Page 77 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
“I’m not listening to any more. Now Rye’s here, there’s no reason for me to remain. The sooner I get away, the better—for you as well, Arabella.”
“No!” Her voice rose but Cameron’s footsteps were already fading in the opposite direction.
Ursula let out a long exhalation.
Poor Lady Balmore. However unwise the liaison, she felt for her.
As Ursula continued downward,Lady Balmore went to the staircase and peered through the gloom. With silent footsteps she followed, but the figure ahead of her scurried too quickly for her to see properly who had been listening.
She caught only a glimpse of the woman’s hem.
No servant but someone in a golden-hued gown, the fabric fine.
Chapter Eighteen
A little later…
The party was well-underway.
Lady Iona had been right. The staff appeared delighted to have been invited to the early part of the evening. Wearing their Sunday best, maids and footmen were whirling to the strains of an Eightsome Reel, to the accompaniment of a small band of players placed in the minstrel’s gallery.
The countess and Earl Dunrannoch looked on, with the dowager sitting to her son’s right, and Lady Iona and Cameron alongside, joined by some of the older guests.
Lady Iona smiled and nodded, clearly pleased that Ursula was wearing the dress. She’d been right that it suited her. The fit was almost exact and the colours within the gown paired well with the warm tones of Ursula’s hair, which she’d pinned up with a golden ribbon threaded through the curls.
She’d find some moment to speak to Rye later, she expected, and it would be something to stand before him looking her best. Her vanity required that, at least.
Ursula stole a longer glance at Cameron.
He looked far from happy.
Little wonder, thought Ursula, knowing what she did.
Broken love affairs could hardly be pleasant things—and Lady Balmore hadn’t taken Cameron’s rejection well.
She looked out at the dancers. Among the throng, kicking up their heels, were the five young ladies from whom Rye was expected to choose his bride. As laughing people whirled by, Ursula caught a glimpse of Lord Balmore. Standing a head taller than anyone else, he couldn’t remain hidden long.
Perhaps there wasn’t much difference between her and Arabella. She’d given herself to Rye without expectation of anything further between them, yet she hoped that Rye would remember her as more than a fling.
She ought to join in the dancing at the next opportunity but, for now, she would watch. Mrs. Middymuckle had done a marvellous job with the refreshments, which were laid out along one end of the room. Fruit jellies and blancmanges and dainty tartlets wobbled alongside great plates of cold meats and cheeses. There was a huge punchbowl from which guests could serve themselves, and several bottles of champagne sat in a trough of ice.
Only Mrs. Douglas, the housekeeper, seemed disapproving, standing beside the beverages and glaring at any of her staff who dared take more than a small cupful of the punch.
Ursula hadn’t attended an event like this since her season, which had only ended with her persuading her father not to bother with any more such extravagance. She’d declared that she’d find a husband in good time, rather than through an endless round of asinine parties, and he’d never pushed her to fulfil that vow. But wasn’t this what her own life was supposed to be like? Dances and parties and having fun? And dreaming of someone special to be in love with?
Her season hadn’t made her happy. And she’d certainly not found anyone she wanted to spend her life with. All she’d been able to think of was wanting to work alongside her father. It was him she’d wanted to be close to, and no other man was a worthy comparison.
He’d known, she hoped, how happy she was to stay with him—that no suitor had lived up to her idea of what a man should be.
It had never occurred to her that he’d die.
Nor that he’d fail to secure the passing of his half of the business to Ursula.
And, now, here she was, among people she’d never met, pretending to be someone else altogether.
It was almost fitting, for she barely knew who she was anymore, nor what she wanted. She kept telling herself that she could take care of herself and, of course, she knew that she could—but it didn’t mean that it was all she wanted.
A couple of male guests drifted over, surveying the cold buffet with interest.
