Chapter 20

“And I thought a ribbon would be decoration enough? What think you, Rosalyn?” Georgina asked, her voice soft in the quiet of the room.

“I think you are right,” Rosalyn replied, a little distractedly. She glanced at her own reflection in the looking-glass opposite. She had chosen to wear a pale blue heavy silk gown to the soiree that the duchess had organised for the evening. She was tired after the morning’s activities in the village, and her mind kept on drifting to the duke.

He had been so helpful, so thoughtful, she acknowledged smilingly. And sometimes, his gaze on her had seemed more than supportive or friendly. Her cheeks glowed. She could not deny that she felt something, and that he did, too.

“I thought I would wear my lavender gown again? It is my favourite,” Isabel commented. Rosalyn inclined her head.

“And so, you should,” she replied. “If you do something a little different with your hair, it will look entirely different, too.”

“I thought perhaps I would try leaving the front loose in ringlets?” Isabel suggested.

“I think that would be grand,” Rosalyn replied. She glanced at her own reflection again, considering the gown and her choice of hairstyle. She had taken her hair back in a bun tied with green ribbon, some loose locks left in the front to curl in around her face. The sage green gown brought out the colour of her eyes. To her own surprise, she looked fresh and well-rested, not tired at all.

“I will fetch my red ribbon,” Georgina announced. “It is so red, that I think it might not match!” She giggled as she ran to her chamber to fetch it.

Rosalyn smiled to herself. She wished she did not feel so tired. Usually, she would have been amused by her sisters’ lively interchange, but she felt drained and a little confused after the morning in the village.

I wish I understood the duke, she thought distractedly. He gazed at her sometimes in a way that set her heart aflame, and yet sometimes he was distant and businesslike. It makes no sense.

“Hurrah!” Georgina announced, disrupting her musings. “Here it is! And it matches so well, I could have bought it for the purpose.” She had wrapped a thick crimson ribbon around her hair, tucked in under the bun at the base and encircling her hair midway between her brow and the bun. It looked beautiful, especially with the red gown that Georgina had chosen.

“It looks very well,” Rosalyn told her firmly.

“Thank you,” Georgina said shyly. Rosalyn smiled to herself. Lately, she had noticed that uncertain expression on Georgina’s face more often, as though she was distracted, thinking of someone. She tucked the thought away, intending to inquire, subtly, if there was a man who held her fancy.

I suppose I understand that feeling now, Rosalyn thought, cheeks flaming. She was grinning to herself as she went to fetch her shawl from the wardrobe. Isabel was styling her hair at the looking glass while Georgina chatted about the music and the dances.

When they were all ready, they went out into the hallway together. Papa and Sebastian were waiting, and Rosalyn’s heart thumped with excitement as they joined them and walked down the stairs. Sebastian looked particularly grand in a black tailcoat and she smiled. He most certainly had a reason to look his best. The duke’s sister and he never hid how they felt about each other.

“Well, this is pleasant,” Papa said warmly as they reached the ballroom.

“Yes, it is,” Rosalyn murmured quietly. Her stomach was knotting with anticipation, her heart thudding. Part of her wondered what had possessed her. She never normally felt that way about balls—a little apprehension and excitement, yes, but nothing like she felt in that moment.

She was still musing as they walked in and the duke, his mother and his sister waited at the top of the stairs to welcome them. She dropped a low curtsey, cheeks flaming as she lifted her eyes to the duke’s. He wore a blue velvet tailcoat and pale grey breeches and his cloud-grey eyes seemed even more intense than usual. She stood straight, lifting her gaze to his face.

“Miss Rothwell,” he greeted her, his voice resonant and rich.

Rosalyn looked away, the tone sending shivers through her. Her sisters greeted their hosts, seeming oblivious to the tension between herself and the duke as they walked towards the stairs. Rosalyn was a little ahead of them and arrived first in the ballroom.

“Ah! Miss Rothwell!” Lord Winbrook drifted over to her almost at once. “May I say how ravishing you look?”

“Um...” Rosalyn blushed, but from discomfort, not from pleasure. “Thank you, my lord,” she managed to say. She glanced around, but her sisters were engaged in conversation with Lady Amelia and Lord Grassdale, and they could not see her. Sebastian lingered on the stairs to talk to Lady Harriet, and Papa chatted to the duchess. There was nobody to help her.

“Might I say also that nothing would give me greater joy than to have your hand for the first waltz?”

“My lord,” Rosalyn said carefully. While there was no reason for her not to dance with him—even though she was betrothed to the duke, a friendly dance with someone else would not be frowned on—she did not wish to. He unsettled her greatly.

“Ah! Miss Rothwell! You look lovely,” Lady Philippa murmured, gliding across to join them. “I was so touched to see your act of charity for those young children today.”

“Thank you,” Rosalyn managed to say. She had not thought of it as an act of charity—she had seen the children and she had longed to give them a Christmas gift. She knew that her action had not been well-received—the duchess, for one, had shot her a furious glance, doubtless annoyed that the oranges that were intended for the staff—as the duke informed her—had found a place with the village’s poor children.

“You set a fine example,” Lady Philippa continued. “So many of the guests witnessed it.”

“Thank you,” Rosalyn repeated, shrinking inside. Though she was certain that Lady Philippa meant to compliment her, the words made her feel acutely aware of the duchess’ disapproval, and the disapproval of many of the guests. They reminded her how much she stood out.

“You are certain you will not waltz with me?” Lord Winbrook asked her again.

“Um...well...there is no custom that would gainsay it,” Rosalyn stammered.

“Thank you, Miss Rothwell. You do me a great honour,” he said, smiling warmly at her. Though everything about his expression seemed affable and friendly, Rosalyn felt uncomfortable.

I did not say yes, she reminded herself as he came to stand beside her. Even so, the viscount had acted as though she had approved of his invitation.

She looked around the hall, planning to escape onto the terrace. Perhaps if she hid sufficiently well, the first dance would go by and he would simply have to wait for her to appear.

She curtseyed, about to excuse herself from his company, but before she could say anything further, the music started. Rosalyn bit her lip as he reached for her hand. His touch through the thin silk of her opera glove felt cold and repellent.

The music rose and fell in cadence as they stepped out onto the dance floor. It was a somber waltz and Rosalyn swallowed hard. She did not want to look directly at Lord Winbrook—it felt terribly wrong. But she also could not very well spend the entire dance looking away. It simply was not possible, since occasionally she had to check what was ahead of her.

“It is an enchanting piece of music, is it not?” Lord Winbrook asked her as they stepped neatly around a corner. His hand on her shoulder-blade made her feel nauseous.

“Yes,” she managed to say. She gazed out over the ballroom. The duke must be somewhere. She wished he would come and rescue her.

“I enjoy the waltz. It is my favourite of the dances.”

“Mm,” Rosalyn said, as non-committal a response as she could make it. The waltz was quite controversial, given that in turns, the two partners touched quite closely. She tensed as they turned. She gazed over Lord Winbrook’s shoulder, searching across the dance floor.

The duke was there. He was standing one row back from the dance floor. She spotted him gazing at her and her heart soared. He had noticed! She tried to convey her distress to him, gazing into his eyes, but two dancers moved past them and when they had passed, she could not see the duke because she and Lord Winbrook were elsewhere in the ballroom.

“Your sisters seem to be enjoying the evening,” he commented.

“I am sure they are.”

“You do not seem to like to talk during a dance. We shall remain silent, then,” he said lightly.

“As you wish,” Rosalyn replied. Relief washed through her. She was glad not to have to try and talk to him.

They danced around the ballroom once more, and then the cadence changed, the steps slowing, and Rosalyn felt relief flood through her as she let go of his hands and he bowed. She dropped a curtsey and straightened up, hastily thinking of an excuse to escape the ball.

“I feel a little indisposed. I will retire a moment to the drawing room,” she said swiftly.

“May I fetch you some refreshment?” Lord Winbrook asked. He looked a little puzzled.

“No, thank you,” Rosalyn said firmly. “I just need a moment to gather myself. I feel dizzy.”

“Of course, Miss Rothwell. Thank you for a lovely dance.”

“Thank you,” she managed to say, then turned and walked as swiftly as she could through the ballroom and out of a side door. She stood in the corridor, shutting her eyes for a moment with relief. The tension of waltzing with the viscount had been awful. She really did feel sick.

Footsteps hurrying closer made her open her eyes, startled. She looked up to see a footman hurrying towards the ballroom. His eyes widened in surprise to see a guest in the hallway, then he bowed respectfully. Rosalyn inclined her head in acknowledgement and hurried up the stairs. The drawing room was empty, the fire burning in the grate. Refreshments had been set out for later, when the guests would retire to play card games or make music. One window was still uncovered by a curtain, the night sky black and mysterious and enchanting. Rosalyn went to the window and leaned on the sill. She gazed out at the stars that sparkled there. Down below, the garden was white, the snow glistening in the light from the windows.

Rosalyn stared out, feeling calmer. The beautiful sight helped to settle her nerves. She leaned forward, resting her weight on her elbows. The duke flitted across her thoughts and she frowned, wishing that she could have understood that cryptic gaze. He had looked concerned, as if he had guessed at her distress.

She looked out at the stars and wished she could run out into the garden, escaping the stifling house party and guests and enjoy the blissful quiet. The silent gardens seemed to beckon and she half-turned. A shadow at the door had distracted her attention.

A man stood there in the doorway—the duke. She recognised him instantly. She straightened up, feeling flustered.

“I beg your pardon,” he said softly. “I did not mean to disturb you. Are you feeling well?” His voice was low and resonant, concern clear in every word and in the expression on his face. He frowned, his thin mouth a firm line. He gazed at her uncertainly.

“I feel quite well,” she said. It was not an untruth—since being in the tranquil silence of the room for a few minutes, she already felt a little better. Seeing him also helped to lift her spirits.

“Forgive me,” the duke said softly. “I saw you exit the ballroom. I wished to check if you were feeling well.”

“Thank you,” Rosalyn murmured. His voice sounded so concerned, the expression in his eyes worried.

He moved over to stand next to her by the window. Her heart thudded loudly and she tensed, acutely conscious of his arm resting on the sill just a few inches from her own.

“A beautiful night,” he murmured softly.

“Mm.” Rosalyn cleared her throat. Her heart was racing wildly and she could barely think. “It is.”

“A winter night is always something beautiful, I think,” he murmured. He turned to face her, his eyes locking with hers—intense, as though boring into her, lit with a light she had never seen before.”

Rosalyn’s heart thudded, loud and slow. She gazed into his grey eyes. He seemed to be speaking of the night, yet his words were meant for her, she felt that deep in her soul.

“Forgive me,” the duke murmured. “I was overcome. Your beauty strikes me that way sometimes.”

“I...” Rosalyn stammered. She had no idea what to say. The notion that anyone would find her beautiful was new enough. The notion that he—the man she had come to admire and long for—found her beautiful was enough to amaze her.

“I find it very hard not to do what we are compelled to do,” he said softly. Rosalyn frowned, but he was gazing upwards and her eyes moved to where he was looking. Above them, green, red and white, hung the kissing bough. Her cheeks flared. Her heart stopped. She looked into his eyes.

Gently, so slowly, with impossible tenderness, his lips pressed against her own. She shut her eyes. His mouth was warm, his lips smooth and firm where they met her own. His arms enfolded her and she leaned against him, losing herself in the sensation of his lips against hers. His chest, muscled and firm, pressed against hers, his arms tightening around her protectively, possessively.

Rosalyn leaned against him, forgetting how to breathe. All she knew was the sensation of his closeness and his warmth, and a longing such as she had never felt before to hold him and be held, to be closer and closer. He held her tight, his lips resting against hers tenderly. She wrapped her arms shyly around him, holding him to her chest.

The duke gasped. His eyes opened and he gazed into her own. He stepped back a little, but he did not release her from his embrace. He stared into her eyes and she stared back. Her heart thudded slowly, her breath slowly returning. She could see surprise in his eyes, and wonder.

She felt exactly the same.

“Your Grace, I...” she murmured.

“Callum,” he said firmly. “Pray, call me by my name. My Christian name.”

“Callum,” Rosalyn whispered. It was a pleasant name, unusual and musical. It suited him. Her heart raced, chills racing through her body as she said the word and his eyes widened to hear her use his name for the first time.

He said nothing, just gazed at her. Rosalyn cleared her throat shyly.

“Please call me Rosalyn,” she said softly. Her cheeks burned. She looked up into his eyes.

“I shall. Rosalyn,” he murmured. His voice was low and resonant and chills erupted through her body at the sound of her name on his lips.

He had stepped back, so that his hands rested on her shoulders and her hands were on his back, her arms loosely holding him.

She gazed into his eyes. It felt strange, exciting; almost dangerous. They had crossed an invisible barrier. The distant formality between them had dissolved gradually over the past weeks, but now it was irrevocably replaced with something else. A new, untravelled, unchartered landscape through which they forged their own way. Her heart leapt, her breath catching in her throat.

“We ought to return to the ballroom,” he murmured distantly as footsteps drew closer. Blushing, Rosalyn stepped hastily back. “The staff will be making ready for the after-dinner tea and card games.”

“Yes. I suppose so,” Rosalyn said quietly.

He held her gaze. She stared back levelly.

“We ought to go,” he said again.

She did not say anything, and he did not speak or move, but stood staring at her, his eyes kindling with the same longing that she felt racing through her body like fire. She ached to feel his lips on hers again. They stood like that, neither moving nor speaking, but with a wealth of words in their eyes. A sound startled Rosalyn, and she turned. The butler had come in, pushing a trolley laden with crockery that clinked softly as he moved.

“Come, Rosalyn,” the duke said softly. “Let us return to the ball.”

Rosalyn smiled as the wonder of her name on his lips raced through her. They returned to the ballroom.