The Duke of York was in his element. Not because he was a fan of large parties, though he was, and not because he’d spent the better half of the evening being chased in dark corners by pretty young things, though that was pleasant, but because his family all seemed completely miserable. A public relations stunt gone wrong in his view; let in the riff raff so they might see that we’re not that different from you. What bollocks. Philip had been raised in this house, knew each corridor and stairwell like the back of his hand, was no longer impressed by the glittering chandeliers and hundred-year-old paintings but even he knew this was not how normal people lived. He wondered if mummy counted the silverware herself before she opened her doors and welcomed them all inside. He had some plans to disappear before midnight; it had been some time since he last entered the New Year without a kiss and, for once, he didn’t have it in him to stir up gossip by picking a girl out of the crowd and running with it. Dare he even think it; he missed Caroline. No, perhaps not. The last party they had gone to together had ended with them sleeping in separate wings of the house for a week but he missed his wife.
Not the woman but the companion. The sure thing. The safety of having partner, someone to be relied upon. For a moment he loses himself in thought, half planning an escape. He could say he wanted to ring in the bells with his sons, but perhaps he wouldn’t be taken seriously. A movement beside him stirs him from his thought and, whether they were intending to approach him or not, he lifts his head with a smile. “A resolution,” he begins, “I was thinking of what my resolution could be. Do me a favour and tell me yours, I could do with some inspiration.”
