“It’s ‘the Honorable’ Miss Higginbotham, isn’t it?” Lady Barrington interjected, looking Callista over in a way that set her nerves on alert.
“Yes, my father came into his title near the end of his life, when the barony passed to him after the death of a cousin.” The ladies had already sniffed out this information, of course, but were apparently after more details. Hare to their hound, Callista braced herself for the subtle but deadly interrogation of a pair of society ladies bent on flushing out the latest gossip.
“How nice for your family,” Lady Barrington said coolly.
Callista smiled tightly and replied as little as she could while they questioned her about her family background and her father’s barony. At least they were civil, although she was sure their restraint had more to do with a desire for information and the current status they all shared as guests under Lord Rexton’s roof—and nothing at all with any charity toward her.
Her father’s title still roused painful feelings. She supposed it was unfair, but she couldn’t help but trace the unraveling of their comfortable life in Paris back to that day when the packet of legal documents arrived from the London solicitors. Her father had determined to take seriously the duties of his new title in the House of Lords and moved the family back home to London. The stress of the inheritance, however, took a serious toll on his gentle nature, and his health started to fail rapidly. He’d lived barely a year after their return.
“But why do you seek to continue your father’s work?” Lady Vaughnley asked, brows raised. “Why thrust yourself into the business world at all? It’s hardly a fitting way for a young lady to spend her time.”
Heat flamed in Callista’s cheeks. “I work, as I suspect most do, ma’am, in order to keep my household.”
“Have you no male in the family to take care of such matters?” It seemed incredible to the lady, and shameful, that a woman could be in such a situation.
“I’m afraid not. And, as a matter of fact”—Callista lifted her chin, prodded by some hopeless rebel demon—“I like working with books.”
Lady Vaughnley drew back stiffly. “Well! You must be quite the bluestocking and very . . . intrepid.” Her lip curled over what were clearly not terms indicating her approval.
Mr. Claremont’s jovial smile showed him oblivious to the frosty tone of the exchange. “Actually, Lady Barrington is dearly fond of books herself,” he said, turning toward that lady. “I recall the late Lord Barrington often credited you for helping him with those excellent travel volumes he published.”
“Not with writing or selling them, certainly,” the lady trilled, throwing a smug glance at Callista. “If anything, I was merely the muse.”
Callista felt her prickliness overwhelm her at what a poor church mouse she was in comparison to the ladies and Lord Rexton. Their discussion of her courtesy title rang with mockery in her ears. These were people born to the aristocracy who had enjoyed wealth and never had to work in their lives. Her father’s title had been the lowest of the peerage and one of recent creation that carried with it no land or income. The title had gone extinct at his death, as of course neither she nor her sister could inherit, and not even a distant male heir existed to take it up. All it left her was the right to call herself “the Honorable.” Her great-aunt Lady Mildred, daughter of a duke herself, had insisted she print the honorific on her calling cards. To Callista, however, it made her feel all the more an imposter waiting to get caught—not a real book dealer or daughter of a peer, but only a young woman who loved to read, a commoner fallen from the ranks whose family now tottered on a dangerous edge of genteel poverty.
Mr. Danvers seemed to sense her discomfort and came to her rescue. “How is the task proceeding, Miss Higginbotham?”
She forced a smile in his direction. “So far I’ve done a preliminary review of his lordship’s existing collection and opened a half dozen of Sir George’s trunks.”
The portly Mr. Claremont eyed the expanse scattered across the library and rubbed his hands like a boy in a sweets shop. “With your permission, Miss Higginbotham? I’d love to have a look.”
The acknowledgment of her modicum of authority made her feel somewhat better. She knew she had to get over this sense of being a play-actor in her father’s shoes, but it was hard. So much these days was just so hard.
At her murmured “Of course,” Mr. Claremont and the two women wandered off toward Lord Rexton among the stacks. Lady Barrington cast her a chilly smile, but Lady Vaughnley moved on without a backward glance and began to pick up books with desultory attention. Her puzzled query drifted back toward Callista: “What in the world, Rex, do you plan to do with so many books? Surely you’re not interested in such a collection?”
Although Callista guessed she and Lady Vaughnley shared little else in common, she had to admit that she wondered about this point as well. It pushed credulity that Lord Rexton, this perfect specimen of masculinity, enjoying the reputation of Master of Love that he did, spent his evenings tucked away in his library curled up with a book.
Feeling far out of her league, Callista turned toward Rexton’s secretary. “The volumes are very mixed inside each trunk, Mr. Danvers. The classics are with French poetry, and German philosophy with English science texts. Sir George must have shelved them quite haphazardly.” Truth be told, the task already daunted her.
“Will it pose a problem for you?” that deep voice purred in her ear. Lord Rexton had left his guests to come up behind her. Before she could move away, he leaned closer to tuck in some wisps escaping her looped side braids. He ran his hand boldly down her neck, as if for good measure.
“My lord!” She jumped and barely kept herself from batting at the man’s hand. Whatever did he think he was about, taking such liberties! Her neck tingled with a trail of fire where he’d touched her. She risked a quick peek at him, but even that glimpse was enough to flood her senses with height and heat, spicy male scent, slashing cheekbones, that ridiculous golden curl, and a far-too-confident teasing smile. Goodness, this man made her nervous. She rubbed a hand against her neck to erase his touch. “There is no problem,” she said rather breathlessly, with far more conviction than she felt. “The task will merely take some time.”
“We can assign a footman to help with unpacking and sorting the books,” Mr. Danvers offered. There was something of a warning in the look he leveled at his employer.
“That won’t be necessary,” she replied, looking between the two men. “Billy can help with that part. He’s our . . . footboy.” She hesitated only a fraction of a second but felt nevertheless the sharpening of Lord Rexton’s gaze.
“And where is this Billy now?” Rexton asked, raising one perfectly arched brow.
“Your butler invited him down to the kitchens less than a half hour ago. He’d been working hard all morning and had unpacked quite a few trunks.” She hated the anxious note in her voice. Billy was certainly allowed a cup of tea, and she was allowed to permit him his rest. A pang of longing struck her for some measure of the professional confidence her father’s sterling credentials and experience had granted him. Actually, she desperately wished she could simply curl up at home with a good book and a pot of tea herself. But she needed this job. And her family’s finances dictated she must succeed at it.
Her fingers clenched into her palms on a wave of painful pride. She’d do what she had to.
She felt Lord Rexton’s eyes lingering on her and kept her own safely averted. He surprised her then by inquiring in a mild tone, “Will you join me and my guests for luncheon, Miss Higginbotham?”
“Oh no, thank you.” She drew a breath she hoped didn’t sound too shaky. Taking luncheon with the harpies was the last thing she wanted; they’d pick out her eyes before the meat course and make it seem they were only inquiring after her health. “I plan to dive right into my task. Perhaps I could take a tray here.”
“If you insist; however, I was hoping I could persuade you,” Rexton said. “I’d like to discuss the li
brary collection with you.”
She blinked, sufficiently taken aback to risk another glance at him. She hadn’t expected either to be dining with the viscount and his guests or that this quintessence of male splendor would care to talk seriously about his books. Either way, she didn’t seem to have a choice. “In that case, my lord, of course I should be happy to accept your invitation.”
She noted Lady Barrington narrowed her eyes as she followed their conversation from across the room. Something displeased and proprietary in the lady’s gaze made Callista wonder whether this sophisticated widow was his current lover. But Lady Barrington said nothing, merely favoring her with another frosty smile.
“Until later then, Miss Higginbotham.” Rexton took Callista’s hand again and bowed over it. When he ran his fingers lightly across her palm before releasing it, she had to forcibly repress the shiver of reaction that gripped her. The man was all leonine grace and seduction incarnate, smiling artlessly up at her from his bow as if daring her to make a fuss. He even had the audacity to add a wink—blast the man!
“The weather being so fine,” he said, continuing innocently, “I think we’ll take a turn about the gardens before luncheon, but I’ll send Danvers to fetch you to the drawing room for sherry when the rest of the guests arrive.”
With a few more words all around, Lord Rexton gathered his guests and secretary, and the elegant company swept from the library.
Callista sighed her relief.
She’d survived her first meeting with Lord Rexton. Against her expectation, she admitted she found herself curious about this notorious “Lord Adonis.” Part of her almost looked forward to luncheon—although only almost, she thought with a shudder. Negotiating high-society table conversation with ladies plotting her ruin was definitely not among her talents.
Who exactly was this viscount? The gentleman was not at all as she’d anticipated, although she was unsure whether it was his ludicrous blinding beauty or baffling apparent interest in books that threw her more for a loop.
His lips came to mind, with their lush sinful curve—no man should look like that. While it wasn’t precisely his fault he was as handsome as a Greek god of antiquity, she quite loathed the visceral effect he triggered in her senses. Her core of honesty, however, forced up the thought that she perhaps more correctly feared this effect, as she’d never before encountered a man whose sheer physical presence so unsettled her.
And then she recalled his eyes as he surveyed his collection. Had they shone with the same excitement she felt about every new volume that came into her hands? He was supposed to be a dissipated rake! Surely he couldn’t care about these books as she did?
The man was a puzzle, but one that was none of her concern. No doubt someone with such a stunning face came to rely on a roué manner in all his interactions with women. Why, he probably couldn’t help but flirt! She’d simply have to make very clear that she was unmoved and uninterested in such interaction. Once she had made him accept that fact, surely they could deal well enough together. It was little different than house-training a new puppy: We’ll have none of that behavior in here, if you please. The more difficult challenge might be ensuring that her own control over her emotions and wayward senses never wavered.
But the real puzzle was how in the world she was going to organize the scattered piles and open trunks of the eleven thousand books for which she was now responsible. The challenge both terrified her and, strangely, made her happier than she’d felt in a very long while.
Unbidden, the thought arose that Lord Rexton might pose the same challenge to a woman.
Goodness.
The thought chased her all the way back to work.
Chapter 2
Lord Rexton was bowing over some older lady’s hand when Mr. Danvers escorted Callista into the drawing room an hour later. Bowing and smiling that wicked, devastating smile, to the lady’s apparent besotted delight. He really does flirt all the time! Callista harrumphed to herself. Not that it’s any of my business, of course.
She turned away briskly and scanned the room. About a dozen people milled about, all talking animatedly. A few ladies were present, but the guests were mainly older gentlemen: a little rumpled, rather portly, not at all at the forefront of fashion. One man with an untamed shock of gray hair spilled his sherry as he gesticulated grandly about a wonderful essay on the philosophy of love by an anonymous author known only as Amator Philosophiae, or the Lover of Philosophy, in the latest issue of Philosophers’ Quarterly. Another trod on the foot of his neighbor, apparently oblivious to all but his own intent argument. Callista allowed herself an inward sigh of relief. Gentlemen-scholars! Such as they, she knew how to handle. Lady Barrington moved graciously from group to group, playing hostess. Determined to avoid her, Callista caught the eye of Mr. Claremont and started toward him with a polite nod.
Before she could cross the room, however, Lord Rexton took leave of the woman he’d been greeting, swept two crystal glasses of sherry off a footman’s tray, and intercepted Callista in her path.
His opening volley took her by surprise. “I’m having Danvers amend our contract.” He handed her the sherry before she could decline.
Distracted, she took the outstretched glass. “Why is that? Is there a problem?” Please, let there not be a problem.
“It’s come to my attention your footboy isn’t receiving compensation from me for his work here.”
“I wasn’t expecting a separate payment for Billy. He’s my servant and I’m responsible for his wages.”
“I pay my employees, Miss Higginbotham.” He arched a dark-golden winged brow and made it sound a point of honor.
“I’m not suggesting otherwise, my lord. It’s simply that I consider Billy’s payment included within the fees we’ve already negotiated in my contract.”
“Well, I don’t,” he answered shortly. “Danvers will show you the new contract and have you add your initials. Graves will pay him along with the other footboys.”
She thought it a somewhat unusual arrangement and not at all necessary. However, if his lordship chose to make this generous gesture in Billy’s favor, it wasn’t for her to refuse the boon.
“As you wish.” She inclined her head and took a small sip from her glass. It was even smoother than the stock she kept in Bloomsbury, some of the last remnants of her father’s once-excellent cellar. “A fine sherry, my lord. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you approve.” Another one of those annoyingly amused smiles began to curl the corners of his full lips.
Surely he didn’t rouge them, did he? How on earth could a man’s lips be so red and lush and—and inviting? The word popped into her thoughts before she tamped it down with a calming breath. Yes, his teasing grin was definitely back, and his dark gaze was settling intent and smiling and focused—on her.
With a little fluster of panic, she frowned and took a fortifying sip of the sherry as she cast about for a safe topic. “Lord Rexton, we should discuss how you want the collection organized. Do you have a preference?”
If anything, his grin widened. “You are the expert, Miss Higginbotham. What do you recommend?”
Was he mocking her? She drew herself up and launched into a brisk lecture. “From what I can tell, your present library system seems a combination of arranging the books by general topic, sometimes alphabetically by author, and often haphazardly, perhaps according to when they entered your possession. Of course, collections often have no organizing principle at all. Do you realize many aristocrats’ libraries are arranged simply by color and size of volume, so they may all look pretty lined up on the shelf?”
He widened his eyes in mock horror. “My word, how shocking!”
She set her glass stiffly on a nearby table, casting her eyes down at her worn but polished boot tips. “I see it amuses you to make fun of me, but I make no apologies for taking my work seriously.”
“Come now, you sounded so scandalized, I couldn’t resist teasing a little.” He refilled her glass
from a nearby decanter and handed it back to her, forcing her to look up. “It’s just my shallow, pleasure-driven way of being, I’m afraid,” he said, waving a hand airily.
She cocked her head, trying hard to figure him out. “Books are a very serious matter, and you are now in possession of a truly stunning collection. There are some treasures in that library; I found the most gorgeous hand-tooled and illuminated Spanish Bible just this morning. It must be three hundred years old. All this poses a significant responsibility, both for me to do the collection justice and for you to care for it into posterity.”
“We shall each have to ensure the other remains committed to the task, although I am most certain that you, my dear”—he bowed toward her—“would never waver from your responsibility.” He traced a quick finger along her cheekbone and ended with a tap on her nose. “You have the look of responsibility all over you.”
She pursed her lips into a disapproving line and stepped back.
A mistake, apparently, as it seemed to lure him in closer—close enough to lean in and murmur in her ear, “Who are you, Miss Higginbotham?”
“As you well know”—she kept her gaze firmly fixed across the room—“I am a book dealer and, by arrangement at the moment, your librarian. Certainly no one of any particular interest to you.”
“Odd; I find you quite fascinating.”
A quick sideways glance caught him smiling at her over the rim of his glass. She felt her face grow hot. “My lord, I am here to carry out a commission. I can permit nothing, including your reputation, to jeopardize my successful completion of this task.”
“To what reputation do you refer?”
“Your life path of seduction is rather common knowledge,” she replied tartly. “Although lamentable, it is, I suppose, only to be expected that a man with your particular physical endowments and the leisure of your class would find no higher calling than to dedicate himself to a life of pleasure.” She took a small self-congratulatory sip after that little speech.
Master of Love Page 2
