“Is it truly so terrible, Basingstoke, for me to arrange for Miss St. Claire to be made a viscountess? She’s a penniless, friendless young lady, born on the wrong side of the blanket. What other prospects does she have?”
“Perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible if you were doing it to help her, but you’re not. You’re doing it for yourself.” Basingstoke’s expression was grim. “It’s not the marriage itself, but the subterfuge behind it, Grantham.”
“Miss St. Claire and Lord Dunwitty aren’t pieces on a chessboard you may move about as you please,” Montford added.
“I’m not . . .” But he was, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that precisely what he’d been doing?
“I advise you to think carefully before you take this any further, Grantham,” Montford went on. “Is it really so important for you to have Hammond Court? After all these years, what does it matter any longer?”
Itdidmatter. Or it had, once. It had mattered more than anything.
But did it still? Did it matter more than Rose? Was he so determined to have Hammond Court it didn’t matter that he’d have to hurt her to get it? She wouldn’t have any smiles to spare for him once he took her home away from her.
She’d despise him then, and he’d deserve it.
Ambrose had taken something precious from him, yes. He’d made a laughingstock of the Grantham name. He was the reason behind all those lonely years at Eton, with the other boys snickering behind his back. Ambrose had been at least partially responsible for his father’s deterioration, and his shameful death.
Max had carried that bitterness with him for decades. It had given him a purpose, but it had changed him, too. It hadn’t brought any happiness. Instead, it had made him harder, colder, and more ruthless.
Yet, who was he, without it?
“No serious harm has been done yet. It’s not too late to change your mind. You’re a better man than this, Grantham.” Montford laid a hand on his shoulder, then turned to follow Basingstoke down the pathway, back toward the house.
The shadows in the garden grew shorter as the sun inched over the horizon, but Max remained where he was, heedless of the passing time and the guests requiring his attention, turning one question over and over in his mind.
Washe a better man than this?
He didn’t have an answer.
CHAPTER20
Max paced from one end of the entrance hall to the other, taking care to avoid Monk’s curious gaze, the thump of his boots against the marble floor seeming far louder than they ever had before.
Thump, thump, thump . . .
God above, what an unholy commotion. Couldn’t a man pace his own entryway without every guest in the entire house overhearing it? He felt like a fool. He’d be better off retreating into his study just as he did every morning, and forgetting this nonsense entirely.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
He whirled around at the sound of that light, musical voice, and there, on the second-floor landing stood the lady he’d been waiting for. He’d thought of nothing else buthersince he’d abandoned his bed before sunrise.
She was wearing a woolen day dress this morning, of some indeterminate shade of green that turned her eyes the color of a winter sea.
“You’re up rather earlier than usual, I think?” Her pretty pink lips curved in a sweet smile and damned if his knees didn’t go weak, and his tongue tie in knots.
“Good morning, Monk.” She reached the last step and turned her dimpled smile on the butler. “How does Mrs. Monk do? Is she over her cold yet?”
There was a Mrs. Monk?
“She’s much improved this morning, thank you, Miss St. Claire. Nearly herself again. I’ll be certain to tell her you enquired after her.”
“Yes, please do, and don’t forget to bring home the almond cake I made for her yesterday. Perhaps it will tempt her appetite. You did say she was fond of almond cake?”
Monk beamed. “I did, indeed. It’s kind of you to think of her, Miss St. Claire.”
Max glanced at Monk, then back at Rose, lingering on the smile that had won her the never-ending adoration of every servant at Grantham Lodge. How had he ever imagined he could steal Hammond Court from her?
As of this morning, he’d abandoned his diabolical scheme, and a good thing, too, because one of his servants likely would have bludgeoned him in his bed for daring to hurt Miss St. Claire.
