Page 26 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 25

“I ’m wearing the Duchess of Basingstoke’s gown.” Rose fingered the fold of the silk gown that was peeking out from under her cloak. It was such a lovely shade of green. She’d never worn anything so fine, and when she’d faced her reflection in the glass, it had felt as if anything were possible.

Had that only been hours ago? It seemed as if an eternity had passed since then.

“Francesca’s gown,” she said again, speaking into Abby’s ear to be heard over the clatter of the wagon wheels thumping down the road between Grantham Lodge and Hammond Court. “I’ve stolen a duchess’s silk gown.”

It was rather a serious crime. The silk alone was worth far more than their wagon and the horse pulling it, and it had no doubt been made by one of London’s most fashionable modistes. Thieves had been whipped for less. Hanged, even.

Even so, she couldn’t work up even the dullest twinge of alarm. If the chill of the wind hadn’t crept underneath her cloak to bite at the bare skin of her legs, she likely wouldn’t have noticed the gown at all.

“I don’t suppose Her Grace will mind, dearest.” Abby gave her hand a comforting pat. “Why, I daresay she hasn’t given it a thought. I’ll see that the gown is sent back to her first thing tomorrow morning. No harm’s been done.”

Rose glanced at Billy, who was seated on her other side. He didn’t appear to have an opinion on either silk gowns or duchesses. He maintained the same grim silence he’d observed since he’d fetched them at the entrance to Grantham Lodge.

The same scowl, as well.

He’d glared daggers at the house, his lip curling at the sight of the grand carriages crowding the drive, and the dozens of harried servants scurrying about. Even the Christmas greenery festooning the staircase hadn’t earned his approval. But he’d reserved his most pointed ire for the duke, who’d stood frozen in the doorway as they’d climbed into the wagon, watching them go with an expression she wouldn’t soon forget.

Utter desolation. She’d never seen him look so lost, and it had ripped another hole into her already bleeding heart. How could she still feel such pain on his behalf, after all he’d said and done? His lies and subterfuge?

It was a pointless question. She already knew the answer.

Even now, less than an hour after she’d discovered how thoroughly he’d betrayed her, her hurt and anger were no match for the depth of her love for him. Foolish, misguided heart! What use was it having a heart at all, if she must be cursed with such an irrational one?

But there was nothing rational about love, was there? Nothing wise. On the contrary, it was quite the stupidest emotion in existence. It made young ladies weep, yearn, and swoon like tragic heroines, and gentlemen rave and tear their hair, and forget themselves. Behind nearly every duel in London, nearly every ruination, one could find love lurking in the corner, snickering to herself.

And this was the emotion poets penned odes to!

If she’d had the least idea love could be so dreadful, she never would have permitted herself to fall—

“The drive,” Billy said suddenly, breaking his grim silence as he turned into the narrow road that led to the entrance of Hammond Court. “What’s happened to it?”

Abby turned to him, startled. “The drive , child? What do you mean? Nothing’s happened to it.”

“It has. It’s different. Smooth.” He slowed the horse, muttering to himself as he peered through the darkness at the length of the road illuminated by the narrow beam of light from their lantern. “Someone’s seen to the ruts.”

Abby snorted. “Nonsense, Billy. Who would have . . .” She trailed off, going still, and listening. “By God, the boy’s right. But how? Those ruts were as deep as ditches. It must have taken loads of stone to fill them!”

Rose squinted down at the road passing underneath the wagon wheels. It was too dark to see much, but instead of the usual creak and groan of the wheels rumbling over the craters, there was only a low, steady crunching sound, as if they were driving over a deep, even layer of gravel. And while their progress up the drive wasn’t precisely smooth—their old, dilapidated wagon never offered a smooth ride—she also wasn’t gripping the edge of her seat in a desperate attempt to stay upright, so neither was it the bone-shattering assault to the backside it usually was.

“You don’t suppose . . .” Abby began, her voice lowered. “Could it be that—”

“The Duke of Grantham had it repaired?” Of course, it had been him . He was the only person in all of Gloucestershire who could have gotten such an onerous job done in the few weeks since they’d left Hammond Court.

At Christmastime, no less.

But why? And when? It must have been after their sleigh ride yesterday, of course, or else she would have noticed it when they—

No. They hadn’t come down the drive at all yesterday. Max had taken another route. Otherwise, she would have noticed that it had been repaired.

It had been his idea to approach from the east side, past the stables, and into the kitchen courtyard. He’d said it was to save the sleigh’s runners from the rutted road, but that couldn’t have been the reason, because the drive must have already been repaired by then.

Had he not wanted her to see it? But why?

Unless . . . had it been a surprise?

Her throat closed, and tears sprang to her eyes. Why , of all the people in the world to show her such an unexpected kindness, must it be him ? Why must it be now , when she’d just made up her mind to banish him from her heart forever?

She didn’t want his kindness. Not now . She didn’t want to be beholden to the Duke of Grantham for a single thing.

Worse, it didn’t even make any sense! He’d told her himself he was going to tear Hammond Court to the ground. Why had he bothered to repair the drive, then? What did it matter if it were smooth, once Hammond Court was gone?

Was it all part of his ruse? But what would he have to gain by—

“Oh, my goodness.” Abby seized Rose’s arm. “Rose, look!”

They’d reached the end of the drive. Billy brought the wagon to a halt, but none of them alighted. They all sat there, mouths open, staring up at the house. It was as dark as the sky above it, but Billy raised the lantern, and a soft curse fell from his lips as the light passed across the front of the house, catching on the dull glint of smooth, shiny glass.

“The broken windows.” Rose covered her mouth with her hand, hardly able to believe what she was seeing.

The damaged windows that looked down upon the drive were gone. Every cracked pane, every jagged edge, every sagging casement had been removed, and a new, sturdy window put in its place.

Max hadn’t just seen to the drive. He’d taken care of the windows, too.

She set the lantern carefully onto the seat of the wagon, her hands suddenly too shaky to hold it steady. For a long time, no one said a word, but finally, Abby stirred. “Come inside, Rose. You’ll catch your death sitting outdoors in the cold in that thin silk gown.”

Abby climbed down from the wagon and held out her hand to Rose, who took it without a word and allowed Abby to lead her to the front door.

The length of rope was gone. The old doorknob and plate were back in their accustomed places, but they’d been scraped free of rust and dirt, and polished until they gleamed a glossy black in the lantern light.

She reached out and ran her fingertip over the smooth iron plate, but she made no move to open the door, afraid of what awaited her inside.

Because he wouldn’t have stopped at the door. Even after such a short acquaintance, she somehow knew that once Maxwell Burke made up his mind to do something, he wouldn’t rest until it was finished.

“Standing out here in the cold isn’t going to change anything, Rose.” Abby gave her a gentle nudge. “Open the door.”

It was an odd feeling, stepping over the threshold and slipping inside after so many weeks away. She’d never been gone from Hammond Court before—not even for a single night—and the strangest sensation seized her as she passed into the entryway.

It was as if she were trespassing. As if this were someone else’s home, and she no longer had any right to be here.

But then, it was someone else’s home, wasn’t it? It belonged to Max now.

“Why, Abby?” she whispered, tears once again rushing into her eyes. She was exhausted and heartbroken, and she couldn’t make sense of any of this. “Why did he do it?”

“I can’t say, dearest.” Abby gave her a helpless shrug. “Perhaps he doesn’t intend to tear it down, after all. Perhaps he’s made up his mind to keep it, and live here.”

Perhaps he had. It should have lifted her spirits. It was what she’d hoped for, after all. It was good news, then. Yes, very good news, indeed. Yet, as they made their way past the staircase, and by silent mutual agreement down the corridor that led to the drawing room, it only made Hammond Court feel more distant than ever.

Nothing was the same. It didn’t even smell like the same house. The faint odors of mildew and dust had vanished, and in their place was the scent of soap, lemon, and a faint whiff of wax candles.

“Light the lamps, won’t you, Billy?” Abby bustled about while Rose waited in the middle of the room, and Billy fumbled with the wicks. She was afraid to sit down, or even to stir a step. The room felt so different, somehow, she couldn’t quite get her bearings, and she soon saw why.

They all gasped as the flame flickered to life, and the lamp lit the darkened room.

“Oh, my goodness.” Abby’s eyes widened as she looked around the drawing room.

It had been utterly transformed. That is, most of the furnishings were the same—even the Duke of Grantham couldn’t furnish a house the size of Hammond Court in only a few weeks’ time—but the worn, moldy window hangings had been replaced with heavy, figured silk drapes in a pretty, pale shade of green, and a dozen new, richly embroidered pillows were scattered over the settees and chairs.

And everything . . . every scrap of cloth, and every pane of glass had been scrubbed clean. Every inch of wood had been polished, and the rugs looked as if they’d been beaten to within an inch of their lives. The spiderwebs were gone. Not a single silken thread dangled from the cornices. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen or a single flake of ash in the fireplace. The pails that had stood in every corner had vanished—there was no need for them, now that the leaks had been repaired.

Rose wandered over to the fireplace and ran her hand over the marble mantel. “Do you suppose the chimneys have been swept, as well?”

But of course, they had been. Max had seen to everything, right down to the carpet fringe, which lay in perfect order, the threads as straight as a row of pins. With such attention to detail, he was hardly going to neglect the chimneys. The fires would burn properly now, instead of stuttering and smoking, and would warm the rooms, as a fire was meant to do.

She turned around in a circle, trying to take it all in, but it was too much, and she dropped onto the settee before her knees buckled from the shock of it all.

Abby settled into the space beside her. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I . . . I knew the floorboards in the kitchen had been repaired. I thought Billy had seen to it, though that didn’t seem right.” She glanced at Billy, who shook his head. “I said as much to Max—that is, to the Duke of Grantham, and he didn’t correct me. He never said a word about any of this.”

“It’s all so strange, is it not?” Abby glanced around the room with a puzzled frown. “I love Hammond Court as much as you do, Rose, but Grantham Lodge is a grand, elegant estate, one befitting a duke. Why should he need another house? Do you suppose he really does intend to live here?”

Rose could only shake her head. Max had never breathed a word to her about moving to Hammond Court, but if he had made up his mind to live here, it meant she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do.

She’d fulfilled her promise to Ambrose.

Only a few short weeks ago, it was all she’d hoped for, but now, the thought made her heart sink further. Persuading Max to love Hammond Court had always been akin to catching a perfect snowflake on the tip of her finger. She wanted desperately to succeed, but in the deepest, most secret recesses of her heart, she hadn’t truly believed it was possible.

Or was it only that she’d wished for more?

She’d wished for him to love her , too.

But now, it was as if the snowflake had brushed her fingertips and hovered there for an instant in all its complex beauty, yet as soon as she’d bent her head toward it, it had melted away to nothing, leaving only a drop of water behind.

Somehow, it hurt more to nearly succeed, to feel that soaring hope inside her, than it did to never being close to it at all.

If only he hadn’t lied to her. She might have borne it, then. She might have been able to wish him well and leave Hammond Court with a joyful heart.

She glanced around the drawing room, at the elegant new draperies, the shiny new windows. It was Hammond Court still, the way she remembered it in its best days. How happy she should have been, to see it thus restored! And perhaps she would be happy, someday, when she looked back upon it.

But now everything was overshadowed by Max’s lies.

Yet even that wasn’t what hurt the most.

She could have forgiven the lies, in time. What she couldn’t forgive was the jagged sliver of doubt he’d planted inside her—deep inside a heart that had never been touched by any man before him —that he’d never really cared for her. That everything—the skating and the sleigh rides, his delicious kisses and whispered words, and the pleasure he’d given her—were all just part of his scheme.

That what she’d thought was love was nothing but another lie.

He’d denied it, yes, but how could she believe him? He was a duke. A duke , and she was a young lady of no name and no consequence, tucked away in an obscure little village that most London aristocrats had never even heard of.

How could she —plain, provincial Rose St. Claire—ever matter to a man like the Duke of Grantham? It was ludicrous.

Of course, he’d lied to her. She’d been a fool to imagine for even a moment it could be anything else.

To his credit, I believe he thought better of the scheme in the end . . .

Lord Dunwitty had done her a kindness, telling her that. It did matter to her that Max had abandoned his scheme. When the heartbreak had passed, and the ache of his betrayal had faded, it might provide her with some small comfort.

But it wasn’t enough. How could she ever trust him again?

She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore, and it wouldn’t do the least bit of good to sit here and worry over it. It would only spin her thoughts into increasingly frantic circles, like a dog chasing its tail.

It would, alas, all still be waiting for her in the morning. “I want to go to bed, Abby.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea. Billy, will you run ahead to light the lamps?”

“Aye.”

Billy went off to do Abby’s bidding. She and Rose followed after him, but the stairs that had seemed manageable enough a few weeks earlier took ages to climb tonight. Her feet dragged with every step. By the time they’d made it halfway up the staircase, Billy was waiting for them at the top, and the hallways above were illuminated with a soft glow.

“Miss Rose’s bedchamber as well, Billy, if you would,” Abby called up to him.

He dashed off down the corridor. From below there was the sound of the bedchamber door opening, then Billy’s exclamation of surprise. “Zounds, would ye look at this!” He poked his head out the door and shouted down the stairs, “Ye won’t believe it, Miss Rose!”

Oh yes, she would. At this point, she’d believe anything, and she already suspected what she would find on the other side of her bedchamber door.

But when she crossed the threshold, she couldn’t prevent a gasp of surprise.

All of Hammond Court now shone like a new penny, but this was different.

Special care had been taken in this room.

The ballooning ceiling, the floods of water awash with bits of wood and flakes of plaster had vanished. The cracked beams that had led to the collapse must have been repaired, as well, because the ceiling above her head was now as smooth as a bowl of cream. If there’d been any other damage from the water, there was no sign of it now. Not a hint of damp, or even so much as a water stain.

The ceiling had been painted a soft, warm white, and—

“Oh! What a lovely color!” Abby breathed. “Like springtime.”

The rest of the room was now a lovely, grassy green color. A new rug in pretty shades of cream, green, and gold had replaced the old one, which had been destroyed in the flood, and underneath the thick pile, the floorboards gleamed.

Her chair was in its usual place in front of the window, but it had been carefully repaired, and now it boasted a thick cushion embroidered with wildflowers. New draperies had been hung as well, heavy silk ones that would do wonders to keep the chilly drafts at bay.

Rose turned in a circle, her throat growing ever tighter as she took it all in. A pretty porcelain vase stood on the mantel, along with a pair of silver candlesticks, and a new coverlet was spread over the bed.

“My goodness.” Abby’s voice was hushed, but after a quick glance at Rose, she said no more. Not about the bedchamber, or the Duke of Grantham. Instead, she bustled over to the bed and pulled back the coverlet. “Off to bed with you now, pet.”

Rose did as she was told, too confused and heartsick to protest.

“Go on home now, Billy,” Abby added, nodding at the bedchamber door. “You were a good lad, to fetch us tonight. I’ll come and see you and your grandmother tomorrow, and thank you properly.”

Billy had drawn closer to the mantel and was peering at the silver candlesticks with interest, but now he nodded and turned to the door. “Aye, Miss Abby.”

Abby closed the bedchamber door behind him, then returned to Rose, and began working on the buttons on the back of the silk gown. Soon enough, she was tugging it over Rose’s head, and tucking her underneath the covers in just her shift. “Now, don’t you worry about a thing, pet. I’ll see to it the duchess gets her ballgown back, as good as new.”

“Abby?” Rose reached out and seized Abby’s hand. “I—I think you were right, about leaving Hammond Court. I should have listened to you. I’m ready to go, now. It’s best if we go soon, I think.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, but it nearly choked her. “As soon as we can.”

“If that’s what you want, dearest. We can talk about it tomorrow.” Abby brushed her hair back from her face, then leaned down and dropped a kiss on Rose’s forehead. “Go on to sleep, now.”

Then, with a murmured good night , she was gone.

Rose lay still, blinking up at the freshly painted ceiling. She would have welcomed the peaceful oblivion of sleep, but no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes closed, it wouldn’t come.

Max’s face swam behind her closed eyes. His expression, when she’d told him she didn’t want anything from him anymore, the devastation in his eyes—it was all she could see as if it had been burned into her eyelids.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. She tossed the coverlet aside, rose from her bed, and crept toward the window. It was snowing lightly, the downy flakes falling from a starless sky, and for an instant, she thought of another snowfall, of featherlight snowflakes gleaming in the gray morning light, and a puddle of icy water in the corner of her bedchamber.

Max had come that day, in his glossy black carriage with the gold, spoked wheels, with his orderly boot tassels, and his handsome beaver hat set rakishly atop his dark waves.

And she’d nearly shot him in the foot.

Despite everything, a small smile tugged at her lips. What had he been thinking, trying to wrest that pistol from her? Foolish, arrogant, stubborn man! It was a wonder he wasn’t missing a toe now.

But her smile faded again soon enough, replaced by a weight so heavy she thought it might crush her. How could her life have changed so drastically, in so short a time?

How had it come to this?

She stood at the window for a long time, staring into the night, her bare toes numb with cold, and watched the pretty snowflakes whirling through the darkness.

But her answer never came.