He stepped out of the sleigh and reached to hand her out, the warmth of his hand closing around the tips of her fingers sending a shower of sparks down her spine.
The hinge of the outer door protested, releasing a halfhearted squeal as she pushed it open. She crept down the darkened hallway toward the archway that led into the stillroom—yes, crept, because she felt oddly like an intruder, sneaking about a home that was no longer hers.
It was dark, and the faint smell of decay tickled her nose. Had it always been so? Could she have grown so accustomed to it over the last year that she no longer noticed it?
It was a distressing thought, and more distressing still was the hollow thump of her footsteps on the floor, the echo of it, as if it had been centuries since anyone had walked here, and the house didn’t know what to make of the sound.
The door that led to the stillroom stood open, and . . . oh, dear. It looked shabbier than ever, after the luxury of Grantham Lodge.
Shabbier, andcold. A shiver raced through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “Goodness, it feels like an icehouse in here. The sooner we fetch the shavings, the better.”
“Lead the way, Miss St. Claire.”
She rummaged in the drawers until she found the bit of cloth she’d wrapped the shavings in. She slipped them into her pocket, then turned toward the kitchen. “Since we’re here, I may as well fetch the last of my preserved ginger, in case we want more ginger biscuits.”
An involuntary sigh left her lips as she passed through the door into the familiar space, the duke—Max—so close behind her, she could feel the warmth of him against her back.
The stove and the scrubbed kitchen table were just as she’d left them.
So familiar, this room, so much the home she remembered.
The kitchen had always been special to her—her own little place tucked under the staircase, rather like a secret. How many years had she spent here, at her mother’s knees? Nearly eight years, before her mother had passed away. How could the time feel so brief now?
One blink, and it was gone.
She smothered a sigh, and made her way over to the spice cabinet, but stopped halfway across the floor, frowning down at the smooth wooden boards under her feet. “How curious. The floor has been repaired.” The gaping hole left when the pistol ball had struck the floor had vanished. “Billy must have been here, and seen to it.”
Except, had it been Billy? Where would he have gotten such fine boards? They were the same warm oak as the older boards, the match nearly flawless.
“Yes, I suppose he must have done.” Max took her arm and led her toward the spice rack in the opposite corner of the kitchen. “It’s a cozy room, isn’t it? I’ve always thought so.”
“It is, yes. It’s my favorite room in the house.” She paused, unsure whether or not to voice the question hovering on her lips, but Christmas was nearly upon them, and Twelfth Night soon afterward, and then Hammond Court would be his.
All she wanted, all she hoped for, was that he would allow himself to love it as she had. The house deserved it, but perhaps even more than that . . .
Hedid. After all these years, Max deserved to come home.
She cleared her throat. “Then youdohave happy memories of your time here?”
He didn’t answer at once, but wandered toward the window, his back to her as he looked out onto the courtyard to the stables beyond, and behind them the crest of the hill, where the sun gilded the snow with a warm, golden glow. You couldn’t see it from the window, but at the bottom of the hill was the pond where they’d skated.
Well, whereshe’dskated. He’d mostly scolded. A smile rose to her lips at the memory. Strange, that it should somehow have become a happy one.
“My mother and I used to sit at that table and drink chocolate together on cold winter afternoons.” He nodded at the kitchen table before turning his gaze back to the window. “I learned to ride my first pony on Hammond Court’s grounds. I sat at my grandmother’s side on the pianoforte bench in the drawing room while she played, more times than I can count.”
He stood tall, his back straight, but there was something in his voice that tore an ache into her throat. It hurt him, to remember it—she could sense it in every ragged breath he drew into his lungs. She drew closer, afraid to make a sound lest she startle him, and he reverted back to the silence he’d maintained for two long, lonely decades.
“So, to answer your question, Miss St. Claire. Yes, I do have happy memories of Hammond Court.” He braced his hands on the windowsill, his broad shoulders rigid, and added softly, “Many happy memories.”
She never meant to touch him. There was no distinct moment in which she made the decision to rest her hand on his back. It was as if her arm moved of its own accord, her palm landing gently between his shoulder blades, the fine wool of his greatcoat soft under her fingertips.
He went still, the muscles of his back pulling tight, but before she could step back and beg his pardon, his entire body seemed to melt under her touch. This man—the hardest man she’d ever known—calmed and stilled underneath her fingers, his head dropping between his shoulders.
She had no defense for that, no way to guard herself against such a profound act of trust.
“Rose.” So quiet, the sound of her name on his lips, just a rasp, hardly a word at all.
She slid her hand up his back, her fingertips grazing the ends of his hair, then sliding down to stroke the sliver of bare skin at the back of his neck.
