Making of a Scandal (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 3)

by Victoria Vale

  “Drat. Oh, what of Baron Hornsby? He’s gone a bit gray at the temples, but he’s still handsome. He’s been out of mourning for a year now, I think.”

  Calliope frowned at the mention of the baron whose wife had died and left him with four unruly children. They were rumored to be so terrible that no woman would consider his suit.

  “I think not.”

  “Well … oh, my … what about him?”

  Calliope’s skin prickled at the way Diana said ‘him’, for there was only one man who elicited such a reaction. Her hands became clammy inside her gloves and her pulse fluttered as she followed Diana’s gaze.

  A group of young men walked in their direction, steps light and jaunty, youth and vitality dripping from their every pore. There were five of them, all of varying heights and coloring—some handsome but none as beautiful as him.

  The Honourable Mr. Martin Lewes, one of the ton’s most sought-after bachelors. Set to inherit a viscountcy on his father’s death, the man was everything a mama could want for her unwed daughter. Ridiculously handsome, charming and polite to a fault, a fabulous dancer, and eligible. It didn’t hurt matters that along with a title, Mr. Lewes was set to inherit a grand fortune as well as a flourishing country holding that had been passed down through generations. He was a favorite among men and women of high society alike, and there wasn’t a hostess in London who didn’t covet his presence at their dinner parties and balls. He partnered the young women on the dance floor with gallantry, charmed the matrons until they were blushing and tittering like young girls, and was a superb card player.

  While there were many of the ton who treated Calliope with cool, forced civility—or ignored her altogether—Mr. Lewes often went out of his way to be kind to her. He’d brought her champagne at a few balls, and had danced with her often. Of course, he partnered dozens of other young ladies as well, and seemed to simply enjoy dancing. It had meant nothing, and she’d never let herself think otherwise.

  “He’s so … well, handsome seems like a rather mild word, doesn’t it?” Diana whispered.

  Calliope’s stomach churned as the men slowed, Mr. Lewes coming to a halt when he recognized them. He was a golden god of a man, blond-haired and blue eyed, a study in classical perfection. Full, alluring lips parted in a blinding smile, and it was all she could do not to swoon on the spot.

  “Lady Hastings, Miss Barrington,” he said, offering a bow. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lewes,” Diana chirped, seeming oblivious to Calliope’s discomfiture.

  Callie found herself astoundingly tongue-tied in the man’s presence, despite their acquaintance. To her relief, Diana never had any trouble filling in silences.

  “Quite a fine day for a walk, is it not? The weather has been so ghastly lately, I am glad for a reprieve from the rain.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Lewes agreed. “And how does Hastings fare these days, my lady? I have not seen him in ages … since your wedding, I think.”

  “Yes, and how bad of you not to come visit us now that we are settled back in London.”

  Mr. Lewes chuckled, and the deep, resonant sound sent flutters through Calliope’s belly. The man laughed the way he did most things … beautifully. A dimple appeared in his left cheek, and little smile lines appeared at the corners of eyes like deep, blue lakes.

  “Do forgive the oversight. I did not wish to impose upon a newly-wedded couple.”

  “Oh, pish!” Diana declared with a wave of her hand. “Your presence at Hastings House is never an imposition. My sister and I would be delighted for you to call upon us, wouldn’t we, Callie dear?”

  Calliope started, blinking out of the haze of girlish infatuation that overwhelmed her whenever Mr. Lewes was near. The man had such a dazzling effect on her, a far cry from the way other men made her feel. There wasn’t a salacious bone in Mr. Lewes’s body, and she registered only polite interest as he swiveled those sapphire eyes her way.

  “Of course,” she managed with a shaky smile.

  “There you have it,” Diana said, saving Calliope from having to form more words. “When can we expect you to call? Oh, do say you’ll come tomorrow!”

  Mr. Lewes laughed again, while Calliope gaped at her sister. Diana was always friendly and welcoming, but never quite so pushy. Dread overwhelmed her as she realized what her sister was up to.

  Stop it, her eyes screamed as she snared Diana’s gaze.

  Her sister simply smirked and shrugged one shoulder as if to say, ‘No, and you cannot make me.’

  Calliope seethed, unable to do anything other than stand there and watch her sister manipulate their chance meeting with Mr. Lewes into something else entirely.

  “I would be delighted to call tomorrow afternoon, my lady. Miss Barrington, can I look forward to seeing you, as well?”

  Calliope nearly choked on air. He’d never directly addressed her unless in greeting or asking for a dance during a ball. Their exchanges were always brief and innocuous, and while one could argue that this was simply more of the same, the air around her felt charged and electric. He was looking at her as if he actually wanted an affirmative answer to his question. Would it disappoint him if she happened to not be at home when he called?

  Finding her voice with great effort, Calliope inclined her head. “Yes, Mr. Lewes.”

  His smile widened, and he nodded as if satisfied. “Very good. Then I will see you both tomorrow. If you will excuse me, my friends are waiting.”

  After a slight bow and tip of his hat, he was off, long graceful strides carrying him down the lane. The two women turned to watch him walk away, and Calliope admired the way his bottle green coat clung to his shoulders.

  Shaking her head to clear it of her ridiculous, dream-like thoughts, she swiveled on Diana. “Are you mad? Could you have been more conspicuous?”

  Her sister continued steering her along the lane. “Do calm down, dear. I might have been a little assertive, but Mr. Lewes hardly seemed to mind.”

  “He was being polite, but you cannot think he has any real interest in me. The man barely knows I’m alive.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve been introduced, and his friendship with Hastings puts the two of you in the same social circle.”

  “Yes, but he is only ever polite to me in the same way he is to every other woman.”

  “That’s only because the man doesn’t know he wants you yet. But, we can fix that.”

  “If you are suggesting I throw myself at him like those other empty-headed chits, I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

  “Of course not,” Diana declared with a disdainful sniff. “I only mean that sometimes a man just needs a little encouragement. He’ll call on us tomorrow, you will charm him, and then—”

  “He will fall to his knees and declare his undying love for me? The man is set upon by every unwed girl and mother of the ton everywhere he goes.”

  “Yes, but you are not like those milky, drab girls straight out of the schoolroom.”

  “Of course not. I’m a dusty old spinster.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, there is nothing ‘dusty’ about you. That he has reached his thirtieth year without being seriously linked with any woman tells me he has discerning taste. Maybe he has no interest in insipid debutantes. Maybe what he wants is a lady of experience.”

  “Experience is simply a nice way of saying I’m old. I appreciate your desire to help, but I think it best if I give up the husband hunt. It has become too much of a chore and there doesn’t seem to be a single eligible man in this city worth having.”

  Diana flashed a sly smile. “Except for Mr. Lewes. You find him utterly distracting. I’ve seen the way you look at him. Just now you nearly swooned when he smiled at you.”

  Calliope bit her lip, annoyed that someone else had noticed. It was foolish of her to dream about being the object of his attention when she was well past the age of such flights of fancy.

  “Of course I admire him,” she said, avoiding Diana’s gaze.
“That doesn’t mean I would ever be foolish enough to think he’d want me—at least not for marriage. Have you any idea how much it would hurt to come to know him only to realize he will treat me like all the others? No, Diana … it is out of the question.”

  “I suppose I cannot blame you for such caution. But won’t you at least try? Mr. Lewes may be the one to surprise you, but you’ll never know if you will not give him a chance.”

  Calliope mulled that over in silence, something akin to hope burgeoning deep within her. No matter how ruthlessly she’d tried to snuff it out, a small glimmer of it lived on. It told her that Diana was right. Her experiences had made her jaded, but somewhere inside, the young girl who had made her debut four years ago longed for more. Mr. Lewes seemed like the kind of man she could respect, and there was the added boon of her strong attraction to him. What did she have to lose by simply trying to cultivate his interest? If nothing came of it, she would be none the worse for wear. However, if there was a chance it could lead to something more …

  “Very well,” she blurted before she could turn craven. “I’ll do it.”

  Diana gave her a wide grin, blue eyes twinkling with excitement. “You will not regret this. He’ll be the one, I can feel it.”

  Calliope couldn’t feel quite so optimistic just yet, but she supposed her sister had enough confidence for the both of them.

  This will be the last time, she thought as Diana prattled on. If this one turns out to have no interest in me, or the wrong sort of interest, I will never put myself through this again.

  By the end of the week, Calliope had completely changed her tune—going from being adamantly against pursuing Mr. Lewes as a potential husband, to staring off into space and imagining a future with him in it. She’d done this often over the years, unraveling the imaginings of her desired family life and neatly inserting this man or that into the empty space where a husband should be. At times, the exercise left her feeling hopeless. If a man did not seem like someone she could respect as well as love, then wedging him into such a dream distorted the entire thing. But Martin Lewes was utterly perfect.

  He had called upon them following their meeting in the park, sharing tea with Calliope, Diana, and Hastings. The two men had regaled the ladies with amusing stories of their years at university, and Mr. Lewes seemed to go out of his way to engage Calliope in conversation. His smiles were wide and genuine, his expression intent when she spoke, as if he were actually listening instead of waiting for her to finish so he could dominate the discourse. He complimented her morning gown, and once Diana had mentioned Calliope’s talent for charcoal sketching, he had expressed an interest in seeing her work. A maid had been sent to fetch her sketchbook, and he had settled next to her on a settee to inspect the drawings.

  It had been nearly impossible to keep from gawking at him as he flipped the pages, taking the time to inspect each one. The sun streaming through the windows had set his hair aglow, and his matching brows had furrowed with concentration as he’d inspected her work.

  “These are quite remarkable, Miss Barrington,” he had said, looking her in the eye as he spoke.

  Calliope had been breathless for a moment, unprepared for the impact of his nearness or his unguarded perusal.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lewes. I hope you don’t say so because you feel you must. It would not hurt my feelings in the least if you thought my drawings nothing more than the scratchings of an amateur.”

  “Not at all. In fact, they’re quite the best I’ve seen from someone who can only claim to pursue art as a hobby. What a talent you have.”

  By the end of the afternoon, she had completely shrugged off her reservations and decided that Martin Lewes would make a most wonderful husband. In fact, when considering the other possible candidates, he was the only one that stoked any sort of excitement or interest.

  Diana had been thrilled with this news, and had set about conspiring with Hastings to put Calliope in the man’s company as often as possible. Her brother-in-law was not a man typically concerned with such intrigues, but he was still basking in the first months of newly-wedded bliss. He would have done anything to please Diana, and apparently, it seemed nothing would delight her more than her sister making a match with the future viscount.

  As a result, Calliope had spent more time in Mr. Lewes’s company in one week than she ever had in the few years of their acquaintance. There had been a carriage ride in the park with Hastings and Diana for chaperones, a night at Vauxhall during which she and Mr. Lewes had danced a waltz, and another afternoon tea that had led to a dinner invitation.

  Hastings and Diana were not subtle in their manipulations, so the man could hardly fail to notice what they were about, which suited Calliope just fine. She was beyond coyness and pretending to be anything other than an unmarried woman with a prospective suitor in her sights.

  There was only one problem.

  Martin Lewes was as charming and affable as ever, but made no overtures of his own, nor did he give any indication that he was interested in her beyond their newly-formed friendship.

  While she had few people she could call true friends, and should be delighted to count Mr. Lewes among them, Calliope couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed.

  As she dressed for a night at the opera—with Hastings and Mr. Lewes set to escort her and Diana—Calliope expressed her frustration to both her sister and her lady’s maid.

  “Perhaps I am being a bit impatient,” she admitted, staring at her reflection in the cheval mirror as her gown was fastened up the back. “But it seems the need for you and Hastings to go on orchestrating our encounters should be at an end by now. If the man were truly interested, he would make it known on his own accord.”

  “I agree,” Diana said from where she sat at Calliope’s vanity table, shuffling through a collection of pots and vials. “You are impatient. Mr. Lewes is a bachelor and has a reputation for avoiding romantic entanglements. A fellow like that needs time to have his mind changed. We are nudging him in the right direction. Give it time, Callie.”

  “You young people have no notion what you truly want,” mumbled Ekta, who produced a pair of shears from the pocket of her apron and snipped at a loose thread on Calliope’s bodice. “That is why, in Bengal, parents arrange the marriages of their children. That way, a girl and boy grow up already knowing what the future holds. There is no need for these games and intrigues.”

  Calliope smiled indulgently at the woman who had always been a motherly figure of sorts. She’d served in the household of her father during his years of service in Bengal, and had been selected as Calliope’s ayah upon her birth. It was Ekta who had nurtured and reared her, becoming much more than a nurse once Vedah Barrington had died giving birth to her second child. The babe, a boy, had died along with her, leaving Calliope and her father with no one but each other. The recent loss of his brother the viscount, who’d had no son of his own, had forced her father to resign his post and return to England with Calliope, Ekta, and a retinue of Bengali servants in tow.

  Now that she was a woman grown, Calliope had no need for a nurse, but neither she nor her father could imagine life without Ekta. The life of an ayah without children to care for could often be cruel, leading to abject poverty on the fringes of a society that cared little for the foreign women. And so, Ekta had become her Abigail.

  “How simple all this would be if we still lived in Bengal,” Calliope remarked. “But, we do not … and while the English do arrange the occasional marriage, it is quite the thing to allow young people to make their own matches whether they be practical or romantic.”

  “How could the man not love you?” Ekta grumbled, crossing her arms over her narrow chest, wrinkled face scrunching in disdain. “Is he blind or simple-headed? What man would not want my Anni for a wife?”

  Calliope laughed, affection flooding her for her old nurse—one of the few people who still called her by the Bengali name she’d been given at birth. Only Ekta and her father ever called her Anni
, a reminder of the woman who had birthed her and the land from which she had been taken at the young age of four years.

  “He will,” Diana insisted, taking up a bottle of perfume and dabbing it on her wrists. “We shall simply have to adjust our strategy. Do you know what you need? Another suitor!”

  Calliope whirled to face her sister. “I don’t want another suitor, I want Mr. Lewes.”

  “Of course you do,” Diana said, wiggling her eyebrows. “And the best way to get a man’s attention is to pretend you’re interested in someone else. Nothing stirs a man’s possessiveness like realizing he faces competition.”

  “Such foolish games,” Ekta muttered as she lifted Calliope’s discarded dressing gown and slippers. “You should simply write your father and tell him you wish to wed this man. He will ensure Mr. Lewes is made aware of how wise he would be to offer for you.”

  Ignoring Ekta, Diana stood, her eyes twinkling with mischievous inspiration. “Like most men, Mr. Lewes is in no hurry to wed. Perhaps because you are not so young and still unattached, he supposes he has all the time in the world to consider you. But … if he thinks another man might steal you from under him …”

  Calliope frowned as she digested Diana’s words. Like Ekta, she was opposed to the way the courtship game was played in high society. She much preferred honesty but realized that Diana had a point. Her sister had garnered Hastings’s interest early in the Season, but the man had dragged his feet asking for her hand. Then, two others had begun paying her marked attention, and Hastings had made his intentions known forthwith.

  “Perhaps you are right.”

  “It is a terrible idea,” Ekta said, shaking her head as she bustled about the chamber, cleaning up behind their evening toilette. “Better for you to be patient if you are not going to allow your father to coordinate the match for you.”

  “Ekta, this is the way things are done,” Diana argued.

  “Perhaps,” Calliope said. “But I don’t like the idea of leading one man on to snare another. I have been made to believe a man’s interest in me was honorable, and I know all too well how it feels when that turns out not to be the case.”