“Anything that has to do with Rose matters to me, Mrs. Hinde. Now, may I please see her?”
She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to gauge his sincerity, then shook her head. “She’s not here.”
“Not here?” Where else would she be, if not at Hammond Court? Damn it, he didn’t like the sound of this at all. “Where is she?”
“That’s not for me to say, Your Grace.”
She started to close the door, but without even thinking about it, he shoved his foot into the gap to prevent her. “Wait. Is she coming back?”
Abby only shook her head. It was plain Rose had instructed her not to reveal her whereabouts to him. God, this was a nightmare. If she slipped through his fingers now, he might never see her again. “If she does come back, will you tell her I was here? That I came looking for her? Please, Mrs. Hinde.”
For the first time since she’d opened the door, Abby’s face softened a fraction. “I’ll tell her, Your Grace, but see you don’t make me sorry I did.”
With that, she shut the door in his face.
There was nothing for him to do then but climb into his carriage, and return to Grantham Lodge, but what was he meant to do there? He couldn’t bear to sit and stare out his window, wishing things were different. It was Christmas morning, and a new year was upon them. No gentleman worth a damn spent Christmas Day wallowing in misery, for God’s sake. This was meant to be a joyful time, a time of new beginnings.
Not a time for giving up.
He stood there, staring at the closed door, until Bryce leaped down from the box and made his way over. “Your Grace?” He blanched when he got a look at Max’s face. “Is something amiss, Your Grace?”
Amiss? His entire world had just collapsed around him, so yes, something was amiss, but there was no sense in taking it out on poor Bryce. “I’ve had better days, Bryce.”
“May I help, Your Grace?”
No. No one could help him. No one but Rose.
But he could help himself. “Wait here for me for a bit, if you would, Bryce. I won’t be long.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
He nodded to Bryce, then wandered off, heedless of the direction he took, but perhaps it wasn’t surprising that he found himself at the pond behind the house, where Rose had taken him ice skating several weeks ago.
The cold lingered, despite the warmth of the sun, but the gentle rays were making quick work of the ice-encrusted trees that surrounded the pond, crystalline drops of water falling from their branches.
The toes of his Hessians were wet, his gold tassels more bedraggled than ever now. He’d have to get new ones when he returned to London.
God, London. It felt as far away as the endless stretch of blue sky above him. Nothing there seemed to matter anymore—not his townhouse, his companions at White’s, or any of the elegant trappings of his old life. In only a few short weeks, everything that mattered, everything he cared about, was here.
Whoever would have thought he’d find his salvation in Fairford, of all places?
Not him. Not anyone, except perhaps . . .
Ambrose St. Claire.
He sat down on the flat rock where he’d helped Rose with her skates, taking in the sparkling sheath of ice spread out before him, and the dripping trees that sheltered it, their low-lying branches reaching for the frozen pond like open arms.
The day they’d come here, and he’d watched her spinning on the ice, her arms raised to the sky, her face wreathed in smiles . . . he hadn’t known it then, but that had been the day everything had changed for him.
How could a man look upon such joy, and not be changed by it?
Joy is a choice, Your Grace.
He’d scoffed at the idea at the time, but he’d been fascinated with her that day, so much so he couldn’t stop himself from touching her.
Those fleeting moments with her had been his first taste of pure, true joy.
She’d given that to him.
