Page 10 of The Duke’s Festive Proposal (Christmas Matches of Worth #5)

“And pull! And pull! And... Your Grace! Stand back for his grace at once!” The butler’s orders rang out in the downstairs hallway.

Callum, who had been walking to the door to take the air on an unusually sunny morning, stopped and gazed in disbelief.

“What is this?” he demanded loudly. “What is all this doing here?” A bale of green branches, holly boughs, ivy leaves, and Perdition alone knew what else, blocked up half the hallway. He gazed at it, eyes wide. The butler frowned.

“Your lady mother ordered it, Your Grace.” He swallowed and his frown deepened. “We followed her instructions. Were we mistaken, Your Grace?”

Callum ran a weary hand through his hair. A vague memory from before the guests arrived drifted through his head. His mother had asked him if she could cut greenery in the woods, and he had given permission without much thought. He gazed at the vast bale—around the size of the chaise-longue in the drawing room—and sighed. He was not about to reprimand the butler for doing what he had been told to do.

“You did the right thing,” he said to the butler, who slumped in evident relief.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Where are you expected to deliver that?” Callum asked wearily.

“Ballroom, Your Grace. Her grace said we should put it in the centre, near the back.”

Callum inclined his head. “Well, then, that is what you should do,” he said lightly. His frown deepened as he heard footsteps on the stairs. He recognised his mother’s soft, even walk. He turned away from the butler and left his crew of gardeners to haul the massive bundle across the entrance and into the next room.

He went upstairs briskly and found his mother on the first landing. She looked up at him.

“Well? Is that the greenery for decorations?” she demanded crisply.

Callum tilted his head. “Mother...are you certain that we should do this? You really think we should challenge local custom and put it up now?” He still felt unsure about the idea of ignoring the traditions and putting up the decorations straight away.

His mother looked at him. Her blue eyes held his and Callum took in how weary she seemed, with blue-grey prints of exhaustion under her eyes and her brow deeply lined. She was five-and-fifty, but she looked much older in that moment.

“Son, I have a house of twenty guests,” she said, and even her voice grated with tiredness. “They need entertaining. Since I cannot put on a ball every night, we need to do something with them. This will be a diversion for them.”

Callum sighed and nodded his head. “Well, I cannot argue with that. Turn the season on its head if you must.”

His mother’s eye held his, and he was relieved to see her old spirit in her gaze.

“I might have to,” she said. Callum shrugged.

“As you see fit, Mother,” he said wearily.

“I shall bear that in mind,” his mother said. Callum was secretly pleased to hear her old asperity in her voice. However much she grated on him sometimes, she was his mother, a constant in his world, and he would miss her unyielding strength.

“Good day,” he greeted her and hurried off up the stairs. She replied, but Callum was already on the upper floor when he realised what she had said. “Tell Harriet we are going to make the kissing boughs,” he repeated, deciphering his mother’s words. He sighed. He had forgotten that tradition. A ball of woven greenery embellished with apples and—in some, less religious houses, mistletoe—would be hung somewhere in the house. It was considered good luck—indeed, mandatory—to kiss underneath it.

He blushed as a sudden, vivid image rushed into his mind. Miss Rothwell stood underneath the kissing bough, unaware of where she stood. He walked up and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his mouth to her lips. They were, in his imagination, as sweet and soft and fragrant as they looked; flavoured with some sweet dessert she had just eaten, and as soft as satin.

He groaned and pushed the image away. That was the last thing he needed. He was determined to feel only a businesslike respect for Miss Rothwell, and instead, his wretched body was insisting on noticing how lovely she was, how compelling that lively, sweet face and those hazel eyes were.

He tensed as he became abruptly aware that he was not alone in the drawing room. Someone was talking to themselves.

“...and we have the cushions to set out, and...Oh, bother! Where is my music?”

“Harriet?” he called, recognising the voice. He spotted her a second later, in the corner by the pianoforte. Her long pale hair had tumbled loose of its chignon, the white dress she wore bright in the light from the windows. “Sister?”

“Brother!” Harriet turned, startled. “I was just setting the drawing room in order for the tea party. Have you seen my music books?”

Callum looked around and spied some books on the windowsill. “Those ones?” he asked, gesturing.

“Oh! Yes! Thank you, brother,” Harriet said quickly, lifting them up. “Mother will expect me to provide some music, I expect.” She put the books on the music stand.

Callum frowned. Harriet seemed unusually flustered. She was usually high-spirited, and it was not unusual for her to be overwrought, but she seemed scattered and tense in ways that she was not usually.

“Are you quite well, sister?” he asked gently.

“Oh! Yes, brother. I am quite well,” Harriet replied, startled from her reverie. She had a dreamy look in her eyes. Callum recalled Mr Rothwell, and how taken he and his sister seemed with one another, and a wry grin twisted his lip.

“I am sure our guests will be well-pleased with the tea party. All our guests,” he said gently. Harriet frowned.

“I do not follow your meaning.”

Callum grinned. “The Rothwell party seem to have made a considerable impression?” he remarked lightly. Harriet went red. Callum tried to hide the grin that spread across his face.

“Well...Mr Rothwell is...seems pleasant,” she stammered. Callum smiled.

“I am sure that he is a pleasant sort,” Callum answered teasingly.

Harriet beamed at him. “Oh, he is! He is amusing, and affable, and thoughtful...he seems very pleasant,” she concluded, before diving into awkward silence. Her cheeks flushed a deep red.

“Quite an all-round pleasant fellow, then.” Callum grinned at his sister, who looked away.

“I suppose,” she said distractedly. “Of course, he has a pleasant family. Miss Rothwell strikes me as extremely gracious and affable.”

“Mm.” Callum pushed the comment away. His chest glowed with the merest thought of Miss Rothwell, and gracious and affable were the least complimentary things he could think to say. He frowned. The magnitude of his praise was surprising, even to himself.

“Brother?” Harriet asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes?” he asked, frowning.

“Is something the matter? You seem troubled.”

“No,” Callum said quickly, not wishing to tell his sister what was on his mind. “No, sister. I am merely thinking about the tea later.”

“And what you shall wear?” she inquired.

Callum grinned. “Yes. Exactly that.”

“Brother!” Harriet teased him gently. “We are to have tea in but a few hours! You’d best hurry and make a decision.”

Callum laughed. “It matters little what I wear, sweet sister,” he said warmly. “I do not think anyone here is going to be making a study of it.” In London, during the Season, it would be another matter. What high society members like Beau Brummel wore was literally published in places like the Gazette .

“Even so,” his sister said primly. Callum chuckled.

“I will do my best to dress appropriately, sister,” he promised.

Harriet grinned. “If you will excuse me, I need to go down to the kitchens. Mother asked me to oversee the delicacies, and they should be bringing them up here already.” Harriet hurried to the door. “Good day, brother!”

“Good day,” Callum called after her, smiling to himself. When she had hurried off, his brow wrinkled in a frown. Harriet’s questions made him think. Was he beginning to feel deeply for Miss Rothwell? He pushed the thought away, feeling uncomfortable.

She is a means to an end. I will not allow myself to become attached, he told himself stiffly. All the same, he could not deny that he felt warm whenever he thought of her.

He gazed out of the window. The grounds were bathed in sunshine, the frost on the lawn rapidly melting except where the shade from the wall touched the grass. He recalled how Miss Rothwell had almost slipped the day before. She had leaned against him for a moment and the scent of her had filled his nostrils, her soft, warm body pressing against his own.

“Lady Harriet? I... Oh!” A voice spoke in the doorway. Callum tensed. He knew that voice. He turned around.

Miss Rothwell was in the doorway. She wore a soft blue day-dress in velvet, her long hair styled severely in a tight chignon. A white shawl draped her shoulders, and she stood stiffly, her eyes wide, clearly surprised to find him there.

“Good day, Miss Rothwell,” he greeted her, bowing low. As he straightened, he had the pleasure of seeing her gaze widen in surprise.

“Forgive me. I was looking for your sister. I did not expect to find you here, Your Grace,” she said, dropping a low curtsey. Callum inclined his head.

“My sister had to rush off. Can I convey a message to her?” He asked. He did his best to keep his voice level. His heart was racing.

“Um...I wished to thank her for lending me this,” Miss Rothwell said, gesturing to her shawl. “My sisters and I were taking a walk about the grounds, and I had no shawl with me.”

“I shall thank her for you,” Callum said.

“Could you kindly see that it gets back to her?” Miss Rothwell shrugged the silky garment off and handed it to him. Her fingers brushed his as he took it. He groaned inwardly. She was so beautiful, her touch as soft as satin.

“I shall do so,” he said, coughing to clear his throat, which felt tight and tense. “Miss Rothwell?” He asked as she turned in the doorway.

“Yes?” She gazed up at him, her hazel eyes wide and almost apprehensive. He cursed himself inwardly—had he made her afraid of him?

“I would recommend that you take your pelisse whenever you go outdoors. It is very cold here in the Midlands. And you could have caught a fever already after yesterday.”

She nodded. “Yes, Your Grace,” she murmured. “Once again, I must beg your pardon for yesterday’s happenings,” she said unsteadily, her gaze moving to the floor. “I must have startled you.”

“Startled me? Not at all,” Callum replied hastily. “I was merely concerned. It is much colder here than in your Sussex home.”

“Indeed, it is. Thank you, Your Grace.” She inclined her head. “I shall take care to remember that.”

Callum gazed at her. Her gaze was warm as she looked back at him, and his chest glowed. He had thought she had taken offence, but she appeared rather bemused by his advice. He stared at her, her soft smile and her twinkling eyes holding him captive.

“Good day,” he managed to say, and bowed stiffly. When he straightened up, she was already going through the door into the hallway. He gazed down at the shawl that he still held in his hand. It was warm from being wrapped around Miss Rothwell’s shoulders.

Callum tensed and marched to his sister’s bedchamber to deliver the shawl, trying to ignore the presence of it in his hand and the tide of emotions that filled him when he thought about it draped around her pale shoulders. He tapped on the door of the bedroom and was relieved when it opened.

“Yes? Oh! Your Grace,” Miss Emsley, his sister’s ladies’ maid, greeted him. “I was just tidying. Is there aught the matter?” Her eyes widened and Callum realised he must look angry, his jaw clenched where he fought his own emotions.

“No. I was instructed to return this to my sister. She loaned it to a guest,” he explained, keeping his voice light.

“Oh, Your Grace, you are most kind. I am deeply obliged and you needn’t have troubled yourself with such a trivial task. I shall see to it that it is placed properly,” Miss Emsley replied, her dark eyes wide. She took the shawl and folded it with care.

“Thank you,” Callum said politely, his voice even. He turned and hurried down the hallway. He had an outfit to plan, and, as his sister had said, it did matter. Not just because Mother was there, either. He wished to make a good impression on his guests, though there was one in particular who mattered more to him than the rest.