Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Philip’s second cousins arrived, and Darton Hall was suddenly filled with a sense of life. Perhaps a bit too much life, as the twins ran and screeched and constantly seemed to be in trouble of one kind or another.

He caught them sliding down the banisters of the grand staircase, having given their poor nanny the slip once again. After he delivered a proper scolding, one of them looked at him with innocent eyes.

“But Miss Randall showed us how,” he said.

“She also said not to get caught,” his brother piped up.

What could Philip say? He shook his head and admonished them to stay off the stairs, then let them run off.

Miss Randall had shown them? The woman was a menace. One moment, he felt as though she was the most regrettable lady he’d ever met, and the next he craved her company beyond all reason. It was maddening and confusing and not at all in keeping with how a duke should behave.

He glanced at the wide wooden banister and had a sudden vision of the lady in question, skirts rucked up about her legs, arms twined about the railing -

Bloody hell . He turned to the wall and took a moment to adjust his trousers, taking deep breaths to clear his head. Obviously, it had been too long since he’d kept a mistress. But they were so much work. One had to think of them, and send gifts, and keep a house for their use, and make sure they didn’t feel neglected…

Ultimately, the cost had outweighed the benefits, the result of which being that it been well over a year since he’d last been with a woman. That must be the reason he’d been having so many completely improper thoughts about Miss Randall.

And perhaps—only the tiniest bit—because somehow her presence brought a sense of lightness. Because she’s ridiculously optimistic , he told himself. And prone to wearing unsuitably bright colors, and laughing too much, and exclaiming over the littlest thing as though it were something precious: holly berries, lemon scones, even the sound of rain on the slate roof, for heaven’s sake.

Miss Randall was like a showy bird one kept about for its sweet song and pretty plumage. Pleasant, but ultimately frivolous.

Yet even as he tried to make himself believe as much, he knew it wasn’t true. Catherine Randall was very intelligent—not bird-witted in the least. For the past week, she’d kept a steady stream of entertainments going each afternoon and evening, seeming to organize such things effortlessly. When he’d commented upon it, and how everyone seemed to be enjoying the games and music, she’d brandished her ever-present notebook at him.

“One simply needs the proper tools,” she’d said with a smile.

The next morning, he’d discovered a parcel wrapped in brown paper outside his door. He’d undone the wrapping to find the burgundy-leather journal she'd promised, with a note tucked inside.

Dear Lord Darton,

I was saving this for your Christmas present, but then thought you might like it earlier, so as to help keep your thoughts organized. I’ve come up with a system of sorts, in my own tracking of various activities, that I would be delighted to share with you — if you’d like. Not to presume, of course! You may use this notebook however you see fit.

Except not for starting fires, for that would be a sad waste of such lovely paper.

I jest.

Mostly.

At any rate, I also want to take this opportunity to thank you for so graciously allowing my mother, my sister, and me to join you here at Darton Hall for the holidays. I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble, but even if it has (arguments over mistletoe notwithstanding) we’ve had a delightful time thus far.

My most heartfelt gratitude to you and your aunt.

Merry Christmas,

Miss Catherine Randall

He’d read the note over several times, and then, unaccountably, placed it in the drawer where he kept his important papers. She was having a delightful time . The words warmed him, and he carried them about with him all day.

Any satisfaction of spirit he felt, however, fled entirely the next afternoon. His brother Christopher, Viscount Heatherton, at last made his appearance at Darton Hall.

The butler attempted to announce him, but Christopher swept past him into the drawing room, brown hair slightly tousled and a charming smile upon his face.

“Here I am,” he said, throwing his arms wide.

“My dear boy!” Aunt Agatha rose from the table where she was fruitlessly attempting to win at Spillikens against the children. Whether she bumped the table on purpose or not, Philip couldn’t say, but the game came to a quick end.

“Your Grace.” Christopher bowed over their aunt’s hand, then glanced at the assembled company.

He greeted their cousins, even the children, then turned to Viscountess Fortnum and pressed an ostentatious kiss upon the back of her hand.

“Lady Fortnum, what an extreme pleasure to find you and your daughters here. One couldn’t want for a better Christmas gift.”

“Lord Heatherton.” The viscountess smiled warmly at him, then turned to her daughters, with whom she’d been playing cards. “You remember my girls, of course—Catherine and Abigail.”

“How could I forget two such beauties?” Christopher made them each a gallant bow, as though he were some sort of chivalrous knight. “I trust you are enjoying your visit?”

Philip’s mood darkened as he watched their interchange. His brother was all smoothness and flattery.

“Very much,” Miss Catherine said. “Though I’ve no doubt it will become even more pleasant now that you’ve arrived.”

Clenching his jaw, Philip stepped forward. “Hello, Christopher. I wasn’t sure you’d manage to make an appearance.”

“Well!” Christopher turned, laughing. “I’m pleased to see you, too, brother. How fine it is to be at Darton Hall again for the holidays, don’t you agree?”

For someone shirking their responsibilities, certainly. Now that all the work was done, he’d no doubt Christopher would have a grand time in the remaining days before Christmas.

Philip forced himself to nod in response. “Indeed.”

Not that their uncle’s will had given them any choice about it. A part of him had been hoping his irresponsible brother wouldn’t arrive at all, and thus, finally, be seen as the scapegrace he was. No such luck, however.

“You’re just in time! The Christmas Cotillion is the day after tomorrow.” Aunt Agatha beamed at Christopher as though his tardiness was something to celebrate, not deplore.

“Splendid,” Christopher said. “You must save me a waltz, Agate.”

Philip frowned at his brother’s pet name for their aunt. It wasn’t proper in the least, and certainly not for use before guests.

“I see Philip has swallowed a lemon again,” Christopher said. “Don’t worry, brother mine, there are plenty of other ladies for you to dance with. Indeed, I believe Miss Randall to be very light on her feet.”

His words sent a hot, unwelcome stab of jealousy through Philip. Christopher had danced with Catherine Randall. Well, of course he had. No doubt Christopher had danced with every eligible—and ineligible—woman of the ton .

And now his brother had put him on the spot. Philip looked over at Miss Randall and found she was watching him, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“I hope you will save me a waltz, Miss Randall,” he said, hating the stiffness in his voice.

“It would be my pleasure.” Her voice held an unexpected gentleness.

Christopher glanced between the two of them, brows drawing together as though he’d expected a different sort of interaction.

“Well then,” Aunt Agatha said briskly. “It will be a lovely evening for all of us, to be sure.”