“Yes, I thought of that myself.”
“We could always call on Aunt Phyllidia.” Nick shuddered even as he referred to their father’s sister who, despite being certain to arrive full of loud opinions and brash instructions, was a dowager duchess and a pillar of the ton.
“No.” Ralston’s response was short and immediate. Phyllidia would not be able to manage such a delicate situation as this—a mysterious, unknown sister arriving on the doorstep of Ralston House at the start of the season. “None of our female relatives will do.”
“Then who?”
Twin gazes locked. Held. Their determination matched, their commitment equal.
But only one was the marquess. And his words left no room for questions. “I shall find someone.”
Two
Then with a burst of tears she ran straight toward him, and flung her arms about the neck of Odysseus, and kissed his head, and spoke:
“Lo, thou dost convince my heart, unbending as it is.”
And in his heart aroused yet more the desire for lamentation; and he wept, holding in his arms his dear and true-hearted wife.
Callie Hartwell paused in her reading, and released a deep, satisfied sigh. The sound rent the silence of the Allendale House library, where she had escaped hours earlier in search of a good book. In Callie’s opinion, a good book required an enduring love story…and Homer delivered.
Oh, Odysseus, she thought soulfully, turning a yellowed page in the leather-bound book and wiping away a stray tear. Twenty years later, back in the arms of your love. A well-deserved reunion if ever I’ve read one.
She paused in her reading, leaning her head back on the high padded chair and breathing deeply, inhaling the rich scent of long-loved and well-oiled books and imagining herself the heroine of this particular story—the loving wife, the object of an heroic quest to return home, the woman who, through love, inspired her wonderfully flawed husband to fight the Cyclops, to resist the Sirens, to conquer all for a single goal—to resume his place by her side.
What would it be like to be such a woman? One whose unparalleled beauty was rewarded with the love of the greatest hero of his time? What would it be like to welcome such a man into one’s heart? Into one’s life? Into one’s bed? A smile played across Callie’s lips as the wicked thought flashed through her mind. Oh, Odysseus indeed.
She chuckled. If only others knew that Lady Calpurnia Hartwell, proper, well-behaved spinster, entertained deep-seated and certainly unladylike thoughts about fictional heroes. She sighed again with self-deprecation. She was well aware of how silly she was, dreaming of the heroes in her books. It was a terrible habit, and one she had harbored for far too long.
It had begun when she had first read Romeo and Juliet at age twelve and followed her through heroes great and small—from Beowulf and Hamlet and Tristan to the dark, brooding heroes of gothic novels. It didn’t matter the quality of the writing—Callie’s fantasies about her fictional heroes were entirely democratic.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself far from this high-ceilinged room, filled to the brim with books and papers collected by a long line of Allendale earls. She imagined herself not the spinster sister of the Earl of Allendale, but instead, as Penelope, so deeply in love with her Odysseus that she had spurned all suitors.
She conjured her hero into the vision, she, seated at a loom, he, standing strong and intense in the doorway to the room. His physical appearance came easily—it was one that had been used again and again in her fantasies for the last decade.
Tall, towering, and broad, with thick dark hair that made women itch to touch it and blue eyes the color of the same sea that Odysseus had sailed for twenty years. A strong jaw, marred only by a dimple that flashed when he smiled—that smile—a smile that held the equal promise of wickedness and pleasure.
Yes…they were all modeled on the only man about whom she’d ever dreamed—Gabriel St. John, the Marquess of Ralston. One would think that after a full decade of pining, she would have given up her fantasy…but it appeared that she had fallen for the rake quite squarely and most regretfully, and she was doomed to spend the rest of her life imagining him the Antony to her Cleopatra.
She laughed outright at the comparison. The fact that she was named for an empress aside, one would have to be severely touched to think Lady Calpurnia Hartwell anything close to Cleopatra. For one thing, Callie had never laid a man low with her beauty—something Cleopatra was reported to have been extraordinarily skilled at doing. Cleopatra did not share Callie’s ordinary brown hair and ordinary brown eyes. Nor could the Queen of Egypt have been described as plump. Nor did Callie imagine that Cleopatra had ever been left on the edge of a ballroom for the entirety of a ball. And, Callie was certain there was absolutely no evidence that the Queen of Egypt had ever worn a lace cap.
Unfortunately, the same things could not be said of Callie.
But, for now, in this moment, Callie was the beautiful Penelope and Ralston the devastatingly handsome Odysseus, who had rooted their marital bed to the ground with a living oak tree. Her skin grew flushed as the fantasy played out, and he approached her and that legendary bed, slowly lifting his tunic, baring a chest bronzed from years in the Aegean sun—a chest that could have been molded from Grecian marble. When he reached her and gathered her into his arms, she imagined the heat of him wrapping around her, dwarfing her with his size. He had spent years waiting for this moment…and so had she.
His hands stroked her skin, leaving trails of fire wherever they touched, and Callie imagined him leaning down to kiss her. She could feel his body pressed against her, his hands on her face, his strong, sensual lips parting just a hairsbreadth from her own. Just before he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, he spoke in a low whisper, the words private, the sound barely reaching her ears.
“CALLIE!”
She jerked up in her chair, dropping her book, startled by the piercing sound outside the door to the library. She cleared her throat, heart pounding, silently wishing that whoever it was would go away and let her finish her daydream. The thought was fleeting—quashed with a sigh—Callie Hartwell was nothing if not impeccably mannered, and she would never reject a caller out of hand. No matter how much she might like to.
The door to the library flew open, and her sister bounded in, all energy and excitement. “Callie! There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere!”
Callie took one look at her sister’s bright, eager face and couldn’t help but smile. Mariana had always been a charming, ebullient force—immediately adored by all who met her. At eighteen, Mariana was the belle of the season…the debutante who had earned the attentions of the entire ton—and the nickname The Allendale Angel.
Today, she was bathed in the diffused sunlight of the library, swathed in gossamer chiffon the color of buttercups, her sweet, loving smile perfectly framed by chestnut ringlets. Callie could easily understand why London society adored her sister. It was hard not to love Mariana.
Even if her perfection could be rather trying at times to a much older, much less perfect sister.
With a teasing smile, Callie spoke. “Whatever could you possibly need me for? I think you’ve done quite well on your own today, Mari!”
A pretty pink blush spread across Mariana’s porcelain skin—one Callie would have envied for its demureness and evenness if she hadn’t lived with such perfect flushes for her entire life. “Callie! I can’t believe it! I’ve been pinching myself all day!” Mariana flew across the room and threw herself into the leather chair opposite her sister. In a dreamy, dazed voice, she continued, “He proposed! Can you believe it? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“He” in this case was James Talbott, the sixth Duke of Rivington and the single most coveted catch in all of Britain. Young, handsome, wealthy, and titled, the duke had taken one look at Mariana at a preseason ball and become quite thoroughly infatuated. A whirlwind courtship had followed, and the duke had arrived at Allendale House that morning to ask for her hand in marriage.
Callie had been barely able to contain her amusement at Rivington’s nervousness; for all his title and wealth, he had been obviously eager for Mariana’s answer—a fact that had only served to endear him further to Callie.
“I can, indeed, believe it, sweet.” She laughed. “He arrived with stars in his eyes…very similar to the ones in your own right now!” Mariana dipped her head shyly as Callie continued, “But you must tell me! How does it feel to have caught a man who loves you so very much? And a duke no less!”
“Oh, Callie,” Mariana gushed, “I don’t give a farthing about James’s title! I care only for James! Is he not the most wonderful, pillar of a man?”
“And a duke no less!” Both women turned in surprise at the statement, spoken in a shrill pitch of barely contained excitement from the doorway of the room. Callie sighed as she recalled what had sent her into hiding earlier in the day.
Her mother.
“Callie! Is it not the most wonderful news?” Wryly wondering just how many times she would have to answer that particular question that day, Callie opened her mouth to reply. Not quickly enough, however. “Why, Rivington is deeply in love with Mariana! Can you imagine? A duke! In love with our Mariana!” Again, Callie began to answer, only to be cut off. “There is so very much to do! A wedding to plan! A betrothal ball to host! Menus to design! Invitations to send! Not to mention Mariana’s gown! And trousseau! Oh! Mariana!”
The utter bliss on the dowager countess’s face was rivaled only by the utter terror on Mariana’s. Callie bit back a smile and entered the fray to rescue her sister. “Mother, Rivington only proposed this morning. Don’t you think we should allow Mariana some time to enjoy this momentous occasion?” Laughter entered her tone as she continued, offering a knowing look to her sister, “Perhaps, a day or two?”
It was as though she had not spoken. The dowager countess pressed on, her volume becoming more and more earsplitting. “And you, Callie! We shall have to think carefully about what kind of gown you shall wear!”
Oh, no. The Dowager Countess of Allendale was many things, but a reliable modiste for her elder daughter was not one of them. If Callie did not provide a distraction for her mother soon, she would be destined to attend her sister’s wedding in a feathered monstrosity complete with matching turban.
“I think we should tackle first things first, don’t you, Mother? Why not hold a small celebratory dinner party this evening?” She paused, waiting to see if her mother would take the bait.
“A wonderful idea!” Callie let her breath out slowly, pleased with her quick thinking. “We should! It will be family only, of course—because we must hold the official announcement for the betrothal ball—but I think a dinner tonight is just the thing! Oh! So much more to do! I must send invitations out and speak with Cook!” The dowager countess swiveled around and rushed to leave, propelled by her excitement. At the entrance to the room, she turned back abruptly. Unable to contain her exuberance, her face red and her breathing heavy, she exclaimed, “Oh! Mariana!” And, with that, she left.
In the silence that followed their mother’s departure, Mariana sat stunned by the scene that had just taken place. Callie couldn’t help but smile. “You didn’t think it would be easy, did you, Mari? After all, our mother has been waiting thirty-two years for a wedding, since Benedick was born. And now, thanks to you, she’s got one.”
“I don’t think I can survive this,” Mariana said, shaking her head in bemusement. “Who was that woman?”
“A mother with a wedding in her future.”
“My God,” Mariana spoke, dazed. “How long do you think she’s going to be like that?”
“I can’t be certain, but I’d guess at least the season.”
“A whole season! Is there a way out of it?”
“There is one,” Callie paused for dramatic effect, thoroughly enjoying herself.
Mariana pounced. “What is it?!”
“Do you think Rivington would consider Gretna Green?”
Mariana groaned in anguish as Callie dissolved into laughter.
This was going to be an extraordinarily entertaining season.
This was going to be the most painful season of her life.
Callie stood at the corner of the sitting room, where, after dinner and postmeal rituals of cigars for men and gossip for women, the entire family had resumed showering Mariana and her duke with well-wishes. Dozens of candles cast a lovely soft glow over the room’s inhabitants, transforming the space into an intimate scene. Ordinarily, Callie adored events that could fit into the sitting room, for they were typically cozy, happy occasions that made for warm memories.
Not so, tonight, however. Tonight, Callie was ruing the moment that afternoon when she had suggested a small, intimate dinner. Tonight, even the ancestors watching from the portraits lining the sitting-room walls seemed to be mocking her.
She swallowed a sigh and forced a smile as her aunt Beatrice approached her, beaming. Callie knew exactly what was coming…knew, too, that it was unavoidable.
“Isn’t it wonderful? Such a happy couple! Such a fine match.”
“Indeed it is, Aunt,” Callie intoned, turning her head to gaze upon the happy couple in question. She had discovered over the course of the interminable evening that looking at an elated Mariana and Rivington made stomaching this particular conversation slightly easier. Very slightly easier. “It is a treat to see Mariana so very happy.”
Her elderly aunt rested a wrinkled hand on Callie’s arm. Here it comes, Callie thought to herself, gritting her teeth. “I’m sure your mother is happy finally to have a wedding to plan!” the old woman cackled with amusement as she spoke. “After all, between you and Benedick, there was little guarantee that she’d ever see the day!”
Callie forced a laugh that came out a little too loud as she cast a desperate eye around the room in search of someone, anyone, to save her from a seemingly endless string of rude and impertinent family members. In the three hours since the guests had arrived for dinner, Callie had had some variation of this conversation with twelve different people. Dinner had been particularly difficult, considering she’d been sandwiched between Rivington’s opinionated grandmother and a particularly callous cousin, both of whom seemed to believe that Callie’s unmarried state was well within the bounds of proper conversation. She was beginning to believe that there was not a single person in either the Rivington or Allendale families with even a modicum of tact. Did they really believe that she would take no offense to being consistently reminded that she was a dusty old spinster set firmly upon the shelf? It was really too much.
Seeing no salvation in her future, she settled for waving down a footman with a tray of sherry. Selecting a glass for herself, she turned to her aunt, asking, “May I offer you a refreshment, Aunt Beatrice?”
“Dear me, no! I cannot stomach the stuff,” the elderly woman spoke, a note of indignation in her tone. “You know, Calpurnia, drinking wine in company is liable to damage your reputation.”
“Yes, well, I should think there’s no need for me to worry about that this evening, don’t you agree?”
“No, I suppose your reputation is not at risk, Calpurnia.” Aunt Beatrice patted her arm with unconscious condescension. “It is a tragedy, that, isn’t it? You couldn’t have predicted it. With your dowry, no one would have expected you never to marry.”
The implication that only her dowry served to recommend Callie as a wife clouded her consciousness with shock and anger. Before she could respond, Aunt Beatrice had pressed on.
“And now, at your age, we should simply give up hope. It’s virtually impossible to imagine someone offering for you. Unless, of course, it was an older gentleman seeking companionship as he shuffles off this mortal coil. Perhaps that could happen.”
A vision flashed through Callie’s mind, a pleasing fantasy that ended with Aunt Beatrice doused in sweet red wine. Shaking herself from her reverie, she carefully set down her glass and returned her focus to her aunt, who was still spec
ulating on Callie’s spinsterhood.
“Of course, it does not help that your figure is—well—rather less than desirable? After all, we are long past the days of Rubens, Calpurnia.”
Callie was struck mute. She could not have possibly heard the odious woman correctly.
“Have you considered a diet of boiled eggs and cabbage? I hear it works wonders. Then you would be less…well, more!” Aunt Beatrice cackled, entirely amused by and thoroughly oblivious to her own rudeness. “And then, perhaps we could find you a husband!”
Callie had to escape before she did serious damage either to a member of the family or to her own sanity. Without meeting Beatrice’s eyes—she could not guarantee that she wouldn’t say something thoroughly nasty to the horrible woman—Callie made her excuses, “Pardon me, Aunt, I think I should see to the…kitchens.” She didn’t care that the explanation made little sense, what with dinner long over; she simply had to flee.
Holding back tears, Callie escaped to her brother’s study—the nearest room where she knew wayward guests would not disturb her. Guided by the moonlight spilling in through the enormous windows that lined one wall of the study, she made her way to the sideboard and retrieved a glass and a bottle of sherry before moving to a large chair in the far corner of the room that had long been a sanctuary for Allendale men.
It will have to serve the purpose for an Allendale female tonight, she thought, letting out a long, slow breath as she poured herself a glass of sherry, set the heavy crystal decanter down on the floor, and threw her legs over one arm of the chair, making herself comfortable.
“What has you sighing, sister mine?”
Callie gave a little start, turning in the direction of the imposing mahogany desk at the other side of the room. She saw the shadowed figure behind it and smiled broadly into the darkness. “You startled me.”
“Yes, well, forgive me if I don’t apologize. You entered my lair.” Benedick Hartwell, Earl of Allendale, rose and moved across the room to seat himself in the chair opposite Callie. “I hope you have a good reason, or I shall have to send you back.”
Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake Page 3