Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

There was something excruciating about watching Lord Christopher Hartness torment his older brother. Catherine had first observed it upon their meeting in the drawing room, and it was present in each subsequent interaction between them.

And where once—even a mere fortnight ago—she would have thought the duke’s increasingly rigid demeanor and stilted replies amusing, now she found herself more inclined toward sympathy. It was obvious his brother wanted nothing more than to scratch and scratch until he drew blood.

Oh, the attacks were couched as flippant remarks in a teasing manner, but she knew Lord Darton well enough now to see how each word his brother spoke left a wound. As the days went on, the duke became progressively more brittle, until she feared he might break.

The night of the Christmas Cotillion, they all dressed in their finery and took the ducal coaches into the village. The dowager duchess rode with Catherine and her family, remarking upon how well they all looked, and in particular commenting upon Catherine’s gold satin.

It was a lovely gown, if she said so herself. Paired with a matching topaz necklace and earbobs, she felt quite ready to attend a ball. No matter that it was to be held in the local Assembly Rooms and not the grand ballroom at Darton Hall.

She’d explored the mansion, in company with Abby and their ladies’ maids. Judging by the cobwebs in the corners, the ballroom hadn’t been used in some time. She didn’t blame the servants for skimping on the cleaning of it, either. The house was immense, and the small staff seemed inadequate to tend such an enormous estate.

Lord Darton, his brother, and Lord and Lady Weston were in the other coach. The children had been left with the nanny for the evening and Catherine hoped the twins wouldn’t cause too much trouble. The boys were wonderfully sweet, but also impossible little tornadoes of chaos. Indeed, she quite liked them.

Their party was greeted at the Assembly Rooms by the village mayor and his wife, and then it seemed everyone was intent on meeting Darton Hall’s guests. Finally, the crowd thinned and Catherine was able to take in the rooms.

Just ahead of the entryway was the dancing space, decorated with what seemed a hundred bouquets of hellebore bound up with scarlet ribbons. Dozens of silver candelabra lined the wide windowsills and mantel, shedding a warm golden light over the polished oak floor, while overhead a crystal chandelier glittered, contributing to the radiance.

“How lovely,” Abby said, coming to stand beside her.

“It’s enchanting,” Catherine agreed.

She’d been in ballrooms decorated with fanciful ice sculptures and exquisite arrangements of exotic blooms, or swathed with purple bunting and overflowing urns of lilacs. But she’d never seen anything quite so magical as these simple Assembly Rooms.

The small orchestra off to the side struck up a lively polka, and an earnest fellow with freshly scrubbed cheeks asked Catherine if she would like to dance. They’d been introduced moments before, and he was clearly going to seize his opportunity.

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Clark,” she replied, recalling his name in the nick of time.

He led her to the dance floor, and Abby followed soon after, on the arm of another farmer lad.

After that polka came another, with a different villager, and then a more sedate set dance. Both she and Abby had no shortage of men asking them to dance, and she found it a bit more challenging to navigate the requests without the aid of a dance card.

The musicians called a short break, and Catherine was glad of the respite. She glanced about, looking for Lord Darton, and saw him escorting a young woman toward the refreshment table. An excellent thought.

As an older woman ladled her out a cup of punch, the duke turned and saw Catherine. It might have been her imagination, but she thought one corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly before he schooled his expression into its usual formality.

“Miss Randall,” he said, coming over to where she stood. “Are you enjoying the cotillion?”

“Yes.” She grinned at him. “It’s quite convivial.”

“I’m glad to hear it’s not too country-mannered for your London sensibilities.”

“Not at all! I find the country very pleasant, if you hadn’t noticed.” As she spoke the words, she realized they were true. She’d been enjoying her time at Darton Hall a great deal: putting her organizational talents—and notebook—to good use, riding almost every day, bantering with Lord Darton… All of it had been deeply satisfying in a way she was almost afraid to identify.

Something had changed in her, but she wasn’t ready to consider it too closely. Wait , her mind said. Wait until after Christmas . Once she was back in London, everything would become clear.

So, she sipped her punch and caught her breath, and when the orchestra started up with a waltz, she gladly agreed to dance with the duke.

He was, as it turned out, quite an accomplished dancer even under the challenging conditions of a crowded floor packed with less-than-practiced dancers. He held her firmly, yet not too tightly, at a proper distance—except when he was required to pull her closer to avoid collisions with neighboring couples.

“My apologies,” he murmured each time, until she finally tired of his politeness.

“Stop apologizing,” she said, the next time he gathered her against him. “It’s quite all right.”

It was, she had to admit, more that all right. Little flickers of sensation went through her whenever their bodies brushed together, as though he were a wind and she a birch tree quaking at his nearness. When the dance ended, she was sorry to part.

“Will you dance with me again?” she asked, gazing into his eyes and knowing she was being quite forward.

He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it and looked past her, his expression going hard. Without turning, she knew that his brother had come up behind her.

“Do spare Miss Randall another turn in your arms,” Lord Christopher said, then smiled at Catherine when she turned to face him, as though they were sharing a joke at the duke’s expense. “I have arrived to save you, milady.”

For a moment she considered giving him the cut direct. Not yet, though. She wanted to tell him precisely what she thought of his treatment of his brother.

“By all means,” Lord Darton said, taking a step back. “Don’t let me spoil your evening.”

She frowned at him, wishing she could shake some sense into the man. “It’s not spoiled in the least.”

“Not since I’m here.” Lord Christopher scooped up her gloved hand and pressed a kiss upon the back.

She pulled out of his grasp, but when she looked up, the duke was gone.

“I’m sorry I was tardy in rescuing you from my stick of a brother,” Lord Christopher said as the next dance began to form upon the floor. “What a killjoy he’s become.”

She met his gaze, and for the first time noticed that the spark of mirth in his eyes seemed a bit forced. Perhaps he and his brother were like magnets, obliged by nature to push against one another through no fault of their own. But, unlike magnets, they were capable of changing. She hoped.

“I confess, I’m not in the mood to dance at the moment,” she said. “But might I speak freely, milord?”

“You’re free to complain to me about Lord Darton any time you wish, my dear.” He drew her away from the dance floor and toward the bank of windows where the candle flames shone, doubling their reflections in the glass. “You’ll find me a sympathetic listener. Is it my brother’s dreadfully boring way of speaking? Or perhaps the oh-so-proper -”

“It is nothing of the sort.” Her voice emerged too fiercely, and she attempted to modulate it. “It’s the way you treat him so dreadfully.”

Lord Christopher drew back as if she’d slapped him, his smile slipping. He blinked at her twice, then he pasted it back on. “Ha, ha. You’re having a joke at my expense. But surely you can see that he’s the dreadful one, not me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He is not dreadful. Lord Darton is perhaps overly concerned with propriety, and overburdened with his duties. But at heart he is a good man and means well. Sadly, I cannot say the same of you.”

His expression hardened and he leaned forward. Catherine took a step back, knocking against a candelabra. She whirled to catch it, but it tipped, the flames brushing the inner draperies. The sheer material caught fire in an instant.

Oh no! This was all her fault.

She hastily bent and removed her slipper, then began beating at the blazing curtains in an attempt to extinguish the flames. She was dimly aware of Lord Christopher bellowing “Fire!” and a confusion of shouting and movement throughout the Assembly Rooms.

The flames had run up the length of the draperies and spread to the next ones over. Catherine followed, still attempting to quash the flames. If only she could halt the fire! Some of the draperies would be ruined, but surely, if she were more vigorous in her defense…

Smoke billowed around her, and she bent over, coughing. When she straightened, eyes stinging, she realized the rooms were Deserted. Empty of everything except the acrid smoke threatening to overwhelm her.

Shallow breaths , she told herself, crouching down in search of clearer air. If she crawled, certainly she could make it to the doors. Though they seemed strangely distant…