Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

What an unfortunate beginning , Philip thought as his valet retied his cravat. The timing of Lady Fortnum’s arrival couldn’t be worse. Although the younger daughter seemed tolerable, the eldest, Miss Catherine Randall, was altogether too full of herself, with those pert smiles, and comments about Christopher. And then to accuse him of being droll! The girl had no sense of decorum.

This was going to be the longest Christmas holiday of his life. Worse even than the one after their father refused to set foot in Darton Hall ever again, and that one had been miserable.

He glanced at the ormolu clock in his dressing room. Nearly four. It wouldn’t do for the host to be late to tea, despite the fact that a half-hour ago he’d no idea of his aunt’s plans. He certainly needed to have a word with the dowager duchess about when the others were due to arrive. He despised being caught flat-footed at social gatherings.

“That will be all,” he told his valet, then strode from his suite.

Though it was beneath his ducal dignity to dash through the upper corridors of Darton Hall, he lengthened his strides. He rounded the corner at a good clip, only to trip over a woman’s outstretched foot.

Hopping awkwardly on one foot, he tried to regain his balance without falling upon Miss Catherine Randall who, for some reason, was down on all fours in the middle of the hallway.

“Are you well, Miss Randall?” he asked, going to his knees beside her on the red and gold carpet. It would not reflect kindly upon his hospitality to have his guests falling ill moments after they arrived.

“Quite well,” she replied, looking up at him with eyes the color of fine sherry.

From this position, he could see right down the neckline of her dress to the tantalizing curve of her breasts. He hastily pulled his gaze away, only to encounter the sight of her derriere outlined in blue muslin. Blast .

“Then why, may I ask, are you crawling about on the rug?” Discomfort made his tone harsh.

She blinked, then sat back upon her heels. “I lost an earbob just now.”

“I’ll ring for a maid to find it.”

“No need to trouble a servant. I’m certain it’s nearby. In fact…”

She leaned forward to snatch something off the carpet, and for a moment he caught her scent: lily of the valley and the clean smell of soap.

“There,” she said triumphantly, opening her gloved hand to reveal a bit of gold and garnet. “It matches the rug, you see.”

“Indeed.” He rose and extended a hand to help her to her feet. Would she be polite enough to apologize for creating such a hazard in the middle of the hallway?

She laid her fingers over his and rose with a surprising amount of grace. “Thank you.”

The tall case clock on the landing boomed out four chimes, and Philip frowned, releasing her.

“We’re late,” he said sharply.

“Yes.” She smiled up at him, a mischievous light in her eyes. “And yet, lightning hasn’t struck us upon the spot. I was trying to catch up with my family, you see, when…” She waved the hand holding the earbob.

“I shall escort you to tea,” he said, holding out his arm. He couldn’t simply run off and leave her standing in the hallway. Much as he might prefer to.

“A moment.”

She lifted her hands to her unadorned left ear, attempting to replace her jewelry. Philip tried to curb his impatience, but she was taking a damnably long time. Then the earbob slipped out of her gloved fingers to fall upon the carpet once more.

They both bent at the same to retrieve it, and nearly collided. With an indrawn breath, she grabbed his shoulders to catch her balance. Her chestnut hair brushed his cheek, and a flare of desire went through him, as hot and shocking as the bolt of lightning she’d just mentioned.

He caught her elbows and set her at a safe distance.

“Allow me.” He swooped up the troublesome piece of jewelry and, before he could think too much about his actions, closed the distance between them. “Tilt your head.”

Her lips parted in surprise, but she did as he asked. Her neck was pale and soft, and the back of his hand brushed her warm skin as he gently fastened her earbob on.

“There you are.” He forced himself to take a step back, then offered his arm once more. “Shall we?”

Color rode high on her cheekbones, but she nodded and slipped her hand through his elbow. They said little as they descended the grand staircase. She paused at the landing, however, her gaze going to the large family portrait hung upon the paneled wall.

Surprising, really, that the former duke hadn’t removed it after the schism in the family. A split that, admittedly, his last will and testament was attempting to heal. Not that the dratted Christmas Clause could bring Philip and Chrisopher into amity, no matter their uncle’s intentions.

The painting showed Aunt Agatha and the former duke seated with their spaniels at their feet. Philip’s father stood behind the duke, one hand resting on the back of his chair, and Philip’s mother held a similar position behind the duchess. Philip and Christopher stood between their parents, and for a moment he recalled how terribly his younger brother had fidgeted all through the portrait sessions.

Even at that young age—he’d been eight, Chrisopher six—there was a serious light in his eyes, and a wild one in his brother’s. He didn’t mean to sigh, but a soft exhalation left his mouth and Miss Randall looked over at him.

“We’ve both lost our fathers,” she said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he said, though that wasn’t the reason for his sudden melancholy as he resumed escorting her down to tea. It was the reminder of all the duties awaiting him, stacked up and ready to topple over and crush him if he set a foot wrong.

He had his secretary’s help, of course, and his solicitors in London, plus the estate managers—seven at last count—to look after the various holdings. Aunt Agatha had charge of Darton Hall, and he was glad to let her continue. But still, running both an earldom and a dukedom was a great deal to ask.

“Your Grace, how kind of you to join us,” his aunt said tartly as he led Miss Randall to the chair beside her sister.

“It’s entirely my fault,” Miss Randall said removing her gloves and taking a seat. “The duke kindly assisted me in finding my lost earbob.”

“Did he?” His aunt shot him a look he couldn’t read. “What a good host you are. And speaking of which, do tell us what games you’ve settled upon for the house party.”

He clenched his jaw and went to take the last empty place, skirting the table piled with tea things to sit on the settee beside his aunt. “I’ve not had a moment to think upon it.”

“Oh, but I adore such things.” Miss Randall smiled brightly. “Do let me assist.”

“An excellent thought,” Lady Fortnum said, nodding at her daughter. “Catherine has a talent for organization. Why, she took over managing our last ball when I fell ill, and did so most brilliantly. Everything went off without a hitch.”

It was a patent mother’s attempt to paint her daughter in a good light, but Philip sensed there was truth to it. At least, he hoped so. He was drowning, and would be a fool not to reach for any rope thrown to him—even if it came from the frivolous Miss Randall.

“I would welcome your thoughts,” he said, turning to her.

“Holiday tableaux,” she said promptly. “Snapdragon, and Spillikins, and Lottery Tickets if there are younger people involved. Carol singing, certainly—oh and perhaps a musicale or pageant.”

“Very good,” Aunt Agatha said, while Philip blinked at the deluge of ideas. “I’ll trust the two of you to manage it all. Lord and Lady Weston, my second cousins once removed,” she added for their guests’ benefit, “will arrive the day after tomorrow. Although I’m sorry to say the Shelbournes have sent their regrets. It seems a fever has fallen over the family.”

She began pouring out tea and handing the cups around while Philip sat back and digested this information.

“A pity,” Lady Fortnum said, accepting her teacup, though she didn’t look a bit sorry that the competition for Philip’s attentions had just been removed.

As for himself, he was disappointed that Miss Shelbourne wouldn’t arrive to help buffer him from Miss Catherine Randall. Miss Randall had suddenly proven quite disturbing to his equilibrium, and it seemed his aunt was all to ready to throw them together. Though clearly they did not suit in the least.

Somewhat reluctantly, Philip met with Miss Randall at ten-o-clock the next morning in the west parlor. They were chaperoned by her lady’s maid, who removed to the far corner and busied herself with needlework.

“Let’s sit in the sun,” Miss Randall said, pulling a blue wingback chair into the pale light slanting through the mullioned windows. “I hope the weather holds, for my sister and I plan to go riding this afternoon.”

He moved a matching chair across from hers and waited for her to take her seat before doing the same.

“Do you like to ride?” he asked, wishing the inane question unsaid the moment he uttered it. Of course she did. Hadn’t she just said so?

“Very much.” She grinned at him—there was no other word for her expression. Most ladies smiled primly, careful to keep their emotions contained, but Miss Randall was unsettlingly exuberant.

And smelled wonderful.

Stop it , he told himself sternly. Her scent was of no account. Even though he’d woken that morning thinking of her, in an uncomfortable condition that required some quick handwork to remedy.

“I wish we rode more often, in London,” she continued. “But we’ve only stable room for the two horses, and they’re needed for the carriage whenever Mama goes out. Besides, the weather has been dreadful.” She made a face. “It seems much nicer here.”

“I couldn’t say.” If he answered in a contained manner, perhaps it would blunt some of her unladylike enthusiasm.

“Oh, yes.” She turned her clear-eyed gaze upon him. “You don’t spend much time here, do you? Even though you are the Duke of Darton-on-Rye.”

“This is Aunt Agatha’s home. I wouldn’t want to displace her.”

“Goodness.” Miss Randall looked toward the parlor door, as if she could take in the entire house with one glance. “There must be upwards of twenty bedrooms here. Surely there’s more than enough room.”

“I’m happy to leave the estate in the dowager duchess’s hands.” He didn’t mention that moving to Darton Hall would be the proverbial straw that caused his back to break.

“But it’s a lovely estate. Certainly, you’ll take up residence here when you choose your own duchess?”

She was so forthright it made him wince. “Are you suggesting yourself for that position?” He couldn’t help the coldness in his voice.

“Oh, heavens no!” She gave him a horrified look, so genuine he believed her. If she truly were angling for him, she would have responded with a great deal more coyness.

Relief tangled with his injured pride. “I believe myself slighted.”

She glanced down, a blush coloring her cheeks. “My most sincere apologies, Your Grace. I spoke thoughtlessly, and meant no insult to you. I only meant that my own taste in a husband might differ. The ton feels differently, as you’re no doubt aware.”

He gave a single, sharp nod. At the few events he’d forced himself to make time for, the debutantes swarmed around him like bees circling a particularly fragrant flower. Or wasps about a rotting apple; he couldn’t decide which.

“Tell me about these cousins of yours arriving tomorrow,” she said, pulling a small notebook and stick of graphite from her reticule. “I’ve jotted down some further ideas for games, but some of them require a certain number of participants. And the younger set can’t be expected to frolic late into the evening. How old are the children?”

Philip wasn’t intending to frolic late into the evening either, as she put it. Truly, Miss Randall was a creature of much flash and little substance. Perfect for Christopher, really. They deserved one another. Particularly as she’d just made it abundantly clear she was not at all interested in Philip.

Nor was he interested in her, he reminded himself. He should be glad of her disregard.

“Lord and Lady Danville are my second cousins on my aunt’s side,” he said stiffly. “They have three children: Olivia, who is nine, and the twins, Roger and Reginald, who are seven. And, to put it mildly, full of energy.”

If anyone could match their wildness, though, it might be Miss Catherine Randall. She would, he thought, make an excellent mother to rambunctious children.

What was he thinking? He yanked his mind away from anything that might lead him into carnal musings about the lady in question. No matter how soft her skin or tempting her lips…

“Excellent,” she said, scribbling in her notebook. “We’ll have such fun.”

After another half-hour, where Philip agreed to a number of amusements and vetoed others, Miss Randall pronounced their work finished.

She closed her notebook with a snap and grinned at him. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it? A word to the butler and housekeeper, and we’ll have games right up until Christmas. What night is the Cotillion again? The twenty-third?”

“Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to think if he’d missed anything on his aunt’s list.

He’d been up at first light, drafting a letter to the Ladies Auxiliary. When it was finished, he’d sent Smith into the village to deliver it to Mrs. Abernathy, who was apparently in charge of such things, and to secure the Assembly Rooms. Of course, no one else would dare to hold an event while the Duke of Darton-on-Rye was considering hosting a ball there, so the rooms had been entirely free.

The Darton Hall guests had arrived, with the exception of the cousins, and had turned out to be fewer, and perhaps less burdensome, than he’d originally feared.

Christmas dinner delivery—well, he’d speak with Aunt Agatha about that in due time.

Thanks to Miss Randall’s help, games and prizes were well in hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the holidays at Darton wouldn’t be so excruciating after all. Especially if Christopher continued in his tardy ways.

“Where did you go?” Miss Randall was leaning forward, full lips pursed, giving him an intent look. “I didn’t suspect you of being a daydreamer, Your Grace.”

“Ha.” The bitter laugh was out of his mouth before he could contain it. “Nothing of the kind. I was merely going over my various responsibilities in my head. My apologies for neglecting you for a moment.”

“You need one of these.” She brandished her notebook at him. “As a matter of fact, I might have an extra one with me that you could have.”

He glanced at the riotous bouquet of flowers illustrating the cover of her notebook, and quickly shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh.” She followed his gaze, then burst out laughing. “Never fear! I’ve one bound in burgundy leather. Surely that won’t offend your masculine sensibilities.”

Burgundy leather seemed a tad ostentatious. Why not plain brown? But it would be impolite to refuse her a second time.

He gave her a reserved nod. “Very kind.”

As to that, a notebook might prove useful. He had the niggling feeling he’d forgotten something…

“Thank you for allowing me to assist.” Miss Randall rose, and he hastily got to his feet. “If you’re free this afternoon, you’re welcome to come riding with us.”

“My duties call, I’m afraid,” he said. “But thank you for the offer. And for your work here this morning.”

“I enjoyed it,” she said, sounding slightly surprised by the admission. “At any rate, Your Grace, I’ll see you at luncheon.” She dipped a curtsey and, trailed by her lady’s maid, left the parlor.

For some reason, the sunlight seemed a touch colder once she’d gone.