CHAPTER22
“What the devil do you wantnow, Grantham?”
Max glanced up from the papers strewn across his desk to find Lord Dunwitty looming in his study doorway, his lips pinched together, and his brows lowered in a fierce scowl.
“Dunwitty.” Max waved toward the chair across from his desk. “Do sit down. It’s good of you to come.”
“I wasn’t aware I had a choice.” Dunwitty strode across the room, dropped into the chair, and fixed him with a baleful glare. “In any case, I’m here, just as you commanded, so I repeat, Grantham. What is it you wantthistime?”
“You look a trifle grim this morning, Dunwitty.” Tonight was the Christmas Eve ball, but the viscount didn’t appear to be anticipating it with any pleasure. He looked as if he were facing the gibbet, rather than an evening of merry holiday frolics. “Are you not enjoying your stay at Grantham Lodge?”
“I wouldn’t say that, Grantham. While I don’t care for being summoned to Fairford as if I were one of your servants—”
Ah. Not so much grim, then, as angry.
“—it hasn’t been quite the chore I anticipated. There have been certain diversions that have kept me entertained, some of them quite pleasing, indeed.”
Pleasing diversions. There was no mistaking thediversionDunwitty was referring to, and he didn’t like it.
Still, he could hardly blame Dunwitty. The viscount was merely doing as he’d ordered. That was the trouble with these wicked schemes. If you coerced a man into marriage by threatening to ruin his uncle, he was likely to do precisely as he was told.
Which was rather awkward, now that Max intended to marry Rose himself.
But it couldn’t be helped. He’d been fascinated with Rose for weeks now—since the day she’d taken him skating—but it had taken their kiss in the kitchen at Hammond Court yesterday to make him realize the truth.
He was in love with Rose St. Claire.
Madly, wildly in love, and like most besotted fools, he didn’t care for the idea of another gentleman courting his beloved. So, Dunwitty would have to go, and the sooner, the better. “As loathe as I am to deprive you of your pleasing diversions, our marriage experiment is over, Dunwitty.”
Dunwitty raised an eyebrow. “Over?”
“That’s right. Over. I no longer wish for you to court Miss St. Claire. Or marry her. Or touch her in any way,” he added, in case Dunwitty had some clever notions about absconding with Rose. “I will, of course, still release your uncle from his obligations to me.”
He’d thought Dunwitty would be pleased, but his scowl intensified until his glower threatened to set the desk between them aflame. “You truly believe it’s as simple as that, don’t you, Grantham? It’s nothing more to you than moving pieces about the chessboard.”
The chessboard, again? Montford had said something similar, and it was damned insulting. Not to him, but to Rose. If Dunwitty knew her at all, he’d know she wasn’t some ivory chess piece to be tossed about on a whim. Yes, he’d seen her that way at first, but now . . .
She waseverythingto him.
But he wasn’t going to explain that to Dunwitty. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and gave the viscount a mocking smile. “Well, I am rather good at chess.”
“I suppose you intend to marry her yourself.” Dunwitty’s lip curled. “You don’t deserve her, Grantham.”
No, he didn’t, but by some miracle Rose seemed to think him worthy of her, and hers was the only opinion that mattered. “That’s not your concern, Dunwitty.”
Dunwitty eyed him, his arms crossed over his chest. “It would be convenient for you if I simply disappeared, but I’m not your pawn, Grantham.”
“Forgive me, Dunwitty, but that’s precisely what you are. Or were.”
He wouldn’t have been surprised if Dunwitty had leaped across the desk and grabbed him by the throat then, but the viscount only laughed. “Is that so? Tell me, Grantham, have you had any news from London recently?”
“No.” Who would send him news? He hadn’t any real friends in Town aside from Basingstoke and Montford, and they were here.
“Well, I have. Rather important news. Shall I enlighten you, Grantham?”
Enlightenhim? Arrogant pup. “No. Gossip doesn’t interest me.”
“This isn’t gossip. It’s the truth, and I think it will interest you very much. The Marquess of Oxenden died yesterday.”
