Her thoughts were interrupted by a little gasp, “No! We shall be caught!”
“And what then?” the words came on a masculine chuckle.
“I suppose then you shall have to marry me, Your Grace.” Callie’s eyes widened at the blatant sensuality in her little sister’s tone. When had Mariana become a doxy?
Rivington groaned in the darkness. “Anything that gets you into my bed more quickly.”
It was Mariana’s turn to laugh, entirely inappropriately. And then there was silence, punctuated only by the soft sounds of lips on flesh and silk on skin.
Callie’s mouth dropped open. Yes, she should definitely close the door.
Then why didn’t she?
Because it wasn’t fair.
It simply wasn’t fair that her baby sister—who had looked up to her for so long, who, for so many years, had turned to her for advice and guidance and friendship—was now experiencing this remarkable new world of love.
Mariana had come out with a vengeance, the star of the season, and Callie had been so very proud of her. And when Mari had caught the eye of Rivington, the catch of the ton, Callie had celebrated alongside her little sister.
And Callie was happy for Mariana.
But how much longer could she happily stand by as Mariana lived the life that Callie herself had longed for? Everything would change. Mariana would do all that Callie had never done. She would marry, and bear children, and run a household, and grow old in the arms of a man who loved her. And Callie would remain here in Allendale House, a spinster.
Until Benedick found a wife. And she was relegated to the country. Alone.
Callie swallowed back the sting of tears, refusing to allow herself to feel self-pity in the face of Mariana’s happiness. She moved to close the door to the study softly, to leave the lovers in peace.
Before she could, however, Mariana spoke, breathlessly. “No, Riv. We cannot. My mother would horsewhip us both if we ruined her chance for a wedding.”
Rivington groaned softly. “She has two other children.”
“Yes, but…” There was a pause, and Callie did not have to see her sister to read her thoughts. What are the odds that either of them will marry anytime soon?
“Benedick will marry,” Rivington said, humor in his tone. “He’s simply waiting until the last possible moment to do so.”
“It is not Benedick about whom I worry.”
“Mari, we’ve discussed this. She is welcome at Fox Haven.”
Callie’s mouth dropped open in outrage at the mention of Rivington’s country seat. She? Could they mean her? They had discussed her fate? As though she were an orphaned child in need of care?
As though she were an unmarried female with no prospects.
Which, of course, she was.
Her mouth closed.
“She will make a wonderful aunt,” Rivington added.
Excellent. He’s already sloughing off the heirs to the dukedom on the spinster aunt.
“She would have made a wonderful mother,” Mariana said, and her emphatic words brought a watery smile to Callie’s face. She tried to ignore her sister’s use of the past tense as Mari added, “I only wish she could have had what we have. She so deserves it.”
Rivington sighed. “She does. But I am afraid that only Callie can seize such a life for herself. If she remains so…” He paused, searching for the word, and Callie strained to hear—the angle of her body so unnatural that she risked toppling over entirely. “Passive…she shall never have those things.”
Passive?
Callie imagined Mariana nodding her agreement. “Callie needs an adventure. Of course, she shall never seek one out.”
There was a long pause as their words—so lacking in malice and still so painful—echoed around Callie, suffocating her with the heavy weight of their meaning. And all at once, she could not seem to catch her breath or stop the tears from welling.
“Perhaps you would like an adventure for yourself, my beauty.” Rivington’s sensual tone was restored, and Mariana’s responding giggle proved too much to bear. Callie closed the door quietly, blocking out the sound.
If only she could block out the memory of their words.
Passive. What a horrible word. What a terrible sentiment. Passive and plain and unadventurous and destined for a boring, staid, utterly uninteresting life. She choked back tears, leaning her forehead against the cool mahogany door and considering the very real possibility that she was about to cast up her accounts.
Taking great, heaving breaths, she attempted to calm herself, the powerful combination of sherry and emotion threatening to bring her low.
She did not want to be that woman—the one of whom they spoke. She had never planned to be that woman. Somehow, it had happened, however…somehow, she had lost her way and, without realizing it, she had she chosen this staid, boring life instead of a different, more adventurous one.
And now her younger sister was mere feet away, on the brink of self-induced ruin, and Callie had never even been kissed.
It was enough to drive a spinster to drink.
Of course, she’d done enough of that tonight.
It was enough to drive a spinster to action.
Reaching into her bodice, she produced the folded piece of paper she had placed there only minutes earlier. Fingering the rounded edges of the square, she considered her next move.
She could go to bed, drown herself in tears and sherry, and spend the rest of her life not only regretting her inaction but—worse—knowing those around her believed her passive.
Or, she could change.
She could complete the list.
Now. Tonight.
She smoothed back an errant lock of hair; noted her missing lace cap.
Tonight. She would begin with an item that was a challenge. An item that would set her squarely on this new, bold, un-Callie-like course.
Taking another deep breath, she pulled open the door to the study and stepped into the darkened foyer of Allendale House, no longer caring if she stumbled upon Mariana and Rivington. In fact, she barely registered that they were gone.
She hadn’t time for them, anyway, she thought as she hurried up the wide marble staircase to her bedchamber. She had to change her gown.
Lady Calpurnia was going out.
Three
Callie watched the hackney cab drive off down the darkened street, leaving her utterly stranded.
She gave a little sigh of dismay as the clatter of horses’ hooves faded into the distance, replaced by the pounding of her heart and the rushing of blood in her ears. She should have begun with the scotch. And she certainly should not have had so much sherry.
Had she remained abstemious, she would most definitely not be standing here, alone, in front of the home of one of London’s most notorious rakes, in the middle of the night. What had she been thinking?
Clearly, she hadn’t been thinking—at all.
For a fleeting moment, she considered turning back to the street and hailing the next hackney that passed, but fast on the heels of that thought came the realization that her reputation would be thoroughly destroyed should she be discovered.
“I shall have Benedick’s head for this,” she muttered to herself, pulling the hood of her dark cloak lower over her face. “Mariana’s as well.” Of course, it was neither Benedick nor Mariana who had forced her into a hack, risking her safety and good name. She’d done that all on her own.
With a deep breath, she accepted the truth…that she had landed herself squarely in the midst of this mess, that her reputation was mere minutes from being in tatters, and that her best chance of surviving this situation intact lay inside Ralston House. She winced at the thought.
Ralston House. Dear Lord. What had she done?
She had to go inside. She had no choice. Standing on the street for the rest of the night was not an option. Once indoors, she would beg the butler to ferry her from the house to a hack, and, if all went well, she could be in her bed withi
n the hour. He would certainly feel obligated to protect her. She was a lady, after all. Even if her actions that evening were not precisely bearing that out.
And what if Ralston were to open the door?
Callie shook her head at the thought. First, marquesses did not go around opening their own doors. And secondly, the odds of this particular marquess being home at this particular hour were slim to none. He was likely off with a paramour somewhere. An image flashed through her mind, pulled from a decade-old memory of him locked in a heated embrace with a breathtakingly beautiful woman.
Yes. She had made a horrid mistake. She would just have to escape as quickly as possible.
She squared her shoulders and approached the imposing entrance of Ralston House. She had barely let the knocker fall when the large oak door swung open, revealing an aged servant who seemed not at all surprised to find a young woman standing outside his master’s home. Stepping aside, he allowed her to enter, closing the door behind her as she took in the warm, inviting entryway to the long-established London home of the Marquesses of Ralston.
Instinctively, she began to push the hood of her cloak back from her face only to realize that the events to follow would be easier if she were shielded from recognition. Resisting the impulse, she turned to the servant, and said, “Thank you, good sir.”
“Indeed, milady.” The butler offered a short, respectful bow and began to shuffle toward the wide staircase leading to the upper floors of the house. “If you will follow me?”
Follow you where? Callie recovered quickly from her surprise, “Oh, I do not mean to—” she paused, not sure of the end of the sentence.
He stopped at the foot of the staircase. “Certainly not, milady. It is no trouble. I shall simply provide you escort to your destination.”
“My—My destination?” Callie stopped abruptly, her question laced with confusion.
The butler cleared his throat. “Above stairs, milady.”
“Above stairs.” She was beginning to sound like a ninny even to herself.
“That is where his lordship is at the moment.” The butler gave her a curious look, as though questioning her mental faculties, before turning back to the staircase and beginning the climb to the second floor.
“His lordship.” Callie watched the servant mount the stairs as understanding dawned and her eyes went wide as saucers. Good lord. He thought her a lightskirt! The shocking realization was quickly followed by another—the butler thought her Ralston’s lightskirt. Which meant that Ralston was here. In the house.
“I’m not…” her words trailed off.
“Of course not, milady.” He spoke the words with perfect decorum, but she had the distinct sense that he had heard the same, meek protest from countless other women, countless times before. Women who had feigned innocence for propriety’s sake.
She had to escape.
Unless…
No. She quashed the little voice. No unless. Her reputation was hanging by a thread. She’d be safer hailing a hackney by herself on the dark London streets than following this ancient butler to Lord knew where.
To Ralston’s rooms.
Callie nearly choked at the thought. She would never drink sherry again.
“Milady?” The word, delivered with all decorum, held an unspoken query. Was Callie going to follow?
This was her chance. Misguided or not, this was what she had hoped for when she’d sneaked from the house and hailed a hack. She’d wanted to see Ralston—to prove that she had the courage for adventure. And here she was, her objective squarely within reach.
This is your chance to prove yourself more than passive.
She swallowed, staring mutely up at the old man. Fine. She would follow him. And she would ask Ralston to help get her home. It would be embarrassing, but he would come to her aid. He had to. She was the sister of a peer of the realm, and he was a gentleman.
She hoped.
Maybe not, though. A thrill coursed through her at the thought.
She pushed it aside, giving a silent prayer of thanks that she had thought to change into her most flattering gown before making the trip. Not that Ralston would see the lavender silk beneath her plain black traveling cloak—she had absolutely no intention of revealing her identity to the marquess except as a last resort—but knowing that she wore her prettiest dress gave her an extra ounce of confidence as she lifted her skirts and began to climb.
As she moved up the staircase, Callie detected the sound of faraway, muffled music that became louder as the butler led her sedately down a long, dimly lit corridor. He stopped in front of a large mahogany door that did nothing to contain the music that spilled from the room. Callie couldn’t help the flash of curiosity that, for a brief moment, overpowered her nervousness.
The butler rapped twice, and a strong, clear “Enter” sounded above the music. He opened the door, but did not cross the threshold. Instead, he moved aside to let Callie enter alone, which she did, tentatively.
The door closed behind her. She was in the lion’s den, wrapped in a cloak of shadow and sound.
The large room was barely lit, a hint of light from a few spare candles illuminating the space in a quiet, intimate glow. Even without its enveloping darkness, it was the most masculine room she had ever seen—decorated in rich, dark wood and deep, earthen colors. The walls were covered in a wine-colored silk; the floor boasted an enormous woven carpet that could only have come from the Orient. The furniture was large and imposing—bookshelves lined two walls, each one full to bursting. On the third wall was a large mahogany bed draped in midnight blue fabrics. As her gaze fell to it, her mind flashed to her earlier fantasy of Odysseus and Penelope and a very different but equally alluring bed.
Callie swallowed nervously, averting her gaze from the scandalous furnishing, her eyes alighting on the master of the house, seated on the far end of the room, his back to the door, at a pianoforte. She had never imagined a piano outside of a conservatory or a ballroom—certainly never as an addition to a bedchamber. He had not turned away from the instrument at her intrusion, instead raising a hand to stay any words that might have interrupted his playing.
The piece he played was dark and melodic, and Callie was immediately captivated by its blend of talent and emotion. She watched, riveted by his tanned and corded arms, bare to the elbows, where his white-linen shirtsleeves had been haphazardly rolled; by his strong hands dancing deliberately, instinctively across the keys; by the curve of his neck as his head dipped low in concentration.
When he finished the piece, the last of the notes lingered in the heavy air as he lifted his head and turned toward the door, revealing long, muscled legs in tight breeches and knee-high riding boots; his shirt, open at the collar, without cravat or waistcoat to hide the sliver of skin there; the rippling muscles of his shoulders as he straightened on the stool.
When he noticed her, the only sign of his surprise was a slight narrowing of his gaze, barely perceptible as he searched for her identity in the dim light of the room. She was never more thankful for her hooded cloak than at that moment. He stood calmly and folded his arms.
An untrained eye would have thought that his position was one of carelessness, but Callie’s years of watching rather than participating in London society had given her a keen sense of awareness. He appeared all at once angular…more tense, the muscles in his arms taut with coiled strength. He was not happy to have a visitor. At least, not a female one.
She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize for her intrusion, to escape, but before she could say anything, his words cut across the room. “I should have guessed that you wouldn’t accept my ending our acquaintance. Though, I confess I am surprised that you would be so bold as to visit me here.”
Callie’s mouth closed in surprise as he continued, his tone firm, his words cold. “I had not wanted to make this more difficult than it had to be, Nastasia, but I see you will not accept my decision. It is over.”
Dear Lord. He thought her a tossed-over
paramour! Granted, she wasn’t exactly presenting herself as a gentlewoman, arriving as she had—unbidden—on the doorstep, in the dead of night, but this was really too much! She should correct him.
“Nothing to say, Nastasia? That’s rather out of character, is it not?”
Then again, remaining silent required far less courage than revealing herself to this imposing man.
He gave an irritated sigh, clearly through with the one-sided conversation. “I think I was more than generous with the end of our agreement, Nastasia. You retain the house, the jewels, the clothes—I’ve given you more than enough rein with which to bridle your next patron, have I not?”
Callie gasped, outraged at the way he was so callously and cavalierly ending a romance.
Her response garnered a humorless laugh from the marquess. “There is no need to play the shocked miss. We both know that naïveté escaped you long ago.” His tone was cool and emotionless as he dismissed her, “You may find your own way out.” He resumed his seat, turning his back to her and beginning to play once more.
Callie had never thought she would feel for one of the courtesans who lurked on the edges of the ton as mistresses of the aristocracy, but she couldn’t help but take offense on this particular woman’s behalf. And to think, she had thought Ralston a pillar among men!
She stood, fists clenched in womanly outrage, wondering just what she should do. No…she knew what she should do. She should leave this room immediately and flee this house. She should return to her quiet, calm life and forget her silly list. But that was not what she wanted to do.
What she wanted to do was teach this man a lesson. And her anger made her brave enough to stay.
He did not look back as he said, “I beg you not to make this situation any more awkward than you have, Nastasia.”
“I’m afraid this situation can only become more awkward, my lord.”
Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake Page 5