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 Rosehere?” 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.
CHAPTER27
The snow gathered in the corners of Mrs. Mildmay’s walled garden was melting.
