Page 27 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 26

A fter weeks of heavy snow and howling winds, the sun chose to shine with renewed brilliance on Christmas morning, illuminating an endless sky the color of a blue jay’s wing. It was the sort of day Christmas should be—a day of beauty, hope, and promise.

But it was utterly wasted on Max.

It was as if the glorious weather were mocking him with its brightness. Inside his chest, in the space where his heart was meant to be beating, there was nothing but a dark, silent cavern of misery.

It was midmorning when Bryce brought the carriage to a stop in front of the entrance to Hammond Court. It would have been much earlier, if Basingstoke and Montford hadn’t caught him rushing out the door just after sunrise and persuaded him to bathe and change before appearing on Rose’s doorstep.

Was she looking down on him from her bedchamber window, even now? Or had she already run for her pistol? He blinked up at the fa?ade, shading his eyes from the sun glittering off the new glass windows, but the house looked as deserted as it had the first day he’d arrived in Fairford.

At least the windows were now intact, and the doorknob and plate properly attached to the door again. There was still a great deal left to do to make the house truly habitable, but there was some comfort in knowing the roof wasn’t about to collapse on top of Rose, and neither was she any longer at risk of freezing in her bed or midnight attacks by a roving band of scoundrels.

It was something, but not enough. Nothing he could do for her would ever be enough. If she’d let him, he’d give her everything.

He’d give her himself. All he was now, and all he hoped to become.

Whether she’d have him or not, well . . . she’d made herself painfully clear last night.

I don’t want anything from you anymore.

He paused on his way to the door, a wave of dark despair crashing over him. Was there any chance at all she’d change her mind? Would she even open the door to him?

He wouldn’t find out by lingering in the drive like some tragic hero. He tried to shake off his doubts, but as he strode to the door the sun ducked behind a cloud, as if to warn him he was marching toward his doom.

But before he could raise his hand to knock, the door flew open.

He caught his breath, but it wasn’t Rose waiting on the other side. It was Abby, her lips tight, her eyes narrowed, her fisted hands planted on her hips. “I expected you’d turn up, sooner or later. What do you want now , Your Grace?”

“Rose.” It wasn’t a gentlemanly reply, particularly given the low rasp in his voice when he said her name, but the time for subtlety had passed. “I want Rose.”

Abby sniffed. “You should have thought of that before you tried to snatch her home out from under her, shouldn’t you, Your Grace?”

Of course, he should have. That was obvious, wasn’t it? But he smothered the retort on his lips. Abby was standing between him and the inside of the house, so aggravating her didn’t seem wise. She could slam the door in his face at any moment, and it would hardly endear him to Rose if he attacked her door again.

“I’ve come to tell Rose that Hammond Court belongs to her now.” It wasn’t the only reason he’d come, but it was the truth, all the same. “I’ll see to it all the necessary repairs are carried out, and the house is maintained to a decent standard of safety and comfort.”

“Is that so?” Abby swept a suspicious gaze over him. “Just why would you want to do that, Your Grace?”

Why? “Because I . . . because she . . .” For God’s sake, couldn’t the woman see that he was expiring for love for Rose, right in front of her eyes? Even if Rose didn’t want him, he still wished for her happiness.

One glance at him, and it was all painfully obvious, as his reflection in his looking glass had plainly told him this morning. But he’d be damned if he’d confess to Abby that he was in love with Rose before he told Rose , so he said only, “Because Hammond Court is more hers than it ever could be mine.”

Abby’s eyebrows shot up. “That matters to you, does it?”

“Anything that has to do with Rose matters to me, Mrs. Hinde. Now, may I please see her?”

She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to gauge his sincerity, then shook her head. “She’s not here.”

“Not here?” Where else would she be, if not at Hammond Court? Damn it, he didn’t like the sound of this at all. “Where is she?”

“That’s not for me to say, Your Grace.”

She started to close the door, but without even thinking about it, he shoved his foot into the gap to prevent her. “Wait. Is she coming back?”

Abby only shook her head. It was plain Rose had instructed her not to reveal her whereabouts to him. God, this was a nightmare. If she slipped through his fingers now, he might never see her again. “If she does come back, will you tell her I was here? That I came looking for her? Please, Mrs. Hinde.”

For the first time since she’d opened the door, Abby’s face softened a fraction. “I’ll tell her, Your Grace, but see you don’t make me sorry I did.”

With that, she shut the door in his face.

There was nothing for him to do then but climb into his carriage, and return to Grantham Lodge, but what was he meant to do there? He couldn’t bear to sit and stare out his window, wishing things were different. It was Christmas morning, and a new year was upon them. No gentleman worth a damn spent Christmas Day wallowing in misery, for God’s sake. This was meant to be a joyful time, a time of new beginnings.

Not a time for giving up.

He stood there, staring at the closed door, until Bryce leaped down from the box and made his way over. “Your Grace?” He blanched when he got a look at Max’s face. “Is something amiss, Your Grace?”

Amiss? His entire world had just collapsed around him, so yes, something was amiss, but there was no sense in taking it out on poor Bryce. “I’ve had better days, Bryce.”

“May I help, Your Grace?”

No. No one could help him. No one but Rose.

But he could help himself. “Wait here for me for a bit, if you would, Bryce. I won’t be long.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He nodded to Bryce, then wandered off, heedless of the direction he took, but perhaps it wasn’t surprising that he found himself at the pond behind the house, where Rose had taken him ice skating several weeks ago.

The cold lingered, despite the warmth of the sun, but the gentle rays were making quick work of the ice-encrusted trees that surrounded the pond, crystalline drops of water falling from their branches.

The toes of his Hessians were wet, his gold tassels more bedraggled than ever now. He’d have to get new ones when he returned to London.

God, London. It felt as far away as the endless stretch of blue sky above him. Nothing there seemed to matter anymore—not his townhouse, his companions at White’s, or any of the elegant trappings of his old life. In only a few short weeks, everything that mattered, everything he cared about, was here.

Whoever would have thought he’d find his salvation in Fairford, of all places?

Not him. Not anyone, except perhaps . . .

Ambrose St. Claire.

He sat down on the flat rock where he’d helped Rose with her skates, taking in the sparkling sheath of ice spread out before him, and the dripping trees that sheltered it, their low-lying branches reaching for the frozen pond like open arms.

The day they’d come here, and he’d watched her spinning on the ice, her arms raised to the sky, her face wreathed in smiles . . . he hadn’t known it then, but that had been the day everything had changed for him.

How could a man look upon such joy, and not be changed by it?

Joy is a choice, Your Grace.

He’d scoffed at the idea at the time, but he’d been fascinated with her that day, so much so he couldn’t stop himself from touching her.

Those fleeting moments with her had been his first taste of pure, true joy.

She’d given that to him.

Come to Fairford, and seize your treasure.

That cryptic note was so typical of Ambrose. The man had loved nothing so much as creating a bit of drama. It had infuriated Max at the time, but perhaps he understood it now.

The treasure Ambrose had referred to wasn’t Hammond Court. It never had been.

It was Rose. She was the treasure, and only a fool walked away from such a precious treasure, a treasure of inestimable worth.

He wasn’t returning to London. Not without Rose. He was going to stay here in Fairford, at Grantham Lodge, and spend every day begging her to forgive him.

Begging her to be his.

Montford was right, as it happened. A man in love does know how to beg.

Beg, he would. If it took the rest of his lifetime to persuade her, then so be it. A lifetime in pursuit of such a lady was a lifetime well spent. He rose to his feet, stomped the snow from his boots, and began to make his way up the hill, back toward his carriage.

First, he had to find her. She’d been at Grantham Lodge only last night. It was still quite early in the morning now, and it also happened to be Christmas Day.

She couldn’t have gotten far. He’d find her, but first, there was something he had to do.

* * *

“Sir Richard isn’t at home, Your Grace.”

Max looked down his nose at Sir Richard Mildmay’s butler. The man was lying, and not at all convincingly. “Not at home? How curious. You are aware it’s Christmas Day?”

“Er, yes, Your Grace.” The man’s nose gave a nervous twitch. “What I meant to say, Your Grace, is that Sir Richard is not at home to visitors today.”

“Ah, I see. No matter.” He strolled over to an upholstered bench against a wall in the entryway and seated himself with the air of a man who was settling in for a long time. “I’ll wait.”

The butler blinked. “ Wait , Your Grace? B-but it’s Christmas Day!”

Max unleashed the sardonic eyebrow. “Yes, I believe we’ve already agreed on that. It would be a pity if I were obliged to miss my Christmas dinner, but I’m afraid my business with Sir Richard is rather urgent and can’t wait.”

The butler gaped at him, his mouth hanging open, but when this tactic didn’t produce the desired effect—namely, Max’s absence—he turned on his heel with a huff. “If you’d be so good as to remain here, Your Grace.”

Oh, he’d remain, all right. He’d sleep in Sir Richard’s entryway, if necessary.

Fortunately, he wasn’t obliged to wait long at all. Within minutes, the butler returned, and with him was Sir Richard Mildmay, looking thunderstruck. “What in the world are you doing here, Grantham? It’s Christmas Day, man! Don’t you have a dozen guests expecting their Christmas dinner at Grantham Lodge?”

“I do, yes, and not a single patient one among them. That I’m waiting on a bench in your entryway instead of entertaining them should tell you just how urgent my business is.”

Sir Richard sighed. “Is there even the smallest chance, Grantham, of your leaving here without having your way?”

“Alas, I’m afraid not.” Max gave him a thin smile. “I’m a duke, Sir Richard. I’m far too accustomed to having my way to give it up now.”

“For God’s sake. All right then, Grantham. Let’s get this over with, shall we? I’ve got a perfectly lovely roasted goose waiting for me.”

He waved an impatient hand at Max, who rose from his place on the bench and followed Sir Richard down the hallway to a small study. Sir Richard nodded at a chair and took the seat behind his desk. “Now then, Grantham. You have my attention. What the devil do you want ?”

Why did people keep asking him that? It was perfectly simple. He wanted Rose.

But this entire business had begun with the rift between his father and Ambrose, and that was as good a place to start as any. “Several weeks ago, when you revealed the terms of Ambrose St. Claire’s will to myself and Miss St. Claire, you said something about Ambrose having only ever had the purest of intentions regarding Hammond Court.”

“Yes, I did. As I recall, Your Grace, you scoffed at the idea.”

“And that surprised you, Sir Richard? You know the details of my history with Ambrose. You can’t reasonably have expected me to react in any other way.”

Sir Richard observed him for a moment, then shook his head with a sigh. “No, perhaps not. It was an ugly business, and you got the worst of it.”

Ugly, yes. So ugly that it had turned him from a tender-hearted young boy into a heartless, vengeful man. But this wasn’t about him. Not this time. “You said at the time that you’d be happy to provide me with the details of the transaction between Ambrose and my father, once I was ready to hear them.” Max crossed one foot over the other knee and sat back in his seat. “I’m ready.”

Sir Richard rolled his eyes. “It’s been two decades, Grantham, and you’ve made up your mind to be ready today ? On Christmas Day?”

“I’m afraid so. I beg your pardon for the inconvenience, but after waiting two decades for the truth, I’m not inclined to wait any longer.”

Sir Richard muttered something about uppity dukes, but he let out a resigned sigh and made himself comfortable in his chair. “Very well. You’re aware that your mother and Ambrose were dear friends?”

“I was under the understanding that Ambrose was dear friends with both of my parents, Sir Richard.”

“Yes, but it was Caroline who was Ambrose’s childhood friend. Your father didn’t come to Fairford until much later, after his father inherited the dukedom, and moved his family to Grantham Lodge.” Sir Richard leaned over the desk. “Ambrose was fond of your father, Your Grace, but it was Caroline he was devoted to. Especially in the later years, after your father started drinking.”

Max stiffened, but there was no denying it. He did his best to avoid thinking about those years, but he could recall more than one incident caused by his father’s fondness for the bottle, starting from when he’d been a small boy.

“Your mother loved your father, Grantham, but poor Harcourt had his demons. I don’t know the whole of it, but I do know those demons chased him right to the bottom of the bottle. He wasn’t a bad man by any means, but he was a weak one. By the time you were out of leading strings, the liquor had already begun eating away his wits.”

“I remember his rages.” They were among his first memories, in fact. When it got too bad—when his father’s crazed shouting could be heard echoing throughout Hammond Court, his mother would snatch him up, run to her bedchamber, and lock the door behind her.

How old had he been, then? Four years? Five?

“As bad as it was, Caroline might have held on—she loved Harcourt that much—but then she became ill. She was an intuitive lady, your mother. She knew she was dying, even before the doctors diagnosed her with consumption. Harcourt had already lost a good deal of the property that wasn’t entailed by then. There was very little money left, and Grantham Lodge had already deteriorated to the point they were obliged to remove to Hammond Court. She was terrified he’d leave you with nothing. So—”

“She asked Ambrose to wager against my father for Hammond Court.” He’d been too young to understand what was going on, and his memories were hazy, but he recalled some snatches of conversation that hadn’t made sense at the time, and weeping.

His mother, weeping.

“Perhaps it wasn’t right of her.” Sir Richard gave a helpless shrug. “But she did what she felt she had to, to protect what was left of your legacy. Ambrose didn’t hesitate to help her. Not just for her sake, but for yours, too.”

“Mine?” But he knew. Before Sir Richard got a word out, he knew what he was going to say.

“Ambrose adored you, Max.” Sir Richard met his eyes. “He couldn’t have loved you more if you’d been his own son.”

How could that be the truth? If Ambrose had cared so much for him, why had he abandoned him after he’d taken Hammond Court away? “If it’s as you say, then why did he turn his back on me? All those years, and he never came to see me once. All those Christmas parties—”

He broke off, nearly choking on the lump lodged in his throat.

All those nights—years’ worth of them—standing alone on the drive in the dark, with Hammond Court right there, so close he could touch it, but as far out of reach as the stars. Years of watching it all unfold without him, his heart a cold, dead weight in his chest—

“He never turned his back on you, Max. Your father could never forgive Ambrose for taking Hammond Court from him. He wanted revenge, so he took the one thing Ambrose cared for the most. He took you.”

Was that how it had been? He thought back, groping for the forgotten memories. His father, raging against Ambrose, and forbidding Max ever to see him again—

“Ambrose begged your father to let him see you. He tried over and over again, up until it was no longer just your father who refused to have anything to do with him. It was you , as well. Ambrose never blamed you for it. He knew Harcourt was poisoning your mind against him.”

All this time, years—no, decades of raging against Ambrose, of hating him, and it hadn’t been Ambrose who’d taken everything from him.

It had been his own father. Knowing who his father was, having witnessed his rages, how could he not have seen it before?

Because he was my father, and I loved him. He had. Despite everything, he’d loved his father with the fierce devotion of a young boy who had no one else.

“Hammond Court was always meant to be yours again, Max. Ambrose promised your mother he’d give it back to you, but, ah . . . forgive me, but over the years you earned yourself something of a reputation for ruthlessness, and Ambrose was afraid to turn Hammond Court over to you. He feared you’d tear it down, and of course, he had Rose to think of by then.”

Come to Fairford, and seize your treasure.

After all that had happened between them, in the end, Ambrose still trusted him with his most precious treasure.

Rose.

“So, he came up with the rather unusual idea of leaving the house to both of you. I tried to dissuade him at first, but he believed if anyone could bring you home to yourself, it was Rose.” Sir Richard smiled. “Well, I could hardly argue with that, could I? Rose St. Claire has the kindest heart I’ve ever known.”

She did. Her heart was a miracle. It had taken him time to realize it, but that joy he’d wondered at—the joy he’d tried to touch that day she’d spun on the ice—at long last, he understood.

She’d told him joy was a choice. Kindness was, as well.

Her joy came from her lovely, kind heart.

“Thank you, Sir Richard. You’ve been most helpful.” Max jumped to his feet. “I’ll return you to your Christmas goose.”

“Wait, if you please, Your Grace. Now you’re here, we may as well settle the rest of our business. It will save me a trip to Grantham Lodge tomorrow.” Sir Richard rifled through his desk and pulled out a thin stack of papers.

“Might we do this another time, Sir Richard?” He had to figure out where Rose was. Find her, and tell her he—

“It won’t take but a moment, Your Grace.” He pushed the papers across the desk toward Max. “You now have what you’ve wanted all along. Hammond Court is yours.”

“Mine?” Max stared down at the papers. “How can it be mine? Ambrose left it to both—”

“Rose has relinquished her share of the house to you.” Sir Richard nodded at the papers. “See for yourself, Your Grace.”

“Relinquished? How . . . wait, is Rose here ?” He whirled around, lovesick fool that he was, as if he expected she’d be standing there in the doorway of Sir Richard’s study, her arms open to him. “I need to see her.”

“Alas, I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Your Grace. She made it clear to me that she doesn’t wish to see you, but she bade me give you those. Perhaps you’d better sit down and read them.”

Max dropped down into the chair again, his hands shaking, and skimmed the papers. He was too agitated to read every word, but he absorbed enough of it to understand that Rose had indeed signed over her share of Hammond Court to him, and it looked as if she’d—

He froze, reading the lines over and over again, unable to believe what he was seeing. “What’s this?” He pointed to a paragraph near the bottom of the page. “This bit about forgoing any remuneration.”

“She doesn’t want your money, Your Grace. The house is yours, free and clear. She won’t accept one penny from you, despite my advice to the contrary.”

“No! I don’t want the bloody house, especially not this way.” What was Rose thinking, giving away her share of Hammond Court? How did she intend to live, without a penny to her name? Had she gone mad?

It seemed so, because there was her signature at the bottom of the page.

Rosamund Elizabeth St. Claire, written in her fine, flowing script.

“I don’t want it.” He tossed the papers back down onto Sir Richard’s desk. “I won’t take it.”

Sir Richard sighed. “I was afraid of that. I did try and warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. Indeed, you’ve both been dreadfully troublesome.”

Max’s life was in perfect shambles. He’d spent Christmas Eve night on a settee in his study and hadn’t slept a wink. Abby Hinde had scolded him, and Bryce had looked at him as if he’d gone mad. He had two houses—one he didn’t want, and the other overrun with aristocrats, all of whom he’d abandoned without a word. It was Christmas Day, and the lady he loved refused to see him or speak to him.

He’d made an utter mess of everything, yet a small smile rose to his lips, all the same. People in love did tend to be troublesome, didn’t they? He’d always thought so. He just didn’t imagine he’d ever be one of them.

Now, he couldn’t imagine anything else.

Sir Richard picked up the papers and returned them to his desk drawer. “Well, Your Grace, it seems we’ve reached an impasse. What do you intend to do now?”

There was only one thing to do, wasn’t there?

Find a way to see Rose, by any means necessary.

And if it were necessary to be a trifle underhanded, then so be it.

He was the Duke of Grantham, after all. He’d have what he wanted, in the end.

And what he wanted—more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his life—was Rose St. Claire.