When he lifted his mouth from hers, she had lost all strength. His next words pierced through her sensual haze.
“They should leave you wanting.”
Four
Callie woke late, an instant feeling of nervous apprehension roiling deep within her. For a few, brief moments, her scrambled thoughts failed to pinpoint the reason for the odd sensation—until the events of the previous evening came flooding back, hurling her into vivid consciousness. She shot straight up in bed and froze, eyes wide, hoping that the whole night had been a wild, ridiculous dream.
No luck there.
What had she been thinking traipsing off in the middle of the night to Ralston House? Had she honestly approached the Marquess of Ralston in his bedchamber? Had she really made an overture toward London’s most notorious rake? Surely she hadn’t asked him to kiss her. Remembering her actions, Callie flushed, feeling a wave of heat wash across her face, causing her to drop her head into her hands, groaning in abject mortification.
She would never touch another drop of sherry. Ever again.
Her thoughts raced for a few brief moments, until she raised her head and spoke aloud to the room in horror. “I asked him to kiss me.” Callie flopped back to the bed with a sigh and willed the universe to strike her dead or, at the very least, infirm. She simply could not risk ever facing Gabriel St. John again. Not after that kiss.
But what a kiss it had been. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed at the thought but was unable to avoid the flood of memories that came with it. The kiss had been everything she had ever imagined. It had been more. Ralston had been larger than life, looming above her, his dark hair tousled, his eyes glittering in the soft candlelight of the room, then he had kissed her, all warm lips and strong hands and exquisite man.
Moving of their own volition, Callie’s hands ran down her torso as she remembered the soft stroke of his tongue, the firm grip of his arms. She felt a flood of warmth as she remembered the delicate way his lips had played across hers, the shiver of excitement she’d felt at his breath on her neck. He had been everything she’d ever dreamed.
And when he was through, she had been reduced to rubble. He had said that kisses should leave one wanting…but she had not been prepared for the emptiness that spread through her when he’d stepped back from their embrace, looking as calm and collected as though they’d just been to Sunday services.
She had wanted. She still did.
The whole experience, as embarrassing as it had been, was so fierce and freeing and like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and like everything she’d ever dreamed. And it had been Ralston! It had been a kiss to make up for ten long years spent on the edges of ballrooms, watching him with an endless run of beauties on his arm, a decade of her ears pricking up anytime she heard whispers in ladies’ salons about his latest affairs, an age of tracking his long line of mistresses with what she’d always told herself was idle interest. Of course, there had never been anything idle about her interest.
She shook her head. But men like Ralston were not for women like Callie. If anything, she’d learned that last night. Ralston was all darkness and excitement and adventure…and despite what sherry-laden Callie might have seemed to be the night before…
Well, by the light of day, Callie was none of those things.
But, for one evening, for a fleeting moment, she had been. And what a lovely moment it had been. She’d been bold and forward and decidedly unpassive—reaching for what she knew she might never otherwise have. And, while the previous evening might have taught her that Ralston was not for her, there was certainly no reason why the rest of the things she longed to do couldn’t be entirely attainable.
I could have the list.
The thought emboldened her. She turned instinctively to look at the dainty bedside table upon which she had set the scandalous sheet of paper before climbing into bed. Reaching for the list, she scanned it, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips as she reviewed the words scrawled across it. If the events of last night were any indication, she would enjoy every minute of completing the other items. These nine items were all that stood between Callie and living. All she had to do was take the risk.
And why not do so?
Energized, Callie pushed back the coverlet and emerged from the bed. Squaring her shoulders, she moved across the room to the little writing desk in the corner. Setting down the list, she smoothed out the wrinkled paper and considered the words one more time before reaching for a pen and dipping it in a nearby inkpot. She had kissed someone. And passionately.
In a single fluid motion, she drew a thick, black line through the first item, unable to keep the wide grin from her face. What next?
A quick knock sounded, and Callie watched in her looking glass as the door swung open to reveal her maid. Registering the stern look on the older woman’s face, Callie felt her grin fade as the door clicked shut.
“Good morning, Anne.” She quickly slid the list under a book of Byron’s poetry.
“Calpurnia Hartwell,” Anne said, slowly, “what have you done?”
Callie’s eyes slid away from the older woman, settling on a large mahogany wardrobe. “I should like to get dressed,” she said, brightly, “I have an appointment this morning.”
“With the Marquess of Ralston?”
Callie’s eyes widened. “How did you—What?—No!”
“Really? I find that difficult to believe, considering there is a man from Ralston House downstairs waiting for a response to the missive that just arrived for you.”
Callie’s breath caught as she noticed the piece of paper in the older woman’s hands. She stood, moving across the room. “Let me see.”
Anne crossed her arms across her ample bosom, hiding the missive under one arm. “Why is the Marquess of Ralston sending you messages, Callie?”
Callie flushed. “I—I don’t know.”
“You are a terrible liar. Have been since you were in swaddling clothes.” Anne was like a dog with a bone. “You’ve been pining for Ralston for years, Callie-girl. Why has he suddenly taken an interest?”
“I—he hasn’t!” She attempted a firm tone, extending her hand. “I should like my correspondence, Anne.”
Anne smiled before asking casually, “Were you with Ralston last night?”
Callie froze, heat flooding her cheeks, before blurting out, “Of course not!”
Anne gave her a knowing look. “Well, you were somewhere. I heard you sneak through the servants’ entrance just before sunrise.”
Callie headed for the wardrobe, throwing open the doors to distract herself from the conversation at hand. “You know, Anne, just because you’ve cared for me since birth does not give you leave to speak to me so freely.”
Anne gave a little laugh. “Of course it does.” The maid took advantage of Callie’s movement away from her dressing table, removing the list from its hiding place and reading it.
Callie turned back at Anne’s scandalized gasp. Noting the paper in her maid’s hand, she cried out, “No! Give it back!”
“Callie! What have you done?”
“Nothing!” She snatched the paper back, then paused, taking in Anne’s look of disbelief. “Well, nothing really.”
“That paper doesn’t appear to be nothing.”
“I would prefer not to discuss it.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“It’s nothing. It’s just a list.”
“A scandalous list. Of things that young unmarried females do not do.”
Callie turned back to the wardrobe, shoving her head deep into the piece of furniture in the hopes of ending the conversation. When she pulled a peach day dress out and turned back, Anne was still waiting for a response. With a sigh, she muttered, “Well, perhaps young unmarried females should take advantage of their youthful and unshackled state and try some of those things.”
Anne blinked at the frank words. And then she laughed. “You completed one of these items already.”
“I
did.” Callie blushed.
Anne squinted at the paper, making out the obscured words. When she looked up in shock, Callie turned away. “Well, Calpurnia Hartwell. You didn’t waste any time taking what you’ve wanted for years.”
Callie couldn’t help the little smile that played across her lips.
“You were with Ralston last night!”
Callie’s flaming cheeks spoke volumes.
“I shall tell you one thing,” Anne said, a hint pride in her voice. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever known to make a list like that and actually follow through on it.” Her tone shifted, “Of course, if you’re not ruined in a week, I shall be even more surprised than I am now.”
“I have plans to be very careful,” Callie protested.
Anne shook her head. “Unless you work for the War Office, Callie-mine, you can’t do half of the things on that list without your reputation collapsing into the gutter.” She paused. “You do know that, don’t you?”
Callie gave a little nod. “Is it wrong that I don’t much care this morning?”
“Yes. You cannot do it all, Callie. Gamble? At a men’s club? Are you mad?”
Callie grew serious. “No.” The two fell silent for a long moment. Finally, Callie seemed to find the words she was looking for. “But, Anne, it was so wonderful. It was the most incredible, freeing adventure. Can you blame me for wanting more?”
“It appears that you are already getting more than you’ve bargained for. Give me that.” Anne took the peach muslin from Callie and exchanged it for a grass green jaconet day dress.
“What was wrong with the one I chose?”
“Oh, stop pouting. If we are going to Ralston House, this is the gown you’ll wear. You look lovely in green.”
Callie accepted the dress, watching as Anne rummaged for underclothes. “We are not going to Ralston House.”
Anne said nothing, still engrossed by the contents of the wardrobe. Instead, she thrust the missive toward Callie. Ignoring her shaking hands, Callie broke the wax seal, at once desperately curious and filled with dread.
Lady Calpurnia,
My sister will expect you at half eleven.
R.
There was no turning back now.
“Anne,” Callie said, unable to pull her gaze from the text, “we are going to Ralston House.”
The day after her first visit, Callie found herself on the steps of Ralston House again—this time, quite respectably, by light of day, lady’s maid in tow—to meet Miss Juliana Fiori, the mysterious younger sister of the marquess.
Callie took a deep breath, sending a silent prayer to the fates that Ralston be away from the house in the hopes that she could avoid the inevitable abject mortification. Of course, she knew that she could not avoid future interactions…she had, after all, agreed to shepherd his sister into society. She could at least hope that she would be able to avoid him today, however.
A footman opened the door, revealing a stone-faced Jenkins in the foyer beyond. Please, don’t recognize me, she pleaded silently as she looked up into the butler’s weathered, wrinkled face, attempting to appear cool and collected.
“Lady Calpurnia Hartwell, to see Miss Juliana.” Drawing herself up to her full height, Callie spoke, willing the words to come in the most even-mannered of tones. She offered an ecru calling card to the butler, who received it with a low bow.
“Certainly, my lady. Miss Juliana is expecting you. Please, follow me.”
Once Jenkins had turned his back, Callie let out a long, silent sigh of relief. She followed him to an open doorway off the main marble corridor and offered him the most regal of nods as he stepped aside to let her pass into a lovely green receiving room.
Callie took in the grassy green silk that lined the walls, the detailed chaise and chairs, all beautifully crafted from mahogany and upholstered in the finest of fabrics. The lightness of the room was complemented by a stunning marble statue that stood to one side—a tall, limber female figure, carved as though holding a wide swath of fabric above her head, billowing out behind her. Callie caught her breath at the beauty of the statue; she was unable to resist moving toward it, drawn in by the quiet, secret smile that graced the goddess’s lovely face, by the liquid movement of the marble. She was admiring the fall of the figure’s gown, reaching out to touch the drape of it, half-expecting to feel warm fabric rather than cool stone, when a voice sounded from the doorway.
“She is beautiful, is she not?”
Callie whirled toward the sound with a little gasp. In the doorway was Ralston, flashing a rakish grin, as though he was amused by her discomfort.
No—not Ralston.
The man in the doorway was Lord Nicholas St. John, tall and broad, with a chiseled jaw and glittering blue eyes, identical to Ralston in every way but one. St. John’s right cheek was marked with a wicked scar, a long, thin white line that tore across his bronzed skin in stark contrast with the rest of the man, an impeccable gentleman. Where the scar should have given St. John a dangerous countenance, instead it made him more alluring. Callie had seen respectable women of good ton turn into utter imbeciles when near St. John—something he seemed not to notice.
“Lord Nicholas,” she said with a smile, offering a short dip of the head as he crossed the room to take her hand and bow deeply.
“Lady Calpurnia”—he smiled warmly—“I see you have discovered my lady love.” Nicholas indicated the statue.
“Indeed, I have.” Callie turned her attention back to the marble. “She is stunning. Who is the artist?”
St. John shook his head, a gleam in his eye revealing his pride. “Unknown. I found her off the southern coast of Greece several years ago. I spent seven months collecting marbles there, came home with far too many and donated this beauty to the betterment of Ralston House, on the condition that my brother give her a proper home.” He paused, transfixed by the statue. “I believe she is Selene, goddess of the moon.”
“She looks so content.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well,” Callie said tentatively, “Selene’s is not the happiest of stories. After all, she is doomed to love a mortal in eternal sleep.”
St. John turned at her words, obviously impressed. “Her own fault. She should have known better than to ask favors of Zeus. That particular course of action never ends well.”
“A truth of which Selene was likely acutely aware upon receiving her favor. I assume that this statue depicts a happy Selene before Zeus meddled.”
“You forget,” St. John said, a teasing gleam in his eye, “she and Endymion did have twenty children despite his somnolence, so she couldn’t have been so very unhappy with her situation.”
“With due respect, my lord,” Callie said, “bearing and raising twenty children alone does not sound like the happiest of circumstances. I hardly think she would appear so very rested were this a statue depicting her maternal bliss.”
St. John laughed loudly. “Exceptionally well put, Lady Calpurnia. If this conversation is any indication, Juliana’s debut should be tremendously entertaining…for me, at the very least.”
“And it is, of course, your entertainment that is of the utmost importance, Nicholas.”
Callie stiffened as the irritated words sailed across the room, dark and ominous, setting her heart to racing. She attempted to maintain the illusion of calm but knew before turning that Ralston had joined them.
Seeming to sense her nervousness, St. John winked at her before turning a wide, open smile toward the marquess, and saying, “Indeed, it is, brother.”
Ralston’s scowl deepened. He turned to Callie, spearing her with a piercing blue stare. A bright blush colored Callie’s cheeks, and she tore her gaze from his, looking anywhere else. Nick noticed her discomfort and came to her aid. “There is no need for you to be rude, Gabriel. I was simply keeping Lady Calpurnia occupied while we waited for Juliana to arrive. Where is the girl?”
“I stopped Jenkins from fetching her. I would like to spea
k to Lady Calpurnia before they meet.” He paused. “Alone, if you please, Nick.”
Callie’s heart began a rapid hammering. What could he possibly have to say to her that his brother could not hear?
Nick bowed low over her hand, and said, “I look forward to next time, my lady.” He straightened, offering Callie a bright smile and another reassuring wink.
She couldn’t help but smile back. “As do I, my lord.”
Ralston waited for the door to the room to close before waving Callie into one of the nearby chairs, seating himself across from her. Callie tried to ignore the way he dwarfed the furniture—and the room itself—as though the entirety of Ralston House was designed for a lesser creature. She dipped her head, pretending to be enthralled by the upholstery on the chair in which she sat—eager to appear as though he were outside her notice. It was a fool’s errand. He was not a man who went easily unnoticed.
“I want to discuss Juliana before you meet her.”
Callie quashed a pang of disappointment. Must he be so perfunctory? She did not look up, instead turning her attention to her gloved hands, clenched together in her lap, and desperately trying to forget that mere hours ago those hands had touched Ralston intimately. But, how could she forget? His warm skin, his soft hair, his strong, muscled arms—she had touched all those places. And he seemed entirely unmoved.
She cleared her throat delicately, and said, “Certainly, my lord.”
“I think it best you come to Ralston House to work with Juliana. She is in need of significant guidance, and I would not like for her to make a misstep in front of the Countess of Allendale.”
Her eyes widened as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “My mother would never betray the confidence of your sister’s lessons.”
“Nevertheless, the walls have ears.”
“Not Allendale House walls.”
He leaned forward in his chair, close enough to touch her, his muscles bunched with tightly leashed power. “Let me make myself plain. I will not cede this point. Juliana is resistant to joining society and eager to return to Italy. She is likely to wreak a bit of havoc before she accepts that her new home is here. Your mother and her friends are pillars of the ton—women for whom ancestry and reputation are paramount and, while Juliana does not have a family line that can be traced back to William the Conqueror, and she is quite likely to be tarnished with the soiled reputation of our mother, she will meet London’s aristocracy. And she will make a smart match. I will not jeopardize that opportunity.”