Callie stood at the edge of the Rivington box at the Theatre Royal, unable to contain her satisfied smile as she scanned the rest of the audience, noting the scores of opera glasses pointed in the direction of Miss Juliana Fiori.
If the attention were any indication, title or no, daughter of a fallen marchioness or no, Juliana would make a remarkable debut.
The opera had not even begun and, already, the box was mobbed with visitors, from pillars of the ton who came, ostensibly, to visit with the dowager duchess, and, as such, happened to meet the lovely young Juliana, to young men of society who were less discreet about the reason for their visit to the box—arriving and promptly falling over themselves for an introduction.
The evening could not have been more perfectly orchestrated, and Callie was taking full responsibility for its success.
Juliana had arrived at opening night in the Allendale carriage and, to Callie’s delight, the young woman had alighted with grace and aplomb, as though being set on display for the judgment of London’s aristocracy were the most natural thing in the world. Once inside the theatre, Juliana had removed her cloak to reveal her stunning satin evening dress, which had been delivered to Ralston House in perfect condition that morning; Madame Hebert had outdone herself on the gown, which was shot through with gold threads and sure to be the envy of every other woman in the house.
And then she had been escorted—on this, the most important night of the London theatrical season—to the Duke of Rivington’s personal box, where she was to be the personal guest of the dowager duchess, the future duchess, and the duke himself. For this evening, the Allendale box would stand empty; the Earl and Dowager Countess of Allendale and Callie would view the opera from the Rivington box—showing the world that Juliana was accepted by two of the most powerful families in Britain.
And, as if all that weren’t enough, Ralston and St. John had arrived—giving the matchmaking mamas of the ton even more gossip to feed upon. The elusive twin brothers were rarely seen at such blatantly social events as this one, and even more rarely seen together. Callie turned her attention to them, standing sentry, side by side, several feet behind their sister, thoroughly intimidating in their identical height and handsomeness.
Callie’s pulse quickened as she studied Ralston. He was impeccably dressed, forgoing the brilliant waistcoats preferred by the dandies of the ton in favor of perfectly tailored black breeches and dress coat over a classic white waistcoat without a single crease. His cravat was perfectly starched, and his boots gleamed, as though he had arrived via some magical route other than London’s muddy streets. He was flawless. That is, until one noted the tightly coiled tension in his square shoulders, the fisted hands at his sides, the tiny muscle that flexed in his jaw as he watched his sister navigate her way through the intricate dance of London’s social scene. It was clear that he was prepared to do battle to ensure his sister’s acceptance this evening.
As though sensing her attention, Ralston turned his head to look at her. She inhaled sharply as their gazes collided, trapped by his glittering blue eyes, intent and unreadable. He tipped his head, almost imperceptibly. She understood the meaning implicitly. Thank you.
She mirrored the action.
Not trusting herself to disguise her emotions, she turned back to stare unseeingly at the crowd building in the theatre, impatient for the opera to begin and distract her from his presence in the box.
The performance should have begun a half an hour earlier, but, sadly, society rarely attended the Theatre Royal for the opera…most certainly not on the opening night of the season. No, one attended the opera to see and be seen, and the owners of the theatre knew well how to keep their patrons happy.
Callie returned her gaze to Juliana, watching with pride as she spoke gracefully to the dowager duchess and, in full view of the entirety of London society, made the older woman laugh. Perfect.
“You appear rather proud of yourself.”
A flutter of excitement coursed through her at the rich, amused voice so close to her ear. Willing herself to be calm, she met Ralston’s blue eyes, and said, “Indeed, I am, my lord. Your sister is doing exceedingly well, don’t you think?”
“I do. The evening could not have been more perfectly arranged.”
“It was Mariana’s idea to use Rivington’s box,” Callie pointed out. “Our sisters seem to have become fast friends.”
“Due, in large part, to your intervention, I imagine.”
Callie dipped her head in silent acknowledgment.
“Very well done.”
She quashed an odd desire to preen at the praise as the theatre’s chimes rang, signaling the beginning of the performance. On cue, the visitors took their leave, and Ralston offered Callie his arm. “May I accompany you to your chair, Lady Calpurnia?”
Callie slid her hand along his arm, accepting his escort, attempting to ignore the sizzle of awareness that shot through her as they touched. It was the first time they had seen each other since the evening in the tavern. In the carriage. The first time they had touched since she had been in his embrace.
Once she was seated beside Benedick, Ralston claimed the seat next to her, his nearness overwhelming her senses. She was enveloped by his scent, a combination of sandal-wood and lemon and something thoroughly male. She resisted the temptation to lean toward him and breathe deeply. That certainly wouldn’t do.
She searched for a conversation that would distract her from his nearness. “Do you enjoy the opera, my lord?”
“Not particularly.” His words were laced with indifference.
“I am surprised to hear that,” she said, “I was under the impression that you enjoyed music. After all, you have a pianoforte—” She stopped short, darting a quick glance around the box to determine if anyone were listening to their conversation. She couldn’t well discuss his pianoforte in mixed company.
He raised an eyebrow at her statement, saying dryly, “Indeed I do, Lady Calpurnia.”
The man was taunting her. She would not rise to it. “Well, of course everyone has a pianoforte these days.” She pressed on, refusing to look at him, instead babbling, “I have heard that the performance tonight is unparalleled. The Barber of Seville is a lovely opera. I am particularly fond of Rossini. And I have heard that the singer portraying Rosina is brilliantly talented. I cannot remember her name…Miss…” she trailed off, comforted that they were on safer conversational ground.
“Kritikos. Nastasia Kritikos,” he provided.
The words washed over her. Nastasia. Understanding dawned.
I had not wanted to make this more difficult than it had to be, Nastasia.
Dear Lord. The opera singer was his mistress. She looked up at him, meeting his calm, unreadable gaze.
“Oh,” she said almost inaudibly, unable to contain the syllable.
He remained silent.
What did you expect him to do? Announce to all within hearing that the mezzo-soprano was his mistress? The same mistress for whom he mistook you on the evening you arrived indelicately in his bedchamber?
No, it was for the best that he not pursue the conversation, she decided. Cheeks aflame, she leaned forward in her chair and looked over the edge of the box, wondering if she would survive an escape attempt over the side. Likely not, she thought with a sigh. She turned back, meeting his now-amused gaze. He was enjoying her embarrassment!
“Too far to jump, I should think,” he said conspiratorially.
He was infuriating.
Luckily, she was saved from having to respond by the rising curtain. She turned her attention resolutely to the stage, willing herself to stop thinking of Ralston.
Of course, that was impossible, particularly when the opera began in earnest, and Nastasia Kritikos appeared. The Greek singer played Rosina, the beautiful woman upon whom the entire plot of mistaken identity and love at first sight hinged, and she was the perfect choice for the role, all unparalleled buxom beauty. Callie could not stop imagining the glamorous woman in Ralston’s arms, could not shake the vision of his dark hands on her pale, flawless skin, could not staunch the vicious envy that burned deep within as she cataloged the actress’s remarkable attributes against her own.
As if the singer’s incredible beauty were not enough, it appeared that she also had the most magnificent voice to grace the stage—likely ever.
There was no way a man could resist this paragon of womanhood.
The positioning of the Rivington box was such that audience members seated there could see into the wings of the theatre and, at several points, Callie was certain that Nastasia Kritikos was looking at Ralston, as though waiting for him to return her attention. Was it possible they had resumed their acquaintance? Callie closed her eyes against the thought, only to open them and steal a glance at Ralston. She had to give him credit for discretion; his concentration did not appear to waver from the stage.
When Nastasia’s aria in the first act began, however, he—along with the rest of the audience—was rapt with attention. Callie could not help but see the irony in the words of the song: Yes, Lindoro shall be mine! I’ve sworn it! I’ll succeed! If I am thwarted I can be a viper! I can play a hundred tricks to get my way.
“I can just imagine what a viper she can be,” Callie muttered under her breath, as the aria stopped the show, sending the entire theatre to its feet, calling, “Brava! Bravissima!”
It was decided. Callie would never again enjoy the opera.
As the first act ended and the curtain fell, signaling the performance’s intermission, Callie sighed, wishing she were anywhere else and wondering how difficult it would be to escape before the second act tortured her further.
Juliana’s laughter sounded behind her, and Callie realized she could not leave. She had promised to bring Ralston’s sister out successfully, and she would do just that.
Steeling herself, she stood, eager to interject herself into a conversation that did not involve Ralston, and nearly collided with Baron Oxford, who had appeared inside the box almost immediately upon the close of the first act.
Perfectly manicured, the handsome dandy offered one of his trademark smiles to the box at large before settling his gaze on Callie. As he moved toward her, she took in his rich green topcoat, a lovely contrast to his shimmering satin waistcoat of aubergine. She immediately noticed that his heels and the tip of his walking stick once more matched his waistcoat, and she wondered if he had boots and canes in every color. The idea was so ridiculous; she couldn’t help the curving of her lips.
“My lord,” she said, hiding her face with a demure curtsy as he bowed low over her hand, “it is a pleasure to see you.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine.” The words, spoken slightly too close, sent a wave of color to Callie’s cheeks as she took a deliberate half step backward. He continued. “I took the liberty of ordering champagne.” He paused, indicating a footman nearby who held a tray of champagne coupes. “For you…and for the rest of your party.”
Callie cocked her head slightly at his words. Surely she had misunderstood his emphasis. “Thank you, my lord.” She watched as the footman passed the champagne through the box, uncertain of how to proceed. “Are you enjoying the performance?”
“Indeed. I am particularly impressed with Miss Kritikos’s performance, she is—quite—something.” Oxford said with a broad grin in the direction of the stage that Callie found not altogether pleasant. He reached for a glass of champagne and held it out to her. When she took it, he ran a finger over the back of her hand and leaned close, deepening his voice to a flirtatious whisper. “Of course, I am enjoying the intermission immensely as well.”
This time, she was certain that he was inebriated. He had to be. Callie removed her hand from the inappropriate touch and considered giving the Baron a thorough set down. Certainly that would be the proper course of action, but she could not deny a certain amount of pleasure that, even as she suffered through an evening of Ralston’s mistress endearing herself to the entire ton, she was receiving some attention of her own. She cast a sidelong glance toward Ralston, who was in conversation with his brother. He met her eyes and lifted his champagne in a silent salute. She snapped her head back around to Oxford and offered him a bright smile. “I, too, am enjoying intermission, my lord.”
“Excellent.” He took a deep drink from his glass, then said, his words slightly slurred, “Do you care for art?”
Slightly taken aback by his question, Callie said, “I—Well, yes, my lord.”
Oxford traded his empty glass for a full one, and said, “I should like to escort you to the Royal Art Exhibition next week.”
Resisting the urge to question the Baron’s motives, Callie realized there was no easy way to escape this invitation. Instead, she said, “That would be lovely, my lord.”
“What would be lovely?” The lazy drawl indicated the arrival of Ralston. Callie refused to rise to his bait.
Oxford, however, seemed more than eager to share their conversation with the marquess. “I shall be escorting Lady Calpurnia to the Royal Art Exhibition next week,” he said, and Callie couldn’t help noticing the boastfulness in his tone.
“Is that so?” Ralston said.
He didn’t have to sound so disbelieving. “Indeed, it is, my lord. I am eager to see this year’s exhibition.” She placed a hand lightly on Oxford’s sleeve. “I shall be lucky to have such an escort.”
“Not as lucky as I shall be,” Oxford said, his gaze not straying from Ralston.
Before Callie could wonder at the strange emphasis, the theatre chimes rang, signaling the end of intermission. Oxford took his leave, first bowing low over Callie’s hand, and saying, “Good evening, my lady. I shall look forward to next week.”
“And I, Baron Oxford,” she replied with a little curtsy.
He then turned a broad grin on a stone-faced Ralston. “Good night, old chap.”
Ralston did not reply, instead staring down the young dandy, who laughed off the cut direct and tipped his cane at the marquess before leaving the box. Callie watched him go before saying. “You didn’t have to be so very rude to him.”
“He’s got nothing in his head but teeth,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Ignoring the fact that she had said the exact words only days ago, Callie ignored his and resumed her seat. When Ralston took his place next to her, she ignored him, instead looking resolutely at the stage, willing the curtain to rise.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the arrival of a footman with a silver tray, upon which was a folded message. Ralston took the proffered note with a nod of thanks for the messenger and turned the sealed parchment over in his hand, sliding a finger under the wax to open it.
Callie couldn’t stop herself from peeking at the page as he looked at it. It was a short missive, only visible for a flash before he folded it closed. But Callie could not have missed the message—or its meaning.
Come to me.
N.
Ralston and Nastasia were still lovers.
Callie choked back a gasp, turning sharply away and pretending to be completely absorbed by the performance, which had just begun.
Her mind reeled. She shouldn’t be surprised, of course. She should not be thinking of the other evening—of the betrothal ball, of their embrace in his carriage. She should not be wondering why, if he was involved with Nastasia, he had thought to kiss her.
But, of course, she did wonder.
And what of his sister? Surely he wouldn’t accept the invitation. Not tonight, of all nights. It was Juliana’s first night in society!
Sadness and outrage warred within her for the first two scenes of the second act. When, at the start of the third scene, he stood and abruptly left the box, outrage won.
No. She would not allow him to ruin his sister’s first night out. Not after all that Juliana had done to ensure its success. Not after all that Callie had done to ensure its success. Not to mention the others, who had also cast their support for his sister.
How dare he risk it all? And for what?
Her anger rose. She squared her shoulders. Someone had to think of Juliana.
Turning to Benedick, she whispered, “The champagne appears to have gone to my head. I am going to rest in the ladies’ salon.”
Her brother leaned forward, taking note of Ralston’s disappearance. Meeting her eyes, he said quietly, “No adventures, Callie.”
She forced a smile. “No adventures.”
And she left the box.
Hurrying along the dimly lit hallways of the theatre, her mind raced, wondering if she would find Ralston before he destroyed Juliana’s chances at success. Callie would wager Allendale House itself that he’d escaped to meet his paramour in this very theatre more than once in the past—he likely knew the shortest path to Miss Kritikos’s dressing room. She could not help the little exclamation of disgust that came with the thought.
She tore around a corner into the upper colonnade to find Ralston heading for the wide, grand staircase. A glance around revealed the space empty of people, and Callie could not resist calling out to him, “Ralston! Stop!”
He froze on the top stair, casting a disbelieving look at the arcade, where she was hurrying to catch him. Once he registered her purpose, his obvious disbelief turned to fury, and he retraced his steps until he was face-to-face with her.
Before she had a chance to speak, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into a darkened corridor. Voice filled with anger, he whispered, “Are you mad?”
Breathing heavily with both exertion and irritation, she yanked her arm from his grasp, and whispered back, “I could ask you the very same thing!”
He ignored her words, “What are you doing out here? If you were discovered—”
“Oh, please,” she cut him off. “It is a public theatre. What do you think would happen if I were discovered? Someone would point me in the direction of the ladies’ salon, and I would be on my way. But what if you were discovered?”
He looked at her as though she were crazed. “What are you talking about?”
“You aren’t the most discreet, Lord Ralston,” she spat his name. “For someone who is so very concerned about his sister’s reputation, one would think you would have more care with it.” She poked his shoulder with a single, gloved finger. “I saw the note! I know you are off to meet your…your…”
“My?” he prompted.
“Your—your mistress!” With each word, she poked him harder.
He grabbed her finger on the last word and flung it away from him. His blue eyes flashed dangerously. “You dare to chide me? You dare to question my behavior? Who do you think you are?”
“I’m the woman you chose to guide your sister into society. I will not have you ruin her chances for one night of…”
“You will not have me? Was it not you who was flirting shamelessly with a drunken dandy in full view of the entire ton?”
Her mouth fell open. “I most certainly did not!”
“Well that is how it appeared, my lady.”
“How dare you!” she said, furious, “How dare you speak to me about shameless flirting! I was not the one making eyes at an actress while she was in the midst of a performance!”
“That’s enough,” he said, his tone barely even.
“No. I don’t think it is!” Callie pressed on, unable to control herself. The floodgates had opened. “I am not the one rushing off to tryst with my…painted paramour…while my sister faces the most difficult challenge of her life! Have you any idea what the ton will do to her if you are discovered, you insensitive…beast!” The last word was shrill.
His eyes shuttered as his face turned to stone. Fists clenched at his sides, he spoke, and his tone betrayed his barely leashed temper. “If you are quite through, Lady Calpurnia, I believe this conversation is over. I find I no longer require your assistance with my sister.”
“I beg your pardon?” she was outraged.
“It’s quite simple, really. I don’t want her near you. You are too much of a risk.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “I, a risk?” she replied, her voice was shaking with fury. “Oh, I shall see your sister, my lord. I won’t see her chances ruined. And, furthermore”—she held a single finger up to his nose—“I will not be told what to do by a notorious—and now proven—rake and libertine.”
He lost his temper then, capturing her hand, wagging finger and all, in his own and using it to pull her flush against him. “If I am to be labeled as such, I may as well stop resisting the part.” And, with that, he kissed her.
She fought him, wriggling under the strength of his kiss, but no matter which direction she turned, he was there, all strong arms and firm muscle and hard, unyielding mouth. Her fists pounded on his shoulders fleetingly before he grasped her waist with both hands and lifted her from the ground—leaving her with no choice but to cling to him as he pressed her against the wall. She gasped in surprise at the sudden movement, and he took the opportunity to plunder her mouth, both hands cupping her face, stealing her breath.
She matched his movements with lips and tongue and teeth, refusing to allow him the upper hand, even in this. Stroke for stroke, where he went, she followed. He captured her sighs with his mouth; she reveled in his low hum of pleasure. After several intense moments of the sensual battle, his lips gentled, caressing hers as his tongue stroked along the soft, sensitive skin of her lower lip, ending the kiss infinitely more gently than it had begun.
The caress wrung a little cry from Callie, and Ralston smiled at the sound, pressing a final, soft kiss at the corner of her mouth. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and their gazes collided. There was no sound in the hallway save their labored breathing—reminding them both of the intensity of the argument that had preceded the kiss.
He raised a single dark eyebrow in a silent, victorious gesture.
The arrogant expression renewed her fury.
Pulling herself up to her full height, she said, “I am not one of your women, to be mauled in public. You would do well to remember that.”
“Forgive me,” he said, mockingly, “but you did not seem so very opposed to playing the role.”
She could not help herself. Her hand flew of its own volition, in a direct line for his cheek. Even as she moved to slap him, she dreaded the blow, unable to stop the motion. When he caught her hand in a viselike grip, mere inches from his face, she gasped in surprise, meeting his eyes and immediately recognizing the anger in them.
She had overstepped her bounds. Dear Lord. She’d tried to strike him. What had possessed her? She struggled to free her hand, only to discover his hold was thoroughly unyielding.
“I—I’m sorry.”
He narrowed his gaze but remained silent.
“I shouldn’t have…”
“But you did.”
She paused. “But, I didn’t mean to.”
He shook his head, dropping her hand and taking a moment to straighten his coat. “One cannot have one’s cake and eat it, too, Lady Calpurnia. If you plan to make a habit of acting without care of the consequences, I would recommend taking ownership of those actions. You meant to strike me. At least have the courage to admit it.” He paused, waiting for her to respond. When she didn’t, he shook his head. “Amazing. I hadn’t thought you a coward.”
His words sent an angry wash of color across her cheeks. “Stay away from me,” she said, voice shaking with emotion, before she spun away from him, fleeing in the direction of the lit foyer and Rivington’s box.
Ralston watched her go, his expression betraying none of his thoughts.