Page 9 of The Duke’s Festive Proposal (Christmas Matches of Worth #5)

“Run! Faster! Faster,” Georgina urged; her voice high-pitched with playful urgency as Rosalyn hurtled around the corner. Her feet were clad in winter boots of white leather, but the path was slippery with frost and ice, and she screamed as her feet lost traction on the glass-smooth surface and she plummeted forward. Isabel yelled and Rosalyn was distantly aware of her two sisters running across the icy lawn, their earlier game of catch forgotten, but then she screamed aloud as someone grabbed her, preventing her from crashing into the pathway knees first.

“What in Perdition’s name?” the duke’s resonant voice demanded furiously. “Miss Rothwell! What were you doing?”

“Your Grace!” Rosalyn exclaimed, horrified. “My apologies!” She straightened up, cheeks flaring. She was leaning against his firm, muscular chest. His one arm was wrapped around her, holding her close. She stepped back, heart racing. She was still held in his firm arms. She looked into his eyes. He stared back.

“You could break something, slipping on this ice,” the duke reprimanded. His grey eyes were huge with shock, his mouth firm.

“Pray accept my apologies,” Rosalyn repeated, her mind entirely blank. One minute, she had been hurtling towards the hard stone pathway, and the next, she was caught in an unyielding embrace. She drew a deep breath.

He stared at her. She stared back. The entire world seemed to move very slowly. The grey depths of his eyes drew her in, wide and compelling. She reached up self-consciously to tuck a strand of her hair behind one ear. She could only imagine what she looked like—the style had come loose, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

The sound of booted feet was loud on the pathway.

“Your Grace! Allow us to apologise,” Georgina said, running up to join them. “It was us. We were playing catch,” she said, gazing imploringly at him.

“We should not have. It was dangerous,” Isabel said sorrowfully.

Rosalyn looked over at her sisters, feeling guilty that they took it upon themselves to apologise for her. She gazed at the duke, willing him not to be unkind.

“It was foolish,” the duke said, his tone soft. “But I understand. You have been travelling for a week. It must be good to stretch your legs.”

“Yes!” Georgina breathed. Her pale cheeks were bright pink. “It feels grand. You have a beautiful garden.”

“The woods connected to the estate seem very large,” Isabel added.

“They are,” the duke said easily. “And that’s quite advantageous for exercising the horses.”

“I imagine,” Rosalyn said quietly. His gaze moved to her. His eyes widened and then narrowed, and Rosalyn’s cheeks flamed as he stared at her. His gaze held hers for an instant, her heart racing, and then he coughed.

“You have seen the stable, of course, Miss Rothwell?” he asked. Rosalyn shook her head. She tucked her hair behind her ear again, feeling terribly self-conscious. His eyes seemed to follow her every move.

“No,” she replied, clearing her throat. It was hard to talk when he stared at her like that. “I have not.”

“You are invited to come and view them now,” the duke said, not quite looking at her.

“Hurrah!” Georgina yelled happily, then glanced at the duke and blushed.

“May we come too?” Isabel queried.

The duke shrugged. “Of course,” he said lightly.

Rosalyn looked at her sisters, who were both looking round-eyed at the duke, and then fell into step with them as they followed the duke down the path where, minutes before, she had nearly injured herself falling.

They walked a short distance down the path, which curved around tall trees, and Rosalyn noticed a long, low stone building with a thatched roof. She gazed at it. It was clearly a stable, but it seemed even larger and more welcoming than their own.

The duke walked in through the front door, and Rosalyn followed him, eyes darting around. The first thing she noticed was that the door lintel was scuffed and worn, then that the boards of the roof were likewise worn, patched here and there with bright, new sections of wood.

Their stable is old, she thought, and grand, but it is in worse repair than ours is. The Stallenwood stables seemed to have been through a time of neglect, the building clearly recently repaired.

“Here he is,” the duke said, his voice loud in the silence. A horse was whickering. “Here is my dear friend, Firelight. He’s the best hunting stallion anyone could want.” He scratched the horse between the ears and Rosalyn smiled to herself, at ease with the duke’s close connection to horses. She went closer.

“He is very beautiful,” Rosalyn murmured, watching as the duke stroked the stallion’s forehead. He was a roan thoroughbred with a white blaze down his nose. He must, she guessed, stand sixteen hands, perhaps even taller. He was a big horse. His eyes were half closed as he rested his head on the duke, nuzzling against his shoulder.

“He is a grand fellow,” the duke said, all of his earlier coldness melting away in the presence of the horse. “A grand old fellow.”

“He’s very big,” Georgina said nervously, making Rosalyn turn around, surprised. She had almost forgotten that she and the duke were not alone in the stable.

“Can I stroke him?” Isabel asked shyly.

“Of course,” the duke said, stepping aside so that Georgina and Isabel could approach the horse.

Georgina lifted up a hand, stroking the stallion’s muzzle carefully. Isabel waited her turn. Rosalyn stepped back, moving back towards the door so that she did not upset the horse in the stall opposite, who seemed jittery. The duke stood with her. Rosalyn tensed. She could not help but be acutely aware of his presence.

He wore a swathing grey greatcoat of the kind that coach drivers wore, and under it, she could see a few inches of buckskin riding breeches. He wore long riding boots that reached almost to his knees. His tall frame towered over her, and she gazed up into his eyes, feeling unsettled by his closeness.

“You were not hurt, were you?” the duke asked carefully.

“No,” Rosalyn replied softly. “I came very close, though. Thank you.” She could not help smiling.

The duke’s face lit up with a sudden smile. Rosalyn drew a breath. He was so forbidding, so intimidating, but when he smiled, he looked extremely handsome and approachable.

“The paths can be dangerous,” he said gently. “You should not run around out here.”

“I discovered that,” she said with a lilting laugh. “We were in high spirits. The weather is...uplifting here.” She drew in another breath. The cold was invigorating, revitalising in ways that the damp, chilly cold near the coast never was. It had been a pleasant surprise.

He smiled again, this time a grin that made her speechless. He looked stunning when he grinned, his thin, handsome face lighting up from within.

“I imagine so,” he replied. “It is a very wearying, draining cold in Sussex. And it seems you do not often have snow?” he asked.

Rosalyn nodded. “Very rarely,” she agreed.

“That is unfortunate,” the duke said, eyes sparkling warmly. “Snow offers a whole range of pleasant diversions in the winter.”

“I can imagine so,” Rosalyn said, her heart lifting. His smile was warm and friendly, his eyes amused. “Snowball fights, for one.”

“Yes!” The duke laughed. “Indeed. Full-scale snowball warfare, here at Stallenwood Park. There are ten years between myself and Harriet, so for the longest time it was just me and a crowd of boys.” His gaze was soft, nostalgic.

“You must have got up to all sorts of mischief,” Rosalyn said with a grin. She shut her eyes, imagining the duke as a youth. It was hard to imagine, as there seemed so little warmth in him, so little humour. In this single conversation, though, she could glimpse another side.

“We did. We assuredly did. Our snowball fights were second only to sledge races.” He laughed.

“And you warn me to be careful?” Rosalyn teased; one brow raised.

The duke chuckled. “Quite so.”

“Your Grace?” A voice spoke from behind them. The duke turned around and Rosalyn spotted Georgina and Isabel standing close. They gazed hopefully up at the duke. “Um...could we perhaps take the horses out, later?” Georgina asked.

“We have not had a ride in ever so long. And we miss our horses at home,” Isabel added.

Rosalyn looked at the duke. His face was set in a stern expression, and she stiffened, trying to think of some way of easing his temper. But when he spoke, he sounded quite untroubled.

“We will certainly have to exercise them later,” the duke replied gently. “But I do not intend to take them on a ride when it is so cold. If it becomes warmer in the next few days, then I promise you that you may ride with me to exercise them.” He paused. “You are of course included, Miss Rothwell.” His gaze held hers gently.

She coughed. “Thank you,” she said quickly, ignoring her sisters’ confused gazes. “I would like that.”

The duke cleared his throat. “Well, then. Ladies, you ought to get back to the house. It is warm enough in the stables, but it is terribly cold out there. I think we would all do well to proceed inside. I will inform you when the horses need to be exercised,” he added to Georgina and Isabel, who both inclined their heads in polite thanks.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Georgina murmured.

“Much obliged, Your Grace,” Isabel added.

Rosalyn looked up at the duke. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“I did nothing,” the duke muttered, looking down. Rosalyn’s brow creased. Anyone would think he was shy.

Nonsense, she told herself firmly. He probably feels impatient with our awkward thanks. She followed him out of the stable, cheeks flaring. She had to remind herself that this was a rude, bitter man and she should not lose vigilance.

They walked out of the stable and into the cold. Rosalyn winced. Her fingers ached, the cold sawing through the thin, damp fabric of her gloves. She folded her fingers inwards into the palms of her hands, wincing with the pain.

“Miss?” The duke asked, turning around. Rosalyn flushed. She had not realised she had made an audible sound of pain.

“Yes?” she asked, fighting not to make it obvious how much her fingers were hurting.

“Are you quite well?” the duke asked, his brow furrowing in concern. “You sounded distressed.”

“I am quite well,” Rosalyn managed to say through clenched teeth, fighting to hold back another grunt of pain. They were almost at the house. She felt a desperate urgency to run inside to where her hands could get warm again. “It is just...the cold.”

“You are not properly dressed,” the duke said gravely. “It is cold here in the Midlands, Miss Rothwell. Please, be careful,” he added, standing back so that she and her sisters could rush in through the front door.

“I will,” Rosalyn managed to say, the pain worsening. She turned, ignoring the duke’s concern. Her sisters were hurrying up the stairs, giggling and chatting away among themselves. Released from the duke’s stern presence, they were as loud and cheerful as always. She curtseyed to the duke.

“Good day,” she managed to say, keeping her voice level despite the pain in her fingers.

“...and I need a new riding gown,” Georgina was saying as she went upstairs. “My old one is quite worn out on the...seat,” she continued, going bright red. Rosalyn chuckled under her breath and even Isabel laughed.

“Papa will buy new fabric for us,” Isabel said softly. “He said we could have two bolts of cloth for Christmas.”

“Hurrah! I can’t wait.”

“I already decided I want a new blue ballgown,” Isabel confided. Rosalyn, walking a few paces behind them, smiled at their innocent chatter.

If only I could feel excited about Christmas, she thought sadly. With the looming prospect of her new life at Stallenwood set to start the week after Christmas, she could not find it in her heart to feel real excitement like Georgina and Isabel evidently did.

“He’s so quiet,” Georgina confided as they all piled into Rosalyn’s room, as they did at home, to warm up and chat after the walk.

“He did say we could ride, though,” Isabel commented. “I think he seems rather pleasant. If a little reserved,” she added, glancing at Rosalyn.

“I think that could be so,” Rosalyn said noncommittally.

“What will you wear for the tea tomorrow, Rosalyn?” Isabel asked, changing the subject perceptively.

“I have not really decided. My russet gown, perhaps,” Rosalyn suggested. She had a reddish-brown gown in thick velvet for an occasion less formal than a ball, but more formal than a usual meal. It would suit the special tea that the duchess had planned rather well.

“Oh, yes! That sounds grand. I want to wear my red dress,” Georgina said. “And you, Isabel?”

“The blue, I think,” Isabel commented.

Rosalyn listened somewhat distantly as her sisters chatted about their choice of gowns, focusing on peeling off her wet gloves from her frozen, aching fingers. Her mind strayed back to the duke and how angry he had seemed when she had fallen, and then to the concern and care in his voice. He had gazed at her so strangely, as if he was drinking her in. She blushed, her body heating up, her heart quickening as she recalled that strange, intense stare that he gave her. She had never experienced anything like it.

Perhaps he was looking judgmentally at me because my hairstyle has come undone, she thought, reaching up shyly to touch her damp, cold locks where they rested on her shoulders. Her fingers throbbed and burned, still recovering from the terrible cold. It had not seemed a censorious look, though. She flushed. It had seemed rather more appreciative.

Nonsense, she told herself stiffly. You are imagining things.

She reached for her gloves and pelisse to hang them by the fire so that they could dry. She had important things to think about. She had no room to focus on the duke and what he thought of her, though she could not help wondering—wondering when she would have the opportunity to speak so closely with him again.