Well, it was something, anyway. Better than the ominous silence he’d maintained since they’d climbed into the carriage at Grantham Lodge. Still, she was obliged to smother a sigh as they reached the pond’s edge.
Goodness, this was quite a task Ambrose had given her, wasn’t it? She wasn’t sure she was equal to it. She’d never come across anyone more determined to be displeased with everyone and everything than the Duke of Grantham. It was stealing her own joy in the beautiful day, like a cloud obliterating the sun.
What must it be like to be a young, handsome, powerful duke—a man with the world at his fingertips—yet still unable to find a single moment’s pleasure in anything? To see the sun’s rays upon the ice, setting it alight like a sea of glittering gems, and to feel nothing but discontent?
She seated herself on one of the large, flat rocks that surrounded the pond, tugged her gloves off, and bent to fasten the leather straps of her skate to the ankle and toe of her boot, but it was dreadfully cold, and she was obliged to keep stopping to blow on her hands.
Beside her, the duke let out an irritable sigh. “For God’s sake, Miss St. Claire. We’ll be out here all night at this rate.”
“I do beg your pardon, Your Grace, but my fingers are a trifle stiff.”
“Move over.” He waved an impatient hand at her when she merely gaped up at him. She slid across the rock, stifling her gasp when he plopped down beside her and held out his hands. “Give me your foot.”
Did he mean to . . . ? No, surely not.
He huffed out a breath. “Your foot, if you please, Miss St. Claire. I’d rather not spend the afternoon in the freezing cold while you fuss with your skates, if it’s all the same to you.”
Well, then. This was unexpected. But she offered her foot as commanded, biting off another gasp when the duke’s warm, gloved fingers wrapped around her ankle. He rested her foot on his thigh and began to wrestle with the straps of her skates.
She stared, mesmerized, as those long, clever fingers maneuvered the buckles, his knuckles brushing the hem of her skirts as he worked. He had wonderful hands, strong and confident, and as for his . . . well, she hadn’t anything to compare it to, not being accustomed to touching gentlemen’s thighs, but his seemed exceptionally sturdy.
He made quick work of fastening both skates onto her feet. “All right then, Miss St. Claire. Get on with it,” he muttered, jerking his head toward the pond.
Goodness, her knees were a trifle wobbly now, but once she’d made her way across the snowy bank and onto the ice, she regained her balance and was soon gliding about with the ease of long practice. She circled the edge of the pond a few times, admiring the bare branches of the trees surrounding the banks, their dark bark frosted with an icy crust of snow.
But soon enough she struck out for the smoother ice near the center of the pond, the soothing hiss of the blades rolling over the blue-tinged ice whispering in her ears, until she forgot where she was and drifted along, one foot chasing the other, and her skirts floating out behind her.
It was just as it had always been. Ambrose was gone, and her beloved Hammond Court was soon to follow, slipping from her fingers even now, but somehow, this moment felt as it ought to feel, as it had always felt.
It was just as she remembered it.
Perhaps that was what came of doing it year after year. No matter how much time passed between one skate and the next—those long summer months when skating seemed an impossible thing, a mere fantasy—once winter came and the pond iced over again, it was like coming home.
It was another Christmas tradition, one of Ambrose’s favorites. He’d given her this moment, and every other moment before it.
A lifetime of memories.
“Take care, Miss St. Claire.”
The duke’s voice rang out across the pond, echoing around her. She slowed, dragging her heel across the ice to stop, and turned to face him.
She’d gone farther than she realized, far enough so he was only an outline now, a lone figure standing at the edge of the pond, his hair rustling in the breeze, his dark coat stark against the landscape of white surrounding him.
He looked terribly alone.
Slowly, she went back the way she’d come, toward him, her heart heavier than it had been when she’d set out across the ice, though if someone had demanded she put words to the strange weight of emotions in her chest, she couldn’t have done so.
Something about him standing there, more alone than any man she’d ever seen—
“For God’s sake, Miss St. Claire, are you daft, skating so far away from the bank?”
She blinked at him. Goodness, he seemed unaccountably angry. “It’s perfectly safe, Your Grace.”
“You can’t be certain of that, especially farther out. Who did you imagine was going to fish you out, if you fell through? By the time I reached you, you’d be lost under the ice.”
She stared at him. Had he actually been concerned for her welfare? “I beg your pardon for worrying you, Your Grace, but—”
“Don’t be absurd. I wasn’tworried,” he snapped. “If anything, I’m annoyed with your carelessness. I don’t fancy a dunking in an icy pond, Miss St. Claire. This coat is a Weston.”
