Page 6 of The Mistletoe Duke
Color rode high on her cheekbones, but she nodded and slipped her hand through his elbow. They said little as they descended the grand staircase. She paused at the landing, however, her gaze going to the large family portrait hung upon the paneled wall.
Surprising, really, that the former duke hadn’t removed it after the schism in the family. A split that, admittedly, his lastwill and testament was attempting to heal. Not that the dratted Christmas Clause could bring Philip and Chrisopher into amity, no matter their uncle’s intentions.
The painting showed Aunt Agatha and the former duke seated with their spaniels at their feet. Philip’s father stood behind the duke, one hand resting on the back of his chair, and Philip’s mother held a similar position behind the duchess. Philip and Christopher stood between their parents, and for a moment he recalled how terribly his younger brother had fidgeted all through the portrait sessions.
Even at that young age—he’d been eight, Chrisopher six—there was a serious light in his eyes, and a wild one in his brother’s. He didn’t mean to sigh, but a soft exhalation left his mouth and Miss Randall looked over at him.
“We’ve both lost our fathers,” she said thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he said, though that wasn’t the reason for his sudden melancholy as he resumed escorting her down to tea. It was the reminder of all the duties awaiting him, stacked up and ready to topple over and crush him if he set a foot wrong.
He had his secretary’s help, of course, and his solicitors in London, plus the estate managers—seven at last count—to look after the various holdings. Aunt Agatha had charge of Darton Hall, and he was glad to let her continue. But still, running both an earldom and a dukedom was a great deal to ask.
“Your Grace, how kind of you to join us,” his aunt said tartly as he led Miss Randall to the chair beside her sister.
“It’s entirely my fault,” Miss Randall said removing her gloves and taking a seat. “The duke kindly assisted me in finding my lost earbob.”
“Did he?” His aunt shot him a look he couldn’t read. “What a good host you are. And speaking of which, do tell us what games you’ve settled upon for the house party.”
He clenched his jaw and went to take the last empty place, skirting the table piled with tea things to sit on the settee beside his aunt. “I’ve not had a moment to think upon it.”
“Oh, but I adore such things.” Miss Randall smiled brightly. “Do let me assist.”
“An excellent thought,” Lady Fortnum said, nodding at her daughter. “Catherine has a talent for organization. Why, she took over managing our last ball when I fell ill, and did so most brilliantly. Everything went off without a hitch.”
It was a patent mother’s attempt to paint her daughter in a good light, but Philip sensed there was truth to it. At least, he hoped so. He was drowning, and would be a fool not to reach for any rope thrown to him—even if it came from the frivolous Miss Randall.
“I would welcome your thoughts,” he said, turning to her.
“Holiday tableaux,” she said promptly. “Snapdragon, and Spillikins, and Lottery Tickets if there are younger people involved. Carol singing, certainly—oh and perhaps a musicale or pageant.”
“Very good,” Aunt Agatha said, while Philip blinked at the deluge of ideas. “I’ll trust the two of you to manage it all. Lord and Lady Weston, my second cousins once removed,” she added for their guests’ benefit, “will arrive the day after tomorrow. Although I’m sorry to say the Shelbournes have sent their regrets. It seems a fever has fallen over the family.”
She began pouring out tea and handing the cups around while Philip sat back and digested this information.
“A pity,” Lady Fortnum said, accepting her teacup, though she didn’t look a bit sorry that the competition for Philip’s attentions had just been removed.
As for himself, he was disappointed that Miss Shelbourne wouldn’t arrive to help buffer him from Miss Catherine Randall. Miss Randall had suddenly proven quite disturbing to hisequilibrium, and it seemed his aunt was all to ready to throw them together. Though clearly they did not suit in the least.
Somewhat reluctantly, Philip met with Miss Randall at ten-o-clock the next morning in the west parlor. They were chaperoned by her lady’s maid, who removed to the far corner and busied herself with needlework.
“Let’s sit in the sun,” Miss Randall said, pulling a blue wingback chair into the pale light slanting through the mullioned windows. “I hope the weather holds, for my sister and I plan to go riding this afternoon.”
He moved a matching chair across from hers and waited for her to take her seat before doing the same.
“Do you like to ride?” he asked, wishing the inane question unsaid the moment he uttered it. Of course she did. Hadn’t she just said so?
“Very much.” She grinned at him—there was no other word for her expression. Most ladies smiled primly, careful to keep their emotions contained, but Miss Randall was unsettlingly exuberant.
And smelled wonderful.
Stop it, he told himself sternly. Her scent was of no account. Even though he’d woken that morning thinking of her, in an uncomfortable condition that required some quick handwork to remedy.
“I wish we rode more often, in London,” she continued. “But we’ve only stable room for the two horses, and they’re needed for the carriage whenever Mama goes out. Besides, the weather has been dreadful.” She made a face. “It seems much nicer here.”
“I couldn’t say.” If he answered in a contained manner, perhaps it would blunt some of her unladylike enthusiasm.
“Oh, yes.” She turned her clear-eyed gaze upon him. “You don’t spend much time here, do you? Even though youarethe Duke of Darton-on-Rye.”
