Chapter 7

Callum gazed out over the billiards room.

“If you were a touch more polite, then perhaps it would not be necessary to pretend,” he murmured, recalling her words quietly. They ran through his mind repeatedly. He still did not know whether to laugh or to scowl. She had struck him as spirited when he first met her, but now he could not deny it.

Be careful, his mind warned him. He absolutely did not wish to get close to her, though her hazel eyes drifted through his thoughts, making it impossible to think of anything else.

“Dash it! Are the shares in the rope trade really suffering?” A loud voice beside Callum sounded woeful, distracting him from his musing.

Callum sighed, feeling impatient with the chatter around the low mahogany table. He had never much liked the men’s gatherings in the billiards room—the men drank excessively and tempers sometimes flared; to say nothing of the tendency of the men to bet on the games of billiards. He could not feel comfortable in a room where betting took place.

“Feeling restive, old chap?” A voice near him asked. Callum shrugged.

“It was a large meal,” he replied to Lord Bronham, Lady Millicent’s father. The fellow had at some point joined him at the table. “Just a trifle nauseous,” he added, hurrying to cover whatever discomfort the earl might have noticed.

Lord Bronham—an older man with white hair and a white moustache—laughed. “It was a fine meal,” he said with a grin. “Capital!”

Callum nodded and murmured something that he hoped conveyed appreciation, then leaned back and went back to brooding.

“May I?” another voice asked. Callum looked up, surprised to see James there. He tried not to scowl. He did not like the fellow, no matter how hard he tried. He did not want the man to join them at the table, but he could think of no reason why he should not. He was saved from reply.

“Capital!” Lord Bronham replied, smiling and waving James to a chair. He smiled at Callum. “Grand to have all of us at one table, eh? Like-minded, we are. Like-minded.”

Callum frowned, but James cleared his throat.

“I was speaking to the earl about the horse races, just a minute ago,” James explained. “I am sure you would be able to help pick a winner, given your knowledge of horse breeding.”

“I do not follow the races,” Callum said tightly. It was the last topic he wished to discuss—though his father had been an avid follower. He pushed back his chair, trying to think of an excuse to escape.

“Just meant to comment on your insight as a breeder,” James demurred, clearly guessing that he had misspoken. That fact annoyed Callum still more.

“Long odds on Rowanwood,” the earl commented, nodding slowly. “Long odds.”

Callum pushed back his chair as James leaned in to confer, discussing the prospects of various horses in the race. Callum was determined to avoid the topic, no matter what anyone thought.

“Gentlemen?” a voice called at the door. Callum looked up, for once grateful to his mother. She was in the doorway. “If you would like to join in, please proceed to the drawing room for card games.”

The gentlemen turned and pushed back their chairs, standing to follow her.

Relieved, Callum stood, nodded the briefest of acknowledgements to the two gentlemen at the table, and hurried out. He cursed inwardly as he almost bumped into a person in the doorway. He looked up, chagrin intensifying as he noticed it was Mr Rothwell.

“Apologies,” he said stiffly, looking up at Miss Rothwell’s brother. He could not help noticing that the man's eyes—while almost black—were the same shape as Miss Rothwell’s, and something about the expression on his face was like her also.

“No need to apologise,” Mr Rothwell said lightly, giving a warm smile. Callum clenched his jaw. He could not help but feel irritated by the man, and part of him knew it was because Mr Rothwell’s easy manner and jovial ways were so different from himself. He envied him his ease in society.

Callum nodded his acknowledgement of the reply and was going to wander off, but Mr Rothwell insisted on keeping up the conversation.

“I take it you will play whist with my sister?” Mr Rothwell asked as they walked into the drawing room. Callum blinked. He had not intended to play cards at all, merely to watch, but Mr Rothwell’s suggestion reminded him that it would probably be right to do so.

“Mayhap,” he agreed. Mr Rothwell laughed.

“I wanted to warn you. I taught her to play whist when she was fourteen. I never played against her again.”

Callum lifted one brow, disbelieving. Mr Rothwell chuckled.

“I just had to warn you. Better to play on the same team as her. She’s formidable.”

Callum lifted a shoulder, still not believing the man. “Thank you for the warning,” he said thinly. Mr Rothwell smiled.

“I might indulge in a game of whist myself,” he said enigmatically. Callum was still trying to decide if the fellow was inviting him to join him on a team against Miss Rothwell, when he wandered off.

Dash it, Callum thought crossly. He glanced around the room. The space was packed—several card tables had been set up and the big tea table removed, but every inch of space was occupied, and the room was hot. His gaze roved across the room, seeking out Miss Rothwell.

“Your Grace?”

Callum turned around, annoyed, and his eyes widened as he took in Miss Rothwell, along with Mr Rothwell and his own sister. They were all looking at him expectantly.

“We fancied a game of whist,” Mr Rothwell said.

“Brother, you must partner Miss Rothwell, of course,” Harriet demurred.

Callum stared at her, about to object. Harriet had sat with Mr Rothwell during the dinner, danced with him at least once, and was clearly not often out of his company during the ball. He meant to reprimand her, but as he tried to form words, Mr Rothwell grinned at Harriet and she smiled back so beautifully, so innocently, that Callum’s annoyance dissipated.

We should all feel like that, he thought with a touch of sorrow. His own connection to the Rothwell family was purely business-motivated, but that did not mean that his sister could not have found genuine appeal in Mr Rothwell. Seeing the way the two of them gazed at each other lifted his heart, even though it brought into contrast how cold and businesslike his own connection with Miss Rothwell was.

“Well...” he let out a sigh. “I suppose it is the festive season. If one cannot play a game of cards now, then when?”

“Well said!” Mr Rothwell grinned.

Callum looked at Miss Rothwell. She seemed to be fascinated by the windows opposite, and he wondered if she was trying to avoid him.

“Let us take a seat here,” Mr Rothwell declared. He gestured to a card table with a flourish. Callum gritted his teeth, the fellow’s affected manner setting him on edge. But he went to sit down. Mr Rothwell lifted the pack of cards.

“I will claim the privileged position,” he announced. Nobody moved to argue with him, and so he started to deal out the cards, giving each person thirteen. Callum watched Miss Rothwell as her brother dealt their hands. Her brow was creased, and he wished he could ask her what was on her mind.

“The trump suit is...” Mr Rothwell announced grandly, slowly turning the topmost card that lay beside his place. “Spades.”

Callum smiled to himself. He had enough good cards from that suit in his hand to get him out of a tricky situation. He glanced across the table at Miss Rothwell. She had her head tilted, studying her hand of cards. He drew in a breath. The candlelight played on her honey-pale hair and her soft skin, her lovely neck revealed by the low neckline of her blue gown, and she looked so beautiful in that moment. He looked away, shaken. He looked sideways to find Mr Rothwell looking expectantly at him. He cursed inwardly. It was his turn to play a card.

“The ten of Spades!” Mr Rothwell declared, giving a low whistle. Callum saw Miss Rothwell tense.

Best to start with a strong card, Callum thought. He winced. He hated playing cards. The only reason he consented to play whist at all was his sister. Fortunately, Papa had not lost his money on card games, or Callum would have refused to play it at all.

“My turn,” Harriet, who sat on Callum’s left, said with a chuckle. She put down the four of Spades. Callum tried not to smile at his sister, who had never been particularly lucky in card games.

Miss Rothwell wordlessly produced the two of Spades, and Callum wanted to whistle. She doubtless had strong cards, but she was not playing them because he had played a strong one and so she did not have to. If he won, their partnership won a point regardless.

She clearly does have some talent at this, he thought.

“Dash it all,” Mr Rothwell cursed mildly and threw down the three. They all laughed.

The game continued. Callum put down the four of Diamonds, just because he had it and to see what would happen. Beside him, Harriet threw down the ten of Diamonds, grinning in triumph. Across the table, Miss Rothwell calmly played the King of Diamonds. Mr Rothwell whistled.

“I say!” he said loudly. “You win again,” he added, producing the nine of Diamonds and putting it on the pile.

Callum glanced across at Miss Rothwell. She was looking down at her cards as if she was keeping track of the deck. When she looked up at him, her hazel eyes were bright. His lip lifted in a half-smile. Her gaze darted back to the cards. Warmth spread through him—perhaps she was not quite as indifferent as he thought.

It was his turn again, and he played the ten of Clubs. This time, Harriet produced the King of Clubs, raising a brow at him in a teasing challenge. Miss Rothwell produced a low-ranking card in the same suit, and then Mr Rothwell did so likewise, grinning at Harriet. Harriet’s smile lit the room.

“Our turn to win a point,” Mr Rothwell commented.

Callum said nothing, just looked at his cards to decide what to play next.

Their team won the next two rounds, and then Harriet and Mr Rothwell won two. Callum risked a glance across the table. Miss Rothwell studied her cards, her lip lifted in a half-smile that took his breath away. The light from the nearby candles glowed on her hair, making it the colour of fresh pale honey. He bit his lip, a feeling of intense longing washing through him.

“Your Grace?” Mr Rothwell said from beside him. Callum blinked, then tried not to swear. He had almost forgotten it was his turn.

He chose a card fairly randomly and winced as his sister’s card beat it. He glanced at Miss Rothwell and saw that she was focusing intently. He grinned as she placed a card that beat Harriet’s.

“Dash it!” Mr Rothwell swore and threw down a low card onto the pile.

They all chuckled. Miss Rothwell glanced across the table at Callum and the bright, mischievous twinkle in her eye made him suck in a breath. For the first time, she was looking at him with warmth in her eyes.

Callum beamed. It was only as his grin stretched across his face that he realised what he was doing and hastily his face resumed its reserved look.

“You have five points, and we have three,” Mr Rothwell commented, noting down the scores. “Technically, you have won.”

This time, when Miss Rothwell grinned at him, he could not help grinning back. Her smile was full of joy, and he could not ignore it.

Her gaze held his and he stared back, feeling as though he was being drowned in the tawny depths of her eyes. He gazed into them, and it was only when Mr Rothwell pushed back his chair to stand that he realised the rest of the players were moving. He pushed back his chair hastily, cheeks heating with a blush.

“That was well played,” Mr Rothwell was saying to Harriet, who smiled shyly at him. Callum, seeing the sweet look that passed between them, decided not to reprimand her. Mr Rothwell was not exactly low-ranking—he was the son of a viscount—and besides the fact that the fellow grated on his nerves a little, there was no reason to object.

Miss Rothwell was standing a foot away from him. Her gaze was downcast. He cleared his throat.

“Well done,” he said.

She lifted her eyes to his and he stared into the depths of them. He felt helpless, unable to look away, and strangely, he did not wish to either. He longed to stand with her, to stare into her eyes, to forget everything else—the room, the guests, the presence of his mother not too far away. Someone coughed in a way that suggested they wanted his attention, and he turned around to find Lord Bronham standing there. He struggled not to glare at the fellow.

“My lord?” he greeted him politely.

“Your mother sent me to ask you a question,” Lord Bronham said lightly. He nodded to Miss Rothwell, but did not do more by way of a greeting. “She wished to ask you if you recalled in what year the estate acquired Newford Acres?”

Callum looked away, feeling annoyed. He knew his mother was trying to distract him, trying to get him to stand with her and the earl. He struggled to recall the time when the small windfall of land, called Newford Acres, had come to them.

“It was three years ago,” he recalled.

He was about to tell Lord Bronham to take the answer back to Mama, but then he spotted his mother drifting over and he tensed, knowing that he could not put it off any longer—she expected him to stand and talk to her, and he could not refuse anymore. He bowed to Miss Rothwell, who was looking around as if she wanted to escape.

“Please excuse me, Miss Rothwell,” he said politely. “My mother wishes to speak to me.”

“Of course,” she said softly.

Callum turned to find his mother before she managed to frighten Miss Rothwell any further.

He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing Miss Rothwell chatting with her brother, her laughter light and her manner easy, and he felt a little envious, a little sad. He could never trust anyone enough to be able to relax that much. He wished that he could give it a try—it would be lovely to see her smile at him again.