Page 25 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 24

L ord Dunwitty made a number of heroic attempts to engage Rose in conversation, but alas, love being what it was, her thoughts kept drifting back to the magical dance she’d just shared with Max. By the time they’d made it halfway through the quadrille, the viscount had given up and fallen silent.

If she’d been attending as she should have done, she might have realized sooner that he’d been easing her closer to the edge of the knot of swirling couples well before he grasped her hand and led her toward the entrance to the ballroom.

As it was, they were nearly out the door before she noticed. “Where are we going?” She stopped in the middle of the corridor and tried to tug her hand free from his grasp. “Lord Dunwitty! I insist you release me this—”

“Not just yet, Miss St. Claire. I wish to have a private word with you.”

He hurried her down the corridor and into the portrait gallery at the end of the hallway. Once they were out of sight of the ballroom he loosened his grip, and she snatched her hand away. “How dare you? I believed you to be a gentleman, Lord Dunwitty. Was I mistaken?”

“No. I—I beg your pardon, Miss St. Claire. I mean you no harm, but I must have a word with you, away from the ballroom. It won’t do if we’re overheard.”

A refusal hung on the tip of her tongue, but his tight lips and lowered brows made her pause. He’d never been anything other than cheerful and easygoing throughout the entire house party, but now he looked troubled.

“Very well, my lord, if you must.” Still, she backed away from him, prepared to flee if he made another move to touch her, and crossed her arms over her chest to hide her trembling hands. “I’m listening.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he let out a sigh. “This is rather awkward.”

“Perhaps you’d better get it over with, then.” There was some chance they’d been seen leaving the ballroom together, and she couldn’t linger here with him for much longer without it resulting in a storm of gossip.

“Very well. I’ve agonized over whether or not to tell you this, but after your dance with the Duke of Grantham, it’s become apparent to me that—forgive me, Miss St. Claire—but it appears as if your heart is vulnerable to him.”

She stared at him, heat mounting in her cheeks. What in the world did he mean , speaking to her of such a thing? “The state of my heart, Lord Dunwitty, is not your—”

“It’s not my concern. Yes, I know, and I assure you, this conversation brings me no pleasure, but you’re a lovely, kind young lady, Miss St. Claire, and I esteem you too much to leave Grantham Lodge without making you aware of who the Duke of Grantham is. You deserve to know the truth about his machinations.”

“Machinations?” If ever there was a word to make her belly twist with dread, it was that one. “I don’t understand.”

“No. How could you?” Lord Dunwitty dragged a hand through his hair, then drew in a breath, and met her eyes. “I believe you and the duke share a property in Fairford? Your late father’s home, if I understand correctly.”

“We do, yes. Hammond Court.” But what could Hammond Court have to do with this?

It was a silly question, wasn’t it? Hammond Court was the only reason Max had come to Fairford in the first place. From the start, he’d vowed to take it away from her, by fair means, or foul. From the beginning, it had been the one thing that stood between them.

Was she really such a fool as to believe a few kisses, some sweet words, and one dance meant it no longer mattered? Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to slap her hands over her ears, to shut out whatever it was Lord Dunwitty was going to tell her.

But it was already too late for that. Even now, he was opening his mouth, and the words were tumbling out. “Hammond Court, yes. The duke is eager to get his hands on the property, I believe?”

“Yes, he—yes. It belonged to his family at one time. It’s part of his legacy.”

Lord Dunwitty regarded her in silence for a moment, his brown eyes filled with something that looked very much like . . .

Pity.

Dear God. Whatever he was about to tell her, it was going to be terrible.

So terrible, it would break her heart into a thousand pieces.

“The duke brought me here to Grantham Lodge for a purpose, Miss St. Claire. My uncle had some unfortunate luck with a business venture of his, and he owes the duke a large sum of money. Until a recent change in my circumstances, there was no hope of his paying it.”

“Your uncle’s financial difficulties aren’t my concern, my lord.”

“Please, Miss St. Claire, let me finish.”

Could he not see that she didn’t want to hear anything more? Couldn’t he tell her heart was floundering, sinking? But there was little she could do now but listen, so she gave him a reluctant nod. “Very well.”

“The duke summoned me to Fairford to do him a service. In exchange, he pledged to forgive my uncle’s debt. I didn’t hesitate at the time, but now I wish to God I had.”

“A service?” It was a harmless enough word. There was no reason it should make her stomach pitch with alarm, but she was obliged to steel her spine and raise her chin before she could meet Lord Dunwitty’s gaze without flinching. “What sort of service did the Duke of Grantham require from you, my lord?”

“You must understand, Miss St. Claire. This was before I knew you. Almost as soon as I met you, I knew I could never go through—”

“It’s quite all right, my lord.” But it wasn’t all right. Nothing would ever be right again, once he told her the truth. She knew it, and yet the only thing worse than knowing what he was about to say, was not knowing it. “I would be grateful to you if you’d simply get on with it.”

“Of course. Forgive me.” He blew out a breath. “I was to come to Fairford, sweep you into a whirlwind courtship, and propose marriage to you before the house party ended.” A dull, red flush crept into his cheeks. “Then, once we’d married, I was to—”

“Turn over my share of Hammond Court to the Duke of Grantham.”

Dear God, what a fool she was! How could she not have realized it at once? Handsome, fashionable aristocrats like Lord Dunwitty didn’t single out inconsequential young ladies like her for their flattering attention.

Neither did dukes.

How easy she’d made it for them! And how they must have laughed at her.

She was going to be sick. Bile was crawling up her throat, flooding her mouth. She was going to cast up her accounts, right here in the duke’s elegant portrait gallery.

“Yes.” He gave her a miserable nod.

“I see. That’s . . . well, it’s a clever scheme, isn’t it?” Clever, ruthless, and unconscionable. In short, a scheme worthy of the wicked Duke of Grantham.

If she’d been a different sort of lady—the sort of lady who’d marry a man she didn’t love in exchange for a title and money—it might have worked. But she was far from being that lady. If Max had known her at all, he would have realized from the start his scheme would never work.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? He didn’t know her, and she didn’t know him, and a few seductive kisses and false promises didn’t change that. No doubt they’d been part of his ploy to begin with.

“From the very start, I thought it callous, and heartless.” Lord Dunwitty’s tone was grim. “Yet to my everlasting shame, I agreed to it for my uncle’s sake, and I don’t know if I shall ever forgive myself for it. Once I came to know you, I realized I could never go through with it. You deserve a great deal better than to be the victim of such a cruel deception.”

Rose nodded, but she hardly heard him.

All this time—the ice skating, the sleigh ride, those devastating kisses, and the passion that had burned so brightly between them—while she’d been sighing over Max, and weaving romantic fantasies, he’d been plotting to steal Hammond Court from her.

“I beg your pardon most sincerely, Miss St. Claire.” Lord Dunwitty caught her hands in his and pressed a feverish kiss to her knuckles. “If you could forgive me—if you ever could find it in your heart to . . . to love me, I’d consider myself the most fortunate man in England.”

Gently, she drew her hands away. “I do forgive you, my lord, and I hope for every happiness for you, but I’m afraid my affections are engaged elsewhere.”

“It’s Grantham, isn’t it?”

Alas, despite everything, it was. Had ever a lady disposed of her heart as foolishly as she? “The heart is a reckless organ, is it not, my lord?”

“Alas, I’m afraid it is.” He hesitated, as if unsure what to say or do, but finally, he offered her a deep bow. “I’m leaving Grantham Lodge early in the morning and am unlikely to see you again. It has been a great honor and pleasure to know you, Miss St. Claire. I will always wish you the best.”

He turned to go but then paused. “I’m no admirer of the Duke of Grantham, Miss St. Claire, but there is something else you should know.”

There was more ? She’d heard quite enough already, but he looked so earnest, she couldn’t refuse him. “Very well. What is it, my lord?”

“This morning, Grantham called me into his study and told me he’d changed his plans. He warned me to stay away from you for the remainder of the house party. To his credit, I believe he thought better of the scheme.” He gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know if that makes any difference to you, but I thought it right you should know.”

Did it make a difference? She hardly knew.

Their tryst in the kitchens at Hammond Court had taken place the afternoon before Max’s chat with Lord Dunwitty. It wasn’t likely the timing was coincidental, but in the end, what did it matter? After this, she could never trust Max again. For all she knew, he’d given up the scheme with Lord Dunwitty so he could seduce her himself.

Why shouldn’t he? It was as good a way as any to get his hands on Hammond Court, and goodness knew she’d given him every reason to believe he’d succeed, falling into his arms as she had.

But she managed a halfhearted smile for Lord Dunwitty. “Thank you, my lord.”

He nodded, and then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. She was left alone, and as still as the portraits of Max’s forbears hanging silently on the walls. If she moved, she’d shatter into a thousand pieces, so she remained as she was, taking in one shuddering breath after another until she was certain she could keep herself together, just for a little while longer.

Then, she ran.

Through the portrait gallery and down the corridor to the staircase, her heart pounding against her ribs, and up to the third floor where her bedchamber awaited, praying all the while Max wouldn’t find her.

She couldn’t bear to see him now, nor could she bear to stay at Grantham Lodge for another moment. As soon as she could find Abby, they were leaving here, despite the darkness and the cold. It had been a mistake—a tragic mistake—to come here in the first place.

But there’d be plenty of time to think about her mistakes, once she’d left Grantham Lodge far behind.

There’d be plenty of time to fall apart, then.

A lifetime.

* * *

Max’s dance with Lady Emily dragged on for an eternity. Once he was free, he immediately went in search of Rose, but she was nowhere to be found. He paced from one end of the ballroom to the other, searching for golden hair or a green silk gown, but she seemed to have disappeared after her dance with Dunwitty.

He was waiting near the entrance when the next dance ended. Francesca, pink cheeked and smiling after a vigorous country dance with her husband, joined him there, while Basingstoke hurried off to fetch her a glass of lemonade. “You’re scowling again, Grantham, but I suppose I would be, too, after a dance with such a sour-faced Lady Emily.”

“I can’t find Miss St. Claire.”

“The last I saw of her, she was dancing with Lord Dunwitty, but that was quite some time ago.” She frowned. “Now I think of it, I haven’t seen him recently, either.”

Damn it. How had he not noticed Dunwitty was missing, as well? “I need to find her.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll see if she’s in the ladies’ retiring room, shall I? You might check her bedchamber, Grantham. Perhaps she became fatigued and went to bed.”

“Perhaps.” But he didn’t think so. She hadn’t appeared at all fatigued when they’d danced together. She’d spun in his arms as if she could have remained there all night, gazing up at him with sparkling green eyes.

He strode from the ballroom toward the staircase, a vague sense of foreboding niggling at him. He might not care much for Dunwitty, but the man was a gentleman. He’d never take liberties with Rose, or hurt her in any way, unless . . .

He stopped, one foot on the bottom stair.

No, surely not. Dunwitty despised him heartily enough, but he wouldn’t blurt out the private details of their arrangement to Rose before Max had a chance to speak to her himself.

Would he?

He darted up the stairs, but when he reached the landing, he hesitated. Rose’s bedchamber was down the corridor, but he hadn’t gone more than two steps up when a strange flash of intuition made him turn around, and . . .

No. No, no, no.

There, two floors below was Rose. She was hurrying through the entryway, her cloak thrown hastily over her shoulders, and Abby Hinde was with her, standing at the open door with a valise in her hand.

“Rose!”

She froze, then slowly she turned, and the look on her face . . . dear God, he’d never forget it. She was as pale as the snowflakes drifting through the open door, as pale as the marble floor they landed on, and as cold as the drops of melted snow they left behind.

His Rose, with her smiling lips, looked at him with eyes as frigid as two green chips of ice. In an instant, he was at the bottom of the stairs, his hands wrapped around her shoulders. “Rose, please wait. Come and talk to me, give me a chance to explain.”

“Explain what, Your Grace?”

Your Grace . Not Max any longer, but Your Grace.

“I know Dunwitty told you, Rose.” She was no dissembler. He could see the truth on her face as surely as if she’d spoken it aloud.

And there, in the green eyes he’d grown to love, was an ocean of hurt.

God, he had to make her understand—

“There’s nothing to explain, Your Grace. Lord Dunwitty made it all perfectly clear. The house party, the ball, the sleigh ride . . .” She waved a hand around as if encompassing all of Grantham Lodge. “It was all an elaborate ruse to take Hammond Court from me.”

Beside her, Abby gasped. “ What? Rose, what are you saying?”

“I’ll explain it all later, Abby. Wait for me in the wagon, won’t you? I must have a word with the duke, but I won’t be long.”

“No, Rose. I’m not leaving you here with him .” Abby turned on Max, her face as hard as stone.

“It’s all right, Abby, I promise you.” Rose held Max’s gaze, not sparing Abby a glance. “Please, do as I ask. It will be quicker this way.”

For a long moment, Abby didn’t move, then, with another glance of such fiery wrath it should have felled Max where he stood, she disappeared into the darkness.

“Did you ever intend to become betrothed to Lady Emily? Or was that just another lie?”

Rose’s voice was calm, but she was so white, and underneath her cloak, she was shivering. He reached for her instinctively, but she backed away, shaking her head. “I asked you a question, Your Grace.”

Lady Emily, the house party, Hammond Court— none of it mattered to him now. All that mattered was her . He tried to tell her—he opened his mouth to say the words and beg for her forgiveness—but he could only stare at her, the truth tangling on his tongue.

Yet he wouldn’t lie to her again. Since he’d come to Fairford, he’d told enough lies to last a lifetime. “I never intended to become betrothed to her. When you asked me why I decided to remain in Fairford rather than return to London, an impending betrothal was the first excuse that came to my mind. That’s all.”

“I see.” She nodded, but there was something oddly mechanical about the gesture. “The ice skating, and the sleigh ride, and the . . . the . . .” A spasm of pain crossed her face. “Everything else? Was that part of the scheme?”

“No! You don’t understand, Rose. I don’t deny I plotted and schemed to take Hammond Court from you, but that was before I—”

Before I fell in love with you.

The words were there on his tongue, waiting to be breathed into existence, but she didn’t give him a chance to say them. “The house party, Your Grace. You never intended to have one, did you? You merely seized your chance after the ceiling collapsed at Hammond Court. That was quite a stroke of luck for you, wasn’t it?”

He couldn’t deny it. There was nothing he could say, but he tried, even as he knew it was hopeless. “Rose, please listen—”

“Once you had me here, it was simply a matter of summoning Lord Dunwitty to Fairford. Such a clever scheme, to have a house party. That way, no one would suspect he was anything other than one of your guests. Did . . .” She looked away, clearing her throat. “Did Prue and Francesca know? Were they a part of it, too?”

“ No . They would never . . . no one knew but Dunwitty, though Basingstoke and Montford guessed it after they arrived.” They’d warned him this would happen, hadn’t they? He should have listened to them, he should have . . . God, there were so many things he should have done differently.

And so many things he shouldn’t have done at all.

“It was a brilliant scheme, Your Grace.” Her voice was dull. “I never suspected a thing. Silly of me, after you warned me you’d have your revenge on Ambrose. Well, now you have.”

“Rose, please.” His hands tightened around her shoulders, his grip desperate, but she made no attempt to resist him. She didn’t fight him, or try to squirm free, but only waited, her body limp, as if her spirit, her very soul, had been drained.

He’d done that to her. Him . She had the bravest, purest soul he’d ever known, and he’d crushed it like a butterfly in his fist, a bit of dandelion fluff under his boot heel.

“I wonder what Ambrose would make of us now?”

She laughed a little, but it was a dull, flat sound, such a mockery of her true, joyful laugh he nearly staggered with the pain of it. “Rose—”

“Do you know why he left Hammond Court to both of us, Your Grace?” She met his gaze, but it was as if she were looking right through him.

“No.” Even now, after everything, that was still a mystery to him, a missing piece of the puzzle.

“I don’t think he ever intended for me to have the house. After two decades, he still looked upon it as yours, as part of your legacy. He only wanted to give me the chance to make you love it as he did. As I do. All these years later, he still hoped you might make peace with your past.”

“My past?” He stared at her. “Hammond Court, the circumstances of his will . . . you think he did all this for me ?”

Come to Fairford, and seize your treasure.

“Yes. It’s amusing when you think about it.” She gave him a sad smile. “All this time, you’ve been trying to take something away from me, and all the while, I was trying to give something back to you. For Ambrose’s sake. It was the last thing—no, the only thing—he ever asked of me.”

Her words fell between them with a dull thud.

Give something back to you . . .

Was it possible he’d been wrong about Ambrose, for all these years?

He groped for the hazy memories from before those dark, lonely nights when he’d stood on the drive of Hammond Court, staring up at the house, his heart breaking in two. Before the wager, and his mother’s death, before his father’s collapse, before he’d lost everything.

Those memories were nearly gone now, just a handful of broken, scattered pictures flickering in his mind, but the Ambrose he’d known then . . . would he have done this for him?

Back then, Ambrose had been like a second father to him. God, he’d tried so hard to forget that, but now . . . could Ambrose really have been waiting all these years, to give him back what he’d lost?

“Ambrose made one mistake, though.” Rose let out another of those terrible laughs, but this time it trailed off into a sob. “His faith in me was dreadfully misplaced.”

Is that what she thought? That she’d failed? “No! Rose, don’t you see? I’m not the same man I was when I came to Fairford. I never should have . . . I made a mistake with Dunwitty, one I regret more than I’ve ever regretted anything in my life, but—”

“He used to call you a lost soul. Ambrose, I mean. Did you know that? He always said it with such sadness, such regret. I don’t understand why he wagered for the house in the first place. That part never made sense to me. I doubt we’ll ever know, now.”

She turned for the door, but he caught the sleeve of her cloak. “Please don’t leave, Rose. Don’t go.”

Gently—far more gently than he deserved—she disentangled the fold of her cloak from his fingers. “I have to, Your Grace. It’s cold outside, and Billy and Abby are waiting for me in the wagon.”

“The wagon! No. I won’t permit you to leave here in an open wagon, Rose. At least let me send for my carriage.”

“No, Your Grace. I don’t want your carriage.” She turned away from him, toward the door. “I don’t want anything from you anymore.”

Then she was gone, the light flurry of snowflakes whirling through the air in her wake.