Page 28 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 27

T he snow gathered in the corners of Mrs. Mildmay’s walled garden was melting.

Rose had been sitting in the window seat for hours, watching the thin rivulets of melted snow leaking from the drifts, and running down the stone pathways. They’d shrunk quite a lot since this morning.

Nothing was ever as permanent as it seemed to be. She’d been certain the weeks of gray skies and freezing temperatures would go on forever, but this morning, the sun had returned to Fairford.

Just in time for her to leave the tiny village behind forever.

Kent was meant to be warmer than Gloucestershire. Surely, the lovely weather would endear her to her new home as soon as she arrived? Then, of course, there were the gardens. Kent could boast one of the most colorful carpets of wildflowers in all of England.

Who didn’t love wildflowers? Lacy white yarrow, yellow creeping buttercup, pink knapweed, and purple wild thyme. Why, soon enough she wouldn’t have a thought to spare for Hammond Court anymore.

“Come sit with me, Rose.” Abby set aside her embroidery. “You’ve been at the window all day. You’ll catch a chill if you linger there any longer.”

“It’s not at all chilly.” But Rose dragged herself from the window seat and sat down on the edge of the bed. The urge to lay her head against the pillow and sink into a dreamless sleep was overwhelming, but she remained steadfastly upright.

It wasn’t even teatime yet. She wouldn’t take to her bed in the middle of the afternoon, or engage in any other silly dramatics.

It was just the long day catching up with her, that was all. She’d sent a note to Sir Richard only an hour after the sun had risen and had hardly had a chance to dress before his carriage was waiting for her in the drive. Abby had remained at Hammond Court to see the house was properly closed up, but only a few hours had elapsed before she’d joined Rose.

In the end, there hadn’t been much for Abby to do. They’d been gone for weeks already by then. If Rose had known when she left Hammond Court the morning after her bedchamber flooded that she’d never come home again, she would have—

Well, it hardly mattered now, so there was no sense fretting over it, was there?

“You didn’t eat much at dinner.” Abby frowned at her. “Shall I fetch you a tray?”

She had made rather a poor showing at Sir Richard’s Christmas table earlier this afternoon. She didn’t have any appetite, which was rather a shame, as Sir Richard’s cook had prepared a lovely roasted goose for Christmas dinner.

There’d been Christmas pudding, too, but she hadn’t tasted it. It was the first time she could recall not shamelessly gorging herself on it, but she couldn’t even look at it without recalling the servants at Grantham Lodge making their Christmas wishes.

Even thinking of it now made her stomach clench. “No, thank you, Abby. I’m not hungry.”

But Abby rose from her chair, anyway. “Perhaps just a bit of eggnog.” She didn’t give Rose a chance to protest, but bustled out the bedchamber door, leaving her alone.

It was only two days until December twenty-seventh. She only had to make it until December twenty-seventh, then she’d leave Fairford for good, and undertake the three-day journey to Sir Richard’s mother’s house in Cranbrook.

And there, with a fresh year upon her, her life would begin anew, the past seventeen years of her old life nothing but a fading memory.

It was for the best, of course. Rather like wiping a slate clean.

She’d never imagined she’d ever become a lady’s companion, but one must do something, and Sir Richard’s mother was a cheerful, busy lady. It would be no hardship to serve her, and, of course, Abby was coming, as well. Really, she had no reason to complain. She’d miss Billy, and Mrs. Watson, too, but she could hardly remain in Fairford, with no place to live.

“Rose!” Abby flew through the bedchamber door, her hands fluttering about, and no eggnog in sight. “Quickly, dearest. Heavens, what have I done with your cloak?”

“Abby?” Rose stumbled to her feet. “What is it?”

“The Duchesses of Basingstoke and Montford are here. They’re downstairs in the entryway, waiting for you.”

“Oh.” For a moment she’d thought . . . well, it didn’t matter. “Francesca and Prue are here ?” How had they known to find her at Sir Richard’s? “But what do they want?”

“They say they’ve come to take you for a drive.” Abby was scurrying about the room, searching for Rose’s hat and gloves. “Here they are. Put them on, pet.”

“I don’t fancy a drive, Abby. I’ve, er . . . I’ve got rather a bad headache.” Headache, or heartache. What difference did it make?

But Abby tutted, seeing right through this excuse. “Nonsense. If you do have a headache, it’s because you’ve been cooped up inside all day. It’s a lovely afternoon, and the fresh air will do you a world of good.”

She did want to see Francesca and Prue, but what if they insisted on taking her directly to Grantham Lodge? She couldn’t risk seeing Max right now, before she’d had a chance to persuade herself she was doing the right thing, leaving Fairford, and Hammond Court behind.

Leaving him behind.

Her determination was already wavering. It had been, since she’d woken this morning with the soft, warm coverlet under her chin, the freshly painted ceiling above her head, and the heavy silk draperies at the window holding the chill at bay.

If only she could convince herself the repairs had nothing to do with her. That he’d done it all for himself because he intended to move back into Hammond Court.

But the porcelain vase, and the silver candlesticks, and the soft green walls . . .

He hadn’t chosen them for himself. He’d chosen them for her .

Everything he’d done had been for her.

All it would take was one glance from those gray eyes, and her resolve would scatter like petals on the wind. “I think it’s best if I don’t—”

“Come now, Rose. You’re hardly going to refuse a pair of duchesses, are you? What’s become of your cloak? Ah, here it is.” Abby snatched Rose’s cloak from the clothes press, and held it out to her, shaking it. “The duchesses said they’re leaving Fairford tomorrow. You can’t let them go without bidding them goodbye after they were so kind to you.”

Rose stifled a groan. No, she couldn’t allow them to leave without thanking them first. “Yes, all right.” She held out her arms with a sigh, and Abby helped her into the cloak. Rose buttoned it, then went to the door, but just as she was reaching for the knob, Abby stopped her.

“Wait, Rose.”

She turned. “Yes? What’s the matter, Abby? You look strange.”

“Oh, nothing at all, pet, just . . .” Another hesitation, then Abby blurted, “If you do happen to come across the Duke of Grantham while you’re out, and he asks to speak to you, you might consider listening to what he has to say.”

“ You want me to listen to the Duke of Grantham? But you’ve been saying all along that he’s an arrogant, heartless villain!” Rose threw up her hands. “You told me that all aristocrats are scoundrels, and you insisted the Duke of Grantham was the wickedest of the lot! My goodness, Abby. That’s rather a sudden change of heart.”

Abby flushed to the roots of her hair. “I never used the word villain .”

“Scoundrel, then! Surely, that’s the same thing?”

“Very well.” Abby avoided her gaze. “I own I may have said he was wicked, once or twice, but he’s not quite the scoundrel I—”

“He spoke to you, didn’t he? When, Abby? When did you speak to him?”

“He came by Hammond Court this morning after you left. He asked to speak to you. I didn’t tell him you were here,” she hastened to add. “Though he’s certain to find it out soon enough if he hasn’t already. But he looked—that is, he seemed . . .” She sighed. “He looked as if his heart were breaking, Rose.”

Oh, God. It hurt to think of it, to recall the devastation on his face when she’d left him in the doorway of Grantham Lodge last night. “He lied to me, Abby! He schemed to steal Hammond Court from me.”

“Schemed, yes, but he didn’t go through with it, did he? Hush now, Rose.” Abby held up a hand to quiet her when Rose would have interrupted. “I’m not saying that excuses him, but—well, he did go to quite a lot of trouble to see Hammond Court set to rights, didn’t he? I can’t think of any reason he’d do that, but to please you.”

It had pleased her. She was tremendously grateful to him, but had it really changed anything between them? Oh, she didn’t know! So she’d done her best to banish it from her mind. If she thought too much about it, she’d begin to wonder if she was making a mistake, leaving Fairford, and her thoughts would start spinning in useless circles once again.

“All I’m saying, pet, is that a man who’d go to such lengths as that can’t be all bad. Just something to keep in mind, all right?” Abby fastened the last button at the top of Rose’s cloak and turned her toward the door. “Go on, now, and enjoy yourself with the duchesses. I expect you to return with some color in your cheeks.”

As it turned out, when Francesca and Prue said they wanted to take Rose for a drive, that was precisely what they’d meant. Neither of them mentioned a single word about Max, and they didn’t make any attempt to abscond with her to Grantham Lodge.

Instead, they insisted on riding through Fairford, so Rose might tell them all about the village, as she’d promised she would when they first arrived. It didn’t take long—Fairford was mainly just the High Street.

“Well, it’s lovely, isn’t it, Prue?” Francesca said when they’d left the village behind.

“Yes, indeed. It puts me in mind of Wiltshire.”

“Shall we drive a bit longer?” Francesca asked brightly. “It’s such a lovely day.”

Francesca didn’t wait for a reply but ordered the coachman to take them for a short drive in the countryside. The duchesses kept up a steady stream of cheerful chatter as the carriage bumped along, and Rose did her best to match their enthusiasm, but it wasn’t long before her dark thoughts caught up to her again.

It was good of her friends to try and distract her, but somehow, the drive depressed her spirits even further. Everywhere they went—every road, every building, and even every tree had a memory attached to it.

Fairford was her home . How could she bear to leave it behind?

But she would. She had to. She’d already signed the papers turning Hammond Court over to Max. There was no going back now. Even if she could have done it, she wouldn’t. Ambrose wanted Max to have the house. She was certain of it.

But with every turn of the carriage wheels, she grew more and more despondent, until she became so lost in her misery that she lapsed into silence, keeping her listless gaze on the scenery rushing by the window, without truly seeing it.

That is, until it became so familiar she realized with a start where they were taking her. “Wait, what are we doing here ?”

They hadn’t brought her to Grantham Lodge, as she’d feared they would.

They’d brought her to Hammond Court.

“Why are we here?” She turned on Francesca and Prue, dread coiling in her stomach. It had hurt terribly to leave it behind this morning, and now she’d have to find the courage to do it all over again. “I don’t want to go inside. Take me back to Sir Richard’s, please.”

But it was already too late. They were partway up the drive, and . . . what in the world? She pressed her nose to the window, amazed. Hammond Court didn’t look precisely as it used to during Ambrose’s Christmas parties, but it made her breath catch in pleasure, all the same.

It was quiet—nothing like the raucous affairs of Christmases past. Instead of the crush of carriages, the drive was deserted, and in place of the bright light spilling from every window, each was lit by the glow of a single candle only.

“My, it’s a lovely house, isn’t it?” Prue’s voice was hushed.

“I can see why you love it so much.” Francesca gave Rose a gentle smile.

“I do. I do love it.” Rose’s voice shook, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, my dear,” Prue murmured.

“Forgive me, it’s just that I’m going to miss it so dreadfully.” Rose dragged her arm across her cheek. “I can’t think why, really. It’s a terribly troublesome place, with all the dratted leaks, and the broken windows, and you can’t imagine the number of spiders . . .” She trailed off, her gaze moving over the house.

There were no longer any leaks, spiders, or broken windows. Max had seen to that.

“Ah, but broken windows can be repaired, as you see. There’s nothing broken that can’t be repaired, Rose,” Francesca murmured. “As hopelessly damaged as it might seem, there isn’t a single thing that can’t be made new again.”

“Franny’s right, Rose.” Prue smiled. “And once it is made new, you may find it’s more beautiful, more special than it ever was before.”

Rose said nothing but continued to gaze at the house, strangely breathless. She had the oddest sensation in her chest. It felt almost like . . . hope.

The carriage stopped at the top of the drive. Francesca didn’t wait for the coachman, but opened the door and stepped down, reaching her hand out to Rose. “Shall we have a peek inside? Come, Rose, let’s have a closer look.”

Rose accepted Francesca’s hand, but once they were on the drive, she hesitated. The house appeared to be deserted, but someone had lit those candles, and she could think of only one person who’d spend so much time and effort just to please her.

Because, once again, this had all been done for her. It must have been, because there wasn’t a single person in Fairford who could ever love this house more than she did. “Yes, I’d like to go inside.”

Francesca smiled and squeezed her hand. “Wonderful. I’m so glad, Rose.”

Rose dragged her feet a bit on their way to the door, a sudden shyness overtaking her, but Francesca and Prue urged her along, and soon enough they passed through the doorway and into the entryway.

“Oh!” Rose pressed a hand to her mouth.

Garlands had been woven through the spindles of the grand staircase, and draped over the banister, all the way up to the second floor. It wasn’t quite dark outside yet, but the sconces in the entryway had been lit, and a soft glow came from the direction of the drawing room.

“It’s so pretty.” It was lovely and warm and smelled of fresh pine, and for a moment it was as if she were a young girl again, getting her first glimpse of Hammond Court at Christmastime.

But she was no longer a child. She was a fully grown woman, and too old to run away from her problems. So, when Max stepped from the shadows of the hallway into the entryway and held out his hand to her . . .

She took it.

That was when she knew. The candlelight, the garlands, the scent of fresh pine—they all meant Hammond Court at Christmastime to her.

But it was only when she took Max’s hand, and his fingers closed around hers, that she felt as if she’d truly come home.

* * *

She’d come.

It wasn’t until her hand slipped into his that he realized how terrified he’d been that she wouldn’t. In the hours since they’d finished preparing the house, and Montford and Basingstoke had left him here at Hammond Court alone, Max had gone from wildly soaring hope to the darkest depths of despair.

But she was here. Rose had come. Even now, he could hardly believe it, but her hand was warm inside his, her fingers wrapped tightly around his own.

And he was as tongue-tied as a schoolboy on the verge of his first kiss. “Rose, I . . .” Dozens of words rushed to his lips, but he couldn’t speak a single one of them. Instead, he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a fervent kiss to her palm.

She let out a shuddering breath. “Francesca and Prue . . .” she began, glancing over her shoulder, but the entryway was deserted.

Her friends had slipped out the door as soon as Rose accepted his hand.

“Oh.” She turned back to him, biting her lip. “They said they wanted to have a peek inside, but . . .”

She fell silent, a flush rising to her cheeks, and that was when he realized she was as tongue-tied as he was. It was up to him, then. He cast about for something to say, and finally blurted, “I brought the Christmas pudding.”

Christmas pudding? Dear God, of all the things he might have said to her—that he was madly in love with her, and wished to be with her always—he’d landed on Christmas pudding?

“The Christmas . . . oh, you mean the one I made at Grantham Lodge?”

“Yes.” He nodded, far more vigorously than the occasion warranted. “There’s a small table set up for us in the drawing room if you . . . oh, but you must already have had Christmas pudding today. Dinner was hours ago.”

What had he been thinking, bringing a Christmas pudding? It was ridiculous. He was making a mess of this—

“No! I mean, no.” She gave him a shy glance, her dark lashes sweeping across her cheekbones. “I haven’t had any yet.”

“Oh. Would you like some?” He hesitated, then held out his arm to her, his heart pounding. He had no reason to expect her to join him, no reason to expect anything at all from her.

“I do adore Christmas pudding.” She rested her fingertips lightly on his forearm.

Hope shot through him, his head spinning with it, and it was all he could do not to drop to his knees for her in the middle of the hallway. Instead, he led her into the drawing room, but she stopped on the threshold, a gasp on her lips. “Oh, my. This is so pretty, Max.”

Max. Not Your Grace, but Max .

“I’m pleased you think so.” He chuckled. “Basingstoke and Montford nearly came to blows over the proper way to arrange it all.”

In the end, they’d thankfully deferred to Mrs. Watson, and a good thing, too, because the drawing room had come to life under her hands. Everything from the white linens to the sparkling silver place settings, the roaring fire to the flickering candles spoke of warmth, home, and Christmas.

All the things he wanted to give to Rose if she’d let him.

He led her to the table and urged her into the seat nearest the fire. He started for the chair on the other side, but he hadn’t taken half a step before he stopped. He didn’t want pudding, and he didn’t want to sit across from her and chat politely as if they were strangers.

His heart was on fire for her. All that mattered, all he wanted, was for her to know that he was hers , body and soul.

Rose was eyeing the silver serving plate in the middle of the table, a nervous laugh on her lips. “Oh, dear. I do hope the pudding isn’t ruined. I daresay there wasn’t enough time for it to set up properly, and—”

“Rose.” He dropped to his knees beside her. “I’m so sorry, for my scheme with Dunwitty, and for lying to you, and for . . . well, for being the ruthless, heartless, wicked Duke of Grantham.” He took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Please, Rose. Can you ever forgive me?”

Silence. He steeled himself for the moment when she’d turn away from him and tell him she could never forgive him.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, she turned toward him and cupped his face gently in her palm. “On Christmas Eve, you said you’re not the same man who came to Fairford all those weeks ago. What did you mean, Max?”

“Don’t you know?” He nuzzled his cheek against her hand. “How could I—how could anyone —know you, and not be changed by it? You told me once that joy is a choice. That love and hate are choices. I couldn’t see it at the time—I spent too many years wrapped in my revenge to see anything properly.”

Now, he hardly recognized the cold, unhappy man he’d once been.

“I choose joy. I choose you . I love you, Rose. You’re everything to me. I’m not a good man, but if you ever could . . .” He drew in a deep breath, his voice shaking. “If you ever could love me in return, I’d spend the rest of my life endeavoring to deserve you.”

His voice broke then, but she was there, her lips on his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, and finally his lips, a kiss so tender, so sweet it brought tears to his eyes.

“I do love you, Max. I tried to tell myself I didn’t, but you see how hopeless it is.” She let out a soft laugh. “Has there ever been a more unlikely couple than the two of us? I thank the heavens for putting us together against every rule of logic and reason.”

“Then you’ll have me, Rose?” He searched her face, his breath held. “You’ll be my duchess? We don’t have to go to London if you don’t like it. We can remain in Fairford, either at Grantham Lodge, or Hammond Court. Whatever you want, although we’ll have to stay at Grantham Lodge at first until Hammond Court can be made habitable. Say you will, Rose. Please—”

“Shhh.” She pressed her fingertips to his lips. “Of course, I will. Nothing would make me happier.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her lap. She stroked his hair and murmured to him, tender words of love and desire, longing and devotion. He didn’t try and make sense of it all, but just clung to her, and let her voice drift over him, and into him, filling all the dark, lonely places in his heart.