Annoyed. Yes, that was an easier emotion than worry, wasn’t it? “Your coat is safe, Your Grace. As I said before, I’ve been skating on this pond dozens of times. I know this ice as well as I know the back of my hand.”
“Dozens of times? How tedious.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to subject yourself to it over and over again.”
“Tradition, Your Grace. Do you not have any Christmas traditions of your own?”
But perhaps not. Ambrose had told her that after the duke’s mother passed away, he was sent off to Eton, and he only ever returned to Fairford for school breaks after that. By then his father, the Ninth Duke of Grantham, had become something of a hermit, and rarely permitted his son to leave his sight.
What had happened to him, during those years? Had he had any friends? Had his father cared for him, as Ambrose had done for her? Or had he been alone, the Christmas traditions he’d once cherished becoming hopelessly entangled with darker, lonelier memories?
She waited, but he didn’t answer—rather a habit of his—but just as she was about to give up, he spoke. “Ginger.”
That was all—just that one word, but she leaped upon it like a thief on a golden guinea. “Ginger? Do you mean gingerbread?”
“No. Ginger biscuits.”
He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixed on some point above her head, as if ginger biscuits were something scandalous to wish for, something to be ashamed of wanting. “I’ve made dozens of batches of ginger biscuits, Your Grace. I’d be happy to make some for you, if you like.”
He let out a short, hard laugh. “You can’t, not like these. It’s an old recipe, long since lost. My maternal grandmother used to make them for me when I was a boy, and my mother after her. They’re made with treacle, I believe.”
Ginger biscuits, made with treacle? Years ago, she’d found a loose clutch of old, handwritten recipes in the stillroom, the paper brittle and yellowed with age. Mightn’t she find the recipe there? “Well, they sound lovely.”
He didn’t reply, and this time she waited to no avail. His lips remained sealed. She let out a quiet sigh and turned back toward the ice, taking care to remain closer to the bank this time, so as not to annoy him again.
* * *
Ginger biscuits, of all things. Such a foolish thing to wish for, such a ridiculous memory to have held on to for all these years, but they’d been lovely, those ginger biscuits. Or perhaps they were called ginger nuts? The memory was hazy, but hadn’t his grandmother referred to them as ginger nuts?
Of all the things Max had managed to forget about Christmases at Hammond Court, he’d never quite been able to forget those blasted biscuits, no matter how hard he’d tried. They’d been delicious, yes—light, and sweet with treacle, but with a tiny bite from the molasses.
But it was their scent that made them linger in his memory.
It was strange, the small details the mind held on to. The warm, spicy scent of them had permeated the entire house, from the kitchen all the way to his bedchamber. No other scent spoke of Christmas to him as powerfully as the scent of ginger. Even years later, the merest whiff of it made him ache with longing.
But he didn’t want to think of it—not here, and not now, with Miss St. Claire’s inquisitive green eyes upon him.
Not anywhere, come to that. Not after he’d done his best to forget everything about those early years at Hammond Court. What good did it do, to remember? Any warm, safe feelings he’d ever had about those years had long since disintegrated into anger and resentment.
It was far easier not to take the chance—far easier not to remember. He shouldn’t have even mentioned it to Miss St. Claire at all. He wasn’t sure why he had, except she’d looked so earnest when she’d asked about his Christmas traditions.
Perhaps he’d had other traditions at one time, but the only one he could recall with perfect clarity was lingering on the drive outside Hammond Court, his toes and fingers numb with the cold, watching through the windows as the Christmases he recalled from his childhood had gone on without him.
It was rather a far cry from Miss St. Claire’s tradition of ice skating.
He watched her twirling in a circle, her arms outstretched to the sky, the sun catching on the golden hair that had escaped her hat, lovingly caressing the sunny locks, as if they were long-lost kin. It was a clumsy enough maneuver, that twirling, her skates threatening to skid out from underneath her with every turn, but the awkwardness didn’t make it any less fascinating to watch her.
Perhaps it made it more so.
She spun as if she hadn’t a care in the world, a picture of pure, perfect joy. Even now, with all her troubles, she could still spin on the ice, such a brilliant smile lighting her face he couldn’t tear his gaze away from it.
She’d learned that smile from Ambrose. He may have been a scoundrel, a cheat, and a liar, but one couldn’t say of him that he’d squandered his life. The man knew how to seize a moment, and he’d taught his daughter to do the same. He’d always been good at that—at plucking beauty out of thin air and shaping it, stretching it, making the most of moments everyone else saw as ordinary.
A pain pierced him at the thought, sharp enough to make him catch his breath. It wasn’t grief—no, not that. Never that, not for Ambrose. No, the emotion swelling in his chest, pressing against his ribs and flooding his mouth with bitterness wasn’t grief.
It wasfury.
This was what Ambrose had been doing, while he’d been moldering away at Grantham Lodge with his drunken father during the holidays? Ambrose had beenhere, watching his beautiful daughter spin on the ice. Perhaps he’d even taken her hands in his and spun with her.
He took a step forward, his feet sliding against the snowy bank, damp seeping into his boots. Another step, then another, until he was right on the edge, close enough to see the wind tossing her hair about, strangely incredulous at the sight of her, her arms still open wide, as if gathering the sun to her chest, and—
