It was not in his tenants’ interest for the duke to remain an absentee landlord, and given Ambrose’s tenants would soon become the Duke of Grantham’s tenants, it was welcome news that the duke was considering marrying.
Yes, indeed. Very welcome news.
But what were the chances a lady accustomed to all the delights Town had to offer would find anything to please her in tiny Fairford? That is, it was a pleasing town, of course—why, there wasn’t a lovelier place in all of England—but a lady as elegant as a future duchess must be, might find it too small and rustic to be of much interest.
Now, if Grantham Lodge had been at all welcoming, perhaps it might have been different, but as it was . . . she glanced around the study. It was an elegant room, the furnishings in the height of fashion, as one would expect of a duke. The settee was done in a rich, dark blue silk, and the desk was a massive rosewood affair, every inch of it polished to a high gloss.
The same could be said of the other rooms in the house, as well, or at least the few she’d peeked into on her way to the study. There seemed to be an endless number of sitting rooms and parlors, each more lavish than the last, with costly silk wallpapers and massive, carved stone fireplaces.
Yet somehow, for all its grandness, Grantham Lodge wasn’t a welcoming place.
The beautiful silk settees looked as if they’d never been graced by a single backside. There wasn’t as much as a speck of soot to be seen in any of the grand fireplaces, as if nary a fire had ever been lit in any of them. The elegant brass doorknobs didn’t bear a single fingerprint. It was as if every trace of a human hand had been erased.
Everything was spotless, still, and cold.
It wasn’t ahome. For all its spiders, leaky ceilings, and smoking fireplaces, Hammond Court was alive with the memories of the dozens of lives that had unfolded there. It had been lived in, loved, whereas Grantham Lodge . . . well, if she were the Duke of Grantham’s future duchess, she’d take one look at this house and flee for her very life.
“You look dismayed, Miss St. Claire.”
She startled. Goodness, she’d almost forgotten he was there. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your expression.” His cool, gray gaze was fixed on her, his eyebrows lowered in a frown. “What are you thinking about?”
“Thinking? Why, nothing at all.” She straightened her spine and tugged her skirts into place. “Though it does occur to me, Your Grace, that if youareto have house guests, there might be one or two ladies among them who would agree to act as a chaperone for me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If there were any such ladies, Miss St. Claire? What then?”
She sucked in a breath, forced a smile to her lips, and sent up a quick prayer to the heavens that she wasn’t making a dreadful mistake. “Then it would be entirely appropriate for me to remain at Grantham Lodge through the holidays. There can be nothing shocking about my being one among many guests, surely.”
“Certainly not. Nothing shocking at all.”
“But I must have your permission to send for my former nursemaid, Abby Hinde, to join me here.” She couldn’t make do without Abby. She needed her dear old friend, now more than ever.
“You haven’t left her at Hammond Court, I hope?”
“Of course not, Your Grace. She’s staying with a Mrs. Sullivan, in Cirencester.”
“Very well. I’ll send a footman to fetch her this afternoon. Any other demands, Miss St. Claire?”
“Well, since you ask, Your Grace, I’d be pleased to help your servants with your Christmas house party.” She’d planned the holiday fete at Hammond Court for the past eight years, and they’d had some lovely celebrations.
“Yes, yes.” He waved a careless hand at her. “If you like.”
“Wonderful.” Perhaps she could weave some of her magic here at Grantham Lodge. “I have some truly inspired ideas regarding Christmas garlands.”
He blinked. “Garlands?”
“Of course. You have heard of garlands, have you not, Your Grace? Pine boughs, and kissing balls, and the like? Garlands at Christmastime are tradition.” Goodness, he did need her help, didn’t he?
Because as it was . . . she glanced around the room again, smothering a grimace. If ever there was a place meant to stifle any attempt at merriment, it was this one.
As for the Duke of Grantham himself...
She took him in, so stern and austere, clad from head to toe in somber shades of gray and black, aside from his cravat. It was a proper snowy white, but so rigid it looked as if it were strangling him, and the points of his collar were as sharp as blades.
Such ruthless elegance was off-putting. Alas, there wasn’t much she could do about his collar points, but she could see to it his house was made inviting, and . . . dare she hope it?
Merry.
