Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Darton Hall, Darton-on-Rye, West Sussex

December 2, 1816

My dear Philip,

Christmas is fast approaching. And, as I’m sure I’ve no need to remind you, the terms of your late uncle’s will dictate that you and your brother return to Darton Hall over the holidays if you wish to retain the estates and titles he so generously bequeathed you.

Since you are well aware of the legalities, I’m certain you’re planning to take up residence shortly. I await your imminent arrival.

Fondest Regards,

Aunt Agatha

Blast . Lord Philip Hartness, fourth Duke of Darton-on-Rye, set the letter carefully down upon his gleaming mahogany desk. His initial impulse had been to crumple the paper into a ball, cast it into the fire, and watch it burn merrily down to ashes.

But that was something his impulsive younger brother would have done. Philip, however, was a man of responsibility, cognizant of the burdens of his title. The obligations he’d inherited weren’t so easy to dispose of. Besides, a flippant gesture like setting his unwanted correspondence on fire was beneath him.

“Would you like to reply to Her Grace?” Mr. Smith, his secretary, asked, preparing to dip a pen into the inkwell.

“Of course.”

Philip always did the correct thing, though in this case he didn’t particularly relish it. Still, Aunt Agatha was the Dowager Duchess of Darton-on-Rye. Not to mention she was absolutely right: he was a duke because of his late uncle’s demise, and said uncle had made a few unconventional stipulations concerning the inheritance. Namely, that ridiculous Christmas Clause.

He ran a hand through his black hair, then straightened his shoulders and nodded at his secretary to begin taking dictation.

“To the Dowager Duchess of Darton-on-Rye,” he began. “Dear Lady Darton, it would be my pleasure to attend upon you for the holidays, and carry out the required activities. I will arrive in West Sussex on the twentieth of December. Regards, Philip.”

There. That should suffice.

He noted Mr. Smith had stopped writing.

Raising one brow at his secretary, he asked, “What is it?”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but aren’t you required to help coordinate certain events in the village prior to Christmas?”

Had he been prone to drinking, Philip would have tossed back a brandy at the reminder. Again, something his brother wouldn’t hesitate to do. In fact, wherever he was, Christopher was probably imbibing at that very moment.

“Yes.” Philip firmed his lips. “Thank you for the reminder, Smith. How long does it take to plan such things as an Assembly Room cotillion?”

His secretary blinked at him. “I’m sure I don’t know, Your Grace. More than a day or two, certainly.”

Very well. Philip pondered for a moment. His mother had used to throw lavish parties, before his father passed away. For all he knew, she still did, but he could hardly summon her from Italy to find out.

“Tell Lady Darton I will endeavor to arrive on the eleventh,” he said.

Two weeks ought to be enough. And in truth, he wouldn’t be able to stand more than a fortnight in Christopher’s company. His brother knew just how to get under his skin. The day after Christmas, Philip would depart for the peace of his London townhouse.

Perhaps, if he were lucky, his feckless brother wouldn’t arrive at Darton Hall until a few days before Christmas. It was a distinct possibility. Which meant that, as usual, Philip would shoulder the burdens of the family while Christopher fritted away his time and neglected his obligations.

With a sigh, Philip signed his name to the letter. He didn’t look forward to it, but duty called.

From the Desk of Lord Christopher Hartness, Viscount Heatherton

December 3, 1816

Dear Agate,

I’ve been thinking about uncle’s Christmas stipulation, and of course I’ll be at Darton for all the necessary shenanigans, but I’ve been thinking about Philip’s situation. He ought to consider getting shackled married by now, don’t you think?

Not that I, as his younger brother, could mention such a thing. But as the matriarch of the family, you could wield your formidable influence along those lines. In particular, might you extend a holiday invitation to Lady Fortnum and her daughters? Her eldest, Catherine, is just the sort of young lady who would suit Philip.

It’s merely a suggestion, of course, and no doubt there are other eligible young women from proper families whom you might like to include in the festivities.

Just a thought. I’ll see you shortly!

Fondly,

Kit

“Would you like to go to West Sussex for Christmas?” Lady Heliotrope Randall, Viscountess Fortnum, asked her two daughters as they took their afternoon tea in the parlor.

“I’d love to,” Catherine, the eldest, said promptly. She was always ready for an adventure, and the prospect of being somewhere other than London for the holidays held a definite appeal.

Outside the bow window the rain drizzled depressingly down, and the clouds were a low cap of wool pulled over the city. Despite the room’s cheery palette of greens and golds and the coals burning in the fireplace, a drabness had wormed its way into Catherine’s soul.

She was weary of the same social circles where nothing interesting ever happened. Weary of her dwindling prospects, too, though she didn’t dare breathe a word of that to her mother. Now that she’d been out for several seasons, everyone seemed determined to push her into the company of the most boring unmarried men of the ton . Which was definitely not amusing in the least.

“West Sussex?” Her sister Abigail took a cautious sip of her tea. “Do we know anyone in West Sussex?”

“The Dowager Duchess of Darton-on-Rye, as a matter of fact,” their mother said. “She has invited us to Darton Hall, along with a few others, to help celebrate the season. And I believe…” She paused, giving her offspring a pointed look. “Lord Darton will be in residence. He is a most?—”

“Eligible bachelor,” Catherine finished, trying not to sigh. “Yes, we know. He’s also a straightlaced bore. Might I change my answer?”

“You may not.” Her mother stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “Really, Catherine. I know you’d prefer not to consider such things, but it’s high time you secured your future. Besides, I’d like grandchildren. Sooner, rather than later.”

“There’s always Abby.” Catherine brandished her spoon at her sister and tried to ignore the fact that her mother was right.

Five years was a terribly long time to be on the marriage mart. Outside of one early offer of marriage, which she’d turned down with no regrets, she’d had no serious prospects.

At first, she hadn’t minded in the least. Being of an optimistic nature, she was certain the right fellow would come along. She simply hadn’t encountered him yet. Meanwhile, she’d had a marvelous time jaunting about to all the picnics and parties and balls.

Even the parties are becoming boring , her treacherous mind said. She swallowed the thought down with her next sip of tea.

“I’m still too young to marry,” Abigail said primly. “Mother’s right. You’re perilously close to being on the shelf.”

The viscountess gave Abby a quelling look. “I didn’t say that . Still, I think we all might benefit from spending the holidays amongst friendly acquaintances.”

At this reminder of her mother’s loneliness, Catherine discarded any further protest. Not that Lady Fortnum ever complained, but the viscount’s death had been difficult for her. Although Viscount Fortnum had been a distant father, he’d been a suitably affectionate husband. Even though it had been three years since his passing, the holidays tended to exacerbate the fact of his absence. And his widow’s melancholy.

“As for you, Abigail,” Lady Fortnum said, turning to her younger daughter, “I understand that the duke’s brother will be at Darton Hall, as well. Perhaps you might consider making yourself agreeable to him.”

“Mother. You’d really recommend Abby to such a rascal as Lord Christopher Hartness?” Catherine set down her cup with a frown.

“You seem to find him amusing,” her mother said dryly.

“Yes, because he cares refreshingly little for what’s proper! But he’s not husband material.”

Not that his brother was any better, though the duke’s flaws lay in the opposite direction. Lord Philip was a tightly reserved fellow, known for his rigidity and harsh insistence on observing every propriety.

For the first time, the thought occurred to her that perhaps Lord Philip’s manner was a direct result of his younger brother’s relentless irresponsibility.

“Hm.” Their mother took a bite of biscuit and arched her brows. “One could do worse. And either way, there will be two eligible bachelors under one roof.”

“That will be entertaining, at least,” Catherine said, her spirits rising. “I don’t think they hold each other in very high esteem.”

The brothers were rarely seen in close proximity. Indeed, the last time she’d observed them together had been at Farrington’s Hunt Ball. As she recalled, Lord Christopher had balanced a glass of sherry on his forehead while juggling three pears. Lord Philip had watched his brother make a spectacle of himself with an expression of disapproval as cold as carved marble.

It hadn’t helped matters that, later the same evening, the younger Hartness had been caught kissing the widowed Lady Penrith out on the balcony. Honestly, it was as Catherine had said. Though Lord Christopher was amusing, he needed quite a bit of settling down before anyone would seriously consider him in a matrimonial light. Despite the fact he was now a viscount, marrying him would be nothing but trouble.

“In any case,” Lady Fortnum said, “I’ve decided upon it. We’ll depart for West Sussex early next week. The dowager duchess has requested we arrive on December eleventh.”

Catherine shrugged, then grinned at her sister’s dismayed expression. “Don’t look so downcast. There will be dancing and games and all manner of fun. And no matter what Mother says, neither of us are under any obligation to try and snare a husband. I, for one, intend to enjoy myself.”

Abigail wrinkled her nose. “Not all of us are as frivolous as you, Catherine.”

“Spoken like an old maid. Now who’s the one destined for spinsterhood?”

“Girls.” With a reproving clack, Lady Fortnum placed her cup into its saucer. “No quibbling during tea, if you please. Tomorrow we’ll get you fitted for new gowns. I want my daughters to shine.”

Catherine nodded. She’d spotted a lovely gold satin brocade at the modiste’s during her last visit, and this would be the perfect excuse to talk her mother into the extravagance. Especially if she pretended to agree to set her cap for the stuffy Duke of Darton-on Rye.