Typically, Ralston found the boisterous Oxford—more often than not deep in his cups—to be insufferable, but considering the marquess’s need for diversion, he made an exception. He stood and approached the group.
“Ten guineas on Prudence Marworthy.”
“She’s got the face of a horse!” This, from Oxford himself.
“Her dowry is worth keeping the lights out!” came a voice from the back of the crowd. Ralston was the only man in the room who did not laugh at the joke.
“I’ve got twenty guineas that says none but Berwick’s daughter will have you!” The Earl of Chilton threw his bet into the pool, garnering a round of groans at the insensitive wager, interspersed with surprise for the size of Chilton’s wager.
“She may be simple,” Oxford said with a laugh, “but her father is the richest man in England!”
Uninterested in the base conversation, Ralston turned to leave the room. He had almost reached the door when a voice called out, above the rest.
“I’ve got it! The Allendale chit!”
He stilled, then turned back to hear the response. The woman was haunting him.
“No good. She’s just been betrothed to Rivington,” someone said. “And you’re touched if you think The Allendale Angel would settle for Oxford.”
“Not the pretty one…the other.”
“The fleshy one?”
“With the ridiculous name?”
Oxford held court with a swagger that was likely the result of too much drink, enjoying every minute of the immature attention. “That said, Rivington did make a smart move marrying into the Allendale fortune…Lady Cassiopeia wouldn’t be the worst ending to my story.”
“Calpurnia.” Ralston said the name softly, too softly to be heard, at the same time one of the other men corrected Oxford.
The baron continued, waving his glass in the air dismissively. “Well, whatever her name, I’d be wealthy again—wealthy enough to keep a stellar mistress and never bother with the wife. Except to get her with the heir and the spare. And I imagine that, at her age”—he paused for bawdy emphasis—“she’ll be grateful for whatever I give her.”
Oxford’s statement brought a round of cacophonous laughter.
A visceral distaste coursed through Ralston. There was no way Calpurnia Hartwell would marry Oxford. No woman with that kind of passion would settle for such an ass. Ralston had never been so certain of anything in his life.
“Who is willing to match a wager that she’s mine by June?”
Several of Oxford’s friends entered the pool, with others wagering that the Earl of Allendale would step in and refuse the match, and at least one man betting that Oxford would have to elope with Lady Calpurnia in order to achieve his gains.
“I’ll take all the wagers.” Ralston’s words, despite their being spoken quietly from across the room, silenced the other men who, to a man, turned to look at him.
Oxford offered him a broad smile. “Ah, Ralston. I hadn’t noticed you. You’d like to place a bet on my future bride?”
Ralston couldn’t imagine a single situation in which the woman who had marched herself into his home last evening would consider Oxford anything more than an irritation. He’d never seen a wager so easily won as this one. Like taking sweets from a babe. “Indeed, Oxford. I’ll take every one of the bets on Lady Calpurnia. There is not a chance in hell that she’ll marry you.” He turned to the bookmaker. “Finney, mark my words. If Oxford even has an opportunity to offer for Lady Calpurnia, she’ll most certainly refuse.”
A rustle of surprise went through the crowd as Finney asked, “How much, my lord?”
Ralston met Oxford’s eyes as he spoke. “One thousand pounds will keep it interesting, I would imagine,” he said, turning and exiting the room, leaving the group of men utterly dumbfounded.
The gauntlet had been thrown.
Six
Callie had thought that tonight would be different.
She had expected Mariana and Rivington’s betrothal ball to be perfect. And it was—every inch of the room had been polished until it shone, from the floors and windows, to the enormous crystal chandeliers and wall sconces that held thousands of twinkling candles, to the marble columns that lined one length of the room, supporting the most impressive feature of the Allendale House ballroom—an upper viewing corridor that allowed guests in need of a respite to find one without ever leaving the ballroom.
She’d expected that Mariana would sparkle, and she did—a glittering gem on Rivington’s arm, swirling through the dozens of other couples in a rousing country dance. And the other guests seemed to agree with Callie; they were thrilled to be there, at the first major event of the season, to fête Mariana and her duke. The ton was at its best, dressed in the height of fashion, eager to see and be seen by those whom they had missed while away from London for the winter months.
Callie had imagined that this ball would be special for both Allendale sisters, however.
And yet, here she sat, in Spinster Seating. As usual.
She should be used to it, of course—used to being ignored and sloughed off with the rest of the women who were on the shelf. Truthfully, in the early years, she’d preferred it here. The women had accepted her into their fold, graciously making room for her on whatever furniture happened to be arranged for their kind. Callie had found it much more enjoyable to watch the season unfold while trading gossip with the older women than to stand awkwardly on the other side of the room waiting patiently to be asked to dance by an eligible young gentleman.
After two seasons of fortune hunters and aging widowers, Callie had welcomed the companionship of the spinsters.
And then, she’d turned into one of them.
She wasn’t even really sure when or how it had happened, but it had. And now, she had very little choice in the matter.
But tonight was Mariana’s betrothal ball. Tonight was Calpurnia’s first ball since she had begun crossing items off her list. And tonight she had honestly thought that things might be different. After all, as the bride’s obvious choice for maid of honor, did she not earn special recognition at an event wholly designed to celebrate the pending nuptials?
Watching the dancers, she let out a little sigh. Evidently not.
“Oh, Calpurnia.” Miss Genevieve Hetherington, a middle-aged spinster with kind eyes and a complete lack of sensitivity, patted Callie’s knee gently with one lace-gloved hand. “You must move beyond that, my dear. Some of us are not made for dancing.”
“Indeed not.” The words were wrung from Callie, who took the opportunity to stand and excuse herself. Certainly that would be a more preferable course of action than strangling one of the ton’s most beloved spinsters.
Keeping her head down to limit the number of people she might be required to acknowledge, Callie made her way to the refreshment room.
She was waylaid by Baron Oxford mere feet from her destination. “My lady!”
Callie pasted a too-bright smile on her face and turned toward the baron, who flashed her the toothiest grin she had ever seen. Unable to keep herself from doing so, she took a small step back from the beaming man. “Baron Oxford. What a surprise.”
“Yes, I rather suppose it is.” His smile did not waver.
She paused, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she said, “I am happy to see that you could join us tonight.”
“Not so happy as I am to have been able to join you, my lady.”
The emphasis on the honorific sent a wave of confusion through Callie. Did the baron mean for his words to sound so suggestive? Surely not, considering that Callie couldn’t recall the last time she’d spoken with the incurable dandy. She cleared her throat delicately. “Well. Thank you.”
“You look quite lovely tonight.” Oxford leaned in, and his smile broadened. Was it possible that the man had more than the usual number of teeth?
“Oh.” Belatedly, Callie remembered to dip her head and appear flattered instead of thoroughly bewildered. “Tha
nk you, my lord.”
Oxford looked entirely proud of himself. “Perhaps you would do me the honor of a dance?” When she did not immediately respond, he lifted her hand to his lips and lowered his voice, adding, “I’ve been meaning to ask you all evening.”
The unexpected interaction set Callie back on her heels. Is he soused?
As she considered the eager invitation, Callie heard the orchestra tuning to the first tentative notes of a waltz and was immediately resistant to the idea of dancing with Oxford. The waltz had not come to England until after Callie had been labeled a spinster, and she had never had a chance to dance it—at least, not with anyone other than Benedick in the privacy of their home. She certainly did not want her first waltz in public to be with Oxford, grinning like a fool. With a quick look into the refreshment room, she considered her best avenue for escape.
“Oh. Well. I—” she hedged.
“Calpurnia! There you are!” Miss Heloise Parkthwaite, in her fifties and quite nearsighted, came from nowhere to clutch Callie’s arm. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you! Do be a dear and escort me to have my hem repaired, would you?”
A wave of relief coursed through Callie; she was saved. “Of course, Heloise, dear,” she said. Tugging her hand from Oxford’s grasp, she offered a regretful smile in his direction. “Perhaps another time, my lord?”
“Indeed! I shan’t allow you to escape me next time!” Oxford punctuated his sentence with a booming laugh, and she responded with a tiny, stilted chuckle before turning away to lead Heloise in the direction of the ladies’ salon.
Callie took Heloise’s arm, and the older woman began chattering about the daring bodices that were clearly in fashion that year. Between nodding and murmuring in a manner she hoped appeared both intrigued and entertained, Callie allowed her mind to wander—turning from the odd interaction with Oxford to thoughts of her list.
She promptly decided that if she was to suffer through an entire evening of bizarre conversation and Spinster Seating, she well deserved another attempt at adventure. In fact, she was sorely tempted to do drop Heloise safely in the ladies’ salon and take the opportunity to escape immediately to her list.
If, of course, they ever arrived at the ladies’ salon. The older woman had stopped midstride and was squinting into the crowd. “Is that Ralston I see there? How odd!”
Callie’s heart skipped a beat at the words, and she turned to follow the direction of Heloise’s attention but, because of her lack of height, could see nothing through the mass of people surrounding them. Reminding herself of Heloise’s terrible eyesight, Callie shook her head, returning herself to the task of navigating through the crowds. It couldn’t be Ralston.
Heloise evidently agreed. “No, it cannot be Ralston. He rarely attends balls. It must be St. John.”
Callie let out a breath that she hadn’t known she’d been holding. Of course. It could be Lord Nicholas. Please, let it be Lord Nicholas.
“How curious that he be approaching us, though.”
Unable to keep herself from doing so, Callie snapped her head back to the crowd just in time to see the tall, magnificent gentleman moving gracefully toward them, determination in his blue eyes.
It wasn’t Lord Nicholas.
Even if the lack of scar had not revealed his identity, Callie would have known. Nicholas’s shoulders weren’t quite as broad, his jaw wasn’t quite as strong, his eyes weren’t quite as all-consuming as his brother’s. St. John had never made her breath catch, had never set her pulse racing, had never made her think absolutely unthinkable thoughts.
No, the man approaching them was most definitely not Lord Nicholas St. John.
But how she wished he were.
Callie glanced quickly from side to side, attempting to judge the quickest and least crowded escape route, by which she could avoid a meeting with Ralston. Bodies seemed to close in upon them from all sides—with the exception of the direction from which he approached. She met his knowing gaze as he raised one dark, perfectly arched brow.
She was trapped. Trapped alongside the sputtering Heloise, who, one might believe, hadn’t been approached by a handsome gentleman in years.
Not that it was a common occurrence for Callie.
“Lord Nicholas!” Heloise cried, a touch too loudly. “How lovely to see you!”
“Heloise, dear,” Callie spoke quietly to her companion. “’Tis Ralston.”
Heloise squinted, her gaze falling obviously to Ralston’s cheek, searching for the telltale difference between the brothers. “Oh! Of course! My apologies, Lord Ralston.” She dropped a quick curtsy.
“No apologies necessary, Miss Parkthwaite.” He bowed low over Heloise’s gloved hand, before adding, “I assure you, I consider it a great compliment. My brother is the better-looking of the pair.”
“Oh, no, my lord,” Heloise tittered, blushing and waving her fan like a drunken hummingbird. “Certainly not!”
Ralston offered the older woman a wink before saying, “Well, far be it from me to disagree with a lady.”
The words sent Heloise into a fit of giggles as Ralston turned to Callie, who offered her hand to Ralston. Ralston bowed low, sending a shiver of heat up her arm. “Lady Calpurnia, I had hoped to secure your next available dance.”
Heloise gasped in surprise as Callie blurted out, “I beg your pardon?”
“The next dance.” Ralston repeated, looking from one woman to the other as if they were both slightly touched. “I will admit I do not attend as many balls as I likely should these days, but people do still dance at them, do they not?”
“Oh! Yes, indeed, my lord,” Heloise interjected helpfully.
“In that case,” Ralston’s eyes sparkled with checked humor, “may I have your dance card, Lady Calpurnia?”
“I do not have a dance card.” She so rarely danced, she did not need one.
There was a beat as he took in her words.
“Excellent. That makes it much easier to claim a dance, then, doesn’t it?” Ralston turned back to Heloise. “Do you mind if I thieve your companion, Miss Heloise?”
Dumbfounded, Heloise could do little more than shake her head, and sputter, “Not at all!”
Callie stood still, feet rooted to the floor, refusing to be led onto the dance floor. She couldn’t waltz with Ralston. He couldn’t be her first waltz. It would most definitely ruin her for all others.
Men like Ralston are not for women like you, Callie.
No. Indeed they were not. Especially not when they were threatening to waltz with her. In the interest of self-preservation, Callie shook her head firmly. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly, my lord. You see, I’ve promised Heloise I would accompany her to—”
“Nonsense!” Heloise said, her tone high-pitched and breathless. “I shall be quite fine! You must waltz, Lady Calpurnia.” At the last, the older woman beamed up at Ralston, nodding excitedly.
And the decision was made.
Ralston swept her into the center of the room for her first waltz.
As he guided her across the floor, Callie saw her mother at the opposite end of the room, standing with a beaming Mariana, watching them. The dowager countess looked utterly shocked. Callie gave her a little nod of acknowledgment, trying her best to appear as though handsome marquesses approached her at every ball she attended.
Desperate to lighten the situation—for her own good sense—Callie said dryly, “You’ve certainly given everyone something to talk about tonight, my lord.”
“I suppose you mean my attendance. Well, I rather thought that with Juliana on her way out, I had better start ingratiating myself to the ton.” After a long pause, he added, “Why do you not dance?”
Callie considered his question for a moment before replying. “I did, for several years. And then…I stopped.”
Unsatisfied with her answer, he pressed on. “Why?”
She gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “The partners were not altogether ideal. Those who weren’t fortune hunters were
elderly or boring or…simply unpleasant. It became easier to avoid the invitations altogether than to suffer their company.”
“I hope you do not consider me so distasteful.”
She allowed herself to meet his amused gaze. No. Ralston was not distasteful. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
“No, my lord,” she said, the softness in her tone betraying her thoughts before she added, “And neither does Miss Heloise, it appears. She was quite charmed by you.”
“One must use one’s talents to one’s advantage, Lady Calpurnia.”
“Something I am certain you do quite well.”
His voice deepened. “I assure you, I do it very well.”
Refusing to allow herself to be flustered, she said, “Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Callie failed to notice the double meaning in her words until they were out of her mouth.
He raised one brow. “Indeed?”
Callie’s cheeks flamed as she redirected her gaze to his elaborate cravat, wishing that she were as erudite and alluring as the women with whom he was accustomed to dancing. They, of course, would know exactly how to play his flirtatious game.
“Come now, Lady Calpurnia,” he teased quietly, “to which of the nefarious deeds of my past do you refer?”
She met his eyes again, noting the challenge there. “Oh, any number of them, my lord,” she said lightly, enjoying herself. “Is it true you once leapt from a countess’s balcony quite unfortunately into a holly bush below?”
Ralston’s eyes widened slightly at her quiet question before amusement flashed. “A gentleman would neither confirm nor deny such an occurrence.”
Callie laughed. “On the contrary, my lord. A gentleman would most certainly deny such an occurrence.”
He smiled, a rakish grin, and Callie was thankful for the companionable silence that fell between them, for she was not certain she could find words in the face of his rare smile. She lost herself in the dance, in the sound of the music, in the sway of their bodies. If this was to be her first and only waltz, she wanted to remember every moment. She closed her eyes, allowing Ralston to guide her around the room, and Callie became keenly aware of his gloved hand barely touching her waist, the brush of his long, muscled leg against her own as they swirled across the floor. After several moments, she became disoriented and opened her eyes, uncertain whether the source of her light-headedness was the movement or the man. Meeting Ralston’s blue eyes, she accepted the truth.
Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake Page 9