It was his great secret. He felt a sweat break out under his collar, the childhood anxiety start to churn his stomach, at the truth that he wanted only to spend his time in the library, reading and writing philosophy. He’d have given his right arm to have been allowed that path in life. Such had not been his fate. From earliest age, his father had viciously mocked Dom’s interest in study and dismissed him as his mother’s golden-boy Cupid. When he’d tried to be taken seriously as a scholar at the University of Cambridge, he’d soon learned it wasn’t only his father and the childhood tutors the man had hired who found the idea of him as a dedicated student absurd. The faculty at Cambridge had heard the gossip and ignored him on arrival, laughing that it’d be a waste of their time to educate a lordling whose talents so obviously lay in the bedroom. He’d thought to show them all, but his first philosophy essay on Plato only got him hauled before the dean on charges of plagiarism—they insisted he couldn’t have written anything so original and learned himself.
An empty-headed pretty boy was all he’d ever been allowed to be.
The way this slip of a woman Callista dared make public her love of learning filled him with envy and sorely provoked his old demons of shame. He’d buried his true self behind the Master of Love lie, in order to pursue his real interests in concealment. But now here she was, dangling her unusual intellectual proclivities for all to see.
Walpole’s story at table about the young-buck lord who’d fancied himself Plato had almost made him lose his lunch, although at least that poor bastard’s father had helped him. If Dom’s secret ever got out, if such were ever to happen to him—laughed off the lectern, ridiculed by all—it would be his worst nightmare.
The secret life he’d crafted must never come to light.
He stalled. “Are you always such a bookish sort and always so serious—no laughter, no teasing?”
She considered him patiently. He was still avoiding her question of course, redirecting it back on her, and in a less-than-flattering light. Her shoulders rolled back, as if accepting the burden. “Yes, I suppose I am. If you wish, my lord, I shall endeavor to lighten my demeanor.”
He stared at her grave countenance before barking with laughter. “Are you teasing me now, my dear Miss Higginbotham? Is that the hint of a smile curling those enchanting lips of yours?” He reached out to trace their luscious curve, but she batted away his hand as a blush bloomed crimson across her cheeks. “You could give Graves a run for his money in a straight-face competition.”
Flirtatious banter it was going to have to be. This Callista was too delightful to resist. He knew he could count on her never letting her guard down to prevent any of his flirtation from proceeding beyond the harmless. Nor, he told himself, would he actually fall so low as to seduce her. So surely a little friendly flirting was harmless? It was, after all, what he did best, what society expected of him, and what he’d long ago perfected.
He had a sudden sense she might be just what he needed—and far more than he deserved.
She recovered her composure by picking up one of her ledger books to hide her blush as she bent studiously over its pages. “There is another problem. I have made a rough preliminary count”—she tapped a quill against the open ledger without looking up—“and worked some calculations. Even if we cull all the doubles from the collection and tightly fill the shelves, there is not nearly enough room in the library for all the new volumes.”
“Yes, I gathered that myself.” He pivoted to look around the room. “I hadn’t quite realized when Uncle George proposed this arrangement how many books his collection had grown to include, nor that he intended to ship me every last blessed one of them.”
“Perhaps you’d care to sell part of the collection, or put it in storage? Or have me arrange a secondary collection from the books here for one of your other residences?” she proposed. “You have a country home, do you not?”
He paced in a winding circle through the trunks. “I don’t care to sell any of the books, not after Uncle George has made me such a grand gesture. You can cull any doubles to send to my country seat, but I want the rest kept here. We’ve agreed we need the collection together to create that grand impressive display on my shelves, haven’t we?” He came to a stop close in front of her, favoring her with wide eyes and his most innocent smile.
She gave him a hard look and moved away. “Do you have significant book shelving elsewhere in Rexton House? Perhaps in your private study?”
“In my study, certainly,” he answered, “although not enough, I think, to contain all the overflow from here. Although now you mention it”—he snapped his fingers as a grin spread across his face—“that could be an ideal solution.”
“What solution would that be?” she asked with a gratifying degree of alarm.
“I don’t want the books spread all through the public rooms and bedchambers of Rexton House, so we need to set up a unified secondary collection somewhere else in the house. The most logical place is my study. It would make sense to put there those volumes of least interest to guests and those few books I consult most regularly in my occasional feeble attempts at reading and writing.”
She shook her head at his self-mockery. “Yes, that would seem to make sense.”
“You concur, then, with my plan, Miss Higginbotham?” He came up behind her and dropped his voice into its deeper register, purring out her name, just to spark that mix of panic and annoyance in her eyes. While it was childish of him to toy with her so, he couldn’t resist.
She turned to frown up at him, back against her worktable. “With what, exactly, am I concurring?”
“Why, that I should have my study renovated, of course, starting immediately, to accommodate this secondary collection. We can remove the paneling across the back and side walls of the study and build shelving cabinetry for the books.” He rubbed his hands in delight at the prospect. “I shall quite bask in the splendor of being surrounded by such a handsome collection.”
She pursed her lips hard, as if biting back a retort. “I certainly wouldn’t want to put you to any unnecessary expense or inconvenience. This book-collection project is already turning your household upside down.”
“It will all be worth it, I am sure, my dear Miss Higginbotham.” He leaned in to close his trap. “I’ll just move my desk in here with you for the duration of the renovation. It should only be for a couple of months—that is, if Graves can arrange for the craftsmen to start right away. I think you’ve proposed an excellent solution.”
She opened her mouth to protest, those lovely bow lips teasing him for a moment with a perfect O, before she gathered her wits to protest. “Surely there is a less public chamber somewhere in the residence, one more conducive to the quiet and privacy you need when you concentrate so hard on your work?”
He grinned. Oho! You’ll have to sharpen your arrows more than that to scare me off, Miss H. “Certainly, when I have meetings to conduct, I’ll do so in one of the parlors or the morning room, but for my meager writing tasks—lists of my upcoming social obligations, for example—I do enjoy being around my books. I’m sure you understand.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“And this way, when you have need to consult me about the collection, I’ll be close at hand.”
“A definitive advantage, I’m sure,” she muttered darkly.
He smiled, the grin of the triumphant. “That’s settled then. I’m off to tell Graves and Danvers of your suggestion, and to consult with them about the renovation. We’ll see if we can’t get started right away. Remember the carriage when you’re ready to go,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Wait, if you please,” she called out to him. “There is one final matter.”
He turned back toward her, but she merely paused, clenching her hands in front of her skirts. “Yes?” he prompted.
He watched her take a deep breath. “I would ask to be excused from any further luncheons with you or your guests,” she said in a rush. “I’m afraid Lady Barri
ngton does not approve of me. It poses a problem, since she serves as your hostess.”
From comments Anna and Lady Vaughnley had made at their social calls this afternoon, he had some idea what was going on—especially after a wave of twittering gossip spread out behind teacups and fans in the ladies’ wake. His new librarian was no doubt correct that Lady Barrington meant her no good. Callista’s struggle to maintain her composure in face of the slights she’d endured under his roof deepened his sting of conscience. Even so, he found himself unwilling to give up her company.
And caught rather by surprise at the rush of pleasure he felt knowing that his position of power over her meant he didn’t have to give her up, either.
“I’m afraid I can’t grant your request,” he said. “When the officers of the Philosophical Society took their leave, they expressed hope that they’d lunch with you again. Rexton House functions as their London headquarters, you see, and I’ll be hosting a series of meetings as they plan the upcoming Edinburgh conference.”
She swallowed and turned away. “If you’ll forgive me for being blunt, luncheon was somewhat trying. I have not only my own reputation to look to, but that of my younger sister as well, since I am her guardian. Your reputation as Lord Adonis, Master of Love, will not help my own, I’m afraid, if certain people choose to make an issue of my presence in your household.”
He read the quiet desperation of her situation in her tense shoulders. For the first time, he truly hated that skein of stories about the “Master of Love.” It had originally served his purposes, but lately he’d begun to wonder if it was all worth it. The truth would blow away the cobwebs in an instant, yet he had woven the tale so well, none would believe him now.
Frustration sharpened his tone. “I expect my sister will be doing more of the hostessing, now that she’s back in town and the Season is picking up.” It was the most he’d yield. He was paying for this book dealer to work in his library; she could bloody well show up at his dining table.
She nodded stiffly, looking at some point over his left shoulder. “As you wish, my lord.”
The whip of annoyance stung hard. The spinster no doubt imagined herself martyr to his beastliness. His irritation grew, with himself now, and irrationally goaded by her air of porcelain fragility. What was it about this tightly wound woman that had him careening from annoyance to intrigue and back again? The intensity of his response made no sense and could go nowhere. She was in his employ, and thus off-limits. She was inexperienced, thus also off-limits. And she thought him a libertine seducer whom she obviously held in low regard.
Christ, he was sick of the mask he wore.
Chapter 4
Callista hugged her legs to conserve heat in her bedchamber’s cooling hip bath, laid her head on her knees, and refused to cry.
She had thought the day would never end.
As a gray sunset darkened the sooty London sky, the viscount’s luxurious carriage had paraded into Bloomsbury Square with the crest of the Avery family lion stalking across the doors. She’d found it both a little too appropriate for the viscount’s golden feline style and a lot too conspicuous if the ladies Vaughnley and Barrington were indeed bent on ruining her. Although Mr. Danvers had assured her that transportation to and from home was a standard contract benefit, she’d been desperate to get out.
All she wanted was to collapse on her family’s dilapidated old sofa with a glass of their precious remaining stock of sherry. But first Marie and then Great-Aunt Mildred begged for detailed accounts of the St. James mansion, its occupants, and Callista’s first day of work. Marie had been her bosom friend since Callista’s widowed father, after several years of traveling with his daughters throughout Europe, had settled his family in the same Paris street as Marie and her seamstress mother. There was little Callista would refuse her devoted friend and her great-aunt, especially as she knew they both hoped not only a financial boon but also renewed social possibilities would come from Callista’s new position. If anyone could advise her about the debacle of her smeared reputation, it was her worldly-wise Frenchwoman friend, but the shame felt too raw for Callista to bear speaking about it. So instead she provided a highly censored and improved account of her day—especially the luncheon, which sent them into raptures of delight. When her thirteen-year-old sister, Daphne, burst in, reddish-blond braids flying, Callista had to retell everything from the beginning.
“Remember, dear, you are the great-granddaughter of a duke!” It was her great-aunt’s favorite refrain. Callista had hidden a smile as she held the lady’s cane and helped seat her at the supper table. “On your mother’s side, the Willette family goes back to William the Conqueror. Royal blood runs in our veins! How many of Lord Rexton’s guests can make such a claim?” Lady Mildred sputtered.
“Exactly.” Marie nodded, passing the crisp biscuits. “You should hold your head high with those people, chérie.”
“That was all a long time ago,” Callista said gently as Margaret served the Regency soup made from Sunday’s pheasant. Besides serving as housemaid, the quiet young woman stitched with a fine hand and helped Marie in her dress shop, assembling the gowns from the fashion plates the Frenchwoman had brought from Paris.
“Bah! You are as charmante and distinguished as any of them—although you really must let me do something with your wardrobe,” Marie added with an unhappy professional glance at Callista’s drab gray gown.
“You know, dear”—Lady Mildred accepted a slice of Red Leicester from Daphne; they were making economies with fresh butter these days, but cheese they could still afford—“I was acquainted with Lord Rexton’s mother, Celeste, when we were all quite young, although she is a good fifteen years my junior.”
“Yes, Great-Aunt, I do recall you mentioning the connection.” Several times already. Callista smiled fondly at the lady, who’d grown a little fuzzy minded of late. “Did you know her older brother Sir George as well?”
“Somewhat.” The lady looked away. “I . . . we were acquainted.”
Callista frowned, passing on the bowl of boiled parsnips that rounded out their supper. “Do you know of any reason why Sir George would insist I be the one to organize the library? Lord Rexton said his uncle presented my commission as a condition of his early bequest.”
“Why, I’m sure I don’t know, dear!”
The suddenly high pitch of her great-aunt’s tone made Callista wonder what the lady wasn’t saying, but then Marie leaned in, fascinated as always by the ways of the English aristocracy. “What was this Lady Celeste like?”
A long reminiscence followed about the vivacious blonde, dubbed the Celestial Beauty. “Your Lord Adonis must have inherited both his mother’s looks and temperament,” Lady Mildred told Callista, oblivious to her great-niece’s pained wince.
Daphne suddenly interrupted. “Oh, and Mr. Garforth called on you, Callista! Remember him? He’s the business agent for the Duke of Bedford.”
“Ah, oui!” added Marie. “Monsieur Garforth wanted to know all about the new roof and my dress shop here.”
“He was quite interested in you too, Callista,” said her sister. “I told him about your marvelous new position doing very important work for Viscount Rexton. I offered him tea and he said I was a ‘right lovely little lady, very grown-up indeed.’ ” Daphne grinned. “He left a packet for you, some new lease documents, I think he said. I gave the papers to Billy to put on your dressing table with the rest of the post. Mr. Garforth said he was going to see the duke at Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire, but he’d be back in a fortnight and would see you then.”
None of that sounded particularly good. She hadn’t missed a quarterly payment yet, but nor had she ever felt comfortable with the duke’s land agent. Mr. Garforth made her nervous, although she couldn’t pin down why.
It wasn’t until much later that Callista finally had time to look through the papers their landlord’s agent had left. First, there had been more questions to answer at table about every detail of her day. After the me
al, Callista managed to pull Marie aside to ask what her friend knew about Lady Barrington. “I got the distinct impression,” Callista said, “the lady was laying certain claims with regard to Lord Rexton.”
“Oui.” Marie tapped a well-manicured figure against pursed lips. “I have heard she is a well-to-do widow, very fashionable, and often in his company. She is apparently a distant cousin by marriage; at least that’s the story they use to explain why she acts as hostess when neither his mother nor sister is in town.” Marie gave one of her elegant Gallic shrugs. “I think she’s assumed to be his lover, along with the other ladies the society pages link him to.”
Callista then met with Margaret’s mother, Mrs. Baines, in the cook-cum-housekeeper’s small sitting room below stairs to go over the week’s menus and household accounts.
“The coal heavers delivered today, miss,” Mrs. Baines said with a sigh. “I’m afraid you’re not going to like the bill, but there’s nothing we can do until the weather warms up for good.”
She and Mrs. Baines had developed a system of paying the tradesmen’s bills in the order they were past due. They shared a pot of tea as they figured out how to shuffle funds so as to be no more than sixty days late on the fishmonger and thirty days on the butcher. Even with her new commission at Rexton House, the bills kept falling overdue. She hid the full extent of their problems but didn’t know how long she could hold on to the family home where she and Daphne had been born. Sometimes she slipped out alone to walk by St. Pancras Workhouse, off Elephant Row to the north, drawn like a moth to the flame of her worst secret fear: that they’d all be tossed into the street.
She shook herself mentally. “ ‘Twill all come right, some day or night,” she muttered under her breath.
“What’s that, miss?” asked Mrs. Baines.
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