“Indeed,” Sebastian said with a grin. “Those were grand times.”
“Mm.” Rosalyn closed her eyes for a moment, recalling her childhood Christmases. Sometimes there had been snow—usually not more than ankle-deep—but they had sledged and played outside for hours. Inside the hall, greenery and candles adorned the rooms, and the kissing bough—a ball of greenery with red apples suspended in the centre—was hung at the back of the ballroom. Her heart twisted as she recalled how joyous she had been, watching her happy parents laugh and smile at each other.
“You tried so hard to hold us together after...after...” Sebastian coughed. Rosalyn swallowed. She guessed that he had thought of Mama, just as she had. Her heart ached.
“I did. Thank you, Sebastian,” she said, her throat feeling tight. He was one of the only members of the family who acknowledged that—that she had tried so hard to be strong when Mama had passed away, that she had done her best to do what Mama would have wanted and to keep the family as cohesive and strong as it had been when she was alive. As it happened, she did not need to try that hard—apart from Papa withdrawing into silences, which he still occasionally did, they had remained as close as ever. She gazed up at Sebastian, her heart filled with love.
“You are so strong, sister,” Sebastian said gently, his gaze holding hers. “So much stronger than you know. You carried us all for a while. Those are very capable shoulders.” He shoved her playfully on the shoulder, lightening the mood.
Rosalyn smiled up at him, unable to speak for a moment. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you, brother. You have no idea what that means to me.” She had needed to hear those exact words. Perhaps she could do it. At least for the rest of the evening.
Sebastian just smiled. “Now,” he said slowly, “I reckon we ought to go indoors. It’s chilly out here.”
“Yes,” Rosalyn replied, becoming aware that she was shivering and that it was, in fact, extremely cold. She walked with Sebastian to the door and drew a breath, then stepped into the room. She was strong, and she could face whatever awaited, as long as there were horses and a stable to keep her sane where she was going. Or she would try to face the cold, horrid duke, and forget about him until she had to.
Chapter 3
Callum gazed out of the window at the garden below. He had travelled for a week from Sussex to his Midlands home, and during that time the light covering of snow over the landscape had melted. The leafless trees stood along the drive like sentinels and the sky was leaden over the dark landscape. It was barren and dark, like his mood. He tried to forget about the journey he had just made. It was too confusing, calling up questions he would rather not answer.
“Your Grace?” the butler called from the doorway.
“Yes?” Callum asked a little frostily. He did not like to be disturbed.
“Your Grace, your mother was asking for you. Her grace is downstairs in the dining room.”
Callum’s brow creased in a frown. He had avoided discussions with his mother since his return, but he could not avoid her eternally. She was planning for the house party—twenty guests staying for three weeks required rooms to be tidied, menus to be written, the ballroom to be cleaned and a host of other tasks. Mother oversaw all of the preparations, but even with all that work, she would certainly find time to argue with him about his choice of duchess.
“She requested that you await her in the drawing room, Your Grace.”
“I will wait here,” Callum said lightly. He thanked the fellow absently. The butler paused to tidy on the way out. The tray that he lifted from the table caught the firelight, flashing a rich bronzy gold. Callum winced as an image of Miss Rothwell flashed into his mind, conjured by the bronzed tones that matched, exactly, the colour of her hair.
Stop thinking about her,he told himself firmly. He recalled her tumbledown locks and that bright smile, as bright as sunshine on a frozen landscape. She had been disarming, and easy to talk to. That had been unexpected.
So, I will be able to tolerate her without escaping into the countryside on long rides too often,he told himself angrily.Why does that seem to have captured my thoughts so much?
He turned away, determined to stop wandering in a mire of thoughts of Miss Rothwell. It had been hard enough on the long ride back to focus—alone, his mind wandered to her far more often than he would like. It was uncomfortable and it bothered him.
“Son. There you are!” his mother greeted him as she glided in through the door from the hallway. “I need your opinion on a matter. Should I put Lord Bronham and his wife in the South suite? As an earl, I think the best view ought to go to him.”
“I think you have a far better idea of these matters than I do,” Callum ground out.
“Oh, son! Do pay some interest to this party! It’s Christmas!” His mother said crossly. “I have been working for weeks, and you barely even looked at the menu plans and the guest list. Must I do this all by myself?”
Callum sighed. He could not help feeling a little guilty. What his mother said was true, after all—she had been working hard.
“Mother, you have put a magnificent effort into the house party,” he said slowly. “Truly, you have. But I have other matters weighing on my shoulders. The horses need adequate feed to last the winter, and it is particularly cold. Seeing to their regular exercise is also difficult,” he explained, hoping that she would not guess he had other matters on his mind as well. Matters like the woman he had met in Sussex and who would be the new duchess in a matter of weeks.
"I did need to ask you something,” his mother began. “I was ordering some greenery to be cut for the house party. To decorate the ballroom and make the kissing boughs and so on. Have you any restrictions on where we can gather the branches in the woods adjoining the park?”
Callum frowned. “Not that I know of,” he replied blankly. The verderers who managed the estate woods had not told him that parts of it needed particular protecting during the winter. “But surely, we will not be hanging the green boughs now?” he asked. “That is for the day before Christmas.” That was a well-established tradition throughout the country. The house would be decorated the day before Christmas, and then the Christmas boughs would remain there until Epiphany the following year.
His mother stared at him. “We will be hanging the boughs in a week’s time,” she answered. “If enough greenery can be located and gathered by then.”
“Mother! Is that not a rather radical notion?” Callum exclaimed. The tradition dictated that the branches be hung the day before. Many people believed that flouting the custom would invite dreadful ill luck.
His mother shrugged. “We have a need for decoration. How is the party supposed to seem even a little bit festive, if we have nothing to show that it is Christmastide?”
Callum sighed. He knew better than to argue with his mother. He shrugged.
