Master of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  “That dirty little bugger?” Dom scoffed, enjoying himself immensely, despite Callista’s growing death grip on his arm. “He knew nothing. I let him go.”

  “May I ask why, my lord, you chose to hide your identity for so long?” Mr. Claremont asked.

  Dom pulled a boyish, self-deprecating smile and shrugged. “I suppose I needed the love of a good woman to show me the foolishness of my ways.” He left Callista for a moment and pulled the two gentlemen aside. “I’m sure I can count on your discretion in not mentioning the circumstances”—he pointed to his chamber door—“under which you learned of our engagement. I needed a brief moment of privacy to make my proposal of marriage. I wouldn’t want Miss Higginbotham’s reputation damaged by my rash lapse of good judgment.”

  The two men’s earnest promises secured, Dom brought them back to Callista’s side to launch his parting shot. “Please share our good news right away with the rest of the conference-goers—much more interesting, I think, than any tale about authorship of some dry essays. And do make my excuses. I’m taking my betrothed back to London to plan our wedding.”

  Callista was sputtering with indignation by the time they got down to the taproom. “What, pray tell, was all that show?”

  “That, my dear,” he laughed, ignoring the curious stares of the drinkers, “is what you get for seducing an honorable gentleman in his room. Saucy wench that you are, you’ll have to pay the piper now. You’re a wedded woman to be.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything!”

  “Oh, you don’t have a choice—no choice at all, I’m afraid.” His self-satisfied grin might last all day. He’d managed to outmaneuver Callista—never an easy task—and had made the step to take her to wife. He was getting married! “We have to wed—I’ve already seduced you twice and now people have seen you coming out of my room.”

  “You did not seduce me! I was quite aware of what I was doing.”

  “Yes, you were waving your lovely nakedness at me like a most delightful minx. So now it’s time to settle down and mend your ways. You’re marrying me.” He dragged her out into the bright afternoon sunshine and down the street. He’d paid up the bill and left instructions for the innkeeper to send his bags back to London; his priority was getting Callista home. “We can get a license and be married tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no!” She pulled to a stop. “If we must wed, I want the banns read at Saint George’s. I’ve attended services there all my life.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stalling. You haven’t even lived in London all your life.”

  “I’m not stalling.” Her thin voice sounded unconvincing.

  “All right—Saint George’s it is in three weeks, but we’re getting married. I’m writing a notice for The Times tomorrow, and I’ll have my sister and mother plan an engagement ball at Rexton House to welcome you to the family. You understand there’s no getting out of this, Callista?”

  She licked her lips nervously. “I don’t want you to regret it someday.”

  “Regret it? I expect you’ll drive me crazy.” He took her in his arms, broad daylight and the good churchgoers of Edinburgh be damned. “But we’re getting married, one way or the other.”

  “Callista, hold still!” Marie chided her. “I have to finish this hem before the ball tonight. Mon Dieu, why that man insists on only three weeks for an engagement, I don’t know! It’s romantique, for sure, but how am I to sew a worthy ball gown, wedding costume, and trousseau in so short a period of time? If he’s impatient for the marriage bed, there’s always a closed carriage ride about the park, but good couture—that should never be rushed!”

  Callista tried to calm herself and lifted her arms out of Marie’s way, barely listening to her friend’s muttering as Marie knelt on her workshop floor amidst the yards of Callista’s ice-blue silk skirts. The seamstress’s hand flashed with the needle as she put the final touches to a ball gown so beautiful and grandiose it shredded the last of Callista’s already desperately rattled nerves. Marie had been going on along these lines for two weeks now, sewing furiously and of no help at all when Callista tried to explain her worries.

  “You shouldn’t be making me wear a gown like this!” Callista fretted, looking down at Marie. “And I shouldn’t be allowing this engagement ball tonight, or even the wedding! He doesn’t love me, and I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Don’t you dare tell me you don’t love that man, Callista! I know you too well for that lie. You love him; you should marry him!”

  She was not going to discuss the leanings of her stupid treacherous heart. And only a Frenchwoman could think life was that simple, anyway. “But it can’t possibly work out!”

  “Don’t touch your hair! I spent two hours on that coiffure.” Marie pulled down Callista’s arm. “Chérie, he’s a good man and he cares for you. Look how little fuss he made about you exposing his writings, even though it’s turned him into the talk of the town! Bah, you should’ve seen the story The Tatler ran when they reprinted your broadside! You said he hasn’t even made you explain why you did it. If he’s forgiven you this scandal, he’ll make a good husband.”

  Callista groaned. “Don’t remind me about that fiasco!” She still wasn’t sure whether she’d done the right thing and whether Thompson had been plotting murder, although the tutor had dropped strangely out of sight since the Edinburgh conference. Her one consolation in this mess was the pleasure of the members of the Philosophical Society on learning of Rexton’s true identity and the upcoming wedding. They, for some reason, seemed to think she and their patron made a good match.

  “And,” said Marie, launching her final salvo, “it doesn’t hurt that your viscount is riche!” As if that settled everything.

  Callista seemed alone in her fear that marriage to Dominick would be a disastrous and heartbreaking mistake. A newly energized Great-Aunt Mildred had led the charge these past two weeks in planning an intimate morning wedding at Saint George’s. The lady was glorying in her great-niece’s return to her rightful place in society. Her now-inseparable companion Sir George positively triumphed over his role in bringing together what he insisted on calling “the two lovebirds.” Daphne was skipping with joy and plotting with her soon-to-be big brother about their move to Rexton House, when Callista proved too terrified to even think about that consequence of the nuptials. Beatrice seemed beside herself with delight; Callista had no doubt it was her strong-willed friend rallying her society connections that had produced the steady stream of ladies leaving calling cards in Bloomsbury to pay their respects to the bride-to-be. No doubt also the ladies want to see for themselves the odd mouse that has caught the golden lion, Callista thought glumly. Not that she’d been home to receive them—she’d worked round the clock this fortnight past to finish the library. Despite her exhaustion, anxiety preyed on her daily, and she had serious misgivings she’d survive the coming week.

  The deepest truth she could admit to no one but herself: she feared she hadn’t the courage to risk so much for love. This peacock of a man was so far outside her orbit, their worlds and backgrounds so different. She couldn’t stop herself from loving him, but to trust him with that love, to open her heart to the ridicule and vulnerability and loss that love could entail—she quaked at the thought. So much could go wrong with love. Far safer and easier not to risk such perils in the first place.

  And yet she had agreed to marry him. Sort of.

  Marie was rising from her knees, eying the skirts critically, when Billy knocked and entered the dress shop. “There’s a message come for you, Miss H.”

  Callista took the note and frowned as she read it over. She was surprised to see it was from none other than Mr. Thompson, with an equally surprising request. She tapped the paper against her palm. His appeal might be exactly what she needed to resolve her qualms.

  “Marie, please help me out of this dress. There’s something I must do.”

  Dom paced his entry hall, his formal evening wear immaculate, his polished leath
er dancing shoes slapping a worried staccato across the marble.

  Where the hell is Callista?

  If he’d known the frenzy it took to pull off a major ball in only two weeks’ time, he mightn’t have insisted on it. But he wanted everyone to know Callista was his and to cement her acceptance into society. A grand betrothal ball seemed just the thing. His mother and sister—delighted, if not actually gloating—had set to work, with invitations, flowers, decorations, musicians, champagne by the case, and a menu to die for. Callista’s household, he knew, was in a state of equal excitement. When he’d announced their engagement on their return from Edinburgh, her family had erupted into a tizzy of delight.

  But the happier they all were, the more Callista withdrew and became distant. She seemed far from thrilled at the prospect of becoming his wife, and Dom was rather disgruntled at how depressed and anxious she became. His mother saw him worrying and tried to tell him it was only a girl’s wedding nerves, yet Dom couldn’t believe his Callista was one for jitters.

  He’d asked her what was wrong, but she only repeated her line about not wanting him to regret the marriage. To reassure her, he presented her with an Avery family heirloom ring of ruby and diamond and told her it brought out the fire in her Titian hair. But she only thanked him politely and put it back in the box. Violet shadows appeared under her eyes as she ate little and worked later and later in his library, insisting she must finish the collection before the wedding could take place. He’d feared it was another delaying tactic and refused to move back the date for their nuptials; she’d raised her chin and worked herself to the bone.

  She seemed to use her busyness in the library as an excuse as well to avoid making plans for her remove to Rexton House. When Dom turned that task over to Daphne, he’d hoped the girl’s cheery enthusiasm would rub off on Callista and erase her look of frozen terror at the prospect of the move. Daphne supervised a thorough cleaning of the mistress’s stylish bedchamber adjoining the suite long occupied by Dom, arranged furnishings in a pretty room for herself down the hall, and assured them Billy’s new quarters in the servants’ wing were most generous—but nothing seemed to reach Callista. When frustration finally drove him to grab her shoulders and pull her close, something like panic flared in her beautiful gray eyes. After that, she refused to let him touch her at all and avoided any chance of a private moment. “After all,” she’d said flatly, pushing him away, “our marriage isn’t a love match, is it?”

  So it was he found himself pacing his own hall in full formal wear on the evening of their engagement ball, feeling somewhat panicky himself and not knowing what the hell he was getting into.

  When Graves approached, looking even more sepulchral than usual, Dom knew something was wrong. “My lord, Meacham requests a word with you. He’s in the delivery room at the back entrance; shall I show him to your study?”

  The coachman was to have fetched Callista to dine privately with Dom before the guests arrived; she should have been here a half hour ago. “Did he bring Miss Higginbotham?”

  “The carriage came back empty.”

  A coldness started to grip his heart. “I’ll go to him.” He wanted answers, now.

  Meacham stood hat in hand, looking miserable, as servants streamed by carrying the massive floral arrangements his mother had commissioned. “She weren’t there, my lord. There’s quite a commotion at the house.” He held out a folded paper. “Lady Mildred sent this note.”

  The hasty scrawl spoke volumes in itself. Rexton, I don’t understand what’s happened! Callista apparently went to meet a Mr. Thompson this afternoon, a young gentleman from Cambridge, I think you know him, and has sent a note she’s not returning. It makes no sense! Do you know what’s going on? I am so sorry—I know not what to do! Mildred.

  She wasn’t coming.

  Dom’s collar grew uncomfortably tight. He never thought he’d be stood up at his own betrothal ball.

  Graves reentered the delivery room and bowed. “Lady Barrington has arrived, my lord, and says she has a note for you from Miss Higginbotham.” The butler’s voice was gentle in a way Dom hadn’t heard since Graves had offered his condolences on his father’s death.

  The coldness spread. How was Anna involved in all this?

  He did have Graves put her in his study. Anna looked stunning of course, dressed for the ball to which his mother had insisted they invite her: “Otherwise, dear, it’ll appear you’re trying to hide something.”

  Anna wasted no words on a greeting. “I’m sorry, Rex. You must know by now she’s not coming. I ran into her yesterday, when I was shopping in Bond Street. She was very upset and begged me to deliver this note to you this evening. She said she was too ashamed to see you herself.”

  He cast her a long look, then turned to read the sealed sheet she handed over. He recognized Callista’s hand, her neat and precise writing on the page.

  I hope you will find it in yourself to forgive me, but our marriage would never work. Our backgrounds are too dissimilar. Mr. Thompson has asked me to elope, and I’ve said yes. We head to Gretna Green this evening. My mind is made up. Good-bye. C.H.

  He put both notes together and folded them slowly and carefully before slipping them into his pocket.

  Callista was standing him up, not just for tonight, but for the wedding. She’d left town with another man. She didn’t want him.

  It made a strange sense. She hadn’t allowed him to get close in the two weeks since Edinburgh; she’d clearly resisted their marriage. She’d probably been plotting this escape since their return, but creature of conscience that she was, she had insisted on finishing his library first.

  He turned back toward Anna. “What do you know of this?”

  She fidgeted but held his gaze. “I know she’s not right for you, Rex. The way she’s humiliating you tonight proves it. She’s not of our class, what with her penchant for trade and books. It’s not at all becoming of a real lady. If she prefers Thompson, let her go. It’s much more fitting for her to be a professor’s wife at Cambridge.” Anna came up and laid a hand against his lapel, tilting her face up to him. “There’ll be a bit of a flap, but it’ll die down. Then you and I could be together again. I’ve missed you, Rex.”

  Anna was right—he was humiliated. And furious. And even felt some guilt over how he’d treated Anna, perhaps unfairly led her on. For a fraction of a second, looking at her, he was tempted.

  Then he remembered Callista’s eyes in his room at the inn, her choked-off words: “Dominick, I love you.” He’d caught it at the time but discounted what he’d heard. He’d had the woman on the verge of climax; it was surely his skills as a lover and not his self that had moved her to say such. It was too much to hope she loved him, although he had let himself believe she’d eventually reconcile herself to their marriage. Their mutual interests and shared affection, along with their compatibility in bed, could lead to a good marriage. He’d planned to win her over gradually to love.

  More fool, he.

  A thought struck. “The note was sealed, Anna. How did you know about Thompson?”

  Something guilty flashed through her eyes. “Callista brought up his name in Bond Street. Hadn’t I mentioned it?”

  “No, you hadn’t.” He paused, wondering what she was hiding. “What else haven’t you mentioned?”

  Her glance slid away. “Nothing.”

  Dom sighed. “Anna, you and I have both pretended to a lesser intelligence for far too long, simply to fulfill an expectation of society. I’ve learned recently the strategy is not a good one.”

  “Perhaps not for a man—although society barely has room for an Adonis-philosopher,” she said with some bitterness. “A woman has no choice.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t, not yet. But Callista always insisted on creating her own choices. And on presenting them honestly. Have you spoken with Thompson?”

  “No! Why would I?”

  “I don’t know,” he said grimly. “But I’m going to find out.”

  He
stalked out of the room, glancing at the grandfather clock. “Graves!” he called to his butler, who stood at worried attention in the hall. “I need a fast horse in five minutes. I’m changing into something I can ride in. My mother and sister are due shortly to oversee final arrangements for the ball; tell them what’s happened and that I’ve gone to Bloomsbury.”

  “Shall we cancel this evening’s festivities, my lord?” The man was practically wringing his hands.

  “Certainly not.” He shot Graves a wolfish grin, the most he could manage in comfort. “I expect we’ll offer our guests quite an entertainment, one way or the other.”

  Dom arrived to find Callista’s household frantic.

  Billy was standing on the steps; he pulled on Dom’s sleeve as soon as he dismounted. “Come inside—somethin’s not right. She wouldn’t leave like that, not Miss H.”

  Lady Mildred was weeping into a handkerchief on the sofa in the morning room, with Daphne patting her knee awkwardly. Marie paced the room but looked up with a cry of relief as Billy brought Dom in. They all started talking at once, until Dom raised his hand. “Lady Mildred—you first, please, if you can, ma’am.”

  The older lady nodded and patted her eyes, rising slowly to her feet. “All was fine until earlier this afternoon,” she sniffled. “Callista’s been quiet and somewhat strained since you announced the engagement, but I swear she intended to go ahead with the marriage! Marie had her in the bath after luncheon today and then the two of them went down to Marie’s shop for the final fitting of the ball gown and to curl and arrange Callista’s hair. That’s when the first note came.”

  “It was from that Monsieur Thompson.” Marie spat out the name. “Billy brought it in. Callista read it and then asked me to help her change into a day dress. She said she needed to meet Thompson in the Bloomsbury Square garden to pick something up, but that she wouldn’t be long. I didn’t want her to go, monsieur. She was still wearing the ball gown petticoats—that’s six layers of French silk trimmed in Alençon lace! Between the petticoats and her hair, she was not dressed for errands in the city!”