“I hate it, too. But, I’ve done everything I can to convince her.”
Rising to his feet, Aubrey set his glass on the table and gave him a pointed look. “Have you, really?”
Nick blinked, watching as his friend retrieved his coat and hat on his way to the door. Aubrey paused on the threshold and inclined his head, a reassuring smile curving his lips.
“It is the lady’s prerogative to change her mind. Think about it, Nick.”
He sat back and stared at the door, the flat gone silent and still. He’d given Thorpe the night off, thinking it better for him to be left alone with his grief. Now that he had his coveted solitude, he realized just how alone he was. In a matter of days, he would leave London without a look back—without Calliope, without his friends, without anyone who cared about him at all.
Had he done everything within his power to convince Calliope to choose him? He’d been in such despair, returning to London to his dying uncle only to later learn that she’d betrothed herself to Lewes. He’d sank into a pit of misery, telling himself he had been wrong to even try, that she was better off without a worthless castoff whore like him.
But, he wasn’t a whore anymore. He was a man slowly learning to have faith in himself the way Paul had, and make a new life for himself. That new life might have included Calliope had he not mucked everything up.
God, the things he’d said to her that day at the foundling home. He had been hurting, miserable at having her so close yet so far out of his reach. He’d seen the pain in her eyes, the turmoil she felt at facing him. That had been his chance to try again, and he’d bungled it.
If he went to her now, would she even want him? Or had he destroyed his final chance at redemption?
Aubrey’s words echoed in his mind as he asked himself a final question, one that haunted him through the night and well into the next morning.
Was he willing to take the risk of finding out?
Chapter 15
“Dearest readers, I am absolutely agog. Agog, I tell you! The spectacle I bore witness to yesterday morning will go down as the most entertaining, outrageous, extraordinary thing you may ever see written about in this column. Read on for a full account, and prepare yourself to be thoroughly scandalized!”
The London Gossip, November 21, 1819
Calliope stared at herself in the mirror as Ekta circled her—snipping a loose thread here or there, fluffing her skirts, and fussing with the loose curls of her coiffure. She wanted to push the maid’s busy hands away and ask to be left alone, but she did not. Calliope craved silence and solitude, for if she remained cloistered away until it came time to depart, she might keep hold of her fortitude. Ekta seemed of an opposite mind from her, needing motion and occupation to distract her from what would occur in the next few hours.
Her wedding day had seemed so far off when Martin had first proposed to her, but now that it had arrived, Calliope couldn’t help but feel as if this had all happened far too quickly. Her mind did battle with her heart, one part of her arguing that she wasn’t ready and might never be, while logic told her there was no reason to delay.
There were three other ceremonies happening across London today, but none would be more talked about or highly-attended than hers. Martin had insisted on a large service with a sizeable portion of the ton in attendance, citing that allowing them to witness the wedding would help put the last of the talk about her to rest. Calliope could hardly argue with that reasoning, even as she despised having to endure getting married before an audience of people who didn’t truly know her.
Her bridal ensemble had been the subject of much disagreement between herself, Ekta, and the dressmaker. She had been content to simply wear her best gown, while Ekta had argued she needed something new. The modiste had cringed at the notion of including any garment that called attention to her Bengali heritage, but Diana and her maid had reminded her the importance of honoring Calliope’s mother on such a day. A compromise had been reached, with grudging agreement between Ekta and the dressmaker that her gown should be at the height of the current fashion, and her jewelry would be pieces from among the treasure trove passed down by Vedah. There was also a red sari embroidered in gold thread that her mother had worn when marrying her father. It was pinned to one shoulder, falling down one side in an artful drape without obscuring the beaded bodice and gossamer skirts of the pale-yellow gown beneath.
Topaz stones in a gold setting sparkled at her throat and atop her head, the chain of her tika running through the center part of her hair to allow a pendant to rest over her forehead.
Calliope had imagined dressing for her wedding with excitement and anticipation, smiling and preening before the mirror as she imagined the look on her groom’s face when he first laid eyes on her. Now, she could only envision her walk down the aisle with dread and an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Bridal nerves are normal,” Ekta murmured, going still as she realized there was nothing left to do. “Your mother could hardly keep her breakfast down on the day she wed your father. But, she told me that all became clear to her when she saw your father waiting for her. She knew it was right.”
Calliope lowered her eyes, afraid to let Ekta see her fear. Would the sight of Martin bolster her in any way? Would the notion that she was marrying for practical reasons reassure her?
It might have done, before Dominick.
Swallowing, she raised her head and met Ekta’s gaze. Her maid smiled, eyes watery and filled with affection. Her slender fingers cupped Calliope’s face.
“Hold your head high today. You are Calliope Barrington … but you are also Anni Manha, daughter of Vedah, a lady with the blood of nobles from both sides of her lineage. Let them all see you as you are. Be proud.”
It came easy to smile at the woman who had raised her, and Calliope drew her into a tight embrace.
“Thank you, Ekta … for all you have done for me.”
The woman clutched her for a moment, shoulders trembling. Then, she was herself again, pushing Calliope back and running both hands over her skirts and sari.
“Enough. You’ll wrinkle your gown.”
A knock on the door broke through the lingering haze of emotion, and Diana entered. Her sister’s gown had been altered twice to accommodate the swelling of her bosom and conceal the slight roundness curving her belly.
“Oh, Callie,” she whispered, one hand coming over her mouth. “You look so beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Diana took her hands, squeezing them as she peered into Calliope’s eyes. “Are you ready?”
Calliope glanced to Ekta, who gave her an encouraging nod before making her exit. When she looked back to her sister, she found Diana frowning, brows knit together.
“Callie?”
“Of course. Yes … I am ready.”
Diana leaned closer, tightening her grip on Calliope’s fingers until they grew numb. “Are you sure? I would never pretend to know your mind better than you do. I just … this doesn’t feel right. You’ve been so unhappy these past weeks and we both know why.”
Calliope took a deep breath as the anxiety she’d been keeping at bay all morning flared to life again. “It is all but done. For better or worse, I have made my choice and must live with it.”
“Must you? What about Mr. Burke?”
Her stomach clenched as if she’d been struck at the sound of his name, a dull ache thudding in her chest.
“Oh, Diana,” she whispered, eyes burning with hot tears. “Even if I could call this off—”
“You can! The choice to put a stop to this is yours. What is keeping you from going to the man you love?”
She shook her head, the first tear slipping free, then another. “I’ve wounded him, Diana. You didn’t see the way he looked at me, the things he said when we last met … he was so angry, so miserable.”
It had been an even greater blow to emerge from that closet and go to her meeting, only to learn what Dominick’s business with Mrs.
Fisher had been. The manager of the orphanage had been elated to inform them that she’d just accepted a sizable donation from The Honourable Mr. Burke. Calliope had nearly choked when she informed them how much he’d given—the exact amount she had paid to finalize the end of their contract. She’d sent the bank draft to Mr. Sterling upon her return to London, hoping it would see Dominick through until he inherited. He hadn’t touched a single penny, giving it all to the home that was so dear to her. That, coupled with the gift of the chatelaine had left her feeling low, like the most horrid creature on Earth. Even after she had hurt him, he went out of his way to prove his love for her. She’d been too blinded by her fears to see it. Now, it was too late.
“Surely he would forgive you. Callie, the man loves you.”
“His uncle has just died, and after what I’ve already done, I would never intrude in his moment of grief and inflict even more hardship on him. He gave me the chance to choose him, and I spurned it. I would not blame him if he never wanted to see me again.”
Diana seemed ready to go on arguing her point, but Calliope gave her sister a little shake.
“It’s all right. Do you understand? I have made my peace with it, and so must you. Martin is not Dominick, but he is more than I had hoped for in a husband. There is no reason to believe I cannot be happy with him.”
Her sister nodded, though Calliope read the uncertainty in her eyes. She turned away, unable to bear it any longer. She needed to stay strong.
Her father arrived next, moving them all to tears again with his reaction to her in her bridal ensemble. He held her close and told her how lovely she looked. To her relief, the viscount didn’t ask her if she was sure about her choice, though Calliope knew he had witnessed her unhappiness just as Diana had. He simply took her hand and led her down to the waiting coach, joining her, Diana, and Hastings inside.
The vehicle lurched, carrying her toward her future. As she clung to her bouquet of daylilies, she did her best to convince herself it was a future she could be content with.
It was all she had left.
Dominick stood outside St. James’s Church, watching as Aubrey and Lucinda’s wedding guests flocked to the carriages lining the street, waiting to take them to the wedding breakfast. He’d spent the past several days wrestling with himself while grappling with his grief and planning for his departure from London. He hadn’t slept, could barely eat, and an incessant pounding had taken up between his eyes.
Three times he had begun making his way to Hastings House, intent on demanding an audience with Calliope. Three times, he changed course and went off to find other occupation, uncertainty getting the best of him. He still wanted her, loved her beyond all reason, and there was no stopping it. But, did she love him? Would she be willing to toss Lewes over, making an even bigger scandal than the one they had begun in Surrey?
It was this worry that held him back, for he would never want to put her in such a position, nor did he relish making a fool of himself and risk being turned away again. From the dark recesses of his mind—where he had shoved and compressed his feelings for her—a soft voice whispered that there was hope. There was still the chance that she would choose him. The voice had grown louder and louder, until it was all he could hear, his thoughts consumed with the seductive idea of stealing a bride from her unsuspecting groom.
He’d awakened this morning with his every sense on high alert, his body shaken by internal tremors, as if some deep-seated part of him prepared for something monumental. Nick did everything he could to ignore it. He told himself it was merely sorrow over knowing Calliope was getting married today; it would pass once the deed was done and there was no longer anything he could do to stop it.
However, that voice in his mind had dominated his thoughts throughout the wedding. As he’d sat beside Hugh to watch Aubrey marry the woman he loved, Nick found himself unable to ignore it any longer.
He’d thought it a just twist of fate for him to be forced to endure this pain, an inevitability for a man who had lived as he had for so long without truly facing any consequences. But, the evidence of how wrong he was stood right before him. Granted, Aubrey didn’t have Dominick’s salacious past working against him—but there were enough obstacles that ought to have kept him and Lucinda apart. His status as a man in trade and the son of a valet who had once been a slave. All the privilege and advantages Lucinda had been born with that Aubrey had been denied. It should have been enough for Aubrey to decide it was better to avoid heartache and complication. Lucinda might have allowed fear of scorn from her peers and the lack of her parents’ approval to keep her from clinging to Aubrey.
But none of it had been enough to shake them, and Dominick realized he had no reason to doubt it ever would. Aubrey had taken a chance and it had paid off, no matter how difficult it must have been at times.
Who was to say the same chance wouldn’t pay off for him? He was the one with all the privilege and position in this scenario, for all that he’d squandered it acting like a jackanapes. Like Aubrey, Calliope had everything to lose by choosing him, with the added problem of the gossip and talk that would follow her if she did. But if he could convince her it didn’t have to matter when they had each other, if he could make her feel safe enough to trust him with her heart, her soul, her entire self, they could be happy. They could be together.
He’d never had to fight for anything in his life; not the comforts that were his by right of birth, not his money, not one woman he’d ever desired—for they’d all fallen into his arms as raindrops plummet from the heavens.
But, if he wanted Calliope, he was going to have to fight, and Nick realized with stunning clarity that if he didn’t he’d regret it for the rest of his life.
The stakes were higher than ever now, and he was nearly out of time. But, nothing was final. Calliope’s wedding wasn’t set to begin for another hour. It wasn’t over until she’d spoken her vows.
It isn’t too late …
By the time the short ceremony had ended, the thought had cycled through his mind in an endless circle. He ceased to notice the things happening around him—his feet carrying him outside, the glare of the morning sun peering out from behind the clouds, the scent of coming rain.
There was only the hope he’d let go of, but it came back to him with sudden clarity.
It isn’t too late … but soon, it will be.
His senses rushed back to him at once, urgency overtaking him and propelling him forward before he’d even realized he had made up his mind.
His path loomed before him in sharp focus, the route from here to St. George’s laid out like a map in his mind. He would make it if he hurried. He might even intercept her before she entered the church.
“Nick?”
Benedict’s voice pierced through the determination driving him, but he pressed on. He picked up speed and turned left, eyes peeled for a hackney coach—his best chance of making it to Hanover Square.
A hand hooked into the collar of his coat, and he nearly came off his feet as Benedict dragged him backward. Nick turned and batted the other man’s hands aside, rage rising to tangle with the desperation spurring him. Benedict had tried to sway him before the wedding, and Nick had allowed himself to be subdued. But, no more. He would not be stopped.
“Nick, where the bloody hell are you going?”
“I’m sorry, Ben. I have to go to her.”
“What? Have you lost your mind?”
Frustration washed through him, growing worse with every second that ticked by. “It’s not too late. I have to talk to her, make her understand that I cannot live without her. I can’t simply stand back—”
“It is too late!” Benedict roared as he seemed to forget the crowd pouring out of the church.
“It isn’t too late. There’s still a chance.”
“Don’t be a fool, Nick.”
He took hold of Benedict’s shoulders, giving his friend a rough shake. “I have to try, or I’ll regret it every day for the rest of my li
fe. Can’t you stop being such a cold bastard for one minute and put yourself in my place?”
Benedict’s nostrils flared, his knuckles cracking as he stared at Dominick as if wrestling with the urge to strike him. “I have been in your place. Do you want to know how it turned out? Much the way this is going to end for you.”
Dominick shook his head and began to back away, no longer able to stand here and endure this. There was no time.
“No. No, I don’t accept that.”
He turned and ran, ignoring Benedict’s cries for him to come back. He dodged people on foot as he searched the congested street for a hackney. Benedict’s voice hadn’t grown any thinner, but he didn’t look back to confirm that the man was on his heels.
He dashed out in front of a carriage, shouting apologies at the driver screaming epithets at him while pulling back on the ribbons. A hack had rolled to a stop across the street, and he leaped into it just as its occupant was descending, ignoring the man’s shocked exclamation as he bellowed at the driver.
“Get me to St. George’s as fast as you can, and I’ll triple the fare.”
Benedict’s face appeared through the window of the hackney. “Dominick! Goddamn it, don’t do this!”
Clenching his jaw, he turned his head to avoid his friend’s gaze as the hackney pulled away, refusing to acknowledge the sputtered curses that eventually faded away. The hackney dipped and swayed, tipping a bit as it barreled around a corner. His driver was determined to earn the promised fare, though Dominick wondered if he would even make it in one piece.
It seemed to take an eternity to reach Hanover Square, and by then Nick’s panic had reached its zenith. His watch showed ten minutes past ten o’clock—the ceremony had already begun. He tore his entire purse from within his coat and hurled it at the driver without bothering to worry about how much was inside. It was more than anyone had ever paid for a hackney ride, that was for certain.
Making of a Scandal (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 3) Page 29
