“Well, much better,now.” She beamed up at him, a coquettish smile playing on her lips. “But I’m afraid it was a dreadfully tiring journey. Gloucestershire is ever so far away. Why, I almost imagined we’d left England entirely. I never conceived it could be such a distance!”
“How d’ye do, Grantham.” Montford appeared at Lady Emily’s elbow. “It’s about time you invited us to your country seat. Rather rude of you to wait two decades, eh?”
“London is as dull as a tomb without you, Grantham,” Lady Emily gushed. “Hasn’t London been a deadly bore without Grantham, Montford?”
“Has Grantham been away?” Montford smirked at Max. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Lady Emily let out a tinkling laugh. “Shame on you, Your Grace!”
“I’m only jesting, Grantham. London has been as tiresome as a long Sunday sermon since you deserted us. I don’t know how I endured it.” Montford grinned. “What’s prompted this uncharacteristic burst of holiday spirit? After such a lordly summons, I expect to be wildly entertained.”
“What will you have, Montford? Pantomimes, Mummers, and Christmas pudding?” It all sounded damned unpleasant to Max, particularly the pantomimes, but he couldn’t help grinning back at Montford. He, Montford, and Basingstoke had been friends since his first year at Eton, and they were among the few people with whom he felt utterly at ease.
“Why, all of it, of course. We didn’t come all the way from London to sit on our hands, did we, Lady Emily? Now, where has my duchess got to?” Montford turned and scanned the entryway. “Ah, there she is, talking to . . . by God, that looks like Dunwitty.”
Well, that hadn’t taken long. “ItisDunwitty.”
Montford turned back to Max, his eyes narrowing. “I didn’t realize you and the viscount were such close friends, Grantham.”
Max glanced over Montford’s head. Yes, there was Dunwitty, just as his uncle had promised he would be. He was chatting with the Duchess of Montford, who was dusting the snow from her cloak. Just behind them was Basingstoke, handing his hat and stick to Monk, his duchess’s arm linked with his, her cheeks pink from the cold.
Everyone was here, then. Everyone, that is, except Rose St. Claire.
Where was she? He pulled his pocket watch from his coat and glanced down at the face. It was half past noon. Had she somehow slipped down the stairs without his noticing? Perhaps he should check the kitchens—
“—confess I find myself quite curious about Grantham Lodge, Your Grace.”
He jerked his attention back to Lady Emily, who was simpering up at him, eyelashes fluttering, her lips pursed in a pretty little pout. “I beg your pardon?”
“Grantham Lodge. I don’t mind saying I didn’t know quite what to expect, as you’ve kept it such a deep, dark secret, you naughty man.” She let out a throaty laugh. “But it’s ever so lovely! Such a perfect place for a fortnight of Christmas festivities! Really, Your Grace, I can’t think why you haven’t hosted a house party before now.”
Because he detested Fairford? Because he detested Grantham Lodge? Because he detested Christmas? No, none of those replies would do, would they? Pity, as they were all the truth.
But somehow he managed to dredge up a charming smile for Lady Emily. “I prefer London to the country, my lady, but when business called me to Gloucestershire, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make the most of a winter’s visit to Fairford.”
There. That was an acceptable lie.
“Well, I’m overjoyed that you did, Your Grace.” She cast him a smoldering glance from under her thick, dark lashes, her blue eyes gleaming under her heavy lids. “What’s Christmas, after all, without a house party?”
“You’re very good to come all this way, my lady, especially given the suddenness of the invitation. I had thought we might . . .” He trailed off as a movement to his left caught his eye, and he whirled toward the staircase, his pulse thumping.
Even before he turned and his gaze landed on her face, he knew who he’d find.
And there she was, outside her bedchamber at last. Today Miss St. Claire was wearing a simple, violet-colored day dress that, for all that it was an ordinary enough garment, appeared to his fevered gaze to cling most scandalously to her curves, emphasizing every graceful arch and hollow of her slender frame.
She hesitated on the first-floor landing, her green eyes wide as she took in the crowd of people milling about the entryway.
“You were saying, Your Grace?” Lady Emily laid a proprietary hand on his arm.
He didn’t answer, because he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Miss St. Claire. Her gown wasn’t fashionable or elegant. Indeed, it was rather worn, the cuffs and collar a bit threadbare, but it skimmed her curves in a way that was both innocent and seductive at once.
Look away, man! For God’s sake, look—
“Who is that young woman, Grantham?” Lady Emily turned toward the staircase, her gaze following his. “Is she one of your maidservants?”
Hismaidservant? She might not be dressed in the height of fashion, but there was no mistaking Rose St. Claire for a servant. “Hardly, Lady Emily.”
His voice was a touch louder than it needed to be, and abruptly the chatter around them faded to silence as every head turned toward him. He wasn’t the center of attention for long, however. Once they caught sight of Miss St. Claire, many of them turned to watch her as she made her way down the last few steps.
