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“I daresay this will surprise you, but I rarely get stung. Stinging is a defensive maneuver, and I take care to make certain my bees never feel threatened.”

“I see. The happiest bees make the tastiest honey, then?”

He laughed, the merry sound echoing around them. “Scientifically speaking, there is no evidence of that, but between you and me, Miss Harley?” He lowered his voice and beckoned her closer.

She went without a second thought, the sweet, earthy scent of him stealing her breath. “Yes, Mr. Ambrose?”

“Between you and me, Hawthorne Castle does the best figgy pudding in Dumfriesshire. There’s only one thing that separates it from every other figgy pudding in Scotland.”

“Let me guess. The honey?”

“The honey.” He took her arm and drew it through his elbow. “Come, Miss Harley. The conservatory awaits.”

CHAPTER 6

“Christmas Eve is upon us, Your Grace.”

“So it is, Rowan.” The past weeks had flown by in the blink of an eye. It seemed like only yesterday he and Rowan were debating whether the blue superfine coat was preferable to the bottle green.

If anyone had told him then what the next two weeks would hold, he’d have said they were mad. Shouldn’t it take more than two weeks for a life to irrevocably change?

Before the house party, he would have said yes, but if the last fortnight had proved anything, it was that he was a perfect fool.

He gazed down at the drive below his bedchamber window. There were no carriages there today, no young ladies with mountains of baggage, and no horses stamping their hooves, the bells on their bridles ringing merrily in the crisp winter air.

The drive was empty, silent, deserted.

Why wasn’t he pleased? It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to have a house party. Yet he wasn’t pleased. He was most decidedly displeased, and he didn’t know why.

He was merely out of sorts, that was all. He’d woken to a gloomy, overcast day, the sky threatening snow, and he’d only grown more morose as the morning gave way to the afternoon.

It was too quiet. The castle was throbbing with silence.

How was a man meant to escape his own thoughts when he was surrounded by such confounded silence? They chased each other around in circles inside his head, like a buzzard circling a lifeless carcass.

Ah, such pleasing reflections! Was it any wonder he was morose?

But one thing was certain. This ridiculous melancholy had nothing at all to do with his house party coming to an end. Why would that upset him? God knew he’d been dreading the cursed thing, and now it was over, at last.

By this time tomorrow, his guests would be gone.

That was reason enough to celebrate, surely?

To be fair, the house party hadn’t been quite the fortnight of torment he’d imagined it would be. There may have been a few moments here and there when he’d even enjoyed himself.

Perhaps even more than a few.

“In case you had any doubts, Your Grace, your guests had a wonderful time these past two weeks. I believe we can say your house party was a great success.”

“If it was a success, we have you to thank for it, Rowan. You make an admirable duke.” He hadn’t seen much of Rowan these past weeks, but when they did happen to cross paths, Rowan seemed to be enjoying himself. “It’s not as tedious as you imagined, being a duke.”

Rowan had been buffing Gabriel’s evening pumps to a blinding gloss, but his hand stilled, the buffing cloth still clutched in his fingers. “A counterfeit duke, Your Grace.”

There was an uncharacteristic flatness in Rowan’s tone that made Gabriel turn from the window. “Are you all right, Rowan?” The man looked a little peaked, and his cravat was a touch askew, which was unheard of for his fastidious valet.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Rowan renewed his attack on the pumps, avoiding Gabriel’s eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I couldn’t say.” That wasn’t entirely true. He had his suspicions, but Rowan had been as tight-lipped as Gabriel had ever seen him. “I saw you walking the grounds with a young lady yesterday afternoon.”