He blushed as a sudden, vivid image rushed into his mind. Miss Rothwell stood underneath the kissing bough, unaware of where she stood. He walked up and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his mouth to her lips. They were, in his imagination, as sweet and soft and fragrant as they looked; flavoured with some sweet dessert she had just eaten, and as soft as satin.
He groaned and pushed the image away. That was the last thing he needed. He was determined to feel only a businesslike respect for Miss Rothwell, and instead, his wretched body was insisting on noticing how lovely she was, how compelling that lively, sweet face and those hazel eyes were.
He tensed as he became abruptly aware that he was not alone in the drawing room. Someone was talking to themselves.
“...and we have the cushions to set out, and...Oh, bother! Where is my music?”
“Harriet?” he called, recognising the voice. He spotted her a second later, in the corner by the pianoforte. Her long pale hair had tumbled loose of its chignon, the white dress she wore bright in the light from the windows. “Sister?”
“Brother!” Harriet turned, startled. “I was just setting the drawing room in order for the tea party. Have you seen my music books?”
Callum looked around and spied some books on the windowsill. “Those ones?” he asked, gesturing.
“Oh! Yes! Thank you, brother,” Harriet said quickly, lifting them up. “Mother will expect me to provide some music, I expect.” She put the books on the music stand.
Callum frowned. Harriet seemed unusually flustered. She was usually high-spirited, and it was not unusual for her to be overwrought, but she seemed scattered and tense in ways that she was not usually.
“Are you quite well, sister?” he asked gently.
“Oh! Yes, brother. I am quite well,” Harriet replied, startled from her reverie. She had a dreamy look in her eyes. Callum recalled Mr Rothwell, and how taken he and his sister seemed with one another, and a wry grin twisted his lip.
“I am sure our guests will be well-pleased with the tea party.Allour guests,” he said gently. Harriet frowned.
“I do not follow your meaning.”
Callum grinned. “The Rothwell party seem to have made a considerable impression?” he remarked lightly. Harriet went red. Callum tried to hide the grin that spread across his face.
“Well...Mr Rothwell is...seems pleasant,” she stammered. Callum smiled.
“I am sure that he is a pleasant sort,” Callum answered teasingly.
Harriet beamed at him. “Oh, he is! He is amusing, and affable, and thoughtful...he seems very pleasant,” she concluded, before diving into awkward silence. Her cheeks flushed a deep red.
“Quite an all-round pleasant fellow, then.” Callum grinned at his sister, who looked away.
“I suppose,” she said distractedly. “Of course, he has a pleasant family. Miss Rothwell strikes me as extremely gracious and affable.”
“Mm.” Callum pushed the comment away. His chest glowed with the merest thought of Miss Rothwell, and gracious andaffable were the least complimentary things he could think to say. He frowned. The magnitude of his praise was surprising, even to himself.
“Brother?” Harriet asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yes?” he asked, frowning.
“Is something the matter? You seem troubled.”
“No,” Callum said quickly, not wishing to tell his sister what was on his mind. “No, sister. I am merely thinking about the tea later.”
“And what you shall wear?” she inquired.
Callum grinned. “Yes. Exactly that.”
“Brother!” Harriet teased him gently. “We are to have tea in but a few hours! You’d best hurry and make a decision.”
Callum laughed. “It matters little what I wear, sweet sister,” he said warmly. “I do not think anyone here is going to be making a study of it.” In London, during the Season, it would be another matter. What high society members like Beau Brummel wore was literally published in places like theGazette.
“Even so,” his sister said primly. Callum chuckled.
“I will do my best to dress appropriately, sister,” he promised.
