Wishing for things that could never be.
It wasn’t much of an explanation, but Abby understood at once, just as she always did. “There, there,” she murmured, stroking Rose’s hair.
They stood silently for a while, Rose sniffling into Abby’s shoulder while Abby soothed her, but she didn’t indulge her tears for long, if only because Ambrose would have disapproved of spending such a lovely day as this weeping.
“There now, that’s better.” Abby dried Rose’s cheeks with the corner of her apron. “Just a bout of the megrims, eh? Well, that’s to be expected. I thought perhaps that wicked duke had said something to upset you.”
“No. He’s been . . .” She trailed off, uncertain how to finish that sentence.
That scene over the Christmas pudding yesterday had been both predictable and surprising at the same time. Predictable in that the duke had behaved precisely as she imagined a spoiled aristocrat would when he’d been made to wait a few extra minutes to be served his tea.
That is, like a child denied a sweet.
He’d been as close to throwing a tantrum as she’d ever seen a grown man come, though he’d done it with the sort of withering arrogance one would expect from a fashionable duke.
Still, a tantrum was a tantrum, no matter how elegantly it was thrown.
But then, against her every expectation, he’d yielded to her demand that he permit his servants to have their Christmas wishes. Despite his fury—and hehadbeen furious, if that vein pulsing in his temple could be trusted—instead of tossing her out into the snow, his gray eyes had met and held hers, and she’d seen something in those shadowy depths, something that had surprised her.
She couldn’t say what it had been, but it was like a closed door opening a tiny crack, just enough so one might get a glimpse of what lay on the other side.
For all his professed loathing of Christmas wishes, he’d permitted his servants to have theirs. Oh, he’d acquiesced with bad grace, of course, yet that fleeting moment when he’d yielded had struck right at the tenderest part of her chest.
He hadn’t stayed to make a wish for himself, which was a great pity, because if ever there was a man who needed to believe in wishes, it was the Duke of Grantham.
A lost soul. . .
She glanced back out the window, gazing at the sun sparkling on the spirals of frost painting the glass, and at the pure blue of the sky above, turning an idea over in her mind. “I wonder, Abby, if I might go skating today, after all.”
“Oh? And how’s that? Bit of a walk to Hammond Court, and in this cold? Your fingers and toes will be frostbitten before you’re even halfway there.”
There was no arguing that point. Even as warm as the bedchamber was, there was a distinct chill near the window, with the wind sneaking past the duke’s costly glazing.
She turned away from the view, her chest swelling with anticipation as the idea took shape in her mind. It wouldn’t be easy—goodness, no—but if she could manage it, perhaps that crack she’d seen in the duke’s façade yesterday might open again, only this time wide enough for her to slip through.
“Perhaps I can persuade the duke to take me. I might even coax him to skate himself.”
Abby stared at her, her hands braced on her hips. “Just how do you suppose you’ll manage that, eh? He doesn’t look much like the fun-loving sort to me.”
No, he didn’t, but surely that was even more reason to go ahead with her plan? Why, it would do the duke a world of good to do something solely for the pure pleasure of it, and what could be more pleasurable than spinning on the ice?
Then again, a gentleman who was so ill-tempered as to find fault with Christmas pudding wasn’t likely to be tempted by blue skies and smooth ice and spinning, was he?
For pity’s sake, what sort of person didn’t love Christmas pudding? She’d never heard of such a thing.
Well then, she’d have to come up with something else, wouldn’t she? Some other reason to lure him out of that grim, dark study of his and into the fresh air and sunshine. “If I could persuade him that his house party guests might wish to skate, perhaps he’d agree to come and see the pond, at least.” As for getting him out onto the ice, well, she’d worry about that once she’d gotten him there.
“Well, I suppose he’s got to do something with them, doesn’t he? Those high and mighty sorts are used to being entertained at every moment.” Abby gave her a doubtful look. “But I’m afraid you’ve got your work ahead of you, convincing him. I’ve never seen a man less inclined to merry frolics than the Duke of Grantham.”
Neither had she, but Ambrose must have had some faith in the duke, or else he wouldn’t have lured him to Fairford, and right to her doorstep. She couldn’t be certain he’d meant for her to undertake a quest to help the duke find joy where before there’d been only shadows, but it was a worthy cause, regardless.
The duke had done her a favor yesterday, after all, by bringing her to Grantham Lodge. Surely, she could do this much for him? “Help me dress, won’t you, Abby?” Rose hurried to the clothes press to fetch her green woolen day dress, her mind made up.
She’d made Ambrose a promise, one she wouldn’t go back on, even if it meant enduring an afternoon of the duke’s sharp tongue, and that infuriatingly arrogant scowl.
* * *
“Ice skating?” Max gazed over the top of his spectacles at Miss St. Claire, who was standing in front of his desk, her green eyes wide with a hopefulness that was utterly absurd, given the request she’d just made. “Forgive me, Miss St. Claire, but did you just say you want me to take youice skating?”
