“Just a little,” the duke teased.
“A pastry. Or two. At the most,” she called teasingly. He laughed and she frowned in amazement at herself. Only a few days ago, she had been positively wary of the man. Now, she teased and joked as she did with nobody else.
What in Perdition’s name has possessed me? she asked herself, giggling as she walked into the hallway and up the stairs. If it was madness, it was of the most delightful sort.
She stepped into the breakfast room and stopped. Lord Winbrook was there and he stood up, bowing to her. His dark eyes held her own as he straightened from the bow.
“Good morning, Miss Rothwell,” he greeted her.
“Um...I...I need my shawl,” she stammered. She had not taken the time to rearrange her curls, forgetting all about her dishevelled appearance. She gazed down, relieved that her dress had not become wet around the hem when she walked through the snow outdoors.
“Of course, you must fetch it, then,” he demurred. Rosalyn turned in the doorway and fled to her room.
“Whatever is the matter? Why does he unsettle me so?” she asked herself. She hastily arranged her hair, tucking it up into a simple bun and tying it with a dark-coloured ribbon. Then she donned her shawl and hurried to the breakfast room.
Lord Winbrook was still there, but—she was pleased to see—so was the duchess, and two other guests, an elderly couple who nodded and smiled at her in a friendly way.
“Tea, Miss Rothwell?” Lord Winbrook asked. He reached for the teapot and poured some for her. Rosalyn flushed with embarrassment.
“Thank you,” she managed to say.
“A pleasure, Miss Rothwell.”
Rosalyn looked away. She could not think of something to say, desperate to escape from the table where Mr Winbrook sat watching her with an attentive look. As she cleared her throat, about to excuse herself on grounds of feeling off-colour, her father walked in.
“Sweet Rosalyn! Good morning,” he greeted her with a fond smile and came and sat down at the table beside her.
“Good morning, Papa,” she said quietly. “Did you have a pleasant rest?”
“I slept so deeply I was surprised to wake as early as I did,” her father said with a smile. “Yourself?”
“I slept well enough,” she replied quietly. When she glanced across the table, Lord Winbrook was talking to the elderly man and ignoring her. She leaned back, her posture relaxing with her relief.
She and her father chatted about the snow and the ride in the coach—Father had not gone, but had walked around the garden and he had heard all about it from Georgina and Isabel. She was laughing happily as she heard someone walk in and saw the duke come over to the last unoccupied seat at the table.
He inclined his head in a slight bow when he looked at her and she smiled. She tensed as the duke’s gaze moved coldly to Lord Winbrook, who sat opposite. Lord Winbrook gazed at the duke and she shivered at the look in his eyes. It was hateful. She looked away, feeling shocked.
Whatever is the matter with them?she asked herself.
It made little sense, yet she knew she disliked the young viscount, and she fervently hoped to avoid his attempts at conversation. He unsettled her, though she could not say why, but if she could manage to steer clear of him for the remainder of the festivities—whatever the duchess had planned—she would be most content.
Chapter 18
The scent of snow icy and pure was in the air as Callum stepped down into the garden. It had snowed all night and all day, and the lawn was buried in three or four inches of snow. He gazed up at the sky, where a flurry of flakes was still falling. The snow was starting to fall heavily and he shivered, drawing his coat tight about him.
“The horses,” he murmured under his breath.
He had checked on them before breakfast, but almost ten hours had passed since then. He had promised to take Firelight out on a ride, and he had got as far as riding him up the path when the snow started to fall so thickly that he had deemed any outriding as dangerous. He could barely see, and his horse was skittish, snorting at the flurry that fell on him and the heavy, dull thump when snow slid off a tree branch near them. He had turned and ridden him back and ordered the grooms to rub him down.
“Make sure he stays warm. Keep his stall window shuttered until he is completely dried off,” he had said.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the stable-hand had replied.
That was six hours ago.
Callum battled through the thick snow, hurrying towards the stable. He had brought a lantern with him, the darkness long fallen. He kept careful eyes on the path, not wanting to slip.
He reached the stable, and there he stopped, blinking in confusion. Usually, there would be a lamp or two burning while the stable-hands mucked out the stalls on their evening round. Instead, the stable was entirely dark, no light showing under the door, and he frowned. It was understandable if the stable-hands had done the task earlier, hurrying indoors to where it was warmand dry, but something felt wrong and he stepped up to the door, pushing it open.
