Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Philip watched his brother lead Catherine away, their heads close together in conversation, and clenched his fists in useless frustration. He could never compete with his charming, feckless brother, and he’d been an idiot to even try. If Christopher had decided to court Miss Randall, then she was lost to him.

Not that she’d ever been Philip’s in the first place. They’d gone riding together, true, and had a great deal of pleasant, and even witty, conversations. She’d spent an entire afternoon with him going over the finer points of her journal organization system, which he had to admit was impressively thorough yet deceptively simple.

He’d thought that, perhaps, they might be at the beginning of a tentative friendship. But now he realized her warmth toward him was simply her nature. She was kind to everyone.

And now she was gazing up at Christopher with an intensity she’d never shown to Philip. He forced himself to look elsewhere and found Aunt Agatha watching him, a knowing expression on her face.

What was his aunt conniving about, anyway? He was striding toward her when a commotion on the dance floor made him turn. The room was bright. Brighter than it should be.

“Fire!” Christopher yelled. “Everyone out!”

There was a panicked rush for the doors. Philip scooped up Aunt Agatha, then spotted Miss Abigail flailing in the crush and drew her against him.

“There’s another stairway,” he said, steering his charges around the crowd to the smaller stairwell.

In a matter of moments, they were outside, and quickly joined by the frightened participants of the abruptly ended Christmas Cotillion.

“Mama!” Lady Abigail cried, waving wildly.

Lady Fortnum pressed through the throng to join them and embraced her daughter. Then she looked over at Philip and asked, “Where is Catherine?”

Where indeed? A spike of dread went through him.

“I’ll find her,” he said, searching for his brother’s form in the crowd.

It didn’t take long to locate Christopher. Anger pulsed through Philip when he realized his brother stood alone.

“Where is she?” he asked, grabbing Christopher by the collar. “Where is Catherine?”

His brother’s expression shifted from confused to guilty to afraid in a mere instant. “I…she…” He waved toward the burning windows of the Assembly Rooms.

“You left her inside ?” The words came out a growl. Philip didn’t wait for Christopher’s response, but sprinted for the stairs, his pulse racing.

Fear for Catherine alternated with sheer rage against his brother as he pushed his way past the stragglers fleeing the Assembly Rooms. Near the top of the stairs the air grew thick with roiling black smoke. The last of the guests dashed past him. None of them were Catherine Randall.

Pulling a kerchief from his pocket, he held it over his nose and mouth and hurried into the rooms.

“Catherine!” he called, his voice muffled by the cloth. “Miss Randall!”

No answer.

Panic roared through him. He pushed forward, coughing, his eyes stinging. She and Christopher had been standing near the far wall…

A sheen of gold caught his eye. An instant later he was on his knees beside the prone figure of Miss Catherine Randall. She lay on the oaken floor, one arm outstretched as though she’d been crawling toward the door. His chest squeezed tight with despair.

“Catherine.” He bent, pressing his face next to hers. “Breathe. Please.”

For a horrible moment she lay perfectly still, and his heart shattered within him.

Then she inhaled raggedly, and he gasped with relief. Then he doubled over, coughing, as flames crawled up the flocked wallpaper and began traversing the ceiling.

Holding his breath, he hoisted her into his arms and dashed for the door. His lungs burned and sweat trickled from his temples, but he pressed on. Whether they made it out without collapsing from asphyxiation, or not, he would accept that fate.

Until that moment, he had not understood. But now he knew that his life was worth nothing without Catherine Randall in it. If that meant he must challenge Christopher for her affections, so be it. It was a battle he was prepared to win.

Halfway down the stairs, the smoke cleared enough to gulp some air. He slowed, then inhaled deeply and glanced at the woman he carried. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks and nose smudged with soot. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.

“Can you hear me?” he said softly. “Catherine, take a breath. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She stirred in his arms and choked. Then she began coughing so hard he almost dropped her. He hurriedly sat down upon the stairs, holding her by the shoulders as she gasped and cried and fought her way back to consciousness.

“Lord Darton?” she whispered hoarsely once she’d finally caught her breath.

“The very same.” He couldn’t help smoothing his hand across her cheek to wipe away her tears.

“Thank you for saving me.” Her voice was smoke-roughened and low.

“Hush.” He knew he should stop cradling her face in his hands. “Don’t try to speak.”

“I must.” She caught his gaze. Held it. “This is entirely too forward. But…I believe myself to be in love with you.”

He stiffened as though he’d just been shot, his senses zinging with adrenaline. “What do you mean? I thought you and Christopher…”

“Him? Heavens, no. Never.”

Joy rushed through him, a delirium of relief that brought him to the very edge of tears. He swallowed and then, greatly daring, brushed his lips over hers. She returned the kiss, her mouth tasting of salt and smoke and new beginnings. Despite the abandoned stairwell, their battered and smoky condition, there was no sweeter thing in the world than the feel of her in his arms. The shape of her lips, warm and pliant beneath his.

At last, breathless, they pulled apart.

“I believe I feel the same,” he said.

The ghost of a grin tilted her mouth up. “Well, I’d hope so. I didn’t take you for the sort of gentleman that goes about kissing ladies whenever the whim takes you.”

He stared into the depths of her sherry-colored eyes. “Only you.”

“Good.” She nodded. “Now please, take me home.”

He picked her up again—a slightly trickier maneuver on the stairs, though helped this time by her sliding her arms around his neck. When they emerged into the chilly night, the crowd let out a cheer.

“Oh, my darling.” Lady Fortnum rushed forward, Miss Abigail at her side. “I was so worried. All you unharmed?”

Catherine nodded, though when Philip made to set her on her feet, she clung to him tightly. Very well. He was happy to hold her for hours if she liked. Years. He’d almost lost her, after all.

Because of his brother’s utter selfishness. What the devil had Christopher been thinking, abandoning her like that? He searched the crowd, but saw no sign of the blackguard.

“If you’re looking for your family, Lord Christopher took your aunt and cousins home in the other coach,” Lady Fortnum said. “As you can imagine, everyone was quite shaken, and the duchess blames herself.”

“Why would she?” he asked.

“She regrets her insistence on holding a Christmas Cotillion, I believe. But come. The fire brigade has arrived, and we’d best take my poor girl home.”

Philip nodded. “I’ll send for the doctor, too. Breathing in smoke is a nasty business.”

He carried Catherine to the coach, then tucked her between her mother and sister and took the opposite seat. It was a subdued trip back to Darton Hall. The evening had nearly ended in catastrophe, but every time he looked over and met Catherine’s gaze, he couldn’t help feeling a sharp prickle of joy.