* * *
The dress was different, a pale pink with an abundance of lace covering her décolletage. Fitzwilliam found himself longing for the daring frock she had worn to Lady Snowley’s ball. Now, in the well-lit theater, he could see that her hair was somehow deep brown and shining red at the same time, like the finest mahogany. He assumed an air of nonchalance as he made his way towards her party, up until the moment he “accidentally” bumped his shoulder against hers.
“Oh, Miss Campbell! My sincerest apologies, I did not notice you there!” What a bold lie. As if he had been able to look at anyone, anything else all evening. She looked at him, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. Green, the exact shade of a summer leaf. She dropped a quick curtsey, her ducked head not quite hiding a small smile curving her lips.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, do not apologize. It is true I do not stand out any more than the furniture. Yours was an understandable error.”
Fitzwilliam wanted to laugh. Surely, she did not actually think that? He gave her his most winning smile. The ladies standing with her, one older and one younger, tittered, making Calliope blush.
“Would you introduce me to your friends, Miss Campbell?”
The younger woman was Calliope’s sister, Miss Clio Campbell. She had a blandly, pleasant face but neither the spark or excellent figure of her elder sister. The older woman was introduced as Lady Morgan, widow of Admiral Sir Rollo Morgan. Fitzwilliam recalled the name and knew that Sir Rollo died in the Trafalgar Action. Lady Morgan had only just come out of a long period of mourning to sponsor the Campbell girls’ entry into society.
“Lady Morgan is our aunt,” Calliope explained, “sister to our mother.”
Fitzwilliam felt a slight relief. She was half English, so she could not be all bad.
“My cousin Darcy has generously given me use of his box tonight, as he is unfortunately unable to attend. It would be my honor to have you join me.”
Calliope looked as though she did not quite believe him. She looked to her sister and aunt.
“We should be delighted, Colonel,” Lady Morgan answered. Fitzwilliam offered her his arm, which she declined. “Perhaps you might escort my niece,” she said with a knowing smile.
Snared already! It has already begun before I even agreed to the scheme. He offered Calliope his arm; she paused for a moment before taking it, not meeting his eyes. Her hand was a warm weight; he fancied he could feel it through his jacket and shirt, right down to the skin. He was a man of simple pleasures, and in that moment, he wished for nothing more than the sensation of her bare hand.
“Have you reconsidered?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I am still considering. I would like to speak to you privately on the matter,” he answered, keeping his voice low.
“Tomorrow. I walk in Hyde Park most mornings before breakfast. You can meet me at the entrance nearest our house, on Pelham Row.”
He knew the place. It was a stone’s throw from his family’s home. The thought of her slumbering so near was itself a far too intriguing thought. He was suddenly too aware of her presence—her soft, jasmine scent tickling his senses. Once they were seated in Darcy’s box and the lights dimmed, Fitzwilliam wondered if this scheme had been a terrible folly on his part. There, in the dark enclosure, she seemed so unbearably close and still so untouchably distant. He felt a surge of ire. She was no more beautiful than any other girl in the ton; aside from having an excellent bosom and a pair of remarkable eyes, he could see nothing special in her at all.
Yet, again and again, his eyes turned to her, drinking in the pale line of her neck, the fullness of her lips as they curved into a smile, the tempting bit of bare skin between the top of her glove and the sleeve of her gown. Calliope, queen of the muses. Watching her in the dark, Fitzwilliam found himself remembering the cheeky verses of Donne he had gleaned in school:
* * *
By this these angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
He wondered if it had been just such a woman as Miss Campbell who had inspired the randy poet—Miss Campbell, who was far too distracting, far too clever to be so unassuming. And brave, he silently amended. The courage it must have taken for her to even approach me! He turned his eyes back to the stage, feeling a scowl pull at his face. His admiration was far less reluctant that he liked.
* * *
Fitzwilliam awoke before dawn, though that was more out of habit than any particular urgency to get to his morning appointment. Or so, at least, he told himself. He dressed quickly and made his way outside, deciding he would wait for her near the park. Outside, the air was cool and foggy, and the morning chill clung damply to him. He did not mind; the early quiet was worth enduring a bit of cold.
He cut across and walked Pelham Row, wondering which home was hers, before making his way to the park entrance. He did not have to wait long. He begrudgingly admired her confident stride, the way she walked with her head up and her shoulders back, unbothered by the chilly air. She was there, walking towards him, but her eyes were somewhere else. Back in America? He stepped out to greet her. His light tread did not betray his presence, so he spoke up, startling her.
“Miss Campbell, is it?” He bowed, hiding a smile at her feminine gasp.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam! You gave me quite a fright!” She curtseyed quickly, almost as an afterthought.
He offered her his arm; she took it with a wry smile. They walked in silence for a few moments, looking at everything but each other. Fitzwilliam could not fathom why he felt so strangely nervous in her presence. He wanted to be bigger, smarter, richer than he was. As yet, the only thing that seemed to have impressed her were the rumours of his male prowess. He wanted to be more.
“Before I agree to do this for you, and I have not said that I would, mind you, I need to know that you are sure about this course you are taking. You could always refuse the brigadier general’s suit.”
“I have tried, believe me, Colonel. My father rejects my refusal. General Harrington wishes to use my dowry to climb, you see. And my father wants nothing more than for me to be Lady Harrington.”
Her mouth turned down at the corners, as if her words tasted sour. Fitzwilliam was not so naive to think that a title could not be bought; he had seen enough wealthy tradesmen become Sir This and Lord That in his time. A bit of pressure here, a trove of gold there, and Brigadier General Harrington could easily be Sir Harrington, at the very least.
“You would not wish to be the wife of a peer? To make all those society snobs who shun you show deference?”
She gave him A Look, her eyes sharp enough to cut. “I would not gamble my future away for the sake of petty revenge.”
Of course, she would not. Fitzwilliam felt like a heel for even suggesting it. She took a breath and continued.
“I should like my dowry to be put to good use, in the running of an estate. I wish to see it used to help families prosper and grow. Not for petty preening.”
He admired her for her answer. If he were being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he admired her, full stop. That she was bold, he could not deny, but that boldness was tempered with good sense. It did not hurt that she was quite lovely, her cheeks pink in the morning chill.
“Miss Campbell, I will assist you,” he blurted out before realizing fully what he was doing. The look of gratitude and relief that stole over her face swept away the voice of warning in the back of his mind, the one that sounded all too much like Darcy.
“Oh, sir,” she said in a breathless voice that near made him swoon. Wait. Not swoon. You feel a racing pulse. A vigorous, manly feeling.
“You have made me so happy.”
Balls. I’m swooning. An unlooked-for warmth pooled in him, catching him off guard. His steps faltered as he felt her words, like a mouthful of the finest brandy. You have made
me so happy. He could not recall anyone ever saying those words to him, not once in his thirty-three years. Satisfied, gratified, and quenched. Those were words his actions had bestowed upon him but not happy. Never happy. He cleared his throat and tried to regain some control on the situation.
“Very good, Miss Campbell. We shall begin tomorrow. I believe you are to attend Lady Barton’s fete?”
“I am.”
“Then it would be my honor to secure the first set with you.”
She raised her brows. “Ahem.”
“And the supper set.”
She smiled fully, and the warmth within him became a blaze. “I should be delighted, Colonel.”
* * *
For the first time in his life, Fitzwilliam wished Darcy away. The man was hovering as Fitzwilliam watched for Miss Campbell’s entrance.
He had not expected his cousin’s company that evening, but he sensed that Darcy had passed some critical point in his lovelorn state. He was now turned out as immaculately as was expected from his fastidious valet. His eyes were no longer rimmed in red from drink and lack of sleep. There seemed to be a newfound determination about him, for which Fitzwilliam could only be grateful, but while the thoughtful silence that seemed to envelop Darcy might be an improvement over drunken misery, it was no good at a party.
“Oh, good lord,” Darcy muttered, stepping behind a nearby column.
Fitzwilliam followed his cousin’s gaze, grinning when he saw Charles Bingley enter with his sister.
“I know you don’t favor Miss Bingley’s company, Cuz, but it is not like you to hide from the woman.”
Darcy looked mightily embarrassed. “It is not Miss Bingley I am hiding from.”
Fitzwilliam was about to reply when the Misses Campbell and Lady Morgan were announced. He looked past the Bingleys, now approaching him, towards the door where the trio of ladies were just stepping through.
His breath caught. She entered the room swathed in the thinnest shimmering gold crepe covered by a whisper of lace set with sparkling beads. That gown...that neckline, by the gods! The room seemed to brighten at her entry, as if the candles themselves snapped to attention. Her dauntless gaze skimmed the room, from the enormous sprays of flowers to ladies in their finery, until her eyes found his. Their secret burned in that look. He realized that, in a strange way, they were now bound to one another.
“Halloo, Colonel. What a pleasant surprise!”
Fitzwilliam looked at the Bingleys as if he had never seen them before. He liked Charles Bingley well enough, but when in the presence of a goddess, it did not do to hobnob with the other mere mortals before honoring the divine. Such an insult would surely be paid in blood. He bowed briefly to the Bingleys.
“Bingley, Miss Bingley, please excuse me. Darcy is just behind that column.” And with that he walked away. He knew it was abominable manners on his part, but he could not resist the pull of the line that tethered him to her. To Calliope. A line of Dante flitted through his mind: “Here rise to life again, dead poetry! Let it, O holy Muses, for I am yours.” As if hearing his thoughts, she offered him a welcoming smile, and Fitzwilliam felt a piece of the farce begin to crumble. Would he be pretending to woo this woman? He could not say. He only knew he wanted to make her feel what he was feeling. He wanted her to know the simmering pleasure he felt when she looked at him like that. He stopped and bowed.
“Lady Morgan. Miss Campbell, Miss Clio.”
They curtsied in unison, their movements fluid and graceful. Indeed, they were everything proper. It seemed astonishing to Fitzwilliam that the young ladies were so scorned simply for their American origins. They made polite chatter for a few moments until a tall, elegantly dressed shadow fell across the group. Darcy was there, his face unreadable. Charles Bingley, as ever, was attached to Darcy. Caroline Bingley was nowhere to be seen, doubtless she would have objected to her brother making himself known to the Campbells.
“Fitzwilliam, would you do me the honor of introducing me to your friends?”
Fitzwilliam felt his brows rise in disbelief. Darcy knew perfectly well who the Miss Campbells were and had never had a kind word for them before. Nor an unkind one, he allowed. He had simply shown them the same cool disdain he showed for everyone when not in smaller, more familiar company.
“Certainly. This is Lady Morgan and her nieces Miss Calliope Campbell, Miss Clio Campbell. Ladies, this is my cousin Mr. Darcy, and this smiling fellow is Mr. Bingley.”
The ladies answered Darcy and Bingley’s bows with curtsies, giving Fitzwilliam a chance to observe all. Lady Morgan’s countenance never lost its good-natured serenity, but the younger ladies had quite different and far more interesting reactions. Bingley seemed distracted, his smile slipping. Clio was clearly smitten with Darcy, the poor thing. A pink wash stole across her cheeks, making her look almost becoming. Calliope’s lips curved into a polite smile that did not reach her eyes. She seemed suspicious of the imposing figure that Darcy cut. Wary, even. That look did not fade when, much to the surprise of all, Darcy asked Calliope if he might secure a set with her. Fitzwilliam thought he could not be more shocked until he heard Darcy say, “The first set, perhaps.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam has already spoken for the first set,” she said, somewhat stiffly. Darcy seemed unfazed. “You may have the second set, sir.”
He bowed again. “I should be honored.” He turned to Clio and asked if she might like to dance. She shook her head violently, looking as though she might cast up her accounts right then and there. Poor little wallflower. Fitzwilliam did not know what had gotten into Darcy but he found himself as amused as he was perplexed by the change. And, perhaps a trifle jealous. He had never competed with Darcy for the attentions of a lady and damned if he was going to start then.
“And you must allow me the third, Miss Campbell,” Bingley said, all affability. If Fitzwilliam had objected to Calliope dancing with Darcy, he was practically livid at the thought of her dancing with Charles Bingley, whose amiable nature could thaw even the coldest dislike. And they shared a connection—both had acquired wealth from trade. Both had known the cool reception of those deemed of less respectable origins. In that moment, Fitzwilliam could have given both men, men he respected and admired, bloody noses.
He was so intent on these cheerful thoughts, Calliope had to nudge him when the music began. “Should we not take our places?” she asked, cheeks flaming.
Fitzwilliam bowed, taking her hand in his and leading them to their dance. He could feel the scornful gazes of the Upper Ten Thousand in the room, hear their shocked gasps as he led that American to the ballroom. The music swelled as they approached. A waltz. It would be a waltz. He looked down at her whispered.
“Well, Miss Campbell, you did want a scandal.”
Her mouth puckered into an insouciant smile. He wanted to kiss her silly. “Do you not know this dance, Colonel?”
His smile widened into a grin. “Oh, I know it very well. We shall have every tongue in the ballroom wagging.”
She seemed unsure.
“Calliope, do you trust me?”
If she was shocked by his use of her Christian name, she did not show it. She nodded once and then she was in his arms. They flowed like water across the floor, their movements lighter than air. He focused on her glossy curls as they floated through the steps, trying to calm the quickening of his pulse.
“Cal,” she said softly.
“I beg your pardon?” He looked down at her to see her leaf-green eyes studying him.
“If we are going to be informal, please call me Cal.”
“Not Callie?”
She pulled a face, making him chuckle. He pulled her closer. Scandalously, dangerously close. Fitzwilliam fancied he could hear a chorus of snapping fans. Soon the room will undoubtedly reek of smelling salts.
“Very well. Have I told you how very lovely you are tonight?”
Calliope, Cal, looked over his shoulder, not meeting his eyes. “You need not pretend when they cannot
hear you.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head, twirling them around in the dance, his steps sure.
“I do not give a damn if they hear me or not. I think you know by now that I am a man who speaks his mind. When I say you look lovely, I mean it. You take my breath away, Cal.”
He was rewarded by a creeping blush that spread across her face and down, down, down past the too-tempting lace trim of her décolletage.
“My, but you are good.”
“You asked for the best.” She smiled at that. The look of her in the candlelight, her warm, graceful body so close to his, the scent of sweet jasmine—all of these things were beginning to affect him in such a way, that when they parted for the dance, he would not be able to conceal it. To distract himself, he asked what she planned to do with her spinsterhood. Think of her growing old and going on the shelf. A damn travesty, that.
“I shall do what all spinsters do, I suppose. Retire to some seaside village. Give to the poor, improve my watercolors, and spend my days in solitude.”
He lowered his voice to a silky caress. “And what do you want, Cal?”
Her chin tilted stubbornly up as she straightened her spine, her steps never faltering. They had transcended the music, become one with it. Fitzwilliam could not recall ever having a dance partner who made waltzing so effortless.
“I want to do some good in this life,” she said quietly, so that only he could hear her. “I want to leave the world better than it was when I came into it. And I want adventure. I want passion. I want to dance among the stars with a divine man. Laugh at me if you like.”
Mercy! He felt the word as a plea. His imagination ran wild at her words, picturing himself giving her everything she ever asked for. Passion. Now that I could give you, my lady.
“I would not dare laugh. A practical and a romantic.” He tutted as their dance came to an end. They clapped politely before he took her hand to escort her off of the dance floor. “’Tis a fearsome combination, Miss Campbell.”
Dangerous to Know Page 11
