“We will see you later,” Isabel told Rosalyn as they went to the door.
“Yes! We’re going to come to your room to dress!” Georgina called out cheerily. “Just like at home! This is so exciting...”
Rosalyn had to smile as the two younger women hurried out of her room. Once they had gone, the footmen brought in the big box containing her luggage. When they, too, had departed, Rosalyn went to the box and opened it. On the top, packed so that she could access it on the first day of her arrival, was her blue evening gown. She took it out and hung it on the wardrobe door. The velvet skirts had creased slightly, Georgina was right, but in a few hours, she was sure it would be ready. She gazed at it, a slight tremor of apprehension in her stomach.
“I shall think nothing of it,” she told herself calmly. Inside, she was aflutter with a mix of emotions, but she had to tell herself that she was indifferent to it all. She had to be indifferent to the guests, to the duchess and especially the duke. She was not indifferent, not at all—she was angry, offended and aware of him, acutely so. But indifference was the only way she was going to be able to attend the ball and remain sane. So, indifferent she would be. At least for the next few hours.
Chapter 5
Callum surveyed the ballroom from where he stood on the steps. The chandeliers were glittering with a hundred candles, the light pouring down on the ballroom. The floor, of pale marble tiles, was polished so that it, too, shone, and the white-painted walls just added to the glowing, bright impression of the space. Trestle tables were set out here and there, laden with delicacies or glasses into which footmen poured wine or cordial. The air smelled of a mix of beeswax polish, perfume and the hot, waxy smell of the candles. Callum breathed in and tried to feel calm. He was distracted, and it annoyed him that it was because of thoughts of Miss Rothwell.
His gaze had been drawn to her immediately as she alighted from the coach. Her bright hair had seemed even more bright in the dark, grey afternoon. She had smiled at her father, and Callum’s heart had ached at the dazzling warmth of that smile. For a moment, he had wished that she would give him such a heartfelt greeting. She had gazed at him almost fearfully where he stood on the steps, and that had hurt. He had looked away, unsure what to do or say. He shook his head, trying to stop the thoughts of her that chased themselves around his mind. He kept on wondering what she was going to wear to the ball. He did not want to think like that, to care about that.
“Are you too warm, brother?” Harriet asked from beside him. He stood on the ballroom steps with Mother and Harriet, to greet their guests. “It’s dreadfully hot up here.”
“I am quite well,” Callum replied, touched by his sister’s concern. He smiled at her fondly. Her white silk gown of heavy silk complimented her delicate looks, the silver necklace set with bright stones not coming close to outshining her joyful smile.
“Lord Bronham! Lady Bronham! And dear Lady Millicent! How delightful!” Mother greeted some arriving guests. Callum tensed instantly. Lady Millicent was the woman that his mother insisted he should dance with. Callum wished that he could feel something, some interest, but he did not.He did not feel anything—in that sense—for anybody. He had sworn to himself years ago that he would not. His father had broken his trust, and he was not going to let anyone else get close.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Lady Bronham—a woman a little younger than his mother, with white, curly hair and a pretty, heart-shaped face—replied, dropping a slight curtsey. “How lovely to be here. I must say, you have outdone yourself, Dottie.” She addressed his mother.
Callum bowed. His gaze moved from Lady Bronham to her daughter, who stood beside her.
“Your Grace,” Lady Millicent murmured, dropping a curtsey fractionally deeper than her mother’s. She was wearing a beautiful gown of deep blue velvet, a slim silver chain at her neck. Her thick black hair was arranged in a chignon, one curl falling to touch her cheek. Her dark eyes caught his captivatingly. He swallowed hard. With raven hair, milk-pale skin and those big black eyes, she was a celebrated beauty with whom half of London was in love. He shook his head at himself, unsure why he could feel nothing except for awkwardness in her presence.
“Good evening, Lady Millicent,” he murmured.
His mother glanced at him and he knew that she was expecting him to say something pleasant, but he could not think of anything, and Lady Millicent followed her parents down the steps into the ballroom.
His mother had just enough time to shoot him an annoyed look before turning to the next guests who were coming through the door.
“Lord Rothwell. Good evening,” his mother greeted the viscount, and Callum blinked, his reverie broken as he found himself face-to-face with the Rothwell guests. Lord Rothwell was dressed in a black tailcoat and black trousers, befitting a man who was still in mourning. Beside him stood his daughter and Callum's wife-to-be, Miss Rothwell.
With her golden hair arranged in a chignon, two loose curls escaping in front, and a pale grey-blue velvet gown that fitted her perfectly, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her hazel eyes met his and held his gaze and he struggled to look away, lost for a moment in her mesmerising gaze.
“Good evening,” he greeted her, bowing low. She dropped a curtsey, her gaze sliding past his and towards Harriet. He felt a little annoyed.
You could look at me,he wanted to say.You ought to be just a little curious.
He pushed the thought aside. Miss Rothwell was curtseying to Harriet, and her brother’s gaze was fixed upon Harriet in a way that made Callum’s back stiffen.
“Goodevening,” he greeted the young Mr Rothwell coldly, hoping to distract him from gaping at Harriet. Mr Rothwell grinned and bowed low.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” he greeted him smoothly. “Good evening, my lady,” he added, grinning at Harriet in a way that outshone the candles.
Callum dismissed his annoyance and focused on the next guests. The two young Miss Rothwells curtseyed; all anxious glances and giggles. He bowed and tried to ignore their awkward chuckles. It made him feel uncomfortable.
“These two entering now are the last of the guests,” his mother whispered to him as an older couple arrived. “Now we can shut the doors and go and enjoy the evening.Dodance with Millicent?”
“Mother...” Callum shut his eyes. He was obliged to open the ball with Miss Rothwell—she was his betrothed.
His mother had turned away and was gliding down the stairs, the picture of poise and dignity. Callum turned to join her, trying to comport himself as well as she did. One thing he could say for his mother was that she was the epitome of a duchess. Nothing had ever dented her grace and poise, not even the snide comments and cruelty of society following Papa’s deep debts.
He reached the ballroom floor and stepped over to the refreshments table, where guests milled. He accepted a glass from the footman, barely even noticing what was in it as he sipped. He chatted politely and fidgeted with his sleeves and wished that he could escape the oppressive, noisy room. As the musicians tuned up, he glanced across the ballroom—a sea of dark velvets and glittering jewelry—and caught sight of Miss Rothwell again.
She was standing with her two sisters, her head tipped back as she laughed. The golden light shone on her hair, glowing there for a second as she moved. She saw him staring and her happy smile drooped, her manner instantly sobering. She turned away.
She doesn’t even like me,Callum thought, tensing and mustering his cold, harsh defenses. If she did not like him, he was most certainly not going to like her.
