“Actually”—she smiled cheekily—“I rather feel like celebrating.”
He grinned and couldn’t resist a quick kiss on the lips. “That’s the spirit. Nothing rattles my Callista.”
The crowd fell quiet as Graves’s voice boomed, for once quite cheerfully, “The Viscount Rexton and the Honorable Miss Higginbotham.”
There was a second of stunned silence before the room erupted into furious chatter.
Callista laid her hand on Dominick’s arm, and they stepped into the packed ballroom, where the dancing was in full swing. She should have been exhausted with spent nerves, but buoyed by Dominick’s avowal that he wouldn’t leave her side, she found herself rather looking forward to the ball.
They’d made good time, arriving at Rexton House in presentable condition for the event. It was Sir George who’d saved the day on that front. When they’d reined in back at Bloomsbury, Sir George’s carriage was out front and he was inside, along with Dominick’s valet and a fresh suit of evening wear, “just in case it might be needed.” The men had washed and rebandaged the cuts on Dominick’s arm and had him ready in no time.
Marie, meanwhile, had whisked Callista upstairs. “Mon Dieu—the lace, your coiffure!”
Callista had explained all to her friend, who, to her credit, fetched new petticoats and cleaned her up in record time. Callista also confessed what she’d hidden from Dominick—that her ribs ached where Thompson had thrown her against the bench. “You’re lucky I had you in that new boned corset,” Marie declared, after examining the tender area, “as it offers excellent support for the torso.” She buttoned Callista into the ice-blue silk ball gown she’d designed and poufed out the skirts proudly, muttering about her innovations in flat pleating and double flounce. There wasn’t time to redo the coiffure, so Marie brushed out the tangled mess and twisted it up into a simple chignon, ringed with gardenias and a matching cascade of pale blue ribbons. She applied a soothing herbal cream to Callista’s stinging cheeks and a light dusting of powder. “You may bruise tomorrow”—Marie cocked her head in critical assessment—“but it actually gives you a fine color along the cheekbones this evening. You look ravissante, chérie! Now go!”
Inside the carriage on the way to Rexton House, Dominick presented her with the velvet box Sir George had cleverly thought to bring along. “Your engagement present, beauty—to match your ring,” he said, pointing to the ruby and diamond betrothal ring she’d slipped on for the evening. Nestled inside the velvet was the most gorgeous necklace Callista had ever seen. “It’ll bring out even more of your fire,” Dominick murmured fondly. The heavy ruby pendant on a strand of twinkling diamonds filled in perfectly her lace-edged bodice, and she’d shivered as he fastened it with a kiss at her nape.
Once they crossed the threshold into the ballroom, Lady Rexton bustled up in a tizzy of anxiety. “Where in the world have you two been? Is everything all right? Oh, Callista”—the lady paused in her tirade—“you look like a princess royal, dear! Truly magnificent! But, Dom, your sister and I have been quelling rumors all night! Lady Barrington’s claiming Callista cried off and eloped with some nobody from Cambridge. I didn’t believe it, of course, but you two being unforgivably absent from your own engagement ball did seem to confirm the matter. I haven’t known what to say!”
Dominick leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek. “You may tell everyone we were enjoying a lover’s stroll in St. James’s Park and quite lost track of time under the beauty of the moonlight. Now if you’ll excuse us, I believe a waltz is about to start.” He motioned to the orchestra. “I’d like nothing more than to dance with my betrothed at our ball.”
As he led her onto the dance floor, smiling and nodding at the gaping guests they passed, comments from all sides reached Callista’s ears.
“This is Rexton’s second scandal this month! Did you hear about the debacle up in Edinburgh where he was exposed as some sort of philosopher-scholar?”
“Who’d have thought the Master of Love had time to read!”
“She is a pretty thing, no doubt about it; quite a striking couple they make.”
“However did she get her skirts so wide? That gown’s gorgeous!”
“I hear it’s all the rage in Paris to wear a long, pointed bodice like that.”
“I must get the name of her modiste.”
“Her father was Lord Higginbotham; he held a rather minor barony. That’s her great-aunt coming in now on Sir George’s arm.” Graves’s voice boomed again as he announced the couple. “Lady Mildred hasn’t been out among society in ages, but she is the daughter of the fourth Duke of Galbridge.”
“The present duke and duchess are here tonight; I chatted with them earlier. I understand they’ll be sponsoring the younger Higginbotham sister when she has her coming-out in a few years.”
“But I thought the marriage was off?”
“I expect it still is. Rexton’s only dragged her back so as not to shame the family. They’ll arrange for a less public calling-off in a few weeks.”
“Mark my words, the wedding will never take place.”
And then Dominick swept her into his arms. His smile as he gazed into her eyes erased all her doubts. He twirled her about the dance floor until she laughed with the joy of being alive and in the embrace of her beloved.
But the dance had to end. When it did, Lady Barrington was there, right in front of them.
“Miss Higginbotham,” the lady said coldly, “I find myself confused. Mr. Thompson told me you wished most fervently to elope with him.”
Dominick took a step forward. “He used you, Anna, for his own purposes, which seemed to fit in quite well with your own. His story was a lie.”
“Many here find the story quite plausible.” Lady Barrington raised her chin stubbornly.
Dominick paused for a moment, surveying her and the crowd. Then he turned toward Callista. He dropped to one knee in front of her, with the circle of Lady Barrington and the other guests close behind. Some in the room gasped, and all fell silent and turned to look.
He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Callista, I have the poor reputation of a dissolute scoundrel, wasting my time on games of love. As all recently know, I also suffer from the foolish presumption that I can write philosophy. Here, however, is the truth: I am neither lover nor philosopher. I am nothing, without you.” He reached for her palm and pressed into it a kiss. “You bring out the truth in me, Callista, and make me whole. I need you to set me free and give me the courage to be as strong as you are. I love you. Unworthy though I am, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
A lady somewhere stifled a teary sniffle, and a murmur of approval rippled through the ballroom.
Callista looked down at this most gorgeous of men, kneeling at her feet—her own hero, fiercely intelligent and proud. He was willing to bare his soul and his pride in front of his peers, for her. She had to swallow hard before she could reply. “Lord Rexton, love is the greatest mystery of philosophy, debated ever since Plato wrote of soul mates questing to find one another and made whole when they do. It is precisely your writing that makes you a true Master of Love.”
He smiled up at her, the wicked glint back in his eye. “I shall devote my life to the study of love at your feet.”
“And I, my lord Adonis, would be honored to be your wife.”
The crowd erupted in applause, and not a few ladies dabbed their eyes. Dominick rose from his knee to take her in his arms and kiss her with all the love that finally made them both whole.
The music swirled up, and he swept her into his arms for another waltz.
“Yes—you’re my Master of Love, indeed,” she murmured, slanting him a look through her lashes.
Epilogue
Rexton House
July 1847
Callista bent over the packing trunks in the hall, ticking off numbers on her list. How her life had changed in the past half year! The library trunks were all empty, their books resplendent in perfectly organiz
ed glory on the shelves of the library and study. These trunks were packed for departure to Dominick’s country house; with the Season over, fashionable London was departing in droves.
She’d had Dominick as her husband for almost two months now.
Never had she imagined she’d be this happy.
Never had she imagined the play she’d learned to share with him. Gone was any shame or guilt or insecurity, chased away by her very own Master of Love’s teaching her to delight in their love together. Her fledgling was flying now, exploring the open skies.
Callista straightened with a contented sigh, rolling her neck and shoulders against the strain of a long day packing. She heard Dominick’s boot-fall and handed over the list to Graves, who, along with his new apprentice, Billy, was bustling about supervising the move.
Then she held still, a smile hovering at her mouth, as Dominick came up behind to press a kiss against her neck.
“Such a hard worker you are, beauty,” he purred. “I think you’ve earned a nice, hot bath.” He tugged at her hand. “Come with me.”
“As you wish, my lord Adonis,” she said, assenting with a sassy bob. “I do feel rather dusty.”
“Cheeky girl”—he grinned—“let’s get you in the tub.”
The new shower-bath chamber, renovated from a dressing room adjoining their master suite, was part of his wedding gift to her. That and the jewel of a study he’d set up for her overlooking the square. Dominick and Billy had tracked down her father’s private book collection, which she’d had to sell last year, along with her parents’ Turner landscape. Both were now proudly displayed behind the rococo cherrywood desk he’d stocked with business cards and stationery engraved with Higginbotham Book Dealers. He’d even had Mr. Danvers print up standardized contracts and invoice forms, so all she needed do was enter the individual terms for each sale; business was now brisk enough to keep her happily busy.
When she got too busy, Dominick swooped down to whisk her off to the shower-bath, or to their massive four-poster bed.
Yes, she was a very happy woman, indeed.
Her family and friends were thriving. Great-Aunt Mildred and Sir George had a torrid affair through the early summer, oblivious to all scandal, until even Celeste told her brother he needed to make an honest woman of Mildred. They married by special license the next day. The Bloomsbury house became their London abode, although they’d left last week for Sir George’s manor in Norwich, taking with them Daphne, who’d blossomed into an even more vivacious and lovely girl.
Marie had moved her fashion atelier into Bond Street and taken private rooms in an exclusive rooming house nearby (not inconsequentially much closer to Mr. Danvers in Saint James’s Square). Mr. Danvers was pressing his suit, but Marie led him a merry chase, declaring herself far too busy to settle down. His best volley to date had been an advance copy of a newly patented sewing machine from America that made Marie truly squeal with delight. Celeste, now the Dowager Lady Rexton—“Such an ugly term! I might even have to remarry!”—had built up the exclusivity of Marie’s shop until it became a badge of highest status to own a Beauvallon creation. Celeste continued to cut a swath through society in gorgeous, daring gowns that were the talk of all and on the arms of handsome young men who fell over each other for the honor of acting as her escort.
And Dominick—her book-loving, beautiful, soul-mate husband—was writing every day. Philosophers’ Quarterly had published his latest essay, “The Relation of Eros to Philos,” under his own name and went into print overruns to keep up with demand. Invitations to lecture poured in; they were planning a trip to the Continent next year for Dominick to speak at learned societies and for Callista to acquire foreign books.
Her father, bless his dear soul, had been correct: ’Twill all come right, some day or night.
Dominick waved Callista into the shower-bath chamber, built with the very latest innovations in piped hot-water delivery. She’d never dreamed of its newfangled luxuries back in the days of her copper hip bath, but he’d insisted on installing every deluxe bathing option. “Why not take pleasure?” he’d asked, quirking a golden brow. He remained in some ways the character he’d created, still surrounding himself with sensuous luxury, even consulting with Marie about his own cutting-edge fashion choices. But the Master of Love had never allowed himself to be so open, so honest and vulnerable, as he was with her. With her, he gave up the game and simply gave her his heart.
“I took the liberty of preparing your bath, Miss H.” His mischievous grin warmed her heart and shot fire lower as well.
The scent of patchouli and lavender wafted on clouds of steam from the deep marble soaking tub. The set of cut-crystal bottles filled with bath salts and exotic oils, along with ivory-handled back scrubbers and sponges, had been her wedding gift to him.
He stripped her quickly and handed her into the gloriously hot water. Then he spread thick towels to kneel on, rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded to lather her very, very clean. When his ministrations grew even more intimate, she undulated like a water nymph under his clever hands, sloshed water over the tub sides, and helplessly cried out her pleasure as her tensed muscles relaxed to liquid bliss.
“Have I told you today how much I love you?” he murmured, swirling fingers across her breasts as her breathing returned slowly to normal.
She captured his hand in hers and squeezed. “As much, I hope, as I love you.” Then she pulled on his arm to rise from the water like Aphrodite from the waves. Her tender smile turned wicked. “Now it’s my turn with you.”
She stripped off the rest of his clothes. His naked masculine beauty still stole her breath—so gorgeous in the flowing line of sinewy muscle and strong bone, dark golden curls dusting his chest, that face to make angels weep—and that hard jutting length of him, so mysterious and male. And somehow hers. All hers.
A thick braided cotton rug cushioned the floor, along with the towels they’d strewn about. “Lie down on your back,” she ordered, pillowing his head. She drizzled another of the oils—a potent aphrodisiac of bergamot, jasmine, and cedar—over his chest, belly, and thighs. And rubbed it in everywhere with long slow strokes. Then she nudged him onto his side, grasped his length in one hand, and reached under his thigh to cup him in the other. He was slick with oil everywhere, hot and hard. As he stiffened further in her oiled hand, his puckered opening relaxed at her massage. She slid one finger slowly in and out, pressing firmly.
“Don’t stop,” he groaned.
“I won’t. I am your Mistress of Love,” she breathed in his ear. “I am yours, forever. And you are mine.” She bit on his earlobe and sucked.
The oil was thick and redolent with its spiced aromas and Dominick’s own magical scent as she palmed him faster in one hand and rocked into him with the other.
He hardened even more. “Callista, beauty!” His cry was a plea, a promise, a pledge.
And then he climaxed, with a wild animalistic roar of openmouthed pleasure.
When it was over, he lay panting on the bath chamber floor, twisted in the towels, satiated.
She curled behind him, draped one leg over him, and kissed him on the temple.
He was hers, and she was his.
Love had mastered them both.
And it had set them free.
Author’s Note
Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë, came out several months later in 1847 than I have it appearing here. I hope readers will forgive me this anachronism, as I wanted to give Daphne the chance to read the novel out loud at night with her older sister. Also, the encouraging line I have Callista repeat as a saying from her father, “’Twill all come right some day or night,” is from the London cabbie Jerry Barker in Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty, another great nineteenth-century novel.
For their invaluable assistance in helping this book to reach publication, and for helping me to stay more or less sane as I tried to get it there, I thank the following: Diane Roach, Courtney Miller-Callihan, Emily Morton, Kate Dresser, Aja Pollo
ck, Maryan McCarrey, Marie Metelnick, Mary Bly, Jim Hall, Ted Trost, Jonathan Rowe, Meredith McGuire, my wonderful colleagues at New College, and many members of Romance Writers of America who shared their craft wisdom in talks and articles. These friends, family, colleagues, and industry professionals helped me to become a romance novelist, and this story to become a novel. My sincere appreciation to all.
Coming soon from Pocket Star!
Knight of Love
Catherine LaRoche
February 1848
The German Confederation
The first lash robbed her of breath.
The second granted her freedom.
If he’d go so far as to have her publicly flogged, she owed him no further loyalty. Any obligation remaining from their betrothal contact ended here, in this moment, with this lash.
Morally, she was free.
Now all she had to do was escape the bastard and make him pay.
As the second stroke landed, fire replaced the shock, and a hot slick of pain bloomed across her back. The coarse linen shift that a spying maid had forced her into provided no protection. It offered little modesty, either, from the uneasy crowd Kurt had gathered inside the castle gates to witness her punishment. She gritted her teeth and refused to cry out. A rough rope bound her wrists above her head to the flogging post. As her knees buckled, the binding made her perversely glad; she doubted she could stand upright on her own.
Before arriving at this godforsaken pile of German stone, she—Lady Lenora Trevelyan, eldest child to the Duke and Duchess of Sherbrooke, third cousin to Queen Victoria’s German consort, His Royal Highness, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha—had never been struck in her life. Now, in her three months at Schloss Rotenburg, she’d lost count of her bruises.
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