Max rolled his eyes and turned and marched back in the other direction.
It wasn’t until he’d completed another full rotation through the entryway that he realized he was smiling, too.
* * *
The Grantham Lodge sleigh was, like everything else at Grantham Lodge, a particularly fine one, but unlike the stiff settees and spotless fireplaces, Rose couldn’t find fault with it.
Who could possibly find fault withanything, on such a day as today, least of all the snug little two-seater sleigh, a handsome, lacquered green affair with gold striping outlining the panels. The doors were embellished with the prettiest gold-leaf pattern as well, and the interior was a rich, red velvet.
It was like something out of a fairy tale. Joy curled inside her like a sleeping cat, warming her as they skimmed over the snow.
“Are you warm enough, Miss St. Claire?”
He’d frowned when she’d reappeared in the entryway in the same coat she’d worn to the skating pond last week. It was a bedraggled-looking garment, to be sure, and worn rather thin, its best days behind it, but instead of scolding, he’d merely ordered more rugs to be piled into the sleigh.
“Yes, very cozy, Your Grace.” She drew one of the soft, fleecy rugs to her chin and tucked her feet closer to the hot bricks one of the footmen had placed on the floor.
But the warmth at her feet paled in comparison to the warmth of his body pressed so closely against hers, a muscular column of heat running the length of her leg from her ankle bone, and all the way up her thigh to her hip. It was quite distracting, really, but even if she’d wanted to move away—and she wasn’t at all sure shedid—there wasn’t a sliver of spare space to be had.
She was at the mercy of the hard thigh pressing so close to hers.
Cozy, indeed.
The duke had a second sleigh, a much larger one that could seat eight people comfortably. She’d noticed it tucked into a corner of the carriage house, but he’d chosen this much smaller one for today, along with a pair of beautifully matched black horses to pull it.
Perhaps this smaller sleigh was faster. Perhaps he wanted to have their outing over with as quickly as possible, but it didn’t seem so. If he wished to avoid her, as she’d half expected he would after their kiss last night, he wouldn’t have suggested this sleigh ride in the first place. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to hide away in his study, as he usually did.
He was a confusing gentleman, the Duke of Grantham.
Maxwell.Max. The name suited him.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, her lips tingling at the memory of their kiss. Such a revelation, that kiss! As it turned out, passionate kisses like the one they’d shared weren’t confined only to the lips.
She’d felt that kisseverywhere.
But after the abruptness with which he’d pulled away from her and sent her off to her bedchamber, she’d expected he’d put as much distance between them as possible today.
Instead, it appeared as if he’d beenwaitingfor her this morning.
Abby wasn’t going to be pleased when she found out about this sleigh ride, especially not after the two hours she’d spent last night lecturing Rose about the dangers of trifling with aristocratic gentlemen.
Especially dukes. According to Abby, dukes in general—and the Duke of Grantham, in particular—were horrible, wicked creatures who’d think nothing of ruining a young lady like her, then hurrying off to London without a backward glance.
She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He didn’t look wickednow, with his thick, dark curls blowing in the wind and one of his rare smiles softening the corners of his lips.
But she wouldn’t puzzle over it now. She would simply enjoy the cheerful crunch of the runners as they whooshed over the snow, the wind whipping through her hair and biting color into her cheeks. “Look, Your Grace! See how the sun sparkles on the snow? It’s as if we’re flying through a field of diamonds!”
He turned to her, that grin still playing about his lips. “What a fanciful description, Miss St. Claire. Are you a poet?”
Hardly. Ambrose had had a knack for turning a phrase, though. Perhaps some of it had rubbed off on her. She didn’t say so, however, but only laughed, the wind catching the sound in its fist and sending it whirling into the blue sky. “Not a bit, I’m afraid, but I daresay a day like today might turn even the dullest scholar poetic. But do you know, Your Grace, what would make this even more delightful?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” he said dryly, shifting the reins between his gloved fingers with ease, turning the horses’ heads to the right, toward a line of towering trees in the distance, their massive branches heavy with snow. “But I daresay you’ll tell me anyway.”
“Bells! I can’t think of a single thing more festive than bells at Christmastime.”
“Oh, something tells me you can, Miss St. Claire. You have a distressingly fertile imagination.”
“Just imagine it, Your Grace. The sun shining down from a blue sky, the bells strung onto the horses’ harnesses jingling merrily and echoing in the crisp morning air with their every prancing step.”
