Such grim thoughts engrossed her when the viscount came strolling in, whistling.
“Not asleep today, I see,” he drawled. “Always a good sign.”
Although Lord Rexton’s moods were unpredictable, most often he addressed her with this teasing banter. She never quite knew how to reply—nor what to do about the dangerous prickle of warmth his teasing lit within her.
He walked over to where Callista stood on the step stool. From this position, she looked down on the viscount. He tilted up his golden head at her, amused, it seemed, by the difference in their heights. “I see you’re making most splendid progress, Miss Higginbotham.” With a wink, he reached up to stroke the book spines nearest her cheek.
She hastily pushed the last book into place and turned away, in time with the sudden rapid beating of her heart. The very air was warmer around him; the library smelled different with him in the room, spicier. She tried to step down, but her senses overcame her, and her balance gave out. With a little cry, she flailed and grabbed for the shelving as she tottered.
“Careful now.” He moved in with a firm hand on her waist to steady her.
It was too much; he was much too close. He stood almost pressed against her length, his head near her bosom, and her hands—how had this happened?—her hands clutching his shoulders. Even through the layers of Marie’s borrowed silk—ruffled russet brown today—and her own crinoline and corset, she felt his touch. Worse, she felt her own body respond, an odd throb in her veins and a clenching low near her middle. For a moment, she couldn’t speak, could only bow her head at the roiling confusion gripping her.
He must have felt it as well. “Callista,” he murmured low, in a different voice than his usual urbane drawl. It was the first time he’d used her Christian name. She shouldn’t permit it, of course. There was no basis for such intimacy of address—none she could allow.
“You mustn’t,” she began, breathless. But before she could attempt more, he tightened his grip on her waist. And then, somehow, his other hand slid to her leg. Had her skirt flared up?
Ah, sweet merciful heavens—she was lost.
That hand—large, warm, solid—grasped lightly around her leather-booted ankle. Her face and neck flushed with heat. It wasn’t her balance that posed the problem now. It was a fire of some sort, simmering inside her, a fire that threatened to burn through all her defenses and unleash some wildness within.
“Lord Rexton . . .” She tried again to speak, on a note of desperation. But what to say? She had to stop him. It was wrong. Her reputation hung by a thread for precisely such reason as this. Her unchaperoned presence made such moments of abandon possible. To her shame, her own will seemed insufficient to prevent such abandoning of all sense and respectability. She had to tell him to stop. She would so tell him—in a moment.
But what sensations! What strange pleasure unfurled at his touch!
“Callista,” he repeated. “I won’t . . . you needn’t worry.” He seemed no more articulate than her at the moment, his own breath rather erratic as he slid his hand slowly up her calf.
Her sensible cotton stockings weren’t as thin as the silk of a proper lady’s toilette, but much sturdier and longer-lasting. And still able to transmit the sensation of a man’s firm hand trailing up her leg. No one had ever touched her in such a way! She fought for control, but the sensation quite overwhelmed her.
Her breathing betrayed her, she knew—the too-fast pants. Surely he could hear her heart hammering, so loud did it beat in her own ears. She feared she was making a vast fool of herself. The Master of Love didn’t need another besotted woman swooning at his feet.
And then he did seem to master himself. His hand stopped its upward climb, slowly lifted away—almost regretfully. He smoothed down her skirts, stepped back, and held out that hand to her to help her off the step stool, his other arm still firm about her waist.
“Miss Higginbotham?” His voice rumbled out unwavering, that deep brandy purr steady. “Graves indicated there was a matter you wished to discuss with me?”
He stood so composed, holding out that damned hand, the perfect chiseled planes of his face such a mask of polished sophistication, she wondered if she’d imagined his discomposure of a moment ago. Her own discomposure, she knew, was in humiliating evidence: her flushed skin, a new scent rising from her. He had the experience to judge the effect he’d wrought; she hadn’t the experience to disguise it. What must he think of her?
And still, she had to ask him for the money.
After practically throwing herself at him, allowing him to take such liberties with her, she had to ask for the funds—or all was lost.
The brown silk rustled as she clutched it tight in both hands, turned to her side, and stepped carefully off the stool, her back deliberately to him. She walked, slowly, across the long expanse of the library to his newly installed desk.
Let him follow her.
After a moment he did, settling himself across the desk from the seat she took in front of it. He looked so gloriously attractive and in control that she felt an abrupt stab of hatred for his ridiculous beauty, his privilege, the wealth and ease of his life. What did this finely handsome man know of suffering or need? What right did he have to play such games with her? She drew a shaky breath and curled her fingers tight.
“My lord, there is indeed a small matter I would discuss with you, if I may.” It took a conscious effort of will not to twist her sweaty palms into her skirts and to sit calmly before his huge desk.
He raised a brow, giving away nothing. “Certainly—with what may I help you?”
Very well. If he wished to pretend nothing had happened, she could do the same. She perched on the very edge of the chair, her spine stiff with mortification. Too late, she realized she should have contrived to bring it up at luncheon. It had been only Mr. Danvers and the two of them today and they’d talked of books; an acquaintance had sent Lord Rexton a manuscript entitled “The German Ideology” by two young philosophers, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, who were looking for a publisher. As they’d discussed the difficulties of German translation, he’d made her feel like a valued colleague whose opinion he respected, and she couldn’t—just couldn’t—bring herself to destroy that pleasant glow. After luncheon, away from his mesmerizing presence, she’d cursed herself for a fool, sighing after his attention when what they needed, urgently, was simply his money. After all, it was her money, she fiercely told herself, legitimately earned, or would be by the end of this assignment, and with that mental shaking, she forced herself to open her mouth.
“My lord . . .” But it was all she could get out of her choked throat. His inquiring look only made her more self-conscious. She glanced away and desperately forced up a mental image of Garforth leering at her or, worse yet, turning that leer on Daphne. It was her sister’s sweet face that finally enabled her to speak.
“My lord, I have a request in regard to my payment for the organization of your library collection,” she said quickly. “I realize our original contract arranges for payment on a regular schedule as the work proceeds, but I was wondering”—she closed her eyes briefly—“whether we could arrange for my full payment somewhat early. Now, in fact.”
“I see.” He blinked once. “Certainly, if you wish it. I trust there is not some problem? Do you foresee my imminent bankruptcy and wish to assure yourself of the payment?”
The corners of her lips lifted in a humorless smile. “No, of course not. It’s simply a matter of scheduling needs on my part.” That vague explanation would have to keep his questions at bay.
He paused for a second, clearly wanting to know more, but she couldn’t bear to speak the full truth to him. She could barely stand thinking about it herself.
“Very well,” he said finally, tapping the end of his pen against the polished mahogany of his desk. “I shall have Danvers prepare a bank draft in the full sum. It should be ready tomorrow morning at your arrival. Would that suit?”
She did twist a ha
nd into her skirts then. “Actually, if I may have the draft before leaving this evening, I would appreciate it. And I may be somewhat late arriving tomorrow morning. But you have my word of honor, of course, that I will fully carry out the work of our contract.” She forced herself to keep her head up, although she couldn’t look at his face. The rain was finally clearing and the sun, coming out from behind the departing clouds, streamed into one side of the window bay behind his desk. It lit up his honey-gold hair, too beautiful for any man. She kept her eyes fixed on the sunbeam, with its dancing dust motes, and felt a burning desire to be far, far away.
He finally did put down his pen and lean forward. “Callista, I hope you understand I would be honored to offer advice or other aid, should you find yourself in some complicated circumstance. I realize you are a woman alone in the world, and responsible for your household. Even one as competent and organized as yourself may occasionally benefit from minor assistance from others.”
Lord, he probably thought she had gaming debts or some such. “I wouldn’t dream of troubling you, my lord. All is fine, I assure you.” Her tight smile fooled him not a whit, she was sure, but there was nothing more she could do or say, save pray he would not pursue the topic.
She felt his gaze on her for several long seconds before he pushed back from his desk and stood. “As you wish, Miss Higginbotham. Please excuse me whilst I find Danvers and make the arrangements.” He gave her a short bow, his dark eyes hooded now and his voice clipped. He felt rebuffed, she could tell, and was displeased, but would arrange the transfer of funds, and that was all that mattered.
She had the money, but she had lost her dignity.
Worse, she was plagued by the stupid feeling she’d lost a friend.
She returned, head high and back stiff, across the library to her worktable.
I will not cry, she chanted to herself in her mind. I will not cry.
’Twill all come right, some day or night.
Chapter 6
At the back of Rexton House in his lordship’s study, amidst the mess of the carpenters’ scaffolding and the aromatic scent of fresh-cut oak, Edward Danvers was busy declining invitations to four balls, two dinner parties, and a musical soirée. People were beginning to talk about how the Master of Love wasn’t getting about these days and hadn’t been much seen in Lady Barrington’s company. Danvers heard bets were in play on the identity of the new lover keeping Rexton abed. As secretary, he was far too loyal to gossip—and far too heartened by the lingering gaze of his employer on their new librarian to be swayed by any such tittle-tattle. Miss Higginbotham was a very different sort than the sophisticated and bored society wives Rexton was rumored to take on, and Danvers was beginning to entertain hopes she might help lift the restless sadness well hidden behind his master’s society façade.
“Daydreaming, Danvers?” His employer came striding in.
“No, sir”—Danvers rose to greet him—“just pondering how many hearts will break when you’re not in attendance at Lady Manningsworth’s evening of Mozart Tuesday next.”
“Somehow they’ll survive,” Rexton drawled. “Danvers, you’re going to do me a favor. Two in fact.”
“Certainly, my lord. Sounds like it might be interesting.”
“We’ll see. Frankly, I hope not.” Rexton tapped a rolled copy of The Times against his trouser leg absently. “First, I need a bank draft for whatever we owe Miss Higginbotham. In full, to be paid immediately.”
Danvers straightened in surprise. “Is there a problem? You’re not dismissing her, are you?”
“Hell no. But she apparently needs the payment now.”
“She asked you for it?” He grimaced. “That must have galled her.”
“Yes, poor thing, so we’re not going to make a fuss about it.”
“Of course, sir. I understand.”
“But I do want you to suss out why she needs the money. It seemed rather serious. And she didn’t want to tell me anything about it.”
Danvers came round from behind the desk. “Do you think she could be in some sort of trouble?”
“I hope not. She’s apparently quite alone and supporting her household with very little assistance. Her father seemed to leave them almost destitute at his death.”
“Poor planning on his part.”
“Yes, so see what you can find out. Make some inquiries, but be discreet. Maybe that footboy of hers can tell you something—Lord knows he only shoots daggers at me.” Rexton turned to leave. “I’m off to my clubs to track down Bedford. He’s the freehold landlord of most of Bloomsbury, so he may know something as well.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get some answers. I’ve got an idea or two.”
“Excellent.” Rexton saluted him with The Times on his way out. “And, Danvers? Brush the sawdust out of your hair. You look like a cabinetry apprentice gone to seed.”
It didn’t take Danvers long to put a plan in action. First he asked a footman to inform him when Billy went down for tea to the kitchens, in what he knew had become a daily routine. While waiting, he wrote out the bank draft and sent it with another footman in a discreet envelope to Miss Higginbotham. When the first footman returned with news the boy had gone below stairs, Danvers ambled off, armed with the pretext of tomorrow’s luncheon arrangements to discuss with Cook.
His first stop, however, was the tidy sitting room where Mrs. Stooks, their housekeeper, sat working on the household accounts. Like all the female employees, she adored the viscount, who treated her with an irresistible mix of respect, gallantry, and teasing flirtation. While Danvers realized he lacked his employer’s overwhelming charm, he still knew how to play his cards.
“Mrs. Stooks, his lordship needs a favor, and we think you’re exactly the one to help.”
She looked up, already smiling.
In short order, Danvers determined that not only did Mrs. Stooks have a friend whose cousin’s sister-in-law kept house for a physician in Bloomsbury, but she was confident she could deliver the goods on the inner workings of the Higginbotham household by this time tomorrow. Promises of full discretion secured, he headed down the hall to the busy kitchens.
“Billy, I have a question for you, lad.”
The boy looked at him suspiciously but got to his feet and wiped scone crumbs off his face with a sleeve. “Aye?”
“I heard you and Miss Higginbotham mention that a talented dressmaker lives or works with you. Is that indeed the case?”
“Why do ye need to know that?”
Cook overheard and scowled at the boy. “Billy, answer Mr. Danvers and keep a civil tongue in your head whilst you’re at it.”
“Perhaps it would reassure you, Billy, to know I inquire on behalf of Lady Rexton, his lordship’s mother, who returns next month from the Continent. I work for her ladyship as well, and as a lady of fashion, she is constantly on the lookout for new dressmakers to patronize.”
Billy took a moment to digest this information, scrutinizing Danvers and chewing on the last of his scone. “Well, Mam’zelle Beauvallon is lookin’ for new customers. And she’s a Paris dressmaker. She’s Miss H.’s friend,” Billy concluded, clearly intending that piece of news as the ultimate recommendation.
Danvers gave the boy credit. He was right to be suspicious—Danvers did have ulterior motives, although not ones to the detriment of the lad’s mistress. An overly chatty servant, giving up details of the household’s business, was not a good thing. Billy, however, didn’t seem motivated by a servant’s code of conduct so much as a deep personal attachment to his mistress. His loyalty bred a certain lack of deference toward his betters, but it was commendable nonetheless.
After squeezing more information from the ever-wary Billy, Danvers had Graves hail him a hansom and set out for Bloomsbury. The afternoon had turned into one of those warm spring days, all the more lovely for their rarity, when London’s sooty gray skies cleared blue with the promise of summer. He dismissed the cab in High Holborn and walked into the square to get a better s
ense of the Higginbothams’ situation. Although Bloomsbury hadn’t been the height of fashionable address since the end of the last century, when its aristocratic families moved west to St. James’s, Mayfair, and Belgravia, it offered a perfectly respectable middle-class neighborhood. The Higginbotham home at number 17 formed the end of the row of attached town houses along the north side of the square. The house looked trim and neat as he strolled closer, and he could see its roof tiles had recently been relaid. The paint could have used a little freshening up, but the home was no worse for wear than many of the solidly upright lawyers’ and merchants’ and writers’ homes and occasional businesses of the square. He held open the gate to the central garden for a nurse accompanying two men on crutches from number 6, whose front held a brass sign announcing Dr. William Little’s Orthopaedic Hospital, converted from a private home in the row.
As Danvers approached the Higginbotham residence, he saw its smaller side entrance sported the shop sign COUTURE BY BEAUVALLON. He mounted the steps and knocked. When the door opened moments later, his mission momentarily fled his mind.
The dark-haired young woman in front of him was exquisite.
She looked at him from green eyes that sparkled with intelligence. “Bonjour, monsieur. May I help you?”
Her French accent slid down his back to lodge at the base of his spine and play dangerous havoc with his concentration. He had to blink several times to find the coordination to doff his hat and bow. “Good day, mademoiselle. My name is Danvers, and I work as secretary to the Avery family, on behalf of both the viscount and his mother. Are you Mademoiselle Beauvallon?”
She frowned. “Yes. Is there a problem? Is Callista hurt?”
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