Page 15 of The Mistletoe Duke
“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.
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.
