Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Catherine slept soundly, probably due to the laudanum the doctor had administered to ease her throat. When she finally awoke, it was midday on Christmas Eve. She lay quietly a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the twins laughing and Abby playing a carol on the pianoforte in the drawing room below.

Darton Hall felt like home.

She drew in a deep, careful breath, relieved when it didn’t trigger a coughing spasm.

“Catherine?” Her mother rose from the chair she’d pulled up beside the bed.

“Mama,” she croaked, then smiled ruefully. “I’ve become a frog for Christmas.”

“I’ll ring for a posset,” her mother said. “Cream and honey and a bit of brandy to soothe the throat will be just the thing. And then…” She hesitated and firmed her lips. “Christopher wishes to speak with you.”

Catherine wrinkled her nose. She didn’t want to speak to him, particularly.

“I believe he wants to apologize,” her mother added. “He’s fallen quite out of everyone’s favor, which is a pity, as -”

She broke off, blushing, and Catherine gave her mother a sharp look. Had the viscountess actually…?

No, she decidedly did not want to know anything about whatever her mother and Lord Heatherton had, or had not, been up to.

But he certainly owed Catherine an apology. She hadn’t considered it at the time, but it was quite terrible how he’d abandoned her while the fire raged.

So, she nodded, and obediently drank her posset when it arrived, and sat up in bed and drew her dressing robe about shoulders her when Lord Heatherton tapped at the door. To her relief, her mother stayed to chaperone, and there seemed to be no hint of anything untoward between them.

“Miss Randall,” he said, a look of contrition on his face as he settled in the chair beside her bed, “I have behaved reprehensibly, and I am so very sorry. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

It was a pat apology, and she stared at him, trying to see how much of it he truly meant. On the one hand, his usual devil-may-care attitude had been replaced by a hangdog look. On the other, well, she couldn’t trust that anything he said was genuine.

“I will,” she said hoarsely. “But there are conditions. Firstly, that you cease needling your brother so incessantly. Secondly, that you take your own duties as Viscount Heatherton more seriously. And finally, that you and Lord Darton agree to shake hands beneath the mistletoe and a call a truce.”

“We’re hardly at war,” he said, clearly trying to make light of it.

“You are, and it must stop.” Especially if things turned out as she hoped. “Do you promise?”

He met her gaze, a light of challenge in his eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

“For so long as you hold up your side of the bargain, yes.”

“Very well.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure what to do with myself, if I’m not trying to tweak Philip’s nose at every turn.”

“You’ll find something,” Lady Fortnum said dryly. “A bit of maturity sits well on a man, I do believe.”

Catherine pretended to fit of coughing then, which quickly turned real, and Lord Heatherton took his leave.

Her next visitor was much more welcome, and she couldn’t help smiling widely as Lord Darton stepped into her room.

“Cath…er, Miss Randall,” he said, shooting a guilty glance at her mother.

“Your Grace.” Lady Fortnum rose from the bedside chair. “I must step out a moment. Please, take my seat and keep Catherine company.”

It was all Catherine could do to keep from rolling her eyes at her mother’s transparent ploy to leave them alone. Still, she didn’t argue as she and the duke were given their privacy.

“My dear Miss Randall.” He stepped to the edge of the bed and reached for her hand, which she gave willingly.

“My dear Lord Darton,” she replied, wishing her voice wasn’t quite so rough.

He met her gaze, and she saw the hint of his brilliant smile lurking about his mouth. “Might I hope that you might one day call me Philip?”

“One day soon, I hope. And you will call me Catherine.”

He pressed her hand, his face undergoing that transformation that melted her heart.

“Or perhaps,” he said, “Your Grace, the Duchess of Darton-on-Rye.”

“Or perhaps,” she said, her heart suddenly beating like a hundred wings in her chest, “beloved.”

“Always that,” he said, and she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought him stuffy and impossibly proper as he bent and pressed a fervent kiss against her lips.

She returned the kiss, pulling him toward her. They were lost in delicious sensation for quite some time, until Lady Fortnum, obviously returned, cleared her throat.

“Ahem,” said Philip, pulling back and adjusting his cravat.

“I take it your suit was successful?” Catherine’s mother asked, a glint of mirth in her eyes.

“He hasn’t actually asked me yet,” Catherine said, but held up one hand as Philip began to speak. “I have a request, however.” She met his gaze. “Ask me in one hour, beneath the mistletoe.”

His brows rose, but his own smile remained. “It would give me the utmost joy to do so.”

An hour later, the household assembled in the drawing room. The whole of Darton Hall was redolent with the smells of roast goose, baking bread, and evergreens. In the center of the room, the servants had hung a kissing bough fashioned of holly, ivy, and gold ribbons, along with the single sprig of mistletoe Philip had oh-so-reluctantly allowed into the house. It felt an eon ago, as though he’d been a different person then. And perhaps he had.

He’d been, he could now admit, a bit of an ass; so caught up in his responsibilities and worry over what was proper that he’d almost missed the treasure right beneath his nose. In that regard, he supposed he could forgive Christopher, for helping bring him and Catherine together.

But that goodwill was entirely erased by the fact that his brother had left her in peril, only concerned with saving his own skin.

“What’s going on?” one of the twins whispered loudly, twisting to look up at his mother.

“A Christmas surprise,” she said.

“Is it a horse and sleigh?”

“I want one, too,” the other boy declared.

“Hush, children,” Catherine said, walking into the room with Lady Fortnum at her side. “The gift is for me.”

Her voice was still throaty, and once again Philip cursed his brother. But she looked lovely, garbed in a cream-colored gown sprigged with scarlet flowers. He met her gaze, and felt a thousand years younger that he had the day before.

“Miss Randall.” He moved forward to take her hand, but she forestalled him.

“First, I have a gift for you.” She glanced at Aunt Agatha, on the settee beside young Olivia. “For your entire family, I hope. I understand that your husband and his brother parted at odds, and were never able to mend that rift.”

“Yes.” The dowager duchess nodded sadly. “It’s the reason for the clause in his will requiring that Philip and Christopher spend Christmas here. He saw them growing apart, and wished to keep them from going down the same unfortunate path.”

“Too late,” Philip said quietly, but Catherine shook her head.

“Perhaps not,” she said. “Lord Heatherton, please enter.”

A moment later, Christopher stepped around the corner. He carried himself with shoulders bowed, and for a moment Philip recalled the boy he’d been.

“Philip.” His brother took a deep breath, then let it out and came forward to stand beneath the bough. “I’m sorry for…well, for all the cruel things I’ve said. Even those that have some truth to them.”

Catherine gave a pointed sniff, and Christopher glanced at her, then back to Philip.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be friends,” he continued, “but it is my hope that we might, at least, not be enemies. In the Christmas spirit of peace and charity, will you shake my hand here, beneath the mistletoe, and agree to let bygones be bygones?”

“Oh, well done,” Aunt Agatha said softly as Christopher extended his hand.

For a moment, Philip stared at it. Could he forgive his brother for everything he’d done? All the little jabs and sneers, yes. But Christopher had been the worst kind of coward to abandon Catherine at the Assembly Rooms.

Yet, his brother seemed contrite. Perhaps he’d finally realized that he had to start thinking of more than just himself at every moment.

“Philip?” Chrisopher asked, his hand still outstretched. It was the vulnerable note in his voice that did it.

“Yes.” Philip stepped forward and clasped his brother’s hand. “I accept your offer of peace.”

Their gazes met, and he was glad to see the honesty in Christopher’s eyes. Perhaps things would be better between them after all, going forward.

“Huzzah!” Lord Weston cried, and his sons were delighted to take up the cheer.

Aunt Agatha wiped a tear from her cheek, while Lady Fortnum patted her shoulder.

“Wait.” Philip released his brother’s hand and raised his voice to be heard above the crowing of the twins. “I’m not finished.”

Christopher stepped back, the twins subsided, and, with a smile Catherine moved to stand beside him. He took her hand and then went to one knee on the Aubusson carpet.

“Now what’s happening?” the first twin asked.

“A wedding, silly,” his sister answered.

“The precursor to a wedding,” Philip gently corrected, then returned his gaze to Catherine. “My dearest Miss Randall, will you do me the very great honor of consenting to become my wife, my duchess, my notebook-keeper and keeper of my heart?”

She grinned at him, and he grinned right back.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Now stand up and give me a kiss.”

More cheering ensued, and, conscious of the watching crowd, Philip kept their embrace chaste. Mostly.

“Aren’t you glad I talked you into the mistletoe?” she whispered against his mouth as the kiss ended.

“I am glad of everything about you,” he replied softly. “And I always will be.”