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 theton.
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.”
CHAPTER 6
There wassomething 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 toattend 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 askedCatherine 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.”
