Chapter 5

Callum surveyed the ballroom from where he stood on the steps. The chandeliers were glittering with a hundred candles, the light pouring down on the ballroom. The floor, of pale marble tiles, was polished so that it, too, shone, and the white-painted walls just added to the glowing, bright impression of the space. Trestle tables were set out here and there, laden with delicacies or glasses into which footmen poured wine or cordial. The air smelled of a mix of beeswax polish, perfume and the hot, waxy smell of the candles. Callum breathed in and tried to feel calm. He was distracted, and it annoyed him that it was because of thoughts of Miss Rothwell.

His gaze had been drawn to her immediately as she alighted from the coach. Her bright hair had seemed even more bright in the dark, grey afternoon. She had smiled at her father, and Callum’s heart had ached at the dazzling warmth of that smile. For a moment, he had wished that she would give him such a heartfelt greeting. She had gazed at him almost fearfully where he stood on the steps, and that had hurt. He had looked away, unsure what to do or say. He shook his head, trying to stop the thoughts of her that chased themselves around his mind. He kept on wondering what she was going to wear to the ball. He did not want to think like that, to care about that.

“Are you too warm, brother?” Harriet asked from beside him. He stood on the ballroom steps with Mother and Harriet, to greet their guests. “It’s dreadfully hot up here.”

“I am quite well,” Callum replied, touched by his sister’s concern. He smiled at her fondly. Her white silk gown of heavy silk complimented her delicate looks, the silver necklace set with bright stones not coming close to outshining her joyful smile.

“Lord Bronham! Lady Bronham! And dear Lady Millicent! How delightful!” Mother greeted some arriving guests. Callum tensed instantly. Lady Millicent was the woman that his mother insisted he should dance with. Callum wished that he could feel something, some interest, but he did not. He did not feel anything—in that sense—for anybody. He had sworn to himself years ago that he would not. His father had broken his trust, and he was not going to let anyone else get close.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Lady Bronham—a woman a little younger than his mother, with white, curly hair and a pretty, heart-shaped face—replied, dropping a slight curtsey. “How lovely to be here. I must say, you have outdone yourself, Dottie.” She addressed his mother.

Callum bowed. His gaze moved from Lady Bronham to her daughter, who stood beside her.

“Your Grace,” Lady Millicent murmured, dropping a curtsey fractionally deeper than her mother’s. She was wearing a beautiful gown of deep blue velvet, a slim silver chain at her neck. Her thick black hair was arranged in a chignon, one curl falling to touch her cheek. Her dark eyes caught his captivatingly. He swallowed hard. With raven hair, milk-pale skin and those big black eyes, she was a celebrated beauty with whom half of London was in love. He shook his head at himself, unsure why he could feel nothing except for awkwardness in her presence.

“Good evening, Lady Millicent,” he murmured.

His mother glanced at him and he knew that she was expecting him to say something pleasant, but he could not think of anything, and Lady Millicent followed her parents down the steps into the ballroom.

His mother had just enough time to shoot him an annoyed look before turning to the next guests who were coming through the door.

“Lord Rothwell. Good evening,” his mother greeted the viscount, and Callum blinked, his reverie broken as he found himself face-to-face with the Rothwell guests. Lord Rothwell was dressed in a black tailcoat and black trousers, befitting a man who was still in mourning. Beside him stood his daughter and Callum's wife-to-be, Miss Rothwell.

With her golden hair arranged in a chignon, two loose curls escaping in front, and a pale grey-blue velvet gown that fitted her perfectly, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her hazel eyes met his and held his gaze and he struggled to look away, lost for a moment in her mesmerising gaze.

“Good evening,” he greeted her, bowing low. She dropped a curtsey, her gaze sliding past his and towards Harriet. He felt a little annoyed.

You could look at me, he wanted to say. You ought to be just a little curious.

He pushed the thought aside. Miss Rothwell was curtseying to Harriet, and her brother’s gaze was fixed upon Harriet in a way that made Callum’s back stiffen.

“ Good evening,” he greeted the young Mr Rothwell coldly, hoping to distract him from gaping at Harriet. Mr Rothwell grinned and bowed low.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” he greeted him smoothly. “Good evening, my lady,” he added, grinning at Harriet in a way that outshone the candles.

Callum dismissed his annoyance and focused on the next guests. The two young Miss Rothwells curtseyed; all anxious glances and giggles. He bowed and tried to ignore their awkward chuckles. It made him feel uncomfortable.

“These two entering now are the last of the guests,” his mother whispered to him as an older couple arrived. “Now we can shut the doors and go and enjoy the evening. Do dance with Millicent?”

“Mother...” Callum shut his eyes. He was obliged to open the ball with Miss Rothwell—she was his betrothed.

His mother had turned away and was gliding down the stairs, the picture of poise and dignity. Callum turned to join her, trying to comport himself as well as she did. One thing he could say for his mother was that she was the epitome of a duchess. Nothing had ever dented her grace and poise, not even the snide comments and cruelty of society following Papa’s deep debts.

He reached the ballroom floor and stepped over to the refreshments table, where guests milled. He accepted a glass from the footman, barely even noticing what was in it as he sipped. He chatted politely and fidgeted with his sleeves and wished that he could escape the oppressive, noisy room. As the musicians tuned up, he glanced across the ballroom—a sea of dark velvets and glittering jewelry—and caught sight of Miss Rothwell again.

She was standing with her two sisters, her head tipped back as she laughed. The golden light shone on her hair, glowing there for a second as she moved. She saw him staring and her happy smile drooped, her manner instantly sobering. She turned away.

She doesn’t even like me, Callum thought, tensing and mustering his cold, harsh defenses. If she did not like him, he was most certainly not going to like her.

“You have to dance the first dance, Callum,” Harriet reminded him, grinning brightly.

“Yes,” Callum replied dully. “I know.” He tried to smile, but the prospect of dancing with Miss Rothwell was uncomfortable. She had no apparent interest in him, and he was determined to fight his growing interest in her. He walked across the ballroom and bowed low.

“Miss Rothwell,” he said carefully. “It is customary for me to request the first waltz with you.”

Miss Rothwell blinked, her gaze cool. Then she curtseyed. “I believe that it is customary for me to accept your offer.”

Callum bristled at the disinterested reply. He inclined his head frostily. “I imagine so,” he said tightly.

She offered her hand, clad in a white silk opera-glove, as was custom. Her gaze was cool and indifferent.

Callum gripped her fingers gently with his own. His heart thudded. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin silk. Her touch was so light, so gentle that it set his blood racing. He could smell floral perfume, and he looked away, his heart aching. His response to her surprised him and unsettled him.

They walked wordlessly to the dance floor.

“Excuse me, miss,” he murmured; his cheeks burning as he placed one hand on her back, just over her shoulder blade. His other hand rested in hers. Then he stepped back smoothly as she stepped forward, stepping into the waltz.

They moved seamlessly together around the dance floor. Couples glided past them, and they stepped lightly, twirling around the corner of the ballroom. It felt effortless, as easy as he could imagine. Miss Rothwell was not only a fine dancer, but it was as natural as though they had danced a hundred times together. She moved very formally, both of them reserved and cool. Even so, the dance felt easy, not stiff at all.

Callum could hear someone talking nearby and he glanced over. Harriet was on the dance floor too, and he shot her an angry glance. She was dancing with the viscount’s son. Mr Rothwell.

The impertinent wretch! Callum thought grimly, shooting a glare at Mr Rothwell. If the impudent fellow saw him, he pretended not to notice, gazing at Harriet instead.

Callum turned back to Miss Rothwell. Her lovely hazel eyes had been fixed on his face, but the moment he looked at her, their glance moved demurely to the floor. It was hard to tell if she was shy or disapproving, and his own cheeks burned with embarrassment.

The music had altered cadence, becoming slower and solemn, and he knew from experience that the waltz would conclude within a few bars. He slowed his pace, keeping in step. The joyous major chords vibrated loudly, filling even the big space of the ballroom with their triumphant, happy sound. Then, abruptly, all the dancers stopped and bowed and curtseyed. Callum released Miss Rothwell’s hand and bowed low. He had not even noticed that the waltz had concluded, and his cheeks flared even more hotly at the thought that she might have noticed his error.

She straightened up from the curtsey and for a second, her hazel eyes held his. He gazed into them, staring into their golden-coloured depths. Then, shaken, he looked away.

“I must excuse myself,” he said, glancing across the ballroom to where his mother stood with some of her friends. “I have a matter I must discuss with my mother.”

“Of course,” Miss Rothwell said tightly.

Callum inclined his head and walked as speedily as he could across the ballroom. He reached his mother’s side just as she turned and spotted him. Her face broke into a big grin.

“Son. There you are! Now that you are here, I recall you wished to ask Millicent something.” She beamed at him, and he cursed inwardly.

“Lady Millicent,” he managed to say, angry with himself for literally walking into his mother’s scheme. “May I have the honour of the next dance?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lady Millicent murmured. She dropped a demure curtsey. “I would be delighted.”

Callum shot his mother a furious glance, but she was chatting to Lady Bronham, entirely oblivious to—or ignoring—his anger. He looked over at Lady Millicent, who smiled at him.

“A fine evening is it not, Your Grace?” she asked him. Her voice was neither too high nor too low. Her curtsey was poised and graceful. Her choice of conversation was neutral. He could see exactly why everyone in society admired her so much—she was exactly how she ought to be, playing by society’s rules.

“Yes, most fine,” he agreed politely.

“Your mother has done such a fine job. And such a grand idea! A Christmas house party. So festive!”

“Mm. Very festive,” he agreed distantly.

They stepped about the dance floor. The dance was a quadrille, and they partnered with Millicent’s friend—Lady Amelia—and Lady Amelia’s betrothed. They walked lightly, twirling and stepping and touching palms and stepping back into line. The quadrille was a complex dance, and Callum was surprised that he recalled all the steps. He let his mind wander as they danced.

A man with chestnut hair was talking to his mother on the other side of the room and Callum frowned. He recognised the man—the way he stood, the long, slim profile and angular chin. He simply could not recall who it was. His gaze narrowed and he almost missed a step. He stiffened and apologised.

By the end of the dance, after concentrating for so long, he felt exhausted. He bowed low.

“Thank you, Lady Millicent,” he murmured. He thanked their companions and then moved towards the terrace doors. They had been opened briefly, and even though the breeze that blew through them was icy, he felt drawn to them, wanting to step outside for a moment or two.

“Callum! Do come and greet our late-arrived guests!” Mother called, drifting over as he reached the door. Her gaze moved to the chestnut-haired man and a brown-haired woman who stood beside him. Her gaze was inscrutable. She could have been furious at their late arrival, pleased, or entirely indifferent. Her face was always hard to read.

“Good evening,” Callum said to the two people, bowing low. He looked over at his mother in the hope that she would give him an introduction. He was sure he knew them—the woman had a soft oval face and was very pretty, and the man had a long, angular face and watchful dark eyes. He felt certain he had met them both before, too.

“I did wonder when James and Philippa were going to arrive,” Mama said, coming to the rescue with information. Callum sighed in relief. That was who they were, and why they seemed familiar. James was the son of one of his late father’s closest acquaintances, the Earl of Winbrook. James and his father had occasionally been at Stallenwood Park for visits, and Mother had maintained a friendship with Lady Winbrook, James’ mother. Lady Philippa was James’ cousin, a less frequent visitor at Stallenwood.

“We are very grateful to be invited, Your Grace,” James said, addressing Mother. His expression was grave.

“Of course, dear fellow. Of course,” Mother said, her expression sympathetic. After his mother’s own humiliation about their debt, she had felt a certain kinship with Lady Winbrook, who had suffered a similar experience. That was why she had maintained ties with the family.

“It is a magnificent ball, Your Grace,” Lady Philippa said softly. Mother inclined her head.

“Thank you, Lady Philippa,” she said politely.

Callum tried to smile, but he found that he could not muster any real warmth. He had never liked James—as a youth, the fellow had seemed sullen and withdrawn, his eyes darting around the manor nervously, barely speaking a word. Callum would have preferred it if his mother had not invited the two, but then he had not helped her make the guest list, so he could not complain.

He stood with them, racking his brains to think of polite things to say. Part of him wished he was like Millicent. She seemed so capable, gliding through social situations with seamless ease. His gaze moved across the ballroom and stopped, caught on a flash of bright blonde hair with coppery highlights. Miss Rothwell was standing perhaps ten feet away. He looked away, annoyed at himself for becoming distracted.

James and Philippa had noticed his staring, and they followed the line of his gaze. He winced, feeling angry with himself as they glanced at each other. They probably thought he was a fool—a lovesick dolt. He tensed, ashamed of himself.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, deciding he had tortured himself enough. “I am overly warm. I must take some respite.” He gestured to the doors.

“Of course, old fellow. Of course,” James replied affably. “It is rather warm in here.”

“We will doubtless still be here when you return,” Lady Philippa quipped a little ironically.

Callum bowed to her and then moved hastily towards the doors of the room. He stepped outside and gulped in the fresh, cold air, feeling relieved to be away from the confusion, the press of people and the bewildering mix of emotions that he felt whenever he looked at Miss Rothwell.

He leaned on the balcony and gazed out into the darkened garden; the stone of the railing icy under his arms. Miss Rothwell’s face filled his mind, and he wished that he could think of something to say to her. She seemed so cold, so disinterested and it hurt him, making him feel unworthy. He had never felt quite adequate as the new duke, sure that someone else might have managed the situation better. Her cold indifference made him feel inadequate.

“Don’t be foolish,” he told himself aloud.

All the same, as he stared down at the garden, he could not help musing about Miss Rothwell and feeling sorrowful. He pushed the sorrow down, reaching for irritation—one reliable way to cover up all his emotions—and told himself that he was just annoyed with her for being difficult. That was definitely all it was. It could not possibly be that he felt a growing admiration.

“Certainly not,” he said to the silence. He could not let that happen, after all.