Paul groaned as he shifted on the bed, trying to sit up straight. Nick went to help, gently easing his uncle up and bracing him with pillows. He cringed at the pained grunts Paul made, but it couldn’t be helped. These days, the man was in constant agony and every touch hurt. Nick did his best to make their contact minimal.
“I cannot tell you … how sorry I am that your efforts … were all for naught.”
So was he, but not only because he would now be forced to sit back and watch Calliope marry Martin. There was still the matter of the rest of his life to think of, a distasteful prospect now that he must now make his plans with the knowledge that Calliope would not be part of his future.
“It’s all right.”
“It isn’t,” Paul insisted.
“All right, it isn’t. But it will be. I tried. I knew my chances with her were improbable, but I had hope that … well, it is no longer of any consequence. There is another matter I want to address.”
Paul raised curious eyebrows.
“When you first mentioned my inheritance, I didn’t want to hear of it. I didn’t want to believe that I would lose you.”
Paul’s hand landed weakly atop his. “And now?”
“Now, I am ready. It may never feel right, profiting from your demise.”
“You mustn’t think of it that way. Think of it … as a gift. My legacy … left to the son … of my heart.”
Nick lowered his head, but the tears he’d been fighting for days finally spilled. With a sniffle, he patted his coat but found no handkerchief. Using the back of his hand instead, he swiped them away.
“I wanted it for Calliope. I wanted to be worthy of her, to have something to offer other than my illustrious name. And devastating good looks.”
Paul’s thin laugh made him smile, and Nick supposed he would find a way to survive if he could still manage to jest even when he felt like laying down to die.
“Now, I need it for myself. Wanting her and losing her, being made to see that my past has the power to destroy my future … I have to change it. I cannot go on believing there is no hope, or that I cannot have something of my own. I want you to know I intend to make you proud. I’ll care for Newburn and manage the money, and I’ll never squander the opportunity you are giving me.”
His uncle smiled, his lips trembling and his eyes watering. “My boy, I have always had … faith … in you. I’m already … proud.”
Alarm rang through him as Paul’s head slumped, his eyes rolling shut. But, a swift press of fingers at his wrist calmed Nick as he realized his uncle merely slept. Paul usually slumbered through most of the day, and even short spurts of conversation were enough to exhaust him.
Leaning back, he watched Paul sleep, his heart like a lead weight in his chest. Exhaustion plagued him, but he couldn’t surrender to sleep, for when he closed his eyes, she was there—beautiful and haunting.
She might be back from London by now, which brought her close enough to run to. He could bang down her door until she agreed to see him. He would demand she listen to him, and if that didn’t work, he might plead or beg. If she still wouldn’t give in, he knew how to batter her defenses. He could kiss her until she broke apart in his arms, remind her what they had together.
With an exasperated sigh, he sat up straight, finding that his brother had come into the room. Jasper took over his place in the chair, urging Nick to rest. He’d been in here since last night and his eyes itched, but he was determined to occupy himself somehow, otherwise he’d go running to Hastings House and make a fool of himself over a woman who didn’t want him.
No, that wasn’t right. She wanted him … she was simply afraid to let herself have him. What else could he do that he hadn’t already done? If he could reshape the world so she needn’t stand on the fringes of society, he’d have already done that. Seeing as he was not omnipotent, he found himself at a loss. She had made her choice, and by not even returning his letter or doing anything to explain her actions, Calliope had made it clear she was done with him.
He tore through the house, going to his room to change clothes and have Thorpe carry a message to Paul’s solicitor. A meeting would need to be arranged so he could begin learning all he could about the land he was set to inherit. Then, he dashed down the stairs, desperate to outrun his thoughts of Calliope and the harbinger of death hanging over the Burke household.
He set out with no destination in particular, but eventually arrived on Benedict’s doorstep. There was no good reason for him to have come here, especially when by now, his friend had received his letter. He’d also be aware that Dominick had failed at securing Calliope and was ready to rub it in his face. It was the damnedest thing, but he didn’t care if Benedict blistered his ears. Anything was better than the deathly silence in his flat, or the rasping sounds of Paul struggling to breathe.
A footman ushered him to the back of the house, into what was supposed to be a gallery. Benedict used the space for training, and was about his practice right now, stripped to the waist and wearing a pair of padded gloves as he circled the man Nick recognized as his trainer. The two jabbed and swung at one another with graceful movements and harsh grunts, the impact of gloves against flesh interspersed with the thud of boots against polished floors.
Benedict had just healed from his last match, but he was already preparing for another. It took a moment before he recognized Nick’s presence in the room, then he held up a hand for his instructor to cease and stared at him, mouth tight and face glistening with a sheen of sweat.
“You have a lot of nerve coming here after that letter,” he snapped, then added to the other man, “That’s enough for now. We can resume tomorrow.”
“I’ll return at dawn. We’ll add another hour to make up for this distraction.”
Benedict cringed, but nodded his agreement. “Right.”
They were left alone then, Benedict leaning against the wall and raising an eyebrow at him.
“Based on this morning’s copy of The London Gossip, I suppose you—”
“Hit me.”
Benedict blinked as Nick approached him, arms spread as he braced himself. “What?”
Nick gritted his teeth, the muscles in his torso tensing for the coming onslaught. “Uncle Paul is dying, and Calliope is marrying that prick, and I … I need to feel something else. You’re angry with me, so I know you want to. Hit me, goddamn it!”
The blow came all the force of a cannonball behind it, slamming into his middle and doubling him over. He hunched and curled inward, staggering back a few steps as he struggled to breathe through lungs that were now on fire.
“Better?” Benedict asked. “Because, I have more if you need it.”
Nick swallowed. “Again.”
His friend frowned, for the first time seeming to understand the state he was in. “Nick …”
“Again!”
This time the blow came at his jaw, snapping his head back and making his ears ring. He’d hardly recovered before two more strikes threw him off his feet, his cheek aching, his chest burning, and his stomach threatening to cast up its meager contents.
He lay on the floor and stared up at the whirling ceiling, feeling only slightly better. If nothing else, it was difficult to tell if his chest ached from a broken heart or a bruised rib.
Benedict appeared above him a moment later, extending one hand to reveal he had removed his gloves. Nick accepted assistance getting to his feet, and he grunted when Benedict clapped him on the back.
“Now that’s out of the way, do you want to talk about it?”
Nick minced toward a chair and sank down with a groan, certain if he looked down, he’d find a hole in his torso where his spleen was supposed to be—the organ now lodged somewhere against his spine.
“No,” he sighed, dropping his head back and closing his eyes. “And I’d rather not suffer through a lecture just now, thank you.”
“You deserve one. If the rumors are true, you ruined Miss Barrington, which could have had disas
trous consequences for the rest of us.”
“This sounds an awful lot like a lecture to me.”
“I’ll say nothing else. Just inform me when you feel you are ready to get back to work.”
Nick clenched his teeth, annoyed with Benedict though he’d known to expect this.
“Ben—”
“You cannot let your life fall apart over a woman. I could castigate you all day, but it wouldn’t change the fact that you felt something for her. However, she has made a very clear choice. You must move on with your life.”
“I intend to. Uncle Paul has named me his heir.”
He opened his eyes to find Benedict staring at him, mouth agape.
“His heir? As in …”
“Everything he owns will become mine once he is gone. The money, the land. So you see, I’d no longer have a need to continue as a courtesan. Do you think you could find it in yourself not to hate me if my leaving had nothing to do with her?”
Benedict sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “I don’t hate you, Nick. I don’t hate Hugh either, and … well, we won’t talk about Edward.”
Nick chuckled. “No, let’s not.”
“I don’t want to congratulate you on your good fortune when I know the cause. But, I am glad you have some form of security. That was all I wanted … for myself and for the rest of you. Are you certain you wish to quit for good? I’ve got three women waiting in the wings and I’d wager they’d start a bidding war if they knew you were available.”
Before Calliope, he might have joked that he could juggle all three and not break a sweat. Now, he couldn’t even muster the interest in a single woman who wasn’t his goddess, let alone three.
“I’m certain. I’m sorry, Ben.”
Benedict didn’t answer, looking at him as if waiting for something more. But, there was literally nothing else. The expectation of his inheritance was all there was for him now, along with the hope that he could make something of the gift his uncle was giving him. He could give no thought to any other aspect of the future, such as a wife or children—not when he could still so easily close his eyes and picture Calliope filling the empty place at his side.
Chapter 14
“Invitations for the nuptials of The Hon. Miss C and the Hon. Mr. L have gone out, and it seems anyone who matters has been invited to attend. Yes, dear reader, that includes myself! Together, we shall all bear witness to the union born of this year’s biggest scandal—one that didn’t even include the groom! One can only hope that Mr. L isn’t making a terrible mistake by taking such a wanton creature as his bride.”
The London Gossip, October 25, 1819
Weeks passed with Calliope feeling as if she walked about half-dead. The announcement of her engagement and return to London had preceded a whirlwind of preparations and morning callers. She had only been able to shun the visitors for the first week, after which she was determined to stop hiding. People would only talk more, and that was the last thing she wanted. So, with Diana at her side, she spent her mornings entertaining the busybodies who had come to have a look at the future Viscountess Lewes. When she wasn’t doing that, she was in the company of her betrothed.
Martin’s iciness toward her had begun to thaw, and as the events of the house party fell behind them, he became his old self again. Only, Calliope couldn’t bring herself to feel anything toward him other than cordial friendship, and even that had been tainted by the realization that he might have tossed her aside if not for her fortune.
Her father had accompanied them back to London, intending to remain at Hastings House until after the wedding, which would take place in a few short weeks. The banns had been read, her gown was nearly finished, and most importantly of all, she had proof that her night with Dominick had not resulted in conception of a child. Thanks to Diana, she understood that the arrival of her monthly courses meant there was no baby, so she could go on to wed Martin with a clear conscience.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Perhaps she wouldn’t enter her union with an illegitimate child passed off as her husband’s, but she was coming into it with a heart that had not yet accepted its fate. It was easy to forget about Dominick during the day, when she had any number of things to occupy her time. However, the darkness and quiet of night brought it all back to her, and she wondered how she could ever allow Martin to touch her in places only Dominick had been. It felt like the worst sort of betrayal to relive the night Dominick had made love to her, teaching her what it meant to become one with another person, and to fear that she might never feel the same way with Martin. The trouble was, she couldn’t decide who she was betraying.
She saw neither hide nor hair of Dominick when she ventured away from home, which left her feeling oddly bereft. For weeks she had felt as if he was everywhere all the time, his presence making her skin prickle with awareness. Now, that feeling was gone, and Calliope remained numb.
She’d begun to think she would live the rest of her life this way, walking about in a daze and feeling as if her heart had been replaced by a boulder, weighing her down with every step, every breath.
Until the day came for her to return to the foundling home. She had been prepared to skip the meeting and leave the proceedings in Diana’s hands, but her sister had insisted she would be needed.
“Besides,” Diana pointed out, “the other patronesses will only gossip if you are absent. You cannot give them the satisfaction.”
Calliope had no choice but to admit that Diana was right. Until she was married, the best thing to do was pretend as if nothing had happened.
So, she had set off for the home with Diana and Hastings, glad Martin had his own affairs to attend for the afternoon. However, the moment she stepped foot inside the home, she felt it again—that unsettling awareness that tipped her world off its axis.
She faltered, one hand coming up to her throat as she laid eyes on Dominick. He hadn’t noticed her yet, occupied as he was speaking with Thomas—the young boy he had played cards with during their last visit. He was handing something to the lad, his expression somber though he seemed to try to smile for the child’s benefit. Thomas accepted the gift with a grin, bouncing on his feet with excitement. Dominick chuckled, and Calliope nearly dropped to her knees as the sound radiated through her—boisterous and vibrant. She’d never thought to hear it again.
Diana was watching her, her lip clenched between her teeth as she fiddled with her reticule. Calliope couldn’t take her eyes off Dominick, frozen in place when he came to his feet, tousling Thomas’ hair and sending the lad off. The boy dashed away and disappeared around the corner, and it was only then that Dominick turned and spotted her. He tensed, his hand flexing around the other parcel he held in one hand.
Then, he was striding toward her and she could do nothing but stand there and wait. She held her breath, and it almost seemed as if he meant to keep coming, taking her into his arms and stealing her good sense with a kiss. He drew up short at the last moment, and Calliope released her breath on a rush. He stared down at her for a long while, his gaze sweeping up and down the length of her before resting on her face.
“Miss Barrington.” He cut his gaze to her sister and brother-in-law. “Lord and Lady Hastings.”
“What are you doing here?” Calliope blurted, before she could say something else. Something stupid like, ‘I’ve missed you.’ Under no circumstances should she allow those words to fall from her lips.
“When last I was here, I left Thomas my favorite deck of cards. I am rather fond of them, so I thought to trade him for a fresh set. As well … I had business with Mrs. Fisher.”
Before she could ask him what business he was referring to, Diana cleared her throat.
“Callie, dear, Hastings and I will join the others and leave you to speak with Mr. Burke. We will not start without you.”
She widened her eyes, silently begging Diana not to leave her alone with him. Her sister pretended not to notice and took her husband’s arm, then they continued toward
the drawing room.
Calliope stared down the yawning passage, too afraid of what she might find when she looked into Nick’s eyes.
“I had thought to leave this with Mrs. Fisher on my way out, but since you are here, I may as well give it to you in person.”
The parcel was extended to her, the brown paper visible on the periphery of her vision. She lifted shaking hands to accept it, concentrating on the twine binding it closed. His hand fell over hers and didn’t pull away, the touch searing down to her marrow.
She sucked in a breath and looked up, finding him watching her with a grim set to his mouth.
“I purchased it in Box Hill, intending to give it to you as … well, it doesn’t matter now. You might consider it a congratulatory gift.”
Her throat was too tight for words, so she simply moved to a small console table and set the package down, pulling at the twine to open it. Her heart thundered, her blood roaring in her ears as she uncovered a flat box and lifted its lid.
Inside was a chatelaine of pure silver, a filigree pattern etched along the brooch. Her lips parted as she ran her fingers over the metal, tracing the delicate chains hanging from the centerpiece, each one holding a different, useful tool. There was a small silver holder for a pencil, a tiny pair of scissors, a watch with a painted scene of a meadow on its face, and a flat silver case that she opened to find stuffed with a neat stack of foolscap.
When her gaze shot up, she found he’d come closer and was now hovering over her, one hand reaching out to fiddle with the pencil holder.
“Not the most romantic of gifts, but it seemed apropos. I noticed you struggling to keep up with your notes during the last meeting and thought this might help.”
“It’s lovely,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
It was the most thoughtful, beautiful gift anyone had ever given her, and she couldn’t even find the right words to tell him so.
In a moment of recklessness, she touched his hand, wanting him to know in some small way that she was grateful, that she hadn’t ceased caring about him. Most of all, she couldn’t help herself when he was standing so close, whole and real as if he’d stepped right out of her dreams.
Making of a Scandal (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 3) Page 27