by Eva Devon
“My God, you are thinking of it,” she gasped.
“You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met, Calliope,” he breathed.
She inwardly groaned. She had no idea he was the sort of man to succumb to a woman who liked a bit of adventure. “Well, that’s true, but that’s not a reason to go about asking me to marry you. If anything, that’s a reason to abstain.”
“No, it’s not,” he declared strongly, his dark gaze ablaze with intention. “I’m used to ladies. Humdrum. Same thing all the time. I’d like a bit of excitement in my life.”
“Trust me, my Lord,” she warned. “You don’t wish my kind of excitement. You’re going to rule some bit of earth somewhere as a marquis, are you not? You’ll have duties.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Well, I’ll never be able to stay in such a place,” she explained patiently.
“Won’t you? Don’t you plan on giving up your. . .” He paused. “I don’t know what you would say. Your nautical habits?”
She fought an inward sigh. She liked him. For he was not entirely typical. But he was still a man. “Do you plan on giving up your life as a marquis?”
“Surely, that’s different.” He smiled confidently. “I was born to it.”
“It’s not different,” she replied softly, unable to be angry at his assumption. He seemed to truly like her and to honestly believe she could just cease to go back to the siren’s call of her ship. “I was born to the seas, and the sea shall forever call me. I could not turn my back upon it any more than you could your title.”
“Truly?” he queried, astonished.
“Truly,” she said firmly.
“You know,” he said as the music began to fade. “I thought perhaps you were simply a fun-loving young woman, but I don’t think that’s the case, is it?”
She leaned in, whispering despite the intimacy. “And you, sir? Are you simply a fun-loving lord? I don’t think that you are.”
He stilled, his face paling. “My God, you’re very observant,” he said.
“I am,” she agreed, wishing that sometimes she was not. “So are you? A jolly rake?”
“I am as fun-loving as I can be,” he sighed.
“That is a most telling answer, Rutherford,” she said.
He looked down at her, adrift, as if someone had finally noticed that he was not as happy as everyone assumed. And she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
All of a sudden, as the music came to a close, a hand tapped on Rutherford’s shoulder. Rutherford turned ever so slightly.
Lockhart Eversleigh stood, grand and glorious as ever in his crimson coat.
Despite Rutherford’s height, Lock fairly overpowered him as he said, “May I?”
Rutherford looked him up and down. “And if I were to say no?”
“You’re too much of a gentleman to say no,” growled Lock.
Rutherford frowned. “I suppose I am.”
Lock turned to her and extended his hand slowly. “So then, may I have this dance, Calliope?”
She frowned despite the fact that it felt as if her heart had leapt into her throat. “Am I supposed to simply take you up because you’ve arrived?”
He gaped at her, then stuttered, “Yes.”
Rutherford squared his shoulders. “Now, you must not talk to a lady like that, Lock. We all know you’re a difficult sort of fellow and you don’t know how to behave.”
“But I think that Calliope Duke likes the way I speak,” Lock said evenly.
Rutherford tensed.
Calliope narrowed her eyes. “I confess I do quite like Captain Eversleigh, but I shan’t give in so easily. He has made it very clear that he did not wish my company.”
“Oh, so you wish to play a game, do you?” Lock asked softly.
Rutherford swung his gaze back and forth, clearly uncertain of what to do next.
“Games are great fun,” she pointed out as she folded her arms under her breasts. “It’s why people play them. And no, I’m not going to play a game with you. But I am not a ball. You cannot put me down and pick me up whenever you please.”
Lock stared at her for a long moment then smiled slowly before he took her into his arms as the strains of a new waltz began. . . And he swept her into the dips and swirls of the scandalous dance.
Much to her horror, her feet decided to participate, and she was waltzing about the room in great swoops and turns.
“You, sir, are a devil.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you finally noticed.”
She gasped. “You’re not the reserved saint that so many would seem to think you.”
“Saint?” he queried, his hands firm but seductive upon her. “You ever thought me a saint?”
“Saints are austere, sir, and so are you,” she said.
“Saints are often recovered from great sin,” he whispered.
She licked her lips. “Are you? A man of sin?”
“Oh, indeed,” he all but purred. “I have known a good deal of sin in my time, but as I said before, I had hoped to repent of it.”
“Are you giving in?” she breathed.
“I think I must, because the idea of you in the arms of that man. . .”
“Yes?” she asked, barely daring to believe he’d come here for her. For this.
“I cannot bear it, Calliope. I cannot bear the idea of you in the arms of anyone but me. Mad though it makes me, wild though I shall be, I have to have you.”
“And if I say no?” she asked.
“Will you?” he asked gruffly, his eyes shining with hunger and hope.
Her breath caught in her throat, but somehow she managed to reply, “Let’s see.”
Chapter 13
It was going far better than Lock had expected.
He hadn’t been entirely sure what would happen, but half of him thought she would either completely ignore him or stomp away from him and the dance floor. The other half. . . The other had half hoped.
There was no question. Calliope was not a wilting flower.
So, he was astonished that she’d acquiesced so easily to his seizing her and spinning her about the floor.
Perhaps he’d simply stunned her too greatly.
She had looked positively gobsmacked at the sight of him.
The truth was, at that moment, he’d decided the only thing to do was to take action. To give Calliope time to formulate a plan against him would have been ruinous.
Of that, he was certain.
Even now, his hand at her curved waist, guiding her about the floor, her other hand in his, he wasn’t entirely certain what would transpire. . . Even what he truly wanted out of his bold action.
All he’d known while on that wild ride up from London in the middle of the night, across the dark roads by moonlight, was that he had to stop her from being with Rutherford.
The marquis was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck or cracked his head.
Every action he’d taken since the dockside pub was pure madness. Insanity, really.
And it was positively thrilling.
While he understood she had every right to be with someone like Rutherford if she wished, a darkly primal part of him, deep inside his soul, had growled and growled again to claim her.
No, she could not be with anyone else but him.
It made no sense, that undeniable urge, for it wasn’t as if he were going to marry her.
It wasn’t as if they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. And yet, he had been unable to deny the demand within him.
All judgment and all logic had abandoned him as he gave in and dashed across the country.
All day and all night, he’d raced, finally resting his stallion at a coaching inn.
And then, when he’d had a moment to pause to think, to consider that he should return to London, he didn’t.
Quite the contrary, he’d increased his breakneck pace until he was able to stride into the house he grew up in, and without bothering with a change of clothes, he’d follo
wed the sound of music and laughter.
He’d stormed in as Aston was playing merrily away, a jolly grin lighting his face when their gazes met.
Aston had jerked his chin to the floor.
Lock had not needed the assistance, but he was still glad to know Aston was his ally in this.
After all, Aston was the sort of fellow who thrived in chaos and in such glorious, overly romantic moments.
Even Lock knew this was indeed a romantic, if rash, moment.
It verged on the absurd because he had never been given to such grandiose gestures in his entire life.
Now, in the golden glow of the candelabras, she gazed up at him as if he was an entirely foreign breed of animal.
“You’ve amazed me, Lock,” she said, her stunning eyes wide.
“I didn’t think I could amaze someone as wild as you,” he countered, feeling a rich, male urge to drag her into another room and show her just how much pleasure he could give her.
“Oh, I am amazed by the wonders of this world every day,” she replied, her lush lips parting seductively. “But I never expected that you would go back on your earlier claim.”
He could not stop the hot happiness flowing through him, and so he bandied, knowing she would approve, “But doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age?”
“Are you quoting Shakespeare now?” She tsked playfully, clearly loving his tribute to the bard.
“It’s possible,” he teased back as he pulled her closer, not giving a fig for the company watching them. “I think rather a lot of the fellow, don’t you?”
“I adore him,” she admitted, her eyes glittering with a deepening emotion. “I’ve read all of his plays more times than I can count. His characters are eternally my friends.”
“I’ve read all of them too,” he said, marveling at her. She was so many things.
“And your favorite is?” she queried, her brows quirking together.
“Oh, by far, Much Ado About Nothing.” And it was true, he often identified with the irascible Benedick, who loved his friends but could not choose anything but the fife and drum. . . Until he met his Beatrice, of course.
He could scare believe that Calliope might be his Beatrice. . . But perchance. . .
She cocked her head to the side, causing her long blonde hair to dance upon her back. “An enemies-to-lovers story is the one you prefer?”
“Yes,” he said.
“They are very like us,” she pointed out. “She thought very little of him, soldier that he was.”
“And he thought her a complete cat.” He angled her body into his, breaking with tradition, pressing her frame into his. “Do you think little of me now?”
“No, Lock,” she whispered, pressing right back into his body as if she had no wish to ever be separated from him. “I do think a good deal of you. You’re clever, and I can see you are a man with a deep well of feelings inside you. . . And one mustn’t forget you’re a delicious-looking fellow.”
He chose not to contemplate the well of emotions that she sensed. He had to ignore that if he was to survive this. So, he smiled instead. “I’m glad you think so. I’m not to everyone’s taste.”
“Everyone? Who’s interested in everyone?” she challenged. “The masses are a bunch of fools.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said softly.
It was perhaps the first thing they truly agreed upon besides their love of Shakespeare, and he found it rather heartening.
He shouldn’t, of course.
He should still be clinging to all the reasons why they should be apart, but for whatever reason, those particular things were not stopping him in his course of pursuit.
No, something else had taken over him entirely. “Calliope, I don’t know what it is, but I find that I must pursue you.”
“Must you?” she echoed, eyes both wary and full of mischief. “Pursue me? Am I a fox and you the hound?”
He let out a groan. How to explain that he had never been so compelled by anything in his life. “I would go the other way around. I think I’m the hunted.”
“Indeed, are you insinuating that I went after you at first?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice rough and hungry. “I do insinuate it.”
“No, no,” she insisted lightly. “It was not I who came into that garden the other night. I was already there. You pursued me.”
He paused.
It was true.
He had followed her into the garden.
What the devil had made him do that? Was some part of himself engaged in subterfuge against his higher reason?
She laughed. “Oh, Lock, you are so easy to read.”
He frowned. “No one has ever said so before.”
“I can see it upon your face right now,” she explained. “Some part of you, some internal part, has gotten the better of your logic, and it’s driving you positively wild.”
“It has driven me wild,” he agreed. “I’m doing things I never would have countenanced before.”
“Good,” she said firmly.
She tilted her head back, gazing up to him through beautiful blue eyes. “You know,” she added. “I don’t like to be some sort of thing that you can pick up and put down whenever you please.”
He winced. “I promise I do not see you as such.”
“I don’t trust promises,” she said with little humor. Indeed, there was a deep swath of emotion emanating from her.
She licked her lower lip before she shook her head. “I trust action, and so far, your actions have taught me it is indeed how you feel about me.”
“No,” he vowed, leaning down towards her, half determined to seize her lips before everyone to assure her of his determination. “Calliope, it is not.”
“Show me, then,” she breathed.
“Show you?” he echoed.
“Show me that you shall not drop me in an instant.” Her eyes searched his face, deeper, darker than ever before, with some old memory guiding her now. “Show me because, as of this moment, your grand gesture is most interesting, but really it’s the act of someone who is completely without understanding that they cannot have something if they misuse it.”
“Do you think I’ve misused you?” he asked, his heart thundering in his chest. He had acted foolishly, but now, he deeply regretted that he might have hurt her. She’d seemed. . . so impervious to anything he might say or do.
“Oh, most definitely,” she said and arched a brow. “When I proposed that we have an affair, you walked away from me, and you claimed that I might drive you into madness. Am I so readily supposed to take you up again?”
He blinked. “I thought I was the one doing the putting down and taking up.”
She laughed then, a beautiful, soul-searing sound. “Metaphors are the devil.”
“Like me,” he said playfully.
“Like you,” she confirmed. “You and metaphors are changeable.” She leaned back, studying him. “I think that a deep, dark part of you is still there, and you’re going to regret this terribly. . .” She swallowed. “And I don’t wish to be something you regret.”
Her words burned as hot as any brand. Is that what she thought? He supposed he’d given her good cause. But he was stronger than that, wasn’t he?
“You could never be something I regret, Calliope,” he promised softly.
Something skittered across her features. Something powerful and full of feeling. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lock. You don’t know the future, nor do I.”
He couldn’t understand why she would ever suggest that she would be something he would regret.
How could such a beautiful, fascinating woman feel thus?
It made no sense to him.
Still, as the music came to a close and she took a step back, she gave him a strange smile. “I will not, out of hand, refuse you,” she said, “nor will I take you so easily. I think perhaps we should see if this is what you truly wish. I would hate
for you to wake up in the morning with a sore head and sore heart.”
“Impossible,” he returned as her full skirts swung against his legs.
“We shall see,” she said.
He could do nothing but nod in answer at her reply.
What else could he do?
As she sauntered away from him, her beautiful body moving easily under the folds of her long green skirts and tailored coat, he knew exactly what had to be done.
He was a man of action, after all, a man of method and of rules as he had so proclaimed many times.
As such, he would use his rules and his methods to help him attain her.
Yes, he would use a course of action and would not go about impulsively in it.
No, a woman like Calliope needed a battle plan. She was no fort to be stormed. No, she was a grand war to be won, and he could not wait to begin the campaign.
Chapter 14
Calliope’s heart raced faster than any ship she’d ever known at full sail in a wicked wind.
It had taken every ounce of her will to leave Lockhart Eversleigh there on the dance floor. She’d longed to whisper into his ear that they should go into the library. Or any quiet nook or cranny, for that matter.
For his kiss had never left her memory.
No, it burned through her like brandy wine, and she wished to taste it again.
Oh, he was the most delicious of men.
Tall, strong, stubborn, emotionally damaged. . . He bore every signal which told her to dash in the opposite direction, but instead, she felt pulled to him. Like a compass’ point always swinging round to north. She could not run from him.
Yet, leaving him on the floor had been a wise decision, for she had a feeling that Lock was the kind of man who generally got whatever he wanted when he wanted it, and was only denied by his own choice.
Yes, a man with his sort of will was not accustomed to being tested.
Her wager was that until that moment, it was he who did the deciding.
Her sense of respect and strength necessitated that he learn he could not always do as he alone wished.
Showing him how he could treat her was meant a display of her equally strong will. It was not a mere game, because it was important he understand from the beginning that she would not be cast aside like a spent penny.
