“You seem to have forgotten that it’smyceiling as well, Townsend.” Max gave Townsend as withering a look as he could muster. “See to the roof, as well. Whatever tiles are missing or broken must be replaced, and any others that were loosened in the storm must be secured. While they’re at it, they may as well see to replacing the damaged windows.”
A wide smile lit Townsend’s face. “Of course. Right away, Your Grace.”
“Cease that absurd grinning at once, Townsend.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend pressed his lips together and bowed his head over his work.
Max rolled his eyes. For God’s sake, he might have known Townsend would make far more of this than the situation warranted. Did no good deed go unpunished?
Pursuing repairs was ridiculous, of course, given he intended to reduce the whole bloody place to a pile of rubble as soon as he got the chance. But odds were Miss St. Claire would end up back at Hammond Court after the house party ended, and he wasn’t so hardhearted he’d banish her to a flooded bedchamber and let her freeze.
Shehadgone to quite a lot of trouble with those ginger biscuits, after all, and he wasn’t a man who liked to let a debt go unpaid.
Silence fell over the study as he and Townsend turned their attention back to their work, but he couldn’t set his mind to the tasks at hand—not with Townsend stealing glances at him every few minutes—nauseatingly approving glances. More than once, Townsend opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it closed again.
But God knew the man couldn’t hold his tongue for long. It was only a matter of time.
Three, two, one . . .
“If I might just say, Your Grace,” Townsend finally burst out. “How commendable I think it is that you—”
“You maynotsay, Townsend. Not a single, blessed word.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend gave him a meek nod, but damned if he couldn’t feel the man vibrating with suppressed admiration for the rest of the morning.
* * *
Rose wasn’t avoiding the Duke of Grantham.
To be fair, it might appear that way to someone who didn’t realize how terribly busy she was this morning. She’d woken some hours ago, but it had taken her a disgraceful amount of time to emerge from the comforting nest of her blankets.
She’d washed and dressed quickly enough, but alas, just as she was on her way out her bedchamber door she spotted a tiny tear in a sleeve of the violet dress she’d chosen to wear, and there was nothing for it but to sit and mend it. She would have gone down once she’d completed that chore—certainly, she would have—but her hair chose that moment to stage a mutiny. No matter how long she sat in front of the looking glass, attempting to wrestle it into submission with her hairbrush, it refused to behave itself.
Shewasn’thiding. It was just that with one thing and another, it had edged past noon and she had yet to make her way downstairs. But that wasn’t the same thing ashiding. The Duke of Grantham had kissed her, yes, but that was neither here nor there. Certainly, it was no reason for her to cower in her bedchamber as if she were a naughty schoolgirl.
Of course, it wasn’t. Why, the very idea was absurd.
It was true she’d never been kissed by a gentleman before, so she had been a bit surprised at the shivers that had darted down her spine when he’d dragged his warm fingertips across her cheek, and the, er, the sounds that had found their way out of her mouth when he’d teased his tongue between her lips had been something of a revelation.
Histongue. Goodness.
Was that a thing aristocrats did? She’d never heard of such a thing before, but there was no denying it had been distracting. So distracting, in fact, that she hadn’t done a single thing to stop him.
So distracting, she’d, ah, kissed him back. Whoever could have imagined such a prickly man could have such soft, gentle lips? And his hair—she’d only touched it for a moment, sifting her fingers through the strands at the back of his neck, but it had been shockingly soft, like threads of silk between her fingertips.
Oh, dear. This was rather bad, wasn’t it? How was she ever going to look at him again without recalling how gentle his lips were, how soft his hair was?
She met her reflection’s gaze in the looking glass. A hot flush was rushing up her neck and into her cheeks, turning them scarlet. “Dash it!” She tossed the hairbrush onto the dressing table and pressed her palms to her burning cheeks.
She’dkissedthe Duke of Grantham. What had she been thinking, kissing a duke? Especially that particular duke? Why, he was the closest she’d ever had to an actual enemy, and what had she done?
Kissed him. Or, to be fair, she’d kissed himback.
Surely, the first thing wasn’t nearly as bad as the second.
“Rose?” The bedchamber door opened behind her, and Abby entered, her furrowed brow clearing when she saw Rose seated at the vanity. “There you are. Have you not been downstairs yet?”
“No, I—I’ve been trying to tame my hair. It’s a fright this morning.” It wasn’t a lie. Her hairwasa fright, but no more so than any other morning, and it wasn’t the reason she was lingering in her bedchamber.
