Page 29 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

E PILOGUE

Hammond Court December 20, 1820

“T he candied ginger has disappeared again.” Rose rummaged through her spices, but once again, her stores of preserved ginger were nowhere to be found. “Either someone’s taking it, or it’s found a way to escape the cabinet. It’s the slipperiest spice I’ve ever encountered.”

Max was lounging at the kitchen table, licking the last droplets of sweet, sticky treacle from a wooden spoon. “I’d wager Billy took it. He’s a sneaky one.”

“Is that so?” She gave up on the ginger, hiding her smile as she approached the table, and took the spoon out of his hand. “I’ve only ever caught one person pilfering my ingredients, and that’s you , Your Grace. Shame on you, blaming poor Billy.”

“Me? Nonsense.” He caught her wrist and raised the spoon to his lips for one final lick. “If I have a craving for ginger, Mrs. Watson fetches it from the shop.”

“Ah, but that’s just it. You don’t crave just any ginger. It’s my candied ginger you’re after.” She pointed a dramatic finger at the spice cabinet. “It can’t be had anywhere but from that cabinet, and I can’t help but notice my ginger stores are always curiously depleted after you’ve been in the kitchen.”

Goodness knew, no duke ever spent as much time in the kitchen as the Duke of Grantham. Over the past year, they’d gotten into the habit of sneaking down from their bedchamber after the servants were asleep, giggling and hushing each other as they made their way through the house in the dark, and creeping into the kitchen to do some nighttime baking.

Or at least, she baked. Max spent more time sneaking tastes of the batter and watching her than anything else. It was ridiculous, of course, as they employed a most accomplished cook, but she’d always loved Hammond Court’s kitchen, and she loved it even more when her handsome, smiling husband was in it.

“That’s a scandalous accusation, wife.” He licked the last of the treacle from the corners of his lips. “Have you any proof at all?”

“That you’re a thief? One need look no farther than your lips for proof of that.” She sniffed and made an entirely feigned effort to free her wrist from his grasp. “I suppose I’ll have to go into the secret stores I’ve hidden in the stillroom. Unhand me, please, Your Grace.”

“No, indeed.” He slid a strong arm around her waist and drew her closer, settling her between his spread knees, his lips grazing her ear. “Tell me more about your secrets.”

She caught her breath, anticipation curling down her spine. “What about the ginger biscuits? At tea this afternoon you were insisting you must have a new batch at once.”

“Later.” He nibbled delicately at the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Lie down with me.” He patted the smooth, wide tabletop, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth.

She shivered at the caress, her fingers going slack around the spoon. “What, here ? On the kitchen table?”

He chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve, er . . . made use of the table for something other than baking. You do recall December twenty-third of last year, do you not, Your Grace? Then there was that messy incident with the raspberry fool. Why, only last week we—”

“Hush, you wicked man.” She stroked her palms down his neck and over his broad shoulders to the hard muscles of his chest. A moan tore from his throat when she scraped a fingernail over his nipple, and she paused to tease the stiffening tip before moving lower, letting her fingertips drift over the delicious ridges and hollows of his stomach.

She never tired of touching him. Even after a year of marriage, his body fascinated her still. Every inch of him was hard, angular, with sleek golden skin poured over tight muscles, and then there were the intriguing sprinklings of hair . . .

She slid her hand lower until she found the thin line of dark hair under his navel, following it with her fingertips until the trail disappeared under the crumpled edge of his pantaloons.

Max growled, but he held himself still, the muscles of his abdomen twitching against her touch. “Another inch, Your Grace, and there’s certain to be a ravishing.”

She tutted. “Have you forgotten you asked me to teach you to make ginger biscuits? You’re proving to be a most troublesome student, Max.”

“Yes, but I make up for it with my exceptional skills in other areas,” he murmured, brushing his lips over her neck.

She dropped her head back, baring her throat. “Don’t try and tell me you no longer crave ginger biscuits, because I know—”

She broke off with a startled cry as he snatched her up into his arms and tugged her onto his lap, hiking up her skirts so she straddled him. “Ah, that’s much better.” He took the spoon from her, set it aside, and slid a hand under her hems, stroking his palm over her thigh. “I don’t deny I have powerful cravings, but not for ginger biscuits.”

“Oh? What, then?”

“I think you know.” He gazed at her, reaching out to trace the lines of her face with his fingertips. “You’re so beautiful, Rose, all of you. Beautiful, and mine . When I think of what I nearly lost—”

“Shhh. You’ll never lose me.” She cupped his face in her hands, her breath catching at the love, the hot desire swirling in those dark gray depths. “I’ll always be with you, Max.”

He smiled. “Forever?”

“Forever,” she whispered, her lips hovering over his. “Now, I believe I was promised a ravishing. Take me upstairs to our bedchamber, Your Grace.”

* * *

“Come, Max. You can’t stand there all afternoon.” Rose glided to the edge of the pond, her arms splayed out to keep her balance. “It’s far too cold to be still for so long.”

They’d woken later than usual after their late-night adventure in the kitchen to find a light dusting of snow glittering on the frozen ground, and a pale gray winter sky above. He would have happily lazed in bed with her all afternoon, but nothing pleased Rose so much as an afternoon of skating, and nothing pleased him so much as watching her.

It was tradition, after all, to skate at Christmastime.

He’d been watching her face as she twirled on the ice, smiling at the memory of the first time he’d seen her like this. The year had flown by in the blink of an eye, every day sweeter than the one before it.

But now he tore his gaze away and glanced down at the pair of skates dangling from his fingers. Flimsy, awkward things. “I’d much rather stay where I am and watch you.”

“No, that won’t do.” She paused in her twirling, a grin on her lips. “You’ll freeze into a statue, and then all the children from miles around will insist upon coming to Fairford to see the frozen duke.”

“My skates are inadequate.”

She threw her head back in a laugh, the joyful sound echoing in the frosty air, and startling a few birds from their branches. “How do you know? You haven’t even put them on yet.”

“And I had much better not.” He brandished the skates, giving them a shake. “Look at them! They’re the most troublesome things imaginable, and that’s to say nothing of the ice, which is sure to collapse underneath me as soon as I venture out.”

“Oh, nonsense. It’s holding me up well enough, isn’t it?”

“That, my dearest wife, is because nature herself adores you, just as I do. She wouldn’t dare lay a single finger on your lovely head. Well, and because you’re half the weight of a hummingbird.”

“I feel quite certain you’ll be safe, Your Grace.” She slid closer and held out her hand to him. “Help me up onto the bank, won’t you?”

He caught her small hand in his and gave her a firm tug that landed her right in his arms. “Ah, now this is much better.” He pressed his lips to her temple, inhaling her scent of pine and fresh winter air. “Perhaps skating isn’t quite as tedious as I thought.”

“Mmmm.” She took a moment to rest her cheek on his chest before squirming loose and taking the skates from his hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He caught her by the sleeve of her cloak and tried to catch her in his arms again, but she twirled out of his grip, stumbling a bit on her skates.

“Sit down here.” She patted the flat rock near the edge of the pond. “I’ll help you with your skates.”

He sighed, but he picked his way over the snowy bank to the rock. “I won’t be permitted to take you back to our bedchamber until I’ve skated, will I?”

She smiled up at him and patted the rock once again. “Certainly not, so you may as well do as you’re told.”

“Very well.” He lowered himself onto the rock and stuck one foot out.

She unfastened the buckles on the leather straps, then cradled his foot in her lap, and fitted the wooden bed against the bottom of his boot. “Do you remember the first time we came here together, last year?”

He gazed down at her golden head, half-hidden under a very smart green hat that matched the dark green cloak she’d had made when they visited London in the spring. Did she imagine he could ever forget that day? It was the day he’d come alive again. “I do. It’s one of my most treasured memories.”

As a boy, he’d been taught to distrust love, but since he found Rose, he’d become a man who embraced it. Once he’d told her he loved her, and asked her to be his, neither of them had ever looked back.

“You helped me with my skates that day. I remember I was so surprised when you took my foot into your hands. Your fingers around my ankle made me shiver.” She’d been busying herself with the buckles, her gaze on her task, but now she looked up, her green eyes shining. “I believe that was the first time you ever touched me.”

“It was, and nothing’s ever been the same since.” He touched her chin, tilting her face up to his so she wouldn’t look away. “I didn’t know . . . if someone had told me then I could love someone as much as I love you, Rose, I wouldn’t have believed them.”

“No more than I love you, Max.” She took his hand, pressed a fervent kiss to his palm, then rose to her feet. “Come skate with me?”

“How can I refuse you, when you ask so prettily?” But then, she always did, didn’t she? Rose might be a duchess now, but despite her grand title, she was the same kind lady he’d fallen in love with, and he could refuse her nothing. “I suppose I’d better learn, in any case. Basingstoke and Montford will laugh themselves sick if I fall on the ice, the scoundrels.”

Their friends would arrive in Fairford a few days before Christmas Eve and would remain until after Twelfth Night. He and Rose had spent a good part of the spring and fall in London, at his townhouse in Mayfair, but as the autumn faded to winter and the morning frost had covered the grounds of Hyde Park, they’d found themselves longing once again for Fairford and Hammond Court.

So, they’d come home, and spent every moment of the lazy, sun-filled fall days alone together, wandering the pathways between Hammond Court and Grantham Lodge until the sun set in a brilliant glow of pink and gold. Then they’d return to their cozy fireside, where they played chess, or read to each other, and whiled away the long winter nights in their bed, entwined in each other’s arms.

It had been his idea to hold another Christmas party this year, but not at Grantham Lodge this time. This Christmas, and every year afterward, they’d celebrate at Hammond Court, which had now been restored to its former glory. For Rose’s sake, he longed to see it come alive once again with love and laughter.

And for Ambrose’s sake, as well. Together, he and Rose had made a vow to keep as many of Hammond Court’s traditions as they could, as a way of honoring him.

But there would be some new traditions of their own, too.

Hers, and his.

“Skating is the easiest thing in the world, really, as the ice does all the work.” She slipped her arm around his waist and guided him toward the center of the pond, where the ice was smoother. “It’s rather like walking, but lean forward a bit, and when you’re ready, let your foot glide over the ice.”

“Like this?” He tucked her into his side, then took a step, and another, until he fell naturally into a gliding motion as the blades on his skates took over.

“Just like that, Max. One step at a time. Lift one foot up while you glide on the other. Push off against the ice to propel yourself forward. That’s it. You’re skating, Max.”

Against all the odds, he was.

One stroke of his foot blended into the next until he was sliding smoothly over the ice, picking up speed with every turn until they were gliding together, with her laughing breathlessly as she struggled to keep up. “Dear me, you have very long legs! I can scarcely keep up with you.”

He tightened his arm around her and smiled down into her eyes. “You don’t suppose I’d leave you behind, do you? Never, Your Grace.”

They went along, the scrape of their blades a soft hiss against the ice, the wide, endless winter sky above them. A gentle breeze sent sparkling clouds of snow drifting down from the branches to dust their shoulders as they passed, their bodies pressed close together as they made their way to the other end of the pond, then turned clumsily, both of them laughing, and returned to where they began.

“My goodness, you’re already quite good at it, and it’s only your first time.” She reached up to brush a lock of dark hair back from his forehead. “Perhaps all the footwork with your fencing helped you along.”

He stilled at her touch, and at the soft gleam in her green eyes. “Or perhaps I simply had a very good teacher.” He settled his hands on her waist. “A lovely, entrancing teacher, with golden hair and green eyes, and a laugh so beautiful I couldn’t help but fall in love with her.”

“Max,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing.

He still had the ability to make her blush, and he hoped he always would.

“Rosamund Elizabeth.” He traced his thumb over her soft, pink lips. “My love. Teach me to spin as you do.”

And she did, her hands tucked into his, her head thrown back, her face tilted toward the sky, and a dreamy smile on her lips, spinning just as she had when she’d taught him what it meant to embrace joy—to open your arms to it, and let it take you.

Only this time, it was different.

This time, he was spinning with her.