It had been hours, but he sat here still, a half-empty glass of brandy cradled between his fingers, surrounded by darkness, aside from the flickering light of the fireplace in front of him.
Sitting alone in the dark had become a habit of his since he’d returned to Grantham Lodge. Sitting in the dark, and thinking of . . . nothing. He stared at the flames, reassuring himself that his mind was indeed blank—not a single thought in his head—until gradually he became aware it wasn’t true.
Therewassomething in his head. A lady with green eyes and laughing pink lips.
Laughing. Even now, hours later, he couldn’t puzzle it out. What had there been for her to laugh about? It didn’t make sense.
Shedidn’t make sense.
It had been a mistake to allow her to persuade him to take her to Hammond Court today. A mistake to watch her as she twirled about on the ice in the sunshine, a mistake to tell her about . . . well, anything at all.
Even now, he wasn’t sure why he’d done it, except that she had the most disturbing way of prying into his head, of casting a narrow band of bright light into the darkness, sending all the ugly thoughts hiding there scattering. She hardly needed to say a word, and he was flayed open like a split oyster, black pearls exposed, and no chance of returning them to their safe, tight shell.
No, they were out now, rolling about causing mayhem, and he had no bloody idea what to do with them.
But he knew what he wouldn’t do—remain in the dark a moment longer, staring into his fire and daydreaming about a lady he didn’t understand, and didn’t evenlike.
He raised the glass to his lips, drained the last dregs of his brandy, and rose to his feet. He’d go to his bed and hope that tomorrow would bring Basingstoke and Montford to Grantham Lodge, and put an end to all this wretchedthinking.
God knew, he needed the distraction.
He wandered from the study into the darkened hallway, then down the corridor to the staircase, but paused with his foot on the bottom step.
Something was amiss.
He stilled, listening, but the only sound was the soft ticking of the grandfather clock on the first-floor landing. There was no one about, not a stray servant to be seen, yet there was some disturbance, one he could sense more than anything, and without thinking he turned from the stairs and made his way around the corner to the back staircase that led to the kitchens.
The door at the bottom of the steps was closed, but there were faint stirrings coming from the other side of it—the drag of a bowl across the wooden surface of the table, the soft rustle of a burlap flour sack.
He knew what he’d find before he opened the door, yet at the same time, he wasn’t prepared for the sight that met him once he did.
The light was low, just the barest, soft glow centered around the flour-dusted table. A few bowls and a rolling pin were set to one side, and several small piles of what looked like crushed spices were mounded in a corner.
Presiding over this fetching domestic scene was Miss St. Claire, her head bent over her work, a thick length of dark golden dough spread beneath her fingertips. The heavy scents of treacle and ginger hung in the air, and above that, the rich, dark sugar scent of his grandmother’s ginger biscuits baking.
The scent struck his chest, nearly sending him to his knees.
It was so achingly familiar, that scent. How could it be so familiar still, after so many years? He sucked in a silent breath, his head swimming with the peppery, citrus scent of the ginger, and for an instant it was as if he were a boy again, running into the kitchen, his cheeks red from the cold and his belly growling, straight into his mother’s waiting arms.
It smelled the same as he remembered, sharp but still sweet, and so very much like home, before everything fell apart.
“Ginger nut biscuits.” He drew closer, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears. Too hushed, almost reverential.
Miss St. Claire froze, not looking up, her busy hands stilling on the dough. “Yes.”
“How?”
She looked up then, an uncertain smile on her lips. “Ginger biscuits are a common enough sweet, Your Grace.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not those. Those are my grandmother’s biscuits.”
She reached for a cloth and took her time wiping her hands clean of the dough, taking care to avoid his gaze. “When you mentioned them today, I recalled I’d seen a small cache of recipes tucked into a wooden box in Hammond Court’s stillroom. I thought I might find the biscuit recipe among them, and I did.”
“Is that why you insisted we go into the house? So you could fetch the recipes?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her, unfamiliar heat rising in his cheeks. Even his fiercest grumbling hadn’t deterred her from returning to the house. He’d made an almighty fuss, but she’d held firm, and all the while, she’d been hoping to do something kind for him. “May I see the recipe?”
