as a fireplace poker.

He’d sought her out everywhere today, hungry for even the barest glimpse of her—a flash of her green eyes, a fleeting glimpse of her smile. He strained to hear her voice when they were in the same room together, ached for the sound of her laugh.

The sleigh ride this morning had been pure torture. He hadn’t dared to ask her to share the two-seat sleigh with him. He’d somehow ended up with Lady Emily instead, but all the while he’d thought about how Rose had looked when they’d gone out yesterday, her cheeks pink from the cold, the golden length of her hair flying out behind her as they’d skimmed over the snow, the warm, curved length of her thigh pressed against his.

But as much as he wanted to be near her, he’d kept his distance. He couldn’t bear to be near her and not touch her, and God knew he couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t trust himself to lay a single finger on her without the desire smoldering in his belly flaring to feverish life, and sweeping all before it.

It was the most exquisite, delicate torment, but torment was torment, no matter how exquisite, and this was torment to a degree he’d never known before. The house party couldn’t end soon enough.

“Ah, there’s my lovely wife at last, and wearing the gown I favor.” Basingstoke was gazing at the entrance to the ballroom, his face alight with admiration. “A man can’t really complain about his wife lingering so long at her looking glass when the result of her efforts is so enchanting, can he?”

“You’ll not hear a single complaint from me. Prue looks ravishing, as always. She grows more beautiful every day.” Montford let out a yearning sigh, his gaze locked on his wife.

There’d been a time when Max would have mocked his friend mercilessly for such a lovelorn sigh as that. He would have claimed no matter how enamored he became of a lady, he’d never permit himself to become so besotted he couldn’t look at her without sighing, but now—

“There’s Miss St. Claire. My, she does look fetching tonight.” Montford turned to Max with a sly grin. “Don’t you think so, Grantham?”

“She’s a lovely young lady. Sweet tempered, as well.” Basingstoke glanced at Dunwitty. “I’d wager she can have the viscount for the asking if she wants him.”

Max whirled around, his heart vaulting into his throat. “Miss St. Claire? Where is she? I don’t see her.”

“She came in with Prue and Franny just now, but it looks as if she’s lingering outside the door. The lady is a bit shy, perhaps. This is her first ball, is it not? Ah, there she is.” Basingstoke let out a low whistle. “Very pretty, indeed. That shade of green suits her. Don’t you think so, Grantham?”

Max didn’t answer. Francesca, Prue, and Rose were gathered near the door, surveying the company, but he only had eyes for one of them.

Rose, every inch of her perfect, resplendent.

The chandeliers had all been lit in honor of the grandness of the occasion, and the candlelight from above shone down upon her as if it had singled her out for all its attention, setting her golden hair ablaze.

Max echoed Montford’s hungry sigh, albeit silently. She looked like a spring day, a cool, summer forest dappled with light, a sunrise.

She was wearing a green silk gown and a necklace with a single, tiny emerald draped around her graceful neck. The stone nestled into the hollow of her throat, dragging his attention to that tempting expanse of creamy, bare skin.

He’d kissed her there, touched his tongue to that tiny hollow, caressed her silky skin, and buried his fingers in the thick, golden mass of her hair.

She’d worn it up tonight, bound in a simple knot at the back of her neck, but a few golden curls had been left loose. They brushed her white shoulders, and he . . . good Lord, he was jealous of those curls, because they were touching her bare skin.

He flexed his hands, his fingertips aching to brush her curls aside so he could press his lips to the warm, scented place at the back of her neck. She’d sigh and gasp for him then, and twine her arms around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair.

“Grantham? Are you all right?” Montford frowned. “You’ve got the oddest expression on your face.”

No, he wasn’t all right. He was bewitched, beguiled, his soul burning for the only lady in England who’d somehow, when he least expected it, found her way into his heart.

It had mattered to him at first, hadn’t it, that she was the daughter of his worst enemy? It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then. He no longer cared about it. Not about Ambrose, his father, or the feud between them. Not about Hammond Court or his plans of vengeance.

All the ugliness that had passed between him and the St. Claire family faded away as he gazed at Rose St. Claire.

Come to Fairford, and seize your treasure . . .

“Grantham?”

Rose was still lingering at the door with her two stalwart chaperones, her hands folded in front of her, but she was glancing about, her gaze roving the ballroom as if she were looking for someone.

Him? Could she be looking for him? He sucked in a breath and held it, waiting.

More than one head had turned when the three ladies entered the ballroom, and more than one admiring male gaze lingered on Rose, but she didn’t seem aware of it. One gloved hand came up to clasp her neck as she continued her study of the ballroom, until at last, her eyes found his, and she stilled.

The other guests passed between them, laughing and chatting, all of them making their way to the floor to form the sets as the musicians struck up another song, but it didn’t matter how many people stood between them.

Nothing in the world could have torn his gaze from hers.

She was his , and he was going to take her out onto the floor. He was going to dance his first dance of the evening with her, everyone else be damned.

* * *

“Grantham’s coming this way, and . . . my goodness, Rose!” Prue squeezed her arm, a gasp on her lips. “He’s staring right at you! Dear me, I’ve never seen Grantham look at any lady the way he’s looking at you.”

Rose’s heart fluttered against her rib cage as Max broke away from his friends and began to make his way toward her, his gaze still holding hers. It wasn’t prudent, his singling her out in this way, but she couldn’t have stirred a single step. Her every limb was still, waiting for him.

Heads turned as he passed, whispers rising in his wake.

There was no mistaking his destination.

“My, he looks as if he’d like to gobble you up, does he not?” Francesca’s voice was vibrating with quiet satisfaction. “I think we can safely conclude the duke admires you in green, Rose.”

Without looking away from Max, Rose fingered a fold of her green silk skirts. If ever there was a gown fit for a duchess, it was this one. It was the first silk gown she’d ever worn. When Francesca and Prue had slipped it over her head, she’d thought she couldn’t feel any more beautiful than she did the moment the cool, soft silk caressed her skin.

Until now, with Max’s heated gaze on her, taking in every inch of her, from the top of her head to the tips of the green silk slippers peeking out from under her skirts.

It seemed to take forever for him to cross the ballroom, and she had to resist squirming under the curious gazes darting back and forth between the two of them, but she would have waited forever for him to reach her.

By the time he stopped in front of her, her entire body was quivering with . . . anticipation? Excitement? Nervousness? Yes, it was all of those at once, yet more than that, too. She ached for him, the fine hairs on the back of her neck rising at his nearness, clamoring for his touch.

“Miss St. Claire.” He bowed and held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Goodness, he was so handsome, so elegant in his severe black evening dress and his elegant white cravat, his eyes more silver than gray tonight, and his dark hair brushed back from his face.

All but that one dark wave that insisted upon falling over his forehead.

She’d become obsessed with that wayward wave. It gave him away, that disobedient lock of hair. It told anyone who cared to look that Max wasn’t the tightly controlled, stern gentleman they all believed him to be.

But no one else had cared to look, and so it had become hers alone, a precious secret only she knew, that underneath the ruthless Duke of Grantham, there was another man, a softer man—the man with a wayward curl, who touched her with so much tenderness.

“Rose?” Prue gave her a gentle nudge. “The duke has asked you to dance. Will you oblige him?”

Had she not answered him? No, he was still standing before her, his hand held out, a small, private smile on his lips as if he knew what she’d been thinking. “Yes, of course, I will.” She seized his hand with a bit more eagerness than was appropriate, and a hot flush bloomed on her cheeks. “That is, I’d be delighted to dance with you, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Miss St. Claire.” He gave Franny and Prue a polite nod and led Rose to the floor. Every eye in the ballroom was upon them, but she forgot the curious stares soon enough and melted into his arms.

There wasn’t a single person in this ballroom whose gaze mattered more to her than his.

And his gaze . . . oh, she might have drowned in those smoky gray eyes! How had she ever imagined his eyes were cold? They were soft now whenever he looked at her, a deep, warm glow in their depths.

It was his eyes that had gotten her through the long hours since their passionate encounter at Hammond Court. They hadn’t spoken much since then, just a few snatches of polite conversation here and there, but his gaze followed her everywhere, and when she spoke to any of the other guests, he turned his head to listen to her.

“You shouldn’t have worn that gown tonight, Rose.” His voice was quiet, his palm warm and steady against the arch of her back.

She peeked up at him from under her lashes. “Do you not like my gown, Your Grace?”

“I like it very much, indeed. Rather too much. But every gentleman in the ballroom tonight is looking at you, and now I’ll be obliged to challenge them all to duels.” His lips twitched. “It’s not quite the thing, fighting duels on Christmas Day.”

Was he . . . goodness, was he flirting with her? “Duels! Why should you challenge them all to duels?”

He didn’t answer at once, merely gazed down at her, the smile still on his lips. They moved through the figures of the dance, his gloved fingertips grazing hers. “Don’t you know?” he murmured at last. “Because you’re mine, Rose.”

His . It was a small word, and spoken so softly, but that single, tiny word might have been an epic romantic poem for the way it exploded inside her heart.

His. It was, above all things, what she wanted to be.

A dozen questions spun in her head. What did it mean, for her to be his? Was he hers, as well? What of Lady Emily? But not a single one of them made it past her lips.

They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, but him.

Everyone else—Francesca and Prue, Lord Dunwitty, Lady Emily, even the ballroom itself, all faded to nothing. There was just the two of them, the music swelling around them, the candlelight and curious faces blurring before her eyes as he took her through the dance, her hand tucked snugly into his, and his strong fingers resting on her waist.

She was in love with him. She’d fallen in love with the Duke of Grantham.

All she wanted was to remain in his arms—for the rest of this dance, and all the dances that came afterward. For this moment, and for all the moments yet to unfold.

But all too soon the music came to an end. The other couples in the set separated and began making their way off the dance floor. For an instant, she and Max remained still, and let the world move around them, but then his fingers tightened around hers. “Will you save another dance for me, Miss St. Claire?”

“I’ll save all my dances for you, Your Grace.” Dear God, had she said that aloud ? She dropped her gaze, her cheeks burning, but his soft laugh made her glance up at him again.

“Soon, Rose. Very soon.”

He placed her hand on his arm and led her from the dance floor back to Francesca and Prue. They were standing with their husbands, both of them wearing wide smiles, like two satisfied cats who’d got all the cream.

“You and Miss St. Claire look very well together, Your Grace.” Prue gave Max a playful grin.

“Indeed, you must dance again tonight, so we may have the pleasure of watching you,” Francesca added, with a sly wink at Rose.

“Yes, I suppose you’d better, Grantham.” Montford shook his head, but his lips were twitching. “Miss St. Claire has done the impossible. She’s made even you look gallant.”

“Hush, you wicked man,” Prue scolded, tapping her husband with her fan.

“Indeed, you must dance again, but until then, perhaps you should take one of the other ladies out to the floor, Grantham.” Francesca gave Max a meaningful look.

Rose didn’t care for the thought of relinquishing Max to another lady, but he’d caught the notice of the ton by dancing his first dance of the evening with her. The guests were already whispering, and Lady Emily was glaring at her as if she could quite happily wring her neck.

“Yes, of course. Thank you for the dance, Miss St. Claire.” Max took her hand and skimmed his lips over her glove, then with another bow, he made his way across the ballroom to Lady Emily.

It wasn’t at all pleasant, having to watch him take Lady Emily to the floor, but Rose didn’t have time to think of it, because Viscount Dunwitty appeared then, and held his hand out to her with a bow. “Will you dance, Miss St. Claire?”

There wasn’t another gentleman in the ballroom—in Fairford, or Gloucestershire, or even all of England who could rival Max, but she was fond of Viscount Dunwitty, all the same. He was a kind, good-humored gentleman, and he’d been unfailingly attentive to her during the house party.

The smile she gave him as she took his hand was a genuine one. “I will indeed, my lord.”