His hand tightened on her a little. "I see that I made scant impression on you. I'm humbled. But a lady of your loveliness must have many admirers."
"You f latter me," she said, putting a sultry note into her voice. She was pleased to encourage him to suppose himself forgettable. "But there aren't so many. I'm very sorry—I cannot understand how I have not recalled you. The summerhouse…?" She let her words trail off suggestively.
"Perhaps you recall more than you wish to confess," he said. There was a hint of bitterness in his words.
"La, if only you would give me some hint. Some detail that might prod my memory."
"Are you angry with me, Sofie?" he asked huskily. Apparently it didn't suit him to believe any woman might not remember an encounter with him. "You know I could make you no promises, nor return again."
"Oh?" she asked with a dawning interest. "Why not?"
"You do remember!" he exclaimed instantly. "But then you know why, my love. How could I promise to come back, when I was to wed the moment I returned to England?"
"I see," Callie said. She stopped. She could feel her cheeks growing hot under the veil. "You were engaged to an English lady?"
He shrugged, walking on with her. "Yes. I told you then, Sofie. I didn't hide it. I thought you understood."
"So of course, you were in love."
He gave a brusque snort. "Nothing of the sort. In fact I didn't care for her—she's a chilly woman, with a dull wit and no beauty. What little time I had with you was precious, when I knew what I must go back to."
Callie blinked. She bit her lip. With a sense of turning a knife in her own breast, she said, "How sad for you, Monsieur. A man like you, to marry a plain woman."
"Not a pleasant prospect, I admit. But fate inter vened, and I didn't marry her after all," he said.
"Fate?" she inquired with an effort. "Did you discover some prettier heiress?"
He took her hand, kissing it. "Of course not. Do you think me a fortune hunter? She died before the wedding."
Callie hid her gasp in a choked laugh. "What a fortunate escape for you, then! And still you didn't return to me?"
"I could not, my love. I was posted to the West Indies."
She stood frozen in sick amazement at his gall. After breaking off with her, he had wed Miss Ladd and gone to Norwich to have three children; he had not been posted to the West Indies. For a moment she could think of nothing to say. They had been strolling slowly, and the door of the Gerard lay only a few steps ahead. It seemed to her to be a portal of escape now, a place she could run away and hide. A furious part of her wanted to tear off her veil and reveal herself, but she could not be so rash in spite of the ugly lump in her throat. She had to be rid of him.
"It's a very affecting story, Monsieur," she said, assuming a cold hauteur. "I thank you for telling me, but still I don't recall anything of our meeting. I think perhaps you have confused me with another lady. Now I must leave you. Adieu."
She detached her arm forcibly from his clasp, in spite of his quick objection, and glanced back toward Charles. The footman came forward with a determined look on his face. Callie felt a wave of relief as the big servant imposed himself between her and Major Sturgeon. Charles escorted her up the steps. She dared to glance back once and was alarmed to see that the major followed them right into the hotel. She hurried her pace, going directly to the staircase. Only when she reached the upper f loor did she pause, catching her breath. He hadn't the effrontery to pursue her that far, at least.
She looked at Charles. "Merci," she said in grateful French. "I did not know how to escape him."
"Ma'am, I don't speak that Froggie talk, I'm sorry." The footman bobbed his head apologetically.
"Oh." It was a relief to slip back into her own language. She'd thought he must be one of Trev's French retinue. "I'll be pleased to thank you in English, in that case! I'm very glad to be rid of him."
"Was that officer swell taking liberties, then, ma'am? I weren't certain. I'd 'a made a dice box of his swallow, if ma'am just give me the office."
His thick slang was almost as foreign to her as the French, but she understood his meaning. "Yes, I'm sure you would have, but I didn't wish to make a scene." She paused, not sure if she should speak openly of Trev's plans. "Do you know my maid, Lilly?"
"Aye, ma'am." He nodded toward the street. "The little chick-a-biddy what's giving Monsieur's bruisers the chaffin' gammon up the tailor shop."
She was entirely mystified by this description of Lilly's activities but decided not to inquire into it too deeply. "Go down and tell her to wait for me at the dressmaker's," she said, "but she mustn't let the major see her. I'll stay here until he goes away, and then I'll be obliged to you if you'll take me to join her."
"Now you just leave that officer nob to old Charlie, ma'am. We'll give him some proper pepper, me and Monsieur's lads. He'll bolt off right handy, or we'll dislodge some of his ivories for 'im."
"Oh no. No, you must not start a fight—is that what you mean?"
He shrugged. "Won't be much of a fight, ma'am," he said with some regret. "Not unless he's got a screw loose."
"I don't want any sort of fight at all," she said hastily.
"We'll just carry him out, then," Charles offered.
"No no, nothing of that sort. We mustn't draw undue attention."
The footman submitted to this, though he seemed disappointed. "S'pec so, ma'am. It might blow the gaff, aye."
Callie realized that under his powdered wig and formal coat, the muscular Charles was quite a "bruiser" himself. Trev seemed in the habit of hiring very large menservants, for which she was rather grateful at the moment.
"I think it's best to wait quietly until he leaves," she said. "I'm sure he won't linger." She only wanted be out of this disguise, to retreat into the safety of her own rooms to lick her wounds, but the chambers at the Gerard were at least a refuge for the moment. She was glad now that Trev was gone for the night, so that she wouldn't have to tell him of her encounter with the philandering major. Not, at least, until she had composed herself. "Send word up to me when you're certain that he's gone away entirely. Make sure of it first. I don't dare to let him see me again."
Fourteen
A FIRE BURNED GENTLY, WARMING THE ELEGANT PARLOR. The tea tray still stood waiting on the table set for two. If not for Major Sturgeon, she might have been sitting here cheerfully with Trev, celebrating the successful announcement of the Malempré Challenge. Instead she was feeling as if she had been soundly slapped. She took off the veil and sat down heavily.
She had not desired to marry the major, but with no other happy prospect before her, she had allowed herself to consider it as a practical possibility. A marriage of convenience merely, but at least she would have her own home. He was so eager to marry her fortune, she was sure that she could negotiate anything she pleased in terms of her livestock. She was not averse to a household with children in it. She had a talent with them, as she had a talent with animals.
Infidelity—she had assumed that she could tolerate that. It wasn't as if she hadn't known what sort of man he was already. If she had taken a moment to think it through, she wouldn't have been surprised to find him entangled with another woman again even as he courted her.
But knowing precisely what he thought of her, hearing it said so bluntly—she felt as if a miserable thick stone were lodged in her throat. He gave her pretty compliments to her face, while in fact he thought she was cold and plain and dull. And she was. It was the truth of it that made what he'd said so painful. She did not really care what Major Sturgeon thought of her, but he wasn't the only gentleman she knew who could tell a lie with convincing skill.
She sprang up, gripping her hands together as she paced to the fireplace and back again. A horrid notion began to possess her. It was mortifying to think of how much she must have revealed of herself to Trev. He meant to give her three days of happiness, in the best way that he could. Husband and wife, deep in love, a little pretense of
what she longed to have.
How Lady Shelford and her friend would laugh at that! Dowdy Callie, wed to a man who might have a love affair with any woman he chose. And she would have to sit with her eyes fixed on the toes of her shoes and listen to the whispers about it. She would rather live in a ditch and eat worms.
With Major Sturgeon's cold words to steady her mind and prevent any f lights of fancy, she tried to think back on the things Trev had said to her, the contradictions and awkward moments. He did care about her, she had no doubt of that. He didn't wish for her to be unhappy. He'd tried to buy Hubert back for her, he'd created this outlandish scheme to make an adventure for her, he worried that Major Sturgeon would hurt her. He said… he said that he loved her.
She should put no great stock in that, of course. Trev could not endure to see unhappiness around him. Nearly every adventure she had shared with him had been a rescue of some hapless creature from captivity, or a clandestine attempt to emulate Robin Hood on behalf of a downtrodden victim. If truth be told, she had known him to go to absurd lengths in his efforts to heal the smallest hurt or suffering in those he cared for. And if he could not do it, he would disappear.
She felt a deep chill inside, a prickle at the nape of her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering how she had almost—almost—blurted her dream out loud to him. He had understood her perfectly, of course, but he had not betrayed it. It was like a play, and they each had their parts. She could be Madame Malempré and enjoy this moment that he offered, understanding that it was only as enduring as a single waltz, but better at least than sitting out every dance.
Callie's throat felt closed and swollen, but she did not weep. She felt no anger now when she thought of Major Sturgeon, only a vague distaste, and a sharp hole in her heart that was impossible to fathom. With mechanical moves she made tea for herself, pouring water into the polished kettle and placing it on an ornate hob beside the fire. She sat down, toying with one of the delicate slices of cake.
They were friends. She should not, could not, must not, think of more.
It calmed her to reach this conclusion. She had been struggling in a welter of confused feelings ever since his return, unable to make sense of his intentions. As it all came clear to her now, the heavy feeling in her chest receded. It was not as if she had ever really believed that she would marry Trev. She couldn't even imagine it, in truth: living in France among strangers, dealing with aristocratic guests and the evil Buzot and great vats of wine. It was as improbable as her fantasies of Trev as a pirate and herself the captive governess who stole his heart by learning to wield a cutlass like a Cossack.
She smiled a little at her own absurdity. The kettle began to boil, a soft rumble in the quiet room. Callie made her tea and sat sipping it, trying to take a sensible view of her future. It was high time that she left behind these silly daydreams, before she became odd and ended up locked in some attic, collecting bits of string and candle wax and muttering.
She must exert herself to make the best of things as they were. She was dull and plain; a definite pronouncement had been made on the subject, and it was stupid to argue the point any further, no matter what Hermey and her father and the village goats might claim. They loved her—at least Hermey and her father did; she couldn't say about the goats—and people who loved one saw a different person, a person bathed in the f lattering light of affection. Look at how Hermey seemed so taken with Sir Thomas, who was certainly as dull as Callie, and perhaps even duller.
No, to live out her life as a spinster sister, politely unwanted, was impossible. She would marry Major Sturgeon in spite of his faithlessness. There was no other tolerable prospect. She knew the truth about him, and while she didn't enjoy knowing, there could be no further wound in it. Her eyes were open. It was a common thing among the ton, she believed, for a married couple to live quite-unrelated lives.
Before Trev went away, she would make sure that he knew she had accepted the officer's very f lattering proposal. He wouldn't depart thinking she was unhappy with her choice. She had never lied to him before, but she would.
A gentle knock made her put down her cup. The boot boy's muff led voice spoke the name of Madame brief ly as he slipped a folded paper underneath the door. She stood and peered down at the handwriting.
Major Sturgeon had not yet given up and gone away, it seemed. The preposterous man—he had sent up a letter, which Callie put into the fire without breaking the seal. She had a pretty exact idea of what it would say. He must be desperate indeed, to be so rash as to send a missive to the very chamber where Monsieur Malempré himself was supposed to be resting with the headache! No doubt the thought that he might find himself engaged at any moment to the tedious Lady Callista made him wish to cement a more agreeable alliance at once.
For an instant she wished Trev were there to share the bleak comedy of it all. She laughed in spite of herself, thinking of what he would say about Sturgeon lurking at the hotel door and writing fraught pleas to Callie under the illusion that she was his long-lost paramour.
Just what the world needs: more bloody fools.
In the wee hours of the morning, a sleepy groom threw a blanket over Trev's horse and led it away, its breath frosting in the lantern light. After a warm autumn afternoon, the wind had arisen and the temperatures dropped suddenly to a bone-cracking cold. By the time Trev reached Hereford, well after midnight, his muff ler was frozen and his hands were stiff inside his gloves.
Fortunately he'd left word that he would return late. The boots unlocked the door promptly, greeted him in a cordial, low voice, relieved him of his great coat, and led him upstairs with a shielded candle. The service at the Gerard was excellent.
Trev sat down by the fire, pleased to see that it was still well tended. He allowed the boy to pull off his boots, gave him a generous coin, and then sent him away, murmuring that he could do for himself tonight. By the red glow of the coals he stripped, feeling prickly sensation come into his toes as they warmed after a long ride in the icy night. He sat drowsing in his shirttails, his bare feet stretched out beside the fire.
He'd lingered late with his maman, for she'd been in a lively humor, full of questions and gentle gibes, laughing over the portly "peeg," and demanding a full description of what the couturier had done for Lady Callista's wardrobe. She'd scowled at the intrusion of Major Sturgeon, as engaged in the difficulties as if she'd been in the midst of the Hereford scheme herself. He could see that she expected him to announce at any moment that Callie had agreed to marry him. He did not disabuse her of this notion. To be perfectly candid, he might even have encouraged it a little, because it pleased him to see her look so knowing and contented, smiling like a cat over a bowl of fresh cream.
What difference did it make? He'd not yet brought himself to mention anything about putting her affairs in order. His maman didn't have any affairs that he knew of anyway—there were those spiritual matters that the Reverend Hartman had been so eager to address, of course, but he could leave that to her priest. She didn't appear as if she were going to fail within a short time. She seemed to him to be improving each night that he visited her, with more energy and strength, but the doctor had warned him to take no comfort from that.
He sighed heavily, standing up. His nightclothes were in the bedchamber, but he'd sent the candle away with the boots, so he pulled his shirt over his head and left his clothes by the fire in the parlor. He padded to the closed door. The bedroom was pitch-black, the air frigid. He moved quickly across the cold f loor, feeling his way by the faint light of the fire through the door. The bed curtains were already closed, a good sign that the maid would have put a hot brick between the sheets. He climbed hurriedly into the warm cavern of the bed.
He froze in the motion of pulling the bedclothes over himself. A f lash of alarm went through him as someone turned over—someone waiting in the bed—he reached instinctively for his pistol, found himself naked, and then just as suddenly relaxed, lying back on the pillow with a low, surprised l
augh.
"Callie?" he whispered, feeling toward her in the dark. Her warm, sweet hay scent filled the close confines of the bed; her hair was spread loose over the counterpane. He touched her shoulder—shocked to find it bare—and she responded with a sleeper's sigh, a delicate sound that spoke to his body like a wild f lute in a dark, beckoning forest.
He was instantly af lame for her. He had kept it brutally at bay until now, using every mental trick he'd ever learned from his grandfather and the considerably more crude methods he'd discovered on his own. He'd always prided himself on his self-control concerning women. In the circles he frequented, it had served him well on more than one occasion. At seven and twenty, he had no bastards or vengeful mistresses to trouble him. He conducted his love affairs the same way he conducted his business, with cold caution and ruthless disinterest.
But it had cost him. Until this moment he had not known how much. He carried always a slow simmer of lust—that was as much a part of his life as breathing. The loneliness he dealt with. He thought he did. He could just see a coppery glint, an outline of her hair riding down in a lovely curve to the shape of her hips, and suddenly it was as if every time he had denied himself was compounded and concentrated, years of turning away, of sleeping alone, all coalesced into this one warm girl in his bed.
Lessons in French Page 22
