“You stay away from that wicked duke, you hear?” Abby called out just as Rose closed the bedchamber door behind her.
“I daresay he’ll take care to stay away fromme,” she muttered as she made her way down the corridor, dragging her feet with every step.
There would be no avoiding the duke entirely. This was his house, after all. But perhaps a day apart wouldn’t go amiss, and she could easily keep herself occupied in the kitchens for most of the day. The duke wouldn’t come looking for her there—not after what had happened between them last night.
But perhaps the less she dwelled onthat, the better.
She’d nearly reached the landing when she heard it.
A cacophony of voices chattering excitedly. She tiptoed closer to the staircase, her breath catching as the unmistakably deep timbre of the Duke of Grantham’s voice rose above the others, welcoming them all to Grantham Lodge.
She stilled, nerves fluttering against her breastbone.
They were here.
The duke’s guests had arrived from London, and it sounded—goodness, it sounded as if there were dozens of them, all talking at once. A tinkle of high-pitched laughter, decidedly feminine, reached her ears, and then a low, rich laugh in response.
It washim. She couldn’t say how she knew, as she’d never heard him laugh before. The man hadn’t ventured even as much as a smile since he’d arrived in Fairford, but somehow, she recognized it at once ashislaugh.
It was a quiet laugh, yet somehow it echoed inside her, swelling into every dark, empty corner. Who was making him laugh like that? She edged closer to the landing and into the entryway below.
A soft gasp rose to her lips.
It was filled with ladies and gentlemen, all of them dressed in elegant cloaks and hats, and all of them chattering to each other as if they were the best of friends. Monk and two of his upper footmen were scrambling about, collecting hats, gloves, and cloaks, and through the open door she could see a half dozen or so carriages in the drive, the coachmen at the horses’ heads.
Why, it looked as if all of London had come to Fairford.
In the midst of the melee stood the Duke of Grantham, and beside him one of the most stunning ladies she’d ever seen. She was dressed in a deep, midnight-blue cloak, and even from this distance, Rose could see the color matched a pair of wide eyes as blue as sapphires. A smart hat set rakishly atop a thick mass of dark, lustrous curls, and her crimson lips were curved in a coquettish smile.
The duke was holding her hands, and she was smiling up at him, and suddenly the very last thing Rose wanted to do was to venture downstairs and face all those elegant people.
She wasn’t one of them. They’d know it at once, and from what she knew of aristocrats, they wouldn’t hesitate to make her feel it. But there was no help for it. Either she went down, her head held high, or she hid in her bedchamber until Twelfth Night.
As tempting as it was, she wouldn’t get anywhere hiding in her bedchamber.
So, she gripped the railing, the wood slippery under her sweating palm, and placed her foot on the step below her. One step, two, another . . .
For better or worse, the house party had begun.
CHAPTER17
Grantham Lodge—so still, so silent, so reassuringly tomblike on the best of days—had descended into chaos in the blink of an eye.
Max stood in the midst of the melee doing his best to hide a scowl, but it was there at the corners of his lips, threatening to spread to the rest of his mouth. How in the world could he ever have thought a house party was a good idea?
Alas, short of tossing his guests out the door and cursing them all to the devil, there wasn’t much he could do to stop them coming. No, there was nothing for it but to paste a charming smile to his mouth as they descended upon him, barreling right over poor Monk, who was doing his best to welcome them and stay upright under the stampede at the same time.
And the carriages were still coming. Soon enough, the drive was crowded with them. Harnesses jingled, and horses snorted as the coachmen darted about, lobbying for space. Carriage doors opened, and then slammed closed again after disgorging their passengers, all of whom were shrieking, gossiping, and creating unholy mayhem.
Good God, what a commotion. How many people had he invited? It looked as if all of London had just appeared at his front door. The walls were shaking from the tumult.
If he could have escaped, he would have fled in an instant, hospitality be damned, but it was too late for a dignified retreat. Monk, curse him, had opened the door the instant the first carriage appeared at the top of the drive, and now aristocrats were crowding into Max’s entryway like a swarm of fashionable bees.
Or a plague of buzzing locusts.
Lady Emily was the first through the front door. She spied him at once, swept forward like an advancing army of one, and promptly took possession of his arm. “Grantham! My goodness, I thought we’d never arrive, but here we are, at last!”
“So, I see.” He bowed and skimmed his lips over the knuckles of her glove. “How do you do, Lady Emily?”
