Chapter 12

Callum drew his gaze back, for the fourth time, from where Miss Rothwell sat with her sisters by the window. The sunshine fell through onto her hair, making it glow like burnished brass, and her happy laughter drew his gaze back to her whenever he looked away. A plate of mince pies stood on the tea table, a blue-and-white Meissen ware tea set beside them.

“...thought we’d go for a jaunt. A fine day! Oughtn’t to waste this opportunity, eh?”

Callum blinked, Lord Grassdale’s words just reaching him through the fog of his thoughts. In his mind, he was in the icy cold garden, holding Miss Rothwell’s hand in his own. She gazed up at him, her hazel eyes wide with surprise. Her fingers were icy in his touch, fine and graceful and unexpectedly strong from years of riding.

“...the fellows and me. What do you say, Stallenwood?”

“I beg your pardon?” Callum asked, confused. “Would you mind repeating that?”

“Of course, old chap. I thought that you, myself, Rothwell and Chesterford might take a jaunt. What say you? Not necessarily a festive activity, but a fine one for a day like this.”

“A jaunt? Where?” Callum asked. He looked out of the window. The day was still clear-skied, but the estate was freezing cold, especially in the hollows that were perpetually in the shade.

“Oh, anywhere you care to name. It’s your estate, old fellow. Just a shame to waste the sunlight. What say you?”

“Of course,” Callum replied, distractedly. He was gazing across the drawing-room again, to where Miss Rothwell was seated. Her big smile drew him in. He glanced sideways, aware of his mother’s critical gaze on him. She had been furious when he and Miss Rothwell had drifted in a few minutes late, obviously together and clearly distracted. She had not said anything, but her censorious gaze had followed them through the door and over to the chairs in the corner. He had done his best to ignore it, but he knew that the moment she had time, she would demand to know the cause.

“Capital! Shall we go after tea?” Lord Grassdale asked Callum, bringing him back to the present. A young viscount, Lord Grassdale had a slim, serious face, reddish hair and at that moment, a bright grin. Callum tried to focus.

“Yes. A fine idea. We still have an hour of daylight before sunset,” he added, trying to plan a route. The horses did need exercise, and a ride was a good idea.

“Grand! Your mama shall not mind if we depart a little earlier, I think. The longer we have in daylight, the safer. I’ll go and tell Rothwell, shall I?”

“Who?” Callum blinked. That part had escaped him, but he recalled that the name Rothwell had been mentioned.

“Mr Rothwell. He’s a keen rider. He will want to come out with us for certain. He already expressed admiration for your stable.”

“Oh?” Callum blinked in surprise. He did not recall taking Mr Rothwell around their stable. Harriet. That had to be it. He hid a scowl. When had she sneaked down to the stable with Rothwell? That was his fault. His preoccupation with Miss Rothwell was distracting him from his duties.

“Indeed! Indeed, old chap. Well? Shall I ask him?”

“Yes. Do so,” Callum replied distractedly. He had been glancing over to Miss Rothwell and her sisters, to see if he could locate Mr Rothwell, when his eye fell on someone in particular. James was seated a few paces away, his gaze fixed on Miss Rothwell. He was staring at her. Callum’s blood boiled.

As he watched, James turned to Lady Philippa and whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was, she laughed.

Perdition take you! Callum thought angrily. He glared at them, some of his ire directed at his mother. She had not needed to invite two such unpleasant people to her Christmas party. He watched the two of them, glaring at James as his gaze moved again to Miss Rothwell. His anger dampened swiftly as Lord Grassdale approached, Chesterford—an older baron—and Rothwell in tow. Mr Rothwell’s father, Lord Cranfield, was with them. Callum inclined his head politely to the older man.

“Your Grace,” Lord Cranfield greeted him respectfully. “I believe my son is going for a ride with you? I would like to join him, if I may. I have an interest in seeing your stable.”

“Of course,” Callum said with an easy shrug. In many ways, having more riders was a good thing. They could exercise more horses, and it was always safer to be in a bigger group.

“Grand,” Lord Cranfield said lightly.

“Well, we are all ready, then,” Lord Grassdale said, sounding pleased. “I will just go and explain our departure to the duchess.” He tilted his head in the direction where Mother stood, holding court with Lady Bronham in the corner by the tea table.

Callum nodded and stood with Lord Chesterford, Lord Cranfield and Mr Rothwell. He shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. He knew none of the men well, and he disliked Rothwell, while Lord Cranfield he had to admit he found a little intimidating. He was very quiet, very serious: in many ways unlike his son and daughters, who were lively, merry people.

“I say,” Mr Rothwell said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I reckon Rosy would like to come with us. Shall I ask her?”

“Rosy?” Callum shrugged and nodded. It was only after Mr Rothwell had disappeared into the drawing room that he realised he meant Miss Rothwell, who was called Rosalyn.

His heart thudded rapidly. He had agreed to the ride thinking that it would be himself and a few other men. He had not planned how he would feel if Miss Rothwell were with them. That was an entirely different matter. He would worry about it getting dark, about the paths being unsafe, about which horse would be safe for her to ride. Mr Rothwell had already reached her, and she was standing up to join them. Her gaze met his, and he blushed.

She came over to join them, and then Lord Grassdale came back to the group.

“Her grace said we were welcome to go,” he told Callum. “Shall we make our way to the stable?”

“Of course,” Callum agreed.

He followed the group downstairs and to the door, walking a pace behind Miss Rothwell, who walked with her father. She moved with a light tread, a curl of hair falling from its style to brush the back of her neck. Her skin shone in the soft daylight that poured into the stairwell. He looked away, frustrated with himself.

James seems to have no qualms about staring, he reminded himself. That still angered him. He had been surprised by the magnitude of the rage that it raised in him. He had wanted to stride across the room and hit the fellow. He did not understand it.

He was opening the front door when he became aware of footsteps behind them. Two sets of footsteps. Mr Rothwell was hurrying downstairs, Harriet beside him. Her face was flushed, and she smiled at her brother a little shyly.

“Now, Harriet. I do not think...” he began hotly. Grassdale and Chesterford were there, and Grassdale smiled at Harriet.

“Lady Harriet! How pleasant. Do let her come along. It will be good for Miss Rothwell to have another lady with us.” He smiled appealingly.

“You are right,” Callum agreed gruffly. While Miss Rothwell was more than adequately chaperoned by her father and brother, the presence of another lady would soften things and make them more acceptable. He bit back his anger at Mr Rothwell, who was grinning as though he had been granted a thousand pounds, and let Harriet go past them.

The ladies shrugged on their riding cloaks while the gentlemen donned their coats and gloves, and then they all proceeded outside to the stable.

The air was bitterly cold, cutting through Callum’s thick greatcoat, and he gritted his teeth as he glanced over at Miss Rothwell. She wore her velvet gown and a seemingly thick velvet mantel, yet he worried about her in the intense cold. As they walked down the path, they met with the late afternoon sunshine that shone into the stables. That improved matters and Callum relaxed a little.

“Right. My lord?” he addressed Lord Cranfield, Miss Rothwell’s father. “I suggest you take Snowstorm. He is our most spirited stallion. I think you are the most experienced rider here?”

Lord Cranfield shrugged; his thin face relaxed. “I will do as you suggest,” he replied politely.

Callum swiftly assigned horses to all the riders, then hurried to call the stable hands to assist with tacking up. While he was sure all of the people present, including the ladies, could tack up their own horses, it would be much faster with help.

He glanced over at Buttercup. He had not assigned her to any rider, though he would have liked her for Miss Rothwell. She was an older horse, calm in temperament and the least likely to spook. She coughed as he approached, but her manner did not seem as strained.

“How is she faring?” Miss Rothwell asked from beside him. Callum jumped.

“She seems better,” he said gruffly. “Noah?” he called to a young man, perhaps eighteen, who was hauling a saddle out of the tack room. “What happened? Did the apothecary visit?”

The young man bowed, touching his forehead in a respectful gesture. “Your Grace. The apothecary was here ten minutes ago. He left us a preparation of herbs. We dosed Buttercup with it about five minutes before you arrived. It seems to ease her, Your Grace.”

“Good. Good,” Callum replied in genuine relief. He gazed over at the horse. She was pale brown, her muzzle white with age. She looked at him and he was relieved to see there was no fear in her gaze.

“Has she always been in this stall?” Miss Rothwell asked Callum.

He frowned, thinking. “No. She was there,” he replied, gesturing to the stall at the end of the row, which had a window that looked out onto the kitchen garden. “We moved her so that she would not catch a draft and get cold.”

“Consider putting her back?” Miss Rothwell suggested. “Mayhap the fresh air did her good. We had a horse with a cough, and when we moved him to another stall, it improved. It might be the dust.” She gestured at the straw on the floor and the sawdust in the aisle between.

“Mm.” Callum nodded, a frown creasing his brow. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. He tucked the idea away in the back of his mind to tell Mr Randell when they returned. “Thank you. I will consider it.”

Miss Rothwell just nodded, then turned away, taking the rein of Rainstorm, a dappled thoroughbred whom he had chosen as her mount.

Callum tacked up Firelight, his horse, but his mind was not really in it. He kept on thinking about Miss Rothwell. Her suggestion was good, and he could not help but be impressed. He led his horse out to the mounting block in the stable yard. Miss Rothwell was already seated, waiting at the gate with her father and Lord Chesterford. Mr Rothwell, Harriet and Lord Grassdale were not yet out. Callum swung up into the saddle, still annoyed at Mr Rothwell for inviting his sister and Harriet. While Harriet was a competent horsewoman, she was not accustomed to riding in the cold, or riding on the route he had planned for the afternoon.

He rode Firelight to the edge of the yard, careful to keep him away from Snowstorm, with whom he sometimes fought. He was just getting impatient when Harriet and Mr Rothwell emerged, followed by Lord Grassdale. Harriet and Mr Rothwell were laughing. Callum bit back his annoyance.

I envy them their ease with one another, he thought sadly. They were both open, direct people, and they chatted and laughed without effort.

“I remember almost swallowing the sixpence once,” Mr Rothwell was saying as they rode into the line behind Callum. Harriet guffawed.

“You didn’t! I always wondered if someone had. I always search through my pudding for a sixpence before I take a spoonful of it.”

“Wise, my lady. Most wise.”

Callum smiled to himself. The tradition of hiding a sixpence in the pudding, to bless whoever found it with riches, was a tradition he enjoyed. Their family did not practice it often, since Mother feared that someone would choke on it. But in the years when they had done it, he had himself found the sixpence more than once.

Strange, he mused. He had inherited an estate in ruins, had sold off much of it to repay the debts, and was left as a duke of relatively modest means compared to the wealth of other dukedoms. The silver sixpence did not seem to do its job as promised.

His thoughts drifted back to the moment as they rode out of the gate. He had chosen a route that went up into the parklands that adjoined the manor grounds. Several acres of wood, belonging to the estate, surrounded the manor and were maintained by the verderers to keep them stocked with deer and other hunting quarry. Father had been a keen hunter, but Callum was not fond of the sport. He rode up through the gate, cutting ahead of Lord Cranfield who had been leading the party.

“This way,” he called, gesturing up the steep slope.

His guests fell in behind him, chatting and laughing. The route was narrow but would widen out so that they could ride beside one another later. Callum leaned back, slowing his horse to a walk as they navigated the steep slope.

The feeling of the horse’s relaxed gait soothed Callum and he started to relax. The woods were warmer atop the steep rise, and the sunshine was pleasant, relaxing him and his horse still further. He could hear the drowsy rise and fall of Lord Cranfield talking to the baron; the low, murmurous conversation pleasant and easy on the ear. Mr Rothwell and Harriet were somewhere near the back—he could hear the occasional laugh and giggle as they chatted brightly. He reached a wider point in the road and stopped, turning in his saddle, to check on his guests.

Miss Rothwell was in the middle of the group. Lord Grassdale rode a little behind her, and Harriet and Mr Rothwell behind him. Callum’s gaze focused on Miss Rothwell’s soft, pretty face. She looked relaxed, turning to her father to make some comment. Her silky hair glowed in the sunshine and an easy smile brightened her expression. Her brown riding habit made her hair seem brighter. Her gaze caught Callum’s, and she held his eye, then blushed, turning away. Callum swallowed hard.

“The road widens here,” he informed the guests, his throat tight. “We can safely ride beside one another. It cuts to the left, and then we circle back and cross the pastureland back to the estate.”

“Capital!” Lord Chesterford greeted the words warmly.

Callum turned to face the road again, leaning a little forward to guide his horse into a trot. He had ridden since he was four years old, and he barely needed to think about what he did. His mind focused on Miss Rothwell, her undeniable beauty playing through his thoughts. It was not so much her looks—though she was undeniably lovely—but rather her vitality, her sweetness. The warmth in her smile.

Help me, he thought wordlessly, sending up a silent prayer for aid. He did not know how to escape the growing closeness he felt, the irresistible draw toward her that was beginning to drive him mad. It would be one thing if she seemed to return his feelings, but instead, she seemed politely indifferent. He could not forget her scathing words at the dinner party. It seemed cruel that he should feel so drawn to someone who seemed unable to return anything but chilly good manners.

“May I join you?” a voice said beside him.

Callum turned around, blinking in astonishment, to see Miss Rothwell and Harriet beside him on the path. Mr Rothwell was a little behind. At the point where the road widened, they must have seized the chance to overtake the two older men and Lord Grassdale. He stared at them, not sure what to say, then nodded.

“Of course,” he said, struggling to maintain a cool, neutral tone. Miss Rothwell was looking at him with an inquiring gaze. He turned away, feeling embarrassed. He could not fathom what she might be thinking about him.

She rode alongside him. He rode wordlessly, searching his mind for something to say. His thoughts were blank, filled only with his awareness of her. She sat upright, her posture as easy and relaxed as his own. She held the reins lightly. She used a side-saddle, one of Harriet’s old ones, her long legs twisted gracefully around the pommel, demurely covered with her brown velvet mantel. His cheeks flushed red.

“Do you often ride here?” she asked him. He blinked in surprise, not expecting her to say anything.

“No. I mean, yes. In winter. It is a good place to exercise the horses,” he explained. He blushed, aware of how odd he must sound.

“It is warmer here than elsewhere on the estate. Or, it seems to be,” Miss Rothwell said after a moment.

“Mm.” Callum nodded. “It is.” He gazed around, wishing he could think of something intelligent to say.

They were riding downhill, moving towards the pastureland. He leaned back, slowing his horse to a walk. Miss Rothwell was slightly ahead of him and, as the path narrowed, he stopped briefly, allowing her to slip in ahead. Lord Chesterford caught up with them and then Callum rode on, keeping a little behind Miss Rothwell.

They rode past a thicket, and Callum gasped as something—a bird, he thought, he could not see what—suddenly burst out of the bushes. In the same moment, Miss Rothwell, who was riding ahead, took off. He let out a yell. Rainstorm, her horse, was a stable, wonderful mare, except in the presence of anything that moved swiftly. She had a bad experience on a hunt when a gun went off too close to her, and ever since then she had associated fast movements with danger.

“What was I thinking?” Callum swore at himself. Miss Rothwell was clinging on, doing her best to remain mounted, but Rainstorm had bolted, and they were galloping out onto the pastureland. There were fences there, and Rainstorm would not think twice about jumping if she was spooked. Two of the most dangerous things were if horses vaulted fences or reared unexpectedly.

He leaned forward, urging his horse into a gallop.