Chapter 14

Callum gazed out through the window in the corner of the drawing room. It was almost impossible to stand still, he felt so restless and impatient. Despite it being evening, a full day after the ride in the woods, his mood had yet to settle. Miss Rothwell filled his thoughts.

That moment, alone with her in the starlight, he had almost kissed her. He had wanted to. He had fought so hard not to press his lips to her own, not to draw her into his arms and hold her close. He did not want to frighten her—she seemed so diffident and formal with him, and he did not want to impose on her.

She had kept to her chamber the entire day. Callum had sought out her brother and father, inquiring as to her wellbeing, but they informed him only that she was too tired to get out of bed and that they feared she had a fever.

“Son? Could you come here a moment?”

Callum jumped as his mother asked him a question. He had been looking out of the window, gazing at the darkening garden and ignoring the guests that milled around, waiting to go down to dinner.

“Yes, Mother?” Callum asked. “May I assist you?”

“Yes. Might you fetch me that book there?” she pointed to a book on a shelf just above his head. His mother’s voice was stiff. She hated having to ask for any kind of help.

“Of course, Mother,” Callum said, more gently, and reached up to get the book she had indicated.

“Thank you,” his mother said with a touch of asperity. “And might I ask you to come and talk with Lady Bronham and Lady Millicent? You have been very chilly with them, and it is most unfair. She is a dear friend of mine.”

“Mother...” Callum began to argue, then sighed and followed her across the room.

“Gertrude? My son fetched the book for me. Here it is,” Mama was addressing Lady Bronham. She passed the book to Lady Bronham and gestured to Callum. “He is fortuitously tall enough to reach the books I cannot.”

“You are very tall,” Lady Bronham commented to Callum. He blushed, feeling desperately awkward. He was tall, and he had never felt embarrassed about that fact, but in that moment he did. Opposite him, Lady Millicent gazed up at him.

“Tallness is a virtue in men, it seems. Less so in women.” She smiled self-deprecatingly. She was a tall woman, her figure willowy and well-suited to the wispy, fashionable muslin dresses. Mama made a small, disapproving noise.

“Why, Lady Millicent! Tallness in a woman is very elegant. Certainly, it must be called a virtue also,” the duchess remarked.

“Thank you, Dottie. Do tell her,” Lady Bronham insisted, smiling at Mother.

Callum glanced around, feeling terribly out of place. Mr Rothwell was nearby and, as he turned and gazed towards the door, Callum followed his line of sight. His heart soared in his chest. Miss Rothwell was in the doorway.

She was very pale, and she wore a pale blue velvet gown. Her hair was arranged in a tight chignon. She glanced warily at him for a second, her glance sliding to the floor. Callum winced. He felt responsible for how ill she seemed, and he wished that he could think of something to say or do that would help.

“...And I thought that we would decorate the hall tomorrow,” Mama was saying as his mind returned to the present.

“Oh?” Callum frowned. He had assumed that the servants would do that.

“Yes! It will be most festive. The staff will put up most of it, of course,” his mother demurred quickly. “But we can add ribbons and holly and such things. Not so? It will bring a seasonal touch to our gathering.” She smiled.

“It will be most diverting,” Lady Millicent said lightly.

“Yes! And mayhap you could sing, Millicent,” Lady Millicent’s mother suggested. “Millicent has a beautiful voice,” she added, looking at Callum.

“Mama...” Lady Millicent protested, her cheeks flushing with genuine embarrassment. Callum bowed low.

“I am certain she has,” he said politely. “Now, if I may, I would offer to fetch you ladies some refreshment?” He gestured to the tea table, which, as usual, held tea, cordial and a few light pastries, even before dinner.

“Oh, that is kind!” Lady Bronham replied. “I would be delighted to have a glass of redcurrant cordial.”

“I will fetch it directly.”

He crossed the room, passing near Miss Rothwell. He was considering at least asking her if she felt well, when his gaze slid a little leftward, and he tensed. James was staring at Miss Rothwell again. Callum bridled. He glared at James, but the fellow must have seen him looking and he had already looked away. As Callum watched, James sat down beside Philippa, seeming to ignore the Rothwell family.

He took the cordial across the room to Lady Bronham, giving James another hard look as he walked past.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” His mother announced. Her crisp, icy voice made the guests fall abruptly silent. “We will proceed to dinner, but before we do, I would like to invite you all to join us in the drawing room for a game of acting charades after the meal.”

Callum shot his mother an annoyed look. He had always hated acting charades. The game involved breaking up a word into syllables and then acting out each syllable. The best ones were witty and confusing. He found it a little silly, if he was honest.

“Come, Callum!” his mother said brightly. “Let us proceed to the dining room. And perhaps you might escort us all downstairs?” She raised a brow, making a gesture including Lady Millicent. Callum scowled. Miss Rothwell and her sisters were already leaving the room.

“I must query after the health of Miss Rothwell first,” he said carefully. His mother glared at him, but she could not very well argue with that—it was the most basic of polite gestures.

He went swiftly across the room and bowed low to Miss Rothwell and her two sisters.

“Miss Rothwell,” he addressed the eldest Miss Rothwell directly. “Might I inquire as to your health?”

“I feel indisposed, Your Grace,” she said softly. She looked away shyly and he frowned. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Perhaps my strange behaviour in the field when she was freezing cold had offended her, he thought. His intention to kiss her might have been altogether too obvious.

“That is disheartening news,” he said carefully.

“We are going to take Rosalyn back to her chamber,” Miss Georgina informed him briskly. “She is tired.”

“I regret that I will not attend dinner tonight,” Miss Rothwell said quietly.

“But you will all attend the charades?” he asked swiftly.

“We will!” Georgina spoke up excitedly.

“Will you?” The younger sister asked, turning to Miss Rothwell.

“I will try,” Miss Rothwell promised.

The delight on the faces of the two younger sisters echoed in Callum’s heart. He grinned at her and saw a confused expression cross her face.

“Only if you feel well, of course, Miss Rothwell,” he demurred quickly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said softly.

Callum bowed low and stood back for the ladies to go out into the hallway. Then he returned to his mother and Lord and Lady Bronham, who were waiting expectantly with Lady Millicent.

“Allow me to escort you to dinner,” he said, bowing in a way that included all of them.

“How gallant,” Lady Bronham said, sounding very pleased.

Callum tried to smile and stood back to let the ladies proceed into the hallway ahead of him.

Dinner felt as though it took an age, each course seeming to stretch for hours. The dessert arrived—a delicious syllabub—and then cheese and biscuits and fruit. Callum felt restless with impatience. He went upstairs as fast as he could to the drawing room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his mother began. “I invite you to form groups. We will work in partners to form our charades. Paper and pencils are to be found there, should anyone have a need of them.” She gestured to the big table in the corner.

Callum barely listened. His gaze moved over the excited party guests, scanning the group for Miss Rothwell. He spotted bright hair and a blue dress over in the corner near the window. His heart leapt. She saw him and held his gaze. He smiled shyly. He thought for a heart-stopping second that she was going to ignore him, but then, as he approached her, she curtseyed. He bowed as low as he would at court.

“Miss Rothwell,” he said softly. “If I may, would you do me the honour of assisting me in this evening’s endeavour?”

She inclined her head. “I would be most pleased to assist you, Your Grace. We shall make a fine team.”

“Good,” he said brightly.

They stood and looked at one another. Callum stepped awkwardly from foot to foot. He could think of nothing to say. His mind was utterly blank, filled only with how delighted he was to see her. He had missed her, though she had only been absent from the festivities for a day. Nothing else entered his mind and he coughed and looked down shyly.

“One of us ought to fetch pencils and paper,” Miss Rothwell suggested. Her voice broke the awkward silence.

“I shall,” Callum said, bowing low. As he swiftly crossed the room, he spotted James and Philippa standing by the fire. James gave him a hard look. Callum glared back, no longer caring about whether he was rude or not.

Callum retrieved a pencil and paper and hurried back to the window. Miss Rothwell was still there.

“Miss Rothwell,” he said, clearing his throat. As he spoke, she began.

“I have an...”

He grinned and she blushed, looking down.

“What did you mean to say?” he asked quickly, his heart thudding.

“I have an idea,” she said swiftly. “How about “festivities?” As a word to act out, I mean.”

Callum frowned. “Is that not quite difficult?” he asked. “I mean, fes-ti-vi-ties.” He broke up the word into syllables. “None of the syllables have a meaning on their own.”

Miss Rothwell inclined her head. “True.” she paused. “But what if we use French meanings? If we divide the syllables differently, we have words with meanings in French.”

“French?” Callum blinked at her.

“Not because of any partiality to Napoleon,” Miss Rothwell demurred.

Callum grinned. “I think Lord Bronham, for one, would be a bit cross.”

“I imagine that many here might be,” Miss Rothwell replied, looking around the room. There were two men wearing military uniforms among the guests.

“Mm. So, maybe not French, then,” Callum said quickly. Given the recent Peninsular War against Napoleonic France, he was sure that would raise some ire among the guests, particularly any of them who had fought against Napoleon’s forces there or elsewhere.

“But it would work so well,” Miss Rothwell pleaded. “Festive- vite .”

Callum raised a brow, then grinned. “Yes! We could act out the fact that the second word has a meaning in French, too. Otherwise, it shan’t work.”

“Yes! I have a good idea!” Miss Rothwell said with evident enthusiasm.

Callum had never seen her so excited before. She glowed. They went over to the corner to whisper their ideas to one another.

Callum flushed, seeing eyes turning their way. There is no reason why I should not whisper into the ear of a woman with whom I will soon wed, he reminded himself.

His heart raced. The thought was staggering. He had made the arrangement without knowing a thing about her, and yet he had been blessed to discover a beautiful, witty woman with whom he could share many interests. The thought gave him a bold idea. His cheeks burned as he leaned in to whisper it to her.

“What?” Miss Rothwell gaped at him.

“Only if you would not be offended,” Callum said quickly, his entire body heating with a blush.

“Um...well, no,” she said, and her cheeks flushed pink in a way that made him smile as his heart pounded. “We have it!” Miss Rothwell declared after a moment or two.

“I think we have,” Callum agreed.

They went to sit down, and soon the rest of the guests were with them, waiting for someone to start off the evening performance. The two younger Rothwell sisters boldly volunteered to go first.

The two young ladies went to the front of the room and promptly burst out laughing as they started to enact a scene together. Even Callum could not help but be amused; mainly because they were both laughing so hard at their own antics that it was impossible to be serious.

“We give up!” Lord Grassdale protested after several minutes of hilarity. “Tell us!”

“Shall we tell him?” the older sister—Georgina—demanded.

“No!” Mr Rothwell yelled playfully, making them all laugh.

“It was, or rather, it was meant to be the word ‘generosity’,” the younger sister informed them with a shy smile.

The crowd applauded them.

Lady Millicent and a female friend went next, and their performance was quite skilful. Callum thought that he had guessed the word—entertainment—and he turned out to be right. The performance was greeted by enthusiastic applause.

“Shall we go?” Callum asked Miss Rothwell. Partly he wanted to conclude their performance because James and Philippa were staring at them again. The sooner he could get out of the drawing room and onto the balcony with Miss Rothwell, the better he would feel.

“Now?” she whispered. She was leaning close to him and her hair—the stray curl that had fallen from her chignon—brushed his cheek. Gooseflesh raced down his spine.

“Yes,” he replied as evenly as he could.

He went up to the front and held up his finger, indicating the first syllable. The feeling of so many people staring at him made his cheeks burn. They began acting.

They needed to try and convey the meaning of a festive celebration. Miss Rothwell lifted a wineglass and clinked it to the wineglass that he held. Then they mimed singing. The next part—the part that made Callum’s face burn with a flush—had been his idea. They pretended to kiss under the kissing bough.

They did not actually touch their lips to one another’s, but they stood facing one another, their hands on each other’s shoulders. He leaned forward, his heart racing. She leaned forward, tilting her head back, and he kissed the air close to her cheek.

Someone—he thought it was Mr Rothwell, but he could not be sure—whistled loudly at them, drawing amused giggles. Nobody was shocked—such liberties were allowed in a game of charades, which was one of the reasons why people enjoyed it. It was an opportunity to behave in ways that would not usually be entirely proper, and to explore bold, new ways of being. His entire body heated up with awkwardness.

“Kissing!” Lord Chesterford yelled.

“That is not a syllable,” Mother objected stiffly. Everyone laughed.

“You were celebrating Christmas!” a woman whose name he did not recall suggested. “But how is that a syllable?”

Callum held up his hand, trying to indicate that they would act out the second syllable.

Miss Rothwell began. She mimed a bicorne hat on her head, holding up her hands to indicate the two corners. Then she gestured in a roughly easterly direction, trying to indicate France, or French. The bicorne hat was well-associated with Napoleon, and Callum had hesitated to include that part, but they could think of nothing else to indicate France.

“Bonaparte is not a syllable!” someone objected loudly.

“Do not say that name in here!” someone else shouted hotly. It was one of the military men.

Callum held up his hands, trying to avoid an argument. He shook his head violently, gesturing east. He was starting to worry, but someone shouted out, loudly and fortuitously quickly: “France! He means France.”

“French?” someone else suggested. Callum nodded, relieved.

“The next syllable is in French?” Someone asked. Callum nodded again, vigorously, grateful that they had managed that part without a fight erupting. Their audience relaxed.

The next part was amusing. Miss Rothwell held out her finger dramatically and Callum mimed running. Then he acted out trying to do a task very fast, with Miss Rothwell miming that she was trying to hurry him up. Several of the audience started to laugh.

“ Vite !” someone shouted the word, which meant “quickly” in French. Callum applauded, relieved that someone had guessed that part.

Miss Rothwell grinned at him, clearly delighted. His heart stopped. When she smiled, the lamplight bright on her hair, her pale skin flushed, she was breathtakingly lovely.

“Christmas- vite ,” Mother said with a sniff. “That is not a word.”

Callum shook his head, holding up his index finger to indicate that they would mime the first part of the word again. Feeling inspired, he grabbed Miss Rothwell’s hand, and they mimed waltzing around the room. She beamed up at him and for a moment, he forgot that they were in the drawing room and that a dozen people were staring at them. They could have been alone, dancing together in some secluded corner.

Someone coughed, rudely snapping him back to the moment.

“Dance- vite . That makes no sense either,” someone protested.

Callum looked at Miss Rothwell, desperate for her to do something. She mimed singing again and then eating. Callum mimed drinking and eating.

“Celebrating?” someone guessed. Callum nodded wildly.

“Festive? Festivities!” someone shouted out.

Callum beamed, relief washing through him. He had surprised himself by enjoying the acting, but he was starting to become restless, and he had wanted someone to guess. He glanced at Miss Rothwell. She smiled at him, a dazzling smile that stole his breath.

They went to sit down with the audience.

Another group went up to perform. Callum barely watched, his head still spinning after Miss Rothwell’s stunning smile. He glanced sideways to where she sat on an upholstered chair next to him. He had perched on the piano stool, the only available seating left. She smiled at him shyly. He smiled back.

He joined in the applause, and then stiffened as James and Philippa went up. They mimed shaking hands and exchanging gifts and then walking arm-in-arm together. Callum frowned.

“Friends?” someone shouted after several other guesses. Philippa nodded, smiling brightly.

James held up his finger to indicate the second syllable. He pretended to look through a telescope, striding about an imaginary deck.

“Captain is not a syllable,” Lord Bronham objected. Everyone laughed.

“Sail?” someone else suggested.

“Sail? Ship? Friendship!” someone yelled. Philippa beamed.

The audience applauded them. James bowed, looking straight at Miss Rothwell and smiling shyly. Callum tensed, his spine prickling with anger. Was James trying to suggest that he wanted to be friends with Miss Rothwell? He dismissed the thought instantly.

Stop having such wild flights of fancy, he told himself with some annoyance. It is a game of charades, not some sort of secret code-message.

He put all thoughts aside as Miss Rothwell turned to him. Her smile was warm and lovely, and his heart melted. He beamed back.

When everyone had performed and the entire room was applauding one another, Callum stood up and bowed low.

“Might I fetch you some refreshment?” he asked her.

“That would be most kind,” she replied.

He went off to the refreshments table to fetch her a glass of cordial, his soul soaring. It had been a beautiful experience, working with her on their charade. He hated the game, but with her, it had been immensely enjoyable. He walked back across the room and presented the glass to her, bowing low.

“You are a fine actor, Miss Rothwell,” he complimented her.

“As are you, Your Grace.”

“I can’t be sure of that. I was dying of fright up there. Especially when the arguing started.”

“You did extremely well, Your Grace,” Miss Rothwell said gently.

“As did you,” he assured her.

“Thank you,” she replied, a teasing smile on her lips.

His heart soared. She was standing, talking to him, her fear apparently forgotten, and he was having the best time he could remember having. He glanced warmly around the room, grateful even to his mother for suggesting the idea. His cheeks reddened at the memory of miming the kissing under the bough, and he recalled his mother’s idea of decorating the hall the next day. He could not wait to see what would happen.