While Callista recuperated, Dom also enlisted his sister to help with a weekend dinner party at Rexton House featuring a high-level guest list. His dual intention—only the first part of which he shared with Jane—was to further mend Callista’s reputation and allow him the opportunity to seduce her. He was not oblivious to the serious contradictions of this plot. But with the supreme disregard for logic of a powerful male deep in thrall to lust, he told himself as long as he protected her reputation, he and Callista could explore this fascination that now gripped him so hard she was all he could think of, day and night—especially night.
By the day before the dinner party at week’s end, Dom found himself restless with an almost physical need to see Callista. It took a morning’s worth of maneuvering, with footmen running back and forth from St. James’s to Belgravia and his inner voice deriding him all the while as a callow and smitten youth—not at all in the style of the Master of Love. By the end of it, however, he’d wangled a family dinner invitation out of his sister for which he would need to collect his mother, who just happened to have a late-afternoon appointment at Callista’s house, finishing up a fitting for her first ball gown.
Dom brought Danvers along for extra cover. He and his secretary arrived amidst lengthening shadows. Margaret admitted them to the hall—gleaming with a fresh coat of pale blue paint and the huge bouquet of yellow tulips he’d sent the previous day—as loud female laughter greeted them.
“Miss H. and Lady Beatrice are taking a sherry in Mam’zelle Marie’s shop with your mother, my lord.” Margaret bobbed them a curtsy as she took their hats and gloves. “I’ll go announce you.”
Dom realized suddenly he’d never heard Callista laugh. He hatched a plan on the spot. “I’m sure you don’t stand on such ceremony with Danvers, Margaret. We can find our own way.” He smiled down at the maid, his special smile that always got him what he wanted from women.
It worked like a charm as Margaret blushed shyly and bobbed again. She stepped away and waved them down the hall toward the open doors of the atelier sitting area, out of which spilled golden gaslight and another burst of hilarity.
Danvers cocked an eyebrow at his employer.
“Listen to them!” Dom said, grinning. “They sound almost tipsy! Wouldn’t you like to catch a bit of their conversation before they realize we’re here? It’s not eavesdropping if we happen to walk in slowly.”
“Your mother is there, sir. I’m not at all sure we want to hear the paths down which she’s leading those young ladies. She’s been telling me about the two beaus she’s juggling. I think one of them is younger than you.”
Dom blanched. “Good Lord.”
“Indeed.” It was Danvers’s turn to grin and flourish a hand down the hallway. “But by all means, lead on.”
Celeste Avery rocked back in her chair with laughter. Between commissioning her new wardrobe and playing ringleader to these three delightful young women, she was enjoying herself immensely. “Marie, dear, more sherry! I haven’t had such fun since that garden party at the Duc de Rochelet’s château last summer.” She winked broadly at her young companions seated around a low table scattered with a half-empty decanter, magazine copies of Le Follet: Courrier des salons, and an explosion of colorful fabrics. “I highly recommend getting lost on winding garden paths with handsome visiting Italian tenors.”
“More than one at a time, Lady Rexton?” Beatrice asked, eyes wide and teasing.
That set Celeste off on another peal of mirth. “Oh, don’t tempt me! The stories I could tell!” It had been her idea to break out the sherry. She’d discovered this intriguing creature Miss Higginbotham—Callista, actually, as she’d proceeded to a first-name basis this very afternoon—kept a surprisingly good cellar. The girl most generously made it available to Marie and her best customers, of which Celeste knew herself to be the prime and perhaps only such example. Despite Danvers’s earlier warning to Marie, Celeste didn’t mind at all that the shop was unpopular. She loved nothing more than discovering and working with a fresh new talent in couture—well, perhaps there were some things she loved more—and Marie clearly possessed a true genius for fashion design. At five o’clock, she’d declared they’d labored long enough over the final alterations to her ball gown and in poring over the latest French fashion plates, pinning dummy patterns, and considering colors and trim. The arrival of Lady Beatrice to hand-deliver Callista a ball invitation made the excuse all the more perfect.
“I would have brought your invitation along as well, Lady Rexton, had I known you were here,” Beatrice was saying. “I’d be most honored if you’d consider putting in an appearance.”
“To your annual Society of Love Ball? How could I resist with a name like that?”
Marie chimed in: “Madame, you could wear the crimson silk! Remember, the one for which we decided on the pleated seed-pearl décolletage?”
“Oh, yes, it’s very daring!” Celeste searched through the haphazard pile on the table to pull out the sketch and gaze at it again with satisfaction. “It’ll be just the thing. And you must design something equally stunning for Lady Beatrice and Callista. The gowns will be my treat.” Celeste had known Beatrice’s parents and found their only child to have a solid head on her shoulders—always important for a young woman, in her opinion—as well as a most charming air. She only hoped Marie could help both young women with their wardrobes. Beatrice’s gowns were far too fussy for someone of her petite and rounded stature. And Callista looked a veritable dowd in the gray wool dress she wore today. “I’m determined to launch Couture by Beauvallon as London’s most exclusive source for ladies’ fashion. If all three of us are at the ball in Marie’s gowns”—she clapped her hands—“it will be the perfect opportunity.”
It took her five minutes to override the predictable objections stemming from Callista’s prickly pride, Marie’s desire not to impose, and Beatrice’s amusement over being made a charity case at her own ball, but she got her way in the end.
She always did, she thought smugly.
“If you insist, Lady Rexton”—Callista was finally capitulating—“but only for Marie’s sake, since your offer is far too generous. And I must warn you, I’m not wearing daring décolletage!”
Marie pleased Celeste by ignoring Callista’s wail. Really, what woman didn’t want to show off her cleavage? Breasts, Celeste had long been convinced, were one of God’s special gifts to women.
“What about the amber peau de soie we looked at earlier, the new bolt that replaced the one that was ruined? It would be very dramatique with Callista’s vivid shade of hair and porcelain skin,” Marie suggested, tilting her own perfectly coiffed head to the side and considering her friend with professional eyes. She flipped through a recent Le Follet to a ball gown fashion plate with a deep V-shaped boned bodice and pointed at it with a confident hand. “Look, we could lower the shoulder line, here and here, to highlight Callista’s lovely collarbones, and then fill in the bodice, just a bit”—she cast a placating glance at Celeste, who drew breath to protest—“with a flounce of ivory lace.”
“But that gown is far too conspicuous!” Callista protested.
“Nonsense,” replied her friend firmly. “You have a most elegant neckline, chérie, a tiny waist, and a beautiful willowy carriage. You’d look spectacular in this gown.”
Celeste had to agree. This redheaded girl had potential. She would be most aristocratic, if only she’d relax her air of defensive tension. Now, for example, with her eyes glowing and a smile curving her mouth as she argued good-naturedly with her friend, she was quite captivating.
And more and more intriguing all the time was the way her son talked about the young woman. It had taken Celeste but a moment to tell which way the wind blew. This morning, she’d seen right through that boy’s dozy missive about stopping at Bloomsbury Square to collect her for dinner at Jane’s.
Really, men were so obvious.
Beatrice chimed in: “Marie’s perfectly right, Callie. You shouldn�
�t try to blend in, not with your height and that glorious fiery hair. Flaunt your difference! I’m a little blond dumpling next to you, but you’re a goddess!”
“Oh, for goodness sakes!” Callista laughed. “You’re hardly a dumpling, and I’m no goddess. You’re the most vibrant young lady I know, England’s richest heiress, and an earl’s daughter to boot!”
Beatrice shook her head and waved away Callista’s compliments. “Please, just say you’ll wear the gown and come to my ball! I’ll be terrified unless you’re there with me.”
“Bea, you’ve never been terrified in your life! You used to lead us into the most awful scrapes when we were young. You were perfectly fearless.”
“People change, Callie,” she said in an odd tone. “Life gets scarier as you grow older.”
Callista reached over to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Yes, I suppose it does,” she said, sighing. “You win—I’ll be at your side in Marie’s gown.”
“Goodness, the maudlin dramatics of youth!” Celeste reached for the decanter. “We’re planning a ball here, ladies, not a wake! And, Callista—I want your agreement that you will give Marie carte blanche to design the gown as she thinks best.”
“But won’t it be too tight across the shoulders with that dropped sleeve line? I won’t be able to move my arms.”
“You’re not supposed to move your arms! You’ll look most charmingly demure and helpless—gentlemen love that.” Celeste chortled, with some sense of the challenge her son must have been getting from this strong-willed filly. “You have to suffer a bit to be beautiful, Callista dear. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”
“No, my lady.” Callista smiled wryly over the rim of her glass. “I’m afraid my mother’s lessons didn’t include such wisdom.”
Celeste was starting to like this smart-tongued girl more and more. She widened her eyes and played the role of brainless flirt to the hilt. “Really, I can’t imagine what the two of you ever talked about!”
“Books, mainly. And we did talk about love,” Callista said.
“Ah, now that’s a topic I can embrace! What were your dear mama’s lessons?”
“She told me to follow my heart and marry for love, as she did. And that it’s important to find a man whose intellect you respect.”
“Hmm . . . interesting advice. What about a pair of broad shoulders and a strapping chest?” Celeste wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Did she mention respecting those as well?”
The girls burst out laughing.
Callista reached across the table to pour for Celeste with a warm smile. “I’m afraid my parents lived in a realm of philosophy beyond such considerations.”
“Aesthetics are a legitimate realm of philosophy, you know.” Celeste couldn’t resist dropping her façade to engage the girl on her own level. “Plato held beauty to be an eternal good in itself, worthy of pursuit and respect. Isn’t there some anonymous philosopher writing about these things now—the Lover of Philosophy, I think he calls himself?”
“You make an excellent point, my lady. But I’m not sure either Amator Philosophiae or Plato had the pursuit of Italian tenors in mind.”
Celeste cackled. “I’m not entirely shallow, you know. Although it is part of my charm!”
“Was that the door?” Still smiling, Callista started to get up.
Celeste waved her back down. “Let the maid get it, dear. I want to hear Marie’s philosophy of love. Frenchwomen are so wise on these matters.”
Marie shrugged expressively. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet developed a philosophie of love, madame. Unless it’s that a woman can best control and play the game of love in a perfectly put-together toilette complementary to her own natural charms.”
“But what if she’s a little dumpling?” Beatrice asked with a sigh.
“Every woman is beautiful in her own way,” Marie replied with firm conviction. “Sometimes she just needs help learning how to bring out that beauty. When we design your ball gown, Lady Beatrice, I’ll be happy to make suggestions to flatter your more petite height and paler coloring.”
Celeste patted Beatrice on the shoulder. She brushed her hand over the multiple rows of flounce adorning the girl’s pouf sleeves with a discreet but meaningful glance at Marie. “You’d look ravishing in a very sleek and simple silhouette. And we’ll certainly want to highlight your décolletage. You’ve a bosom to make a parson drool.”
“Lady Rexton!” Beatrice blushed but looked pleased nonetheless—and rather relieved, if Celeste didn’t miss her guess—to be taken in hand by two women who knew their fashion.
Celeste continued, unperturbed. “Marie is entirely correct. So much in this world is run by men, but they’re brought to heel easily enough if you sharpen the weapons nature puts at your disposal.”
Marie stood to start rolling up her scattered bolts of silk and velvet. “Certainement. A wise woman always looks her best.” She nodded with the certainty of one repeating an unshakable article of faith.
“You two have mastered that lesson well,” Callista said, inclining her head toward Celeste and Marie. “You both look flawless all the time.”
Celeste grinned. “Actually, I look a veritable fright in the morning. It takes my maid at least two hours to complete my toilette, longer if we’re doing a hair treatment with golden henna or lemon juice.” She patted her still-blond hair, curled into an elaborate coiffure. “That’s why I never let my lovers spend the night.”
Beatrice leaned forward. “Lady Rexton, do you truly have two lovers? The gossips say you’re juggling both Lord Carrington and Mr. Weaver at once.”
“Indeed,” she purred like a self-satisfied cat. “I find a little variety and competition makes one’s love life so much more interesting.”
Marie snapped a cut length of azure satin and folded it neatly. “And why shouldn’t a beautiful widow of means take on young lovers and dress impeccably if it gives her pleasure?”
“My thoughts exactly!” Celeste twisted in her seat to face her favorite new modiste. Just see if she didn’t make this talented young woman the sensation of the London fashion world! “Marie understands me implicitly.”
“Of course, madame! The French know that women become more beautiful as they age. Experience gives you a certain self-confidence and sophistication.”
“Except for the three of you,” Celeste retorted, leaning back in her chair in a most mellow and generous mood. “You’re all gorgeous, including our prim librarian and this delectable morsel who pretends she’s a dumpling. Now, tell me about your lovers, girls! Marie, is there some young man for whom you have a tendre?”
“Oh, Marie’s all business,” Callista teased. “I’ve never seen her show any interest in a young man.”
“She’s blushing now!” Beatrice squealed with delight.
Celeste pounced. “Marie! Do tell! I adore stories about a new beau, and if I’m not mistaken, you’ve recently taken one on.”
The modiste kept her head down, her attention apparently consumed in wrapping up three bolts of the finest jewel-toned woolens. “It’s nothing like that, madame. We’ve only met on a few occasions.”
“But is he handsome and wonderful and sweet and it’s only a matter of time? Come, dear, if I’m to be your new patroness, you mustn’t hide anything from me.”
“Callie, do you know the young man?” Beatrice turned to ask. “Who could it be?”
Their hostess looked blank for a moment and then lifted her brows as a mischievous smile curled her lips. “Mr. Danvers?” she guessed.
“It is!” Beatrice clapped her hands, not unkindly. “Look, she’s turned quite pink!”
“Of course!” Celeste crowed. “That’s why he’s always hanging about here. And to think he told me it was because we needed to go over my quarterly investment records and he could only find me at your shop!”
“Dear me, Marie, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you blush.” Callista reached across the sofa to clasp Marie’s hand reassuringly. “I think Mr. D
anvers is a very fine young man.”
Marie looked up, dark eyes twinkling and her impish smile back in place. “He is that. And, of course, he has those broad shoulders and strapping chest to respect as well.”
The women collapsed in another fit of laughter.
“He certainly does,” Celeste agreed, chortling. “Do you know, I tried to seduce him myself once?”
“Vraiment?”
“Oh, don’t worry, dear, he had no interest.” Celeste waved away Marie’s startled look. “He refused most gallantly, said he feared for his position and his life were he to dare dally with his employer’s mother. He was clearly saving himself for you, Marie.”
The sound of masculine throat-clearing turned the ladies’ heads to the door.
“Well, speak of the devils!” Celeste’s smile broadened to a gloating grin. “Gentlemen, do come in!”
Danvers ran a finger under his collar. “Um, we don’t wish to intrude, ladies.”
“Yes.” Dom cleared his throat again. “I’m here to pick you up, Mother, for our dinner at Jane’s this evening.”
“Oh, it’s too early to leave for Belgravia, darling. Jane won’t be finished with the boys in the nursery. Much as I adore Jason and Henry, their grubby fingers quite ruined my last gown. I’m not heading over until they’re safely tucked into bed.”
Callista walked over to the men standing awkwardly in the doorway. Celeste hadn’t missed how the girl’s eyes lit up at the sight of her son. Nor how Marie blushed again at the arrival of Danvers. Another romance to plot! How absolutely delicious—although she reproached herself for not seeing that one brewing.
“Please do join us, Lord Rexton, Mr. Danvers, and have a seat,” Callista said, bringing them into the room.
“Marie,” said Celeste, “offer the poor boys some of that excellent claret Danvers favors. Or perhaps they’d prefer a brandy? They look a bit peaked.”
Master of Love Page 18
