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, butMax.
“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 washers, 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 couldanyone—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 chooseyou. 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.
“Idolove 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.”
