“Callum! Do come and greet our late-arrived guests!” Mother called, drifting over as he reached the door. Her gaze moved to the chestnut-haired man and a brown-haired woman who stood beside him. Her gaze was inscrutable. She could havebeen furious at their late arrival, pleased, or entirely indifferent. Her face was always hard to read.
“Good evening,” Callum said to the two people, bowing low. He looked over at his mother in the hope that she would give him an introduction. He was sure he knew them—the woman had a soft oval face and was very pretty, and the man had a long, angular face and watchful dark eyes. He felt certain he had met them both before, too.
“I did wonder when James and Philippa were going to arrive,” Mama said, coming to the rescue with information. Callum sighed in relief. That was who they were, and why they seemed familiar. James was the son of one of his late father’s closest acquaintances, the Earl of Winbrook. James and his father had occasionally been at Stallenwood Park for visits, and Mother had maintained a friendship with Lady Winbrook, James’ mother. Lady Philippa was James’ cousin, a less frequent visitor at Stallenwood.
“We are very grateful to be invited, Your Grace,” James said, addressing Mother. His expression was grave.
“Of course, dear fellow. Of course,” Mother said, her expression sympathetic. After his mother’s own humiliation about their debt, she had felt a certain kinship with Lady Winbrook, who had suffered a similar experience. That was why she had maintained ties with the family.
“It is a magnificent ball, Your Grace,” Lady Philippa said softly. Mother inclined her head.
“Thank you, Lady Philippa,” she said politely.
Callum tried to smile, but he found that he could not muster any real warmth. He had never liked James—as a youth, the fellow had seemed sullen and withdrawn, his eyes darting around the manor nervously, barely speaking a word. Callum would have preferred it if his mother had not invited the two, butthen he had not helped her make the guest list, so he could not complain.
He stood with them, racking his brains to think of polite things to say. Part of him wished he was like Millicent. She seemed so capable, gliding through social situations with seamless ease. His gaze moved across the ballroom and stopped, caught on a flash of bright blonde hair with coppery highlights. Miss Rothwell was standing perhaps ten feet away. He looked away, annoyed at himself for becoming distracted.
James and Philippa had noticed his staring, and they followed the line of his gaze. He winced, feeling angry with himself as they glanced at each other. They probably thought he was a fool—a lovesick dolt. He tensed, ashamed of himself.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, deciding he had tortured himself enough. “I am overly warm. I must take some respite.” He gestured to the doors.
“Of course, old fellow. Of course,” James replied affably. “It is rather warm in here.”
“We will doubtless still be here when you return,” Lady Philippa quipped a little ironically.
Callum bowed to her and then moved hastily towards the doors of the room. He stepped outside and gulped in the fresh, cold air, feeling relieved to be away from the confusion, the press of people and the bewildering mix of emotions that he felt whenever he looked at Miss Rothwell.
He leaned on the balcony and gazed out into the darkened garden; the stone of the railing icy under his arms. Miss Rothwell’s face filled his mind, and he wished that he could think of something to say to her. She seemed so cold, so disinterested and it hurt him, making him feel unworthy. He had never felt quite adequate as the new duke, sure that someone else might have managed the situation better. Her cold indifference made him feel inadequate.
“Don’t be foolish,” he told himself aloud.
All the same, as he stared down at the garden, he could not help musing about Miss Rothwell and feeling sorrowful. He pushed the sorrow down, reaching for irritation—one reliable way to cover up all his emotions—and told himself that he was just annoyed with her for being difficult. That was definitely all it was. It could not possibly be that he felt a growing admiration.
“Certainly not,” he said to the silence. He could not let that happen, after all.
Chapter 6
The hallway was overly warm, the press of people tight and uncomfortably close. Rosalyn drew her skirts closer about her, trying to avoid stepping on the gown of the lady standing in front of her. Behind her, the chatter of voices was loud. She looked at the floor, feeling unsteady and dizzy. It was ten o’clock in the evening and the ball guests were attempting to exit the ballroom and cross the hallway to the dining room. This was not simply a matter of walking out of one door and to another but was an elaborate exercise in etiquette. They would need to enter the dining room in a line in order of precedence. The highest-ranking guests would go first.
“I believe Lady Dalforth should go ahead of us,” a woman’s voice was saying behind her. Rosalyn strained to hear, her heart thudding. Her sisters were perhaps ten paces away, trying to find a place as the guests lined up, and Sebastian was somewhere—she had lost sight of him in the crowd. Papa was ahead. She glanced around, worried that they might have taken the position of someone higher-ranking than they were. To make such a misstep in the intricate world of privilege and station could lead to ridicule or, at the very least, social censure.
Perhaps somebody would advise her, she thought wildly. She scanned the crowded space for anyone who looked a bit friendly.
“Miss Rothwell?” a voice said beside her. Rosalyn whirled around.
“Your Grace?” Surprise made her gaze widen. She lifted her hand to her lips. She had not expected to see him. After the awkward, strained silence during the dance in the ballroom, she had expected him to avoid her.
“I will escort you to dinner, if I may,” he said. His voice was cool, his expression inscrutable. He briefly made eye contact and then looked away.
Rosalyn tensed. It should have felt comfortable to stand with him—after all, she was to wed him in a little more than a month. Instead, it felt wrong—deeply awkward and uncomfortable. He made no effort to engage in conversation, instead staring blankly ahead. It reminded her precisely of his visit to Cranfield Hall, and her initial discomfort gave way to irritation.
How dare he?she thought crossly.
They stood in silence for a full minute. Rosalyn stepped forward, getting out of the way of some guests. The duke stepped with her, both silent all the while.
“Say something,” the duke hissed. “People are staring. They must wonder about us.”
“And so? If they stare?” Rosalyn asked. She tensed, amazed at her own boldness.
