CHAPTER8
“Here 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 shewasn’tin 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.
