Page 9 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 8

“H ere ye are, Miss Rose.” Billy dumped the heavy armload of wood he’d carried into her bedchamber into the bin beside the stone hearth, a frown puckering his brow. “Yer not going to get much of a blaze from those.”

Rose glanced down at the pathetic pile of damp logs, some with a thin layer of ice still clinging to them, and hid her grimace. “Nonsense, Billy. I’ll be fine. Go on, now. Your grandmother will worry if you’re not home soon, what with the snow.”

“Ye should come home with me, Miss Rose. The wind’s howling, and it’s going to be a wild night. My grandmam would be happy to have ye.”

She pictured the cottage Billy shared with his grandmother, and a pang of longing sharp enough to squeeze a gasp out of her pierced her chest. She could see the glow of the cheerful fire in the grate, hear the snap and hiss of the wood, and smell the tantalizing scent of stew simmering atop the blaze, his tiny, white-haired grandmother fussing over it, a spoon in her hand.

Oh, how she’d dearly love to go! So much she ached for the warmth and company, but leaving Hammond Court, even for a single night, was out of the question. The moment she stepped foot outside the front door, the Duke of Grantham would pounce.

As for what that pouncing would entail, well . . . she couldn’t say, precisely, not being overly familiar with wicked dukes, but he’d made it clear he’d stop at nothing to get this house. He likely had a half dozen servants lurking in the shadows outside her door even now, despite the snow and wind.

Hammond Court wasn’t just another possession to him, any more than it was to her. For him, this was about avenging his father and punishing Ambrose. It was about retaliating for perceived wrongs, and goodness knew there were few emotions as powerful as hate and vengeance.

If she’d been in her right mind, she might have understood it. Empathized even, if not with the duke, at least with the small boy he’d once been. It must have been nightmarish, to have to watch helplessly as his mother, his father, and his home all slipped away, one by one.

But she wasn’t in her right mind. Her mind and her heart were teeming with so much fear and anger, there was no space left inside her for empathy.

She hadn’t been prepared for the menacing tightness in the duke’s jaw this afternoon, and the shadow of fury in his gray eyes when she’d refused his money.

Like tarnished silver, those eyes.

If ever there was a man who couldn’t abide being told no, it was the Duke of Grantham.

“I’ll be fine. I promise it, Billy.” She pasted a smile on lips already trembling with the chill. “Go on home, now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Ye might move into Mr. St. Claire’s room, leastways.” Billy waved a hand at the cracked window, the whorls of ice shimmering on the panes. “It’s warmer in the back of the house.”

“Perhaps I will.” She wouldn’t, because she needed to keep an eye on the drive, and this bedchamber was the only one left facing the front of the house that didn’t have a shattered window. A broken one, yes, but not shattered.

At least, not yet, but if the wind had its way, it may well be shattered by morning.

Billy didn’t appear convinced, but he only shook his head and made his way to the door, leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake. “I’ll come back before daybreak, miss.”

Then he was gone, leaving her alone in the encroaching darkness, the furious howling of the wind making the house shudder and creak around her. She knelt by the hearth, and after a good deal of trouble managed to coax a weak blaze from the damp logs.

Then, there was nothing to do but wait. It seemed to be all she ever did these days.

Wait for the night to pass, the storm to cease, for daylight to come. Wait for the next window to crack, the next leak in the roof to make itself known, the next creditor to appear on the doorstep, demanding money she didn’t have.

Wait for Ambrose to die, and the Duke of Grantham to come, his far-too-handsome mouth full of threats, accusations, and lies.

Dash it, she was wallowing again, wasn’t she?

She shook the dark thoughts from her head, snatched up the thick coverlet and wrapped it around her shoulders, then took up a handful of the bedding and tucked herself into the chair nearest the window, the fire at her back. Hammond Court had long since given up any claim to grandeur, but it was still well supplied with blankets, and she built a tiny nest for herself, tucking her legs underneath her and cocooning herself inside it.

Yes, this would do. It wasn’t warm, exactly, but it would see her through the night. As for tomorrow . . . well, things always looked more promising in the morning, didn’t they? Goodness knew, between the dreadful weather, the crumbling house, and the enmity of a powerful, ruthless, infuriated duke, anything that could go wrong had already done so.

She settled back in her chair, gazing into the gloom. The window in front of her turned deep indigo and then faded to black as night descended, bringing with it the loneliness she’d come to dread. How strange, that it could feel as if the silence were pressing in on her from every side, even as the wind wailed with growing ferocity, rattling the glass in the panes.

This hardly seemed the same house that had once been filled with so much laughter.

She stared at the black windows until they began to blur in front of her eyes. Her thoughts ran together, one flowing into the next as her head grew heavy, her eyelashes brushing her cheeks, until she was sleepy enough that there was no distinction between one thought and the next, but just a series of shifting images flickering behind her eyelids. The snowflakes drifting through the crack in the window yesterday morning, the weak sunlight illuminating them as they fell. A black carriage with a crest emblazoned on the door, and a tall, dark-haired man with gold-tasseled boots making his way up the drive. The crack of splintering wood as his foot slammed into the door, the imprint of her pistol against her palm, and a pair of cold, gray eyes.

It would get better. Surely, it would? It must, because it couldn’t get any worse.

But hadn’t she told herself the same thing, after Ambrose’s accident? Then, a mere week later, Ambrose was dead, the coverlet pulled up to his chin, his face so peaceful she might have believed he’d only slipped into a delightful nap if he hadn’t been so still and white.

It could get worse—it had done so, and so quickly she hardly recognized the life she was living now as hers. One would think she’d have learned her lesson by now, learned never to believe it couldn’t get worse, because it could, and it was tempting the wrath of fate to think otherwise.

Take it back, quickly, before—

But it was already too late. In the blink of an eye, it got worse.

So much worse.

It started with a strange snapping sound. Her eyes flew open, all vestiges of sleep dissolving in an instant. The house was forever creaking and moaning around her, the walls shuddering as it eased into its foundations like an old man inhaling and then releasing a deep breath, before settling his aching limbs around him as he fell into bed for the night.

But this was different. It wasn’t one of the usual creaks or cracks, but a pop, like a twig snapping in half. She stilled, listening, and yes, there it was again! A sharp, tight snap coming from . . . everywhere, it seemed, or—

No. It was coming from the corner of her bedchamber, near the one window that remained intact. Was the glass coming loose from the frame, or was the windowsill cracking? She leaped up from the chair and flew across the bedchamber toward the window, her blankets falling away.

The window was rattling, the wind making it tremble in its frame, but that wasn’t the source of the snapping sound. It was—

She stilled, her heart rushing into her throat.

It was coming from above her.

She looked up, and a drop of icy water splashed onto her cheek, then another onto her nose, her chin, the droplets falling quickly now, catching in her eyelashes. She gasped, her muscles pulling tight as she willed it to stop, willed the house she loved to still, but she could hear it clearly now, a low, ominous rush above her, like a river overflowing its banks, and the cursed Duke of Grantham’s words echoed inside her head.

This house is tumbling down around your ears . . .

No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t . It was just another leak, much like the leaks in the drawing room and the study. Nothing a pail and a handful of rags wouldn’t solve.

She peered up at the ceiling. It was as dark as Hades outside, and the bedchamber was lost in shadows, but it looked as if . . . oh. Oh, no. She squeezed her eyes closed, sucked in a breath, then opened them again, blinking away another drop of icy water, a muttered prayer on her lips.

But prayers hadn’t done her any good before, and they didn’t now, because even in the gloom of the bedchamber there was no mistaking the peril about to rain down upon her from above.

What had once been a perfectly serviceable ceiling now resembled nothing so much as a hot air balloon. The white plaster was swollen into a bubble that covered an entire corner of the room, the whole of it juddering and quivering like a jelly, a steady stream of water dripping from the distended belly of it.

It was going to collapse, and soon.

No, not soon. Now —

Her only warning was a series of ominous popping sounds, one pop after another, like bones snapping, but she managed to leap out of the way before the balloon burst with a deafening whoosh, and a wave of water gushed forth, flooding the bedchamber.

Oh, God. Oh, dear God.

She fled to the bedchamber door, away from the deluge, but she skidded to a halt when she reached the safety of the hallway and peeked back into the bedchamber. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it had sounded, or looked, or ... felt. Perhaps she might yet be able to salvage it.

But it was as bad. No, it was worse, and it didn’t take more than a glance to see it.

The force of the water had turned her chair over. The blankets she’d wrapped around herself were lying in a sopping mass in the middle of the floor. The fire she’d labored over was a wreck of smoking logs, the flames extinguished, and a thin stream of water was still dripping from the gaping hole where the ceiling used to be.

There was nothing to salvage, nothing to do but turn and drag herself into the hallway, her heart like a stone in her chest. How much longer could she keep on like this, when every day brought another struggle, another disaster?

She stumbled down the corridor towards Abby’s bedchamber but paused beside the closed door of Ambrose’s room. She’d set it to rights after he’d passed away, changing all the linens and scrubbing every inch of it until it sparkled, but she hadn’t set foot in it since then, because she hadn’t wanted . . .

She hadn’t wanted to see how empty it was.

But she was so tired , so unutterably weary, and she missed him so dreadfully, her chest aching with it, and all she wanted, the only thing she wanted in the world right now was to be as close to him as she could be.

The hinges creaked as she opened the door, the floorboards squeaking under her feet. She didn’t pause in the sitting room that adjoined the bedchamber, but made her way directly to the bed and crawled into it, pulling the coverlet over her head.

But as exhausted as she was, sleep refused to come.

Perhaps she should take Abby’s advice and leave Fairford, while her memories of this place were still happy ones. Because she couldn’t keep on like this, dodging Ambrose’s creditors at every turn, and struggling to hold off the steady deterioration of Hammond Court at the same time.

She couldn’t win a battle against the Duke of Grantham. She’d been a fool to believe for an instant that she could. Surely, Ambrose hadn’t intended for her to do so. He knew how ruthless Grantham was, and how pointless it would be for her to attempt to fight him.

She was nothing, a nobody, a by-blow with no money, no family, and few friends. The Duke of Grantham would crush her under his boot heel without a second thought, and nary a backward glance. He’d have his way, no matter what she did, so what was the use in struggling? It would be much better for her to give up now before things became truly ugly.

Yes, of course that was what Ambrose would want her to do. That was likely what he’d been trying to tell her, on that last day, right before he’d died.

Only that wasn’t what he’d said .

If he’d wanted her to leave Hammond Court, he could have told her so easily enough, but he hadn’t. Instead, with the last few breaths he’d had left in him, he’d spoken of the Duke of Grantham.

A lost soul . . .

He’d said it over and over again, his hand clutching weakly at hers.

If he truly believed the duke would harm her, then why had he thrown her into the man’s path by setting up this battle between them? If he’d intended for her to leave Fairford behind, why had he gone to such pains to make certain she could remain at Hammond Court, no matter how much the duke might wish to be rid of her? He might have left the house to one or the other of them easily enough.

But he hadn’t. He’d left it to them both.

Was it simply a ploy, to get the duke to pay her for her share of the house, and thus ensure she wasn’t left penniless? It was possible, but if that was the case, why not just leave the house solely to her? Why leave it to both of them?

Ambrose had been an unpredictable man, but for all that he’d been maddeningly opaque at times, he hadn’t been the sort who did things on a whim. He’d set it up this way purposely because he’d wanted her to do something for him, something he’d run out of time to do for himself.

But what? She flipped onto her back and threw her arm over her eyes, her head a whirl of confusing contradictions. It was almost as if Ambrose had intended to force her and the duke together . . .

She bolted upright, her eyes snapping open. Of course! It was so obvious, it was a wonder she hadn’t realized it at once! Ambrose’s one sorrow, his one regret, was that he’d run out of time to make his peace with the Duke of Grantham.

So, he wanted her to do it for him.

That was what he’d been trying to ask of her, the day he’d died! What else could it be?

Ambrose had loved this house, and he’d taught her to love it as well, just as Sir Richard had said. It had never been only a house to him, but a haven of love and hope and togetherness, a place of precious memories. It would have broken his heart to see it torn down.

But the house wasn’t the only thing he wanted to save.

He wanted to save the Duke of Grantham, too.

But how on earth was she meant to heal a wound that had been festering for two decades? Who was she , to try and reconcile a bitter, vengeful duke to the events of a past neither of them understood? How was she even meant to go about it? Why, it could take weeks, months—an entire lifetime, even—for the duke to make peace with his past, and that was assuming the thing could be done at all.

But then, Ambrose had always had such faith in her. Why, the silly man had insisted she’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky, and she . . .

Well, she’d thought the same of him, hadn’t she?

She dashed a tear from her cheek. Everything she had, and everything she was, was because of Ambrose. He’d done everything for her, had given her everything. If it hadn’t been for him, God only knew what would have become of her.

He’d never asked for anything in return. Not once, in all these years, had he ever asked a single thing of her.

Until now.

She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in Ambrose’s pillow. It still smelled faintly of him, the mingled scents of mint and clove from the snuff he’d favored tickling her nose and making her heart ache.

In the end, she would leave Hammond Court. She’d never been meant to stay here forever.

But it wouldn’t be today, nor would it be tomorrow. The entire house might tumble down around her, just as the duke had warned it would, but she wasn’t leaving until she’d fulfilled her final promise to Ambrose.