“Very well, I’ll admit that doesn’t sound entirely unpleasant. Is there anything else you require?”
“Bells, and flasks of hot cocoa and cider, and caroling, and . . . oh!” Without thinking, she seized his arm. “Have you ever gone on a moonlit sleigh ride, Your Grace?”
“What, sleighing at night? That sounds dangerous, not to mention freezing cold.”
“Well, it must be done on a clear night, but you’d be amazed, Your Grace, at how well you can see in the moonlight. It’s quite as bright as daylight, under a full moon.”
He was quiet for a moment, then. “You speak as someone who’s been on a moonlit sleigh ride.”
“Only once, years ago.” It was before her mother had died, the Christmas before she’d turned twelve. It had been Ambrose’s idea, and she’d never forgotten it. But she wouldn’t speak of Ambrose now, or indeed, ever—not to the Duke of Grantham, as it was the one subject on which they would never agree.
It was strange, though. Ambrose had invariably spoken of the previous duke, Max’s father, with barely concealed disdain, but whenever he spoke of Max, it had always been with a note of tenderness in his voice, even after the rift between the families had dragged on for years.
Her sympathies had always lain with Ambrose, of course. It had been easy for her to blame the Ninth Duke of Grantham for the ugliness, and to despise his entire family for it, but now . . . she cast a surreptitious glance at Max.
What must it have been like for him, to have his home taken from him by a man he’d trusted? A man he’d considered a second father? Oh, she didn’t blame Ambrose. She might not know the whole story behind that ill-fated wager, but she was certain he must have been thinking of Max and his mother when he wagered for Hammond Court.
But Max had only been a child then, and too young to understand. No doubt his father had poisoned him against Ambrose, and from there, it had only gotten worse.
Within only a few years, Max’s father was dead, and Max was alone.
Such a dreadful loss. Was it any wonder he hated Ambrose? His resentment was misplaced, yes, but being here with him now, in the sleigh beside him, her limbs tucked tightly against the warmth of his, her heart gave a sympathetic wrench in her chest.
Where had all his righteous anger, all his resentment gotten him? He was a wealthy, powerful duke, yes, part of thehaute ton, with dozens of fashionable, titled friends, and yet . . .
He was alone. More alone than any man she’d ever known.
It wasn’t right, that he should have lost everything.
“There’s a gathering of tall pine trees just over the next rise. I thought their boughs might do for our decorations.” He gave her a slight smile. “But I will, of course, defer to your superior knowledge, Miss St. Claire.”
“How gentlemanly of you, Your Grace.” They were nearing the tree line that had been only a distant blur before, so close now she could make out the spiraling branches of a grove of massive pine trees, the tips of the needles white with snow.
“Goodness. They’re magnificent.” The Cotswolds abounded with ancient trees—there were a great many large pines on Hammond Court’s land, as well—but she’d never seen any as massive as these before.
“They’ll do, I suppose, if the guests insist upon smothering my house in greenery on Christmas Eve.”
“I daresay theywillinsist upon it. One must have garlands on Christmas Eve, Your Grace. It’s tradition.”
He grunted. “More trouble than it’s worth if you ask me.” But he brought the sleigh to a stop underneath the trees and tipped his head back to study the thick, gnarled branches. “Which ones do you like best, Miss St. Claire?”
“I hardly know. Goodness, they’re enormous.” Many of them were wider than her thigh.
“Indeed. No doubt some fool will insist upon climbing them tomorrow, only to fall and break his neck.”
Well, wasn’t that a cheerful thought? “There are plenty of low-lying branches. They’ll make lovely garlands.”
“I’m pleased you approve, Miss St. Claire.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her face. “Perhaps we should return to Grantham Lodge before too long. I’m afraid you must be cold. Your cheeks are as rosy as winter apples,” he murmured, a husky note in his voice.
“Are they?” And still redder now, if the heat surging into them was any indication. She clasped her gloved hands over her cheeks, suddenly shy. “I’m happy to return whenever you are, Your Grace.” She peeked up at him from under her lashes. “But I’m not at all cold.”
Quite the opposite, in fact.
He didn’t move, the reins slack in his hands as he stared at her, his gaze moving from her eyes to her lips, then back again. “I, ah, I don’t believe I ever thanked you, Miss St. Claire.”
“Thanked me? For what?”
“The ginger biscuits. It was kind of you to make them for me.” His throat moved in a rough swallow. “It reminded me that I do have some happy memories of my time at Hammond Court.”
