Harriet grinned. “If you will excuse me, I need to go down to the kitchens. Mother asked me to oversee the delicacies, and they should be bringing them up here already.” Harriet hurried to the door. “Good day, brother!”
“Good day,” Callum called after her, smiling to himself. When she had hurried off, his brow wrinkled in a frown. Harriet’s questions made him think. Was he beginning to feel deeply for Miss Rothwell? He pushed the thought away, feeling uncomfortable.
She is a means to an end. I will not allow myself to become attached,he told himself stiffly. All the same, he could not deny that he felt warm whenever he thought of her.
He gazed out of the window. The grounds were bathed in sunshine, the frost on the lawn rapidly melting except where the shade from the wall touched the grass. He recalled how Miss Rothwell had almost slipped the day before. She had leaned against him for a moment and the scent of her had filled his nostrils, her soft, warm body pressing against his own.
“Lady Harriet? I... Oh!” A voice spoke in the doorway. Callum tensed. He knew that voice. He turned around.
Miss Rothwell was in the doorway. She wore a soft blue day-dress in velvet, her long hair styled severely in a tight chignon. A white shawl draped her shoulders, and she stood stiffly, her eyes wide, clearly surprised to find him there.
“Good day, Miss Rothwell,” he greeted her, bowing low. As he straightened, he had the pleasure of seeing her gaze widen in surprise.
“Forgive me. I was looking for your sister. I did not expect to find you here, Your Grace,” she said, dropping a low curtsey. Callum inclined his head.
“My sister had to rush off. Can I convey a message to her?” He asked. He did his best to keep his voice level. His heart was racing.
“Um...I wished to thank her for lending me this,” Miss Rothwell said, gesturing to her shawl. “My sisters and I were taking a walk about the grounds, and I had no shawl with me.”
“I shall thank her for you,” Callum said.
“Could you kindly see that it gets back to her?” Miss Rothwell shrugged the silky garment off and handed it to him. Her fingers brushed his as he took it. He groaned inwardly. She was so beautiful, her touch as soft as satin.
“I shall do so,” he said, coughing to clear his throat, which felt tight and tense. “Miss Rothwell?” He asked as she turned in the doorway.
“Yes?” She gazed up at him, her hazel eyes wide and almost apprehensive. He cursed himself inwardly—had he made her afraid of him?
“I would recommend that you take your pelisse whenever you go outdoors. It is very cold here in the Midlands. And you could have caught a fever already after yesterday.”
She nodded. “Yes, Your Grace,” she murmured. “Once again, I must beg your pardon for yesterday’s happenings,” she said unsteadily, her gaze moving to the floor. “I must have startled you.”
“Startled me? Not at all,” Callum replied hastily. “I was merely concerned. It is much colder here than in your Sussex home.”
“Indeed, it is. Thank you, Your Grace.” She inclined her head. “I shall take care to remember that.”
Callum gazed at her. Her gaze was warm as she looked back at him, and his chest glowed. He had thought she had taken offence, but she appeared rather bemused by his advice. He stared at her, her soft smile and her twinkling eyes holding him captive.
“Good day,” he managed to say, and bowed stiffly. When he straightened up, she was already going through the door into the hallway. He gazed down at the shawl that he still held in his hand. It was warm from being wrapped around Miss Rothwell’s shoulders.
Callum tensed and marched to his sister’s bedchamber to deliver the shawl, trying to ignore the presence of it in his hand and the tide of emotions that filled him when he thought about it draped around her pale shoulders. He tapped on the door of the bedroom and was relieved when it opened.
“Yes? Oh! Your Grace,” Miss Emsley, his sister’s ladies’ maid, greeted him. “I was just tidying. Is there aught thematter?” Her eyes widened and Callum realised he must look angry, his jaw clenched where he fought his own emotions.
“No. I was instructed to return this to my sister. She loaned it to a guest,” he explained, keeping his voice light.
“Oh, Your Grace, you are most kind. I am deeply obliged and you needn’t have troubled yourself with such a trivial task. I shall see to it that it is placed properly,” Miss Emsley replied, her dark eyes wide. She took the shawl and folded it with care.
“Thank you,” Callum said politely, his voice even. He turned and hurried down the hallway. He had an outfit to plan, and, as his sister had said, it did matter. Not just because Mother was there, either. He wished to make a good impression on his guests, though there was one in particular who mattered more to him than the rest.
Chapter 11
Rosalyn stared out of her bedchamber window. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and she should have been dressing for the duchess’ special afternoon tea party, but she could not focus. Her encounter with the duke, just a few hours before, played through her mind repeatedly. She recalled his gaze on her—so intense, so confusing—the way he talked so hesitantly, as though he was shy. She especially recalled the feeling of his fingers brushing against her own as she passed him the shawl. She could almost feel their brief, soft touch if she shut her eyes. It had been so swift, but it had seared through her nerve endings, making her body tingle.
“What is the matter with me?” she asked aloud. And, she wondered further, what was the matter with the duke? Since their meeting in the dining room at the ball he had been behaving differently. Less cold and silent, more attentive. The strange glances that he cast her way confused her.
She stood up, going to the wardrobe. She had to choose a dress to wear. As she opened it, a knock sounded at the door. She jumped, startled. Her nerves had been tightly strung since the morning.
“Yes?” she called a little shakily.
