It was, of all things, the one she wished most to hear him say, and hope, bright and warm, burst inside her chest. This was what Ambrose had wanted from her—she felt sure of it. Yet somehow, between the pistol shot and the broken doorknob, the collapsed ceiling and the ginger biscuits, this business between her and the Duke of Grantham was no longer about the favor Ambrose had asked of her.
This was no longer about Ambrose at all. It had been weeks since her courtship—for lack of a better word—of the Duke of Grantham had been about fulfilling a promise to Ambrose.
Now, it was about the duke himself.
She couldn’t pinpoint the moment it had happened—perhaps it had been the ice skating, or the ginger nuts, or the kisses that made her heart pound—but somewhere along the way, without her realizing it was happening, the duke’s happiness had become whatshewanted, too.
Even if it meant losing Hammond Court. Surely, that was what Ambrose had intended all along? This had never been about the house. It had been about Maxwell Burke from the very beginning.
Hammond Court was always meant to be Max’s. It was his family’s home and a part of his legacy. It would hurt her to leave it—oh, so much! It would be like tearing loose one of her limbs, but if she might see the tightness ease from the duke’s jaw, the cold watchfulness fade from his eyes, and a smile touch those stern, straight lips, well . . . how could she ever regret that?
It was still far too rare, his smile, but perhaps by the time this strange interlude between them ended, she’d have that pleasure. If she had that, then perhaps she could leave Hammond Court behind without any regrets.
“If you’re truly not cold, shall we go on for a bit, Miss St. Claire?” He glanced up at the sky, then back at her, the sun lighting his eyes, turning them a clear, translucent gray. “There’s not a cloud to be seen. As long as the weather holds, and you’re not too chilled, we might go for a bit longer if you like.”
“I would like that, very much.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Perhaps we might go by Hammond Court, on the way back? I have a bundle of wood shavings from last year’s Yule log I need to fetch.”
“A bundle of wood shavings?” He stared at her. “Why would you save such a thing?”
Goodness, didn’t he know anything about Christmas? “Why, so we might use them to light this year’s Yule log, of course.”
He groaned. “You mean to say we need a Yule log, as well?”
“Why, of course, we do, Your Grace. You can’t possibly have Christmas without a Yule log. It’s—”
“Tradition?”
“Just so.” She gave him her most angelic smile. “It must be a very large, grand log—thick enough so that it will continue to smolder until Twelfth Night has passed.”
Another groan. “Can’t we just light a candle?”
“Oh, yes! We must have a Yule candle, as well. I nearly forgot!” She tucked the rug more firmly around her as he flicked the reins, and the horses bounded forward, their tails twitching. “How good of you to remind me, Your Grace.”
CHAPTER21
They approached Hammond Court from the east, in order to save the horses’ hooves and the sleigh’s delicate runners from the deep furrows of frozen mud cratering the front drive.
Max brought the sleigh to a stop in the courtyard behind the kitchen, but they didn’t stir. They both remained in the sleigh for a long moment, staring up at the house, neither of them speaking.
Great swathes of ivy climbed up the pale, weathered stone. Rose had always loved the romantic extravagance of the ivy, with its trailing vines and thick, glossy leaves, but Ambrose hadn’t been as fond of it. He claimed it damaged the stonework, and every winter he’d insisted on its being cut back. Now he was gone, it had run rampant, twining around the arched sills of the windows all the way up to the second floor.
The house looked different to her, somehow. It wasn’t, of course. It was the same dilapidated house she’d left several weeks earlier—the same home she’d always known, but it looked lonelier.
For all its flaws, it had never looked lonely to her before.
Was this how it would always look, once she was gone? So dark, empty, and deserted? Her heart sank at the thought. Such a house deserved a family, with young children scampering up and down the hallways, their little fingers leaving smeared prints on the doorknobs, and smudges on the woodwork.
Could Max ever put aside his hatred of Ambrose, and learn to love Hammond Court as she had? Or was it destined for ruin, with only the thick branches of ivy holding the crumbling walls together?
“You look troubled, Miss St. Claire. I daresay you have some unpleasant memories from the last time you were here. Would you prefer we not go in, after all?”
She shrugged off the strange melancholy that had seized her and shook her head. “No, no. We must have the shavings from last year’s Yule log. It’s—”
“Tradition.” A smile twitched at the corner of his lips.
She turned toward him, and the sight of his faint grin thawed the ice in her veins as if she were a blossom turning toward the sun. “Oh, have I mentioned that, then?”
“Once or twice, yes.”
