Ralston went straight to Brooks’s, which was a mistake. If it weren’t enough that she’d refused his suit and in the process made him feel like a royal ass, Callie had also ruined his club. Quite thoroughly.
In the span of twelve hours, this place that had been designed specifically for men to find comfort and solace far from the struggles of the outside world had become a mahogany-and-marble reminder of Calpurnia Hartwell. As he stood in the great foyer, awash in the drone of male conversation, all Ralston could think of was her: Callie, dressed in men’s clothing, skulking down the darkened hallways of the club; Callie, peeping through open doorways to soak in the ambiance of her first—and, one would hope, only—men’s club; Callie, grinning at him over their private card table; Callie, naked, the heat of their passion casting a rosy glow over her lovely smooth skin.
Casting a look down the long, shadowed path that he and Callie had taken the previous night, Ralston was struck with a perverse desire to return to the card room where they had spent the evening. For a fleeting moment, he considered ordering a pot of coffee brought to the room, where he could torture himself with memories of the night and all the many ways that he had said and done the wrong thing. He immediately decided against it, however, in the interest of preserving his own sanity.
Truthfully, he was shocked by her negative response to his proposal. After all, it wasn’t every day that an attractive, young, wealthy marquess made an offer of marriage. He imagined that the days were even more rare when those marquesses were refused. How long had he been avoiding matchmaking mamas and desperate debutantes, all vying to secure the position of Marchioness of Ralston? And now, when he’d finally made the position available, the woman to whom he’d offered it had refused him.
If she thought she could simply refuse him and walk away after last night, she was entirely wrong.
Frustrated, he pulled off his greatcoat and tossed it to a footman nearby, but not without recognizing her scent on the fabric—a combination of almonds and lavender and…Callie. The thought brought a scowl to his face, and he admitted a modicum of pleasure at the way the footman scurried out of sight rather than be on the receiving end of Ralston’s foul mood.
The emotion was fleeting, replaced by a new flare of indignation. What the devil is wrong with her?
He couldn’t believe that she had turned him away. Surely she couldn’t honestly believe that they were incompatible. She might have been a virgin, but even she must have sensed that their interaction last night—and all the others, for that matter—was far from typical. Certainly their marriage would not suffer in the bedchamber. And, if the passion between them weren’t enough, there was also their well-matched intelligence, humor, and maturity. Aside from all that, she was quite lovely. Soft in all the right places. Ralston let his thoughts linger…a man could spend years lost in her lush curves.
Yes, Lady Calpurnia Hartwell would make him a fine marchioness.
If only she would realize it for herself.
Ralston raked a hand through his hair. When they married, she’d have title, wealth, lands, and one of the most coveted bachelors in all of England. What the hell else did the woman want?
A love match.
The thought gave him pause. She’d confessed her belief in love matches ages ago, and he’d scoffed at her, showing her that attraction was equally as powerful as the love in which she placed such faith. She couldn’t honestly have refused him because she was holding out for love. He shook his head, frustrated at the very idea that she would risk her reputation and her future with a rejection of his proposal because of some childish fantasy she refused to release.
The very idea was preposterous. He’d had enough of thinking about it.
Ralston made his way to the large antechamber off the foyer, where one was always able to find a willing distraction. He entered in search of a political debate that would keep him occupied, only to discover the room virtually empty, with the exception of a small game of cards. Seated at the card table was Oxford, along with two others. They were disheveled enough for Ralston to know that the trio had likely been at the table all night.
Disgusted by the sight of Oxford’s irresponsible gambling habits, and with no interest in being pulled into conversation by the group, Ralston made to exit the room as quickly and silently as he’d entered. Before he could, however, he was discovered.
“Ralston, old chap. Come and play a trick with us,” Oxford called out jovially.
Ralston paused, devising a plan to best ignore the invitation, when the baron added, “Now is the time for you to win against, me, Ralston, for soon your pockets will be considerably lighter.” The words, laden with meaning and followed by a round of amused noise from the table, brought Ralston around to face Oxford.
Ralston’s expression steeled as he approached the table. From Oxford’s ruddy-cheeked and sunken-eyed look, it was clear that he was deep in his cups. Ralston spoke blandly, indicating the piles of winnings that sat in front of the baron’s companions. “It appears that my pockets are in no danger of being lightened today, Oxford.”
Oxford scowled at Ralston before remembering why he’d called the baron over to begin with. “Yes, well, I shall have plenty of money to gamble away soon enough…” He paused, swallowing back a moment of indigestion. “You see, I’m planning to be engaged before week’s end.”
Ignoring the overwhelming premonition that coursed through him, Ralston tried to appear casual when he said, “To whom?”
Oxford pointed a long, pasty finger at Ralston and crowed triumphantly. “To Calpurnia Hartwell, of course! You had better count out that”—his body wavered in its seat—“thousand pounds.”
The words sent a wave of heat through Ralston, which was followed quickly by a serious desire to put his fist into Oxford’s smug face. It was only by pure strength of character that Ralston remained calm, and said, “You think you’ve got her, eh?”
Oxford flashed a toothy grin that made him look like an imbecile. “Oh, I’ve got her, all right. She was putty in my hands at the Royal Academy yesterday.” He winked at his friends baldly.
Ralston stiffened at the words—so blatant a lie. His fists clenched at his sides, and energy pulsed through him, desperate for release, preferably in the form of tearing Oxford limb from limb.
Oxford failed to sense the tension in Ralston’s corded muscles, instead pushing further. “I shall visit her tomorrow and get the proposal business out of the way. Then probably get the girl compromised by week’s end to make sure that Allendale will have no choice but to welcome me into the family—though he’ll likely thank me for taking on his dusty old sister with a substantial marriage settlement.”
The idea of Oxford laying a finger upon Callie sent Ralston over the edge. In mere seconds, he had lifted the baron from his seat at the card table as though he weighed no more than a child. The motion startled Oxford’s friends from their chairs, which went flying backward as the men scrambled to distance themselves from a fight with Ralston.
As Oxford dangled from his hands, Ralston could smell the fear on the weaker man, and the cowardice fed his disgust. When he spoke, the words were a growl. “Lady Calpurnia Hartwell is a thousand times better than you. You don’t deserve to breathe her air.”
Releasing Oxford, Ralston felt an acute sense of masculine satisfaction at the other man’s immediate and ungraceful collapse into his chair. With an arrogant look that rivaled that of any king, Ralston added, “I wagered a thousand pounds that she won’t have you, and I stand by it. In fact, I am so certain of it…I’ll double the bet here and now.”
Ralston watched, noticing the slight tremble in the baron’s hands as Oxford adjusted the sleeves of his topcoat, and said, “After your boorish behavior, Ralston, I shall enjoy lightening your coffers even more.”
Ralston spun on his heel and left the room, saying nothing, telling himself that his behavior had been in defense of a lady to whom he was greatly indebted.
It was easier to convince himself of that reasoning than to consider the emotions that still roiled at the idea of Callie’s becoming a baroness.
Callie pushed open the door to Madame Hebert’s shop on Bond Street later that afternoon, eager to be done with what was certain to be another excruciating part of her day. After Ralston had stormed from the house, Callie had cried for several long minutes before receiving word that the dressmaker had completed work on the gown that she had commissioned, as well as on several pieces of Juliana’s new wardrobe.
Taking the message as a sign that she could not while away the day feeling sorry for herself, Callie had prepared for an afternoon at the dressmaker’s, an outing that held only slightly more appeal than a funeral. Nevertheless, she was in dire need of a distraction, and the French modiste was guaranteed to provide just the thing.
She’d convinced Mariana to join her for the afternoon, and the younger Hartwell sister had left Allendale House ahead of Callie to retrieve Juliana, who would spend much of the afternoon in fittings for her own dresses. Callie would have ordinarily joined the other girls, but she simply couldn’t bear the thought of meeting Ralston again today—however unlikely an event that might be—and so, here she was, standing just inside the door to the dressmaker’s salon, waiting for someone to acknowledge her presence.
The shop was buzzing with activity, Madame Hebert was nowhere in sight, but her assistants rushed back and forth through the curtained entrance to the fitting room, arms laden with lengths of fabric, buttons, laces, and trims. There were three other women in the front portion of the shop, considering the dresses on display, marveling at the artistry of the seamstresses’ hands.
“Oh! Lady Calpurnia!” The soft, eager words, were spoken in the thick French accent of Valerie, Madame Hebert’s trusted apprentice, who had come from the back of the shop and dropped a quick curtsy in Callie’s direction. “Madame Hebert sends her apology that you are kept waiting. She is just finishing with another lady, but we have cleared her schedule for the afternoon, and she will join you”—she waved her hand in the air, searching for the correct phrase—“tout de suite… at once. Yes?”
“Yes, of course. I am happy to wait.”
“Valerie!” Madame Hebert’s voice traveled from beyond the curtain mere seconds before the Frenchwoman poked her head out into the main shop. “Bring Lady Calpurnia back. I will begin with her immediately.” The dressmaker waved Callie forward with an encouraging smile. When she and Valerie were closer to the curtain, Madame Hebert added quietly to her assistant, “You may finish with Miss Kritikos.”
Callie froze midstride, just outside the entrance to the fitting room. Had she heard correctly? Was it possible that Ralston’s former mistress was in the room beyond? Of course she was. It was the perfect addition to this disaster of a day. She squared her shoulders, preparing to enter the room. Nastasia Kritikos had no reason to know Callie; therefore, Callie would simply pretend not to recognize the opera singer.
Pushing through the curtains, Callie discovered that such a task was far easier planned than performed. Nastasia stood on a raised platform at the center of the fitting room, her back to the doorway, larger than life. Callie marveled at the prima donna’s hourglass form, her hips flaring in perfect concert with a bosom that women everywhere would covet. Nastasia turned from side to side, casting a critical eye at her image in an enormous mirror, taking in the details of the stunning scarlet silk gown she was wearing. The gown was beautifully fitted to Nastasia’s long, lush body, its bodice secured at the back with a row of small, elegant ribbons, each tied in a perfect tiny bow.
Callie swallowed, immediately feeling pale and plain, wishing she’d chosen another day to retrieve her gown. Realizing that she was gaping in the direction of the other woman, Callie caught herself and turned to follow Madame Hebert. Passing behind Nastasia, Callie couldn’t help but sneak a look at the opera singer’s reflection and marvel at the woman’s beauty. She and Ralston must have made a stunning couple. Nastasia was grand—she boasted the kind of beauty that women like Callie could only dream of having, mostly because her porcelain skin and shining black tresses and lovely, bow-shaped mouth were only part of her appeal. More than any one physical characteristic, the opera singer’s obvious confidence and self-awareness made all the difference. She owned the room the way she owned the stage—wholly and completely.
She was magnificent.
And Callie envied every bit of the other woman as she watched her in the reflection—from her perfect poise to her riveting violet eyes…eyes that met Callie’s in the mirror.
Caught staring, Callie blushed and looked away immediately, hurrying to catch up with Madame Hebert. Callie followed the Frenchwoman around a tall dressing screen set to one side of the room and pulled up short when she saw the dressmaker’s form standing in the corner, draped in what was, quite possibly, the loveliest gown she had ever seen.
Madame Hebert met her eyes with a little, knowing smile. “It pleases you?”
“Oh, yes…” Callie’s fingers itched to touch the fabric, to stroke down the cascade of silk that was more lovely than she remembered.
“Excellent. I think it is time you see it as it is meant to be…on you. Don’t you agree?”
The seamstress turned Callie around and set to work on the buttons of her day dress. Indicating the collection of undergarments that had been set out next to the dress, the dressmaker said, “We will begin with lingerie.”
Callie immediately shook her head, “Oh, I couldn’t…I have plenty of underthings…I do not need new ones.”
The dress loosened into her hands as Madame Hebert spoke. “I assure you, you do need them.” She helped Callie out of her corset and chemise, saying, “The most confident of women are those who believe in every scrap of fabric that they wear. They are the ones who are as happy with their drawers as they are with their gowns. You can tell the difference between a woman who wraps herself in beautiful silks and satins and she who wears…” The modiste paused as she dropped Callie’s worn chemise to the floor. “…otherwise.”
Callie slipped into the new, lovely undergarments adorned with little details—satin ribbons, little, hand-fashioned flowers in lovely colors, lace panels that added a touch of femininity that she had never before considered necessary in unmentionables. As the layers were draped over her, she felt rather silly for enjoying the sensation of lovely silks and satins against her skin, but Madame Hebert had been right. There was something quite decadent about wearing such frivolously beautiful underclothes—especially when Anne was the only person who would ever see them.
As if she were reading Callie’s thoughts, the dressmaker leaned in, and whispered, “And, let us not forget, one never knows who might someday unwrap such a present, oui?” Callie blushed fiercely at the words, followed by the Frenchwoman’s knowing laugh.
And then she was in her gown, which seemed to fit her perfectly. Madame Hebert looked pleased as Punch as she walked a slow circle around Callie, noting each minute detail of the gown. Satisfied, she met Callie’s wide-eyed gaze, and said, “Now, out into the fitting room and we shall have a closer look.”
Following the modiste back into the main room, Callie noted that Nastasia was still on her platform as Valerie worked to hem the red gown. Pushing aside the immediate sense of insecurity that consumed her, Callie stepped up to take her place on the empty second platform in the room. Madame Hebert gently turned her toward a large mirror placed nearby, and Callie’s eyes widened in surprise as she realized that she was the woman in the reflection. She shook her head. She’d never seen herself this way—thoroughly transformed from prim and plain to…well, quite remarkable.
Her breasts were perfectly highlighted by the low cut of the gown, looking lush and full without appearing vulgar, the drape of the silk over her curving waist and hips and stomach made her appear well proportioned rather than too plump, and the color—the most lovely, shimmering blue she’d ever seen, gave her usually too-red skin the appearance of strawberries and cream.
A smile broke out on her face. Madame Hebert had been right. This was a dress made for waltzing. Callie couldn’t resist spinning in excitement toward the dressmaker. “Oh, it’s lovely, Madame.”
The modiste’s smile matched Callie’s. “Indeed. It is.” She tilted her head, looking critically at Callie’s reflection, and said, “It needs to be raised a touch in the skirt. Excuse me—I shall fetch a girl to help me pin.”
The Frenchwoman disappeared through a nearby door, and Callie looked back at her reflection, taking in the drape of the fabric, the lovely cut—so uniquely different from anything that was in London ballrooms at present, so perfectly suited to her unfashionable figure.
“Hebert is a genius, is she not?”
Callie’s eyes flew to the looking glass, where she met a pair of probing violet eyes, doubly reflected in their mirrors. With a small, polite smile, she said, quietly, “She certainly is.”
Nastasia’s eyes flickered to Valerie’s reflection, and she watched as the girl pinned a section of her hem before saying casually, “Ralston has always liked her work.”
Callie looked away at the words, uncertain. She’d never spoken to someone’s mistress before. Certainly not to the mistress of the man she loved.
Nastasia pressed on, sounding bored. “You do not have to shy away from me, Lady Calpurnia. We are not girls, just out of the schoolroom, but women, yes? I know he is with you, now. It is the way of the world, my dear.”
Callie shook her head, her mouth falling open in shock. “He isn’t…with me.”
The opera singer raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Are you really going to tell me that Ralston hasn’t seduced you?”
Callie blushed, looking away again, and Nastasia laughed. The sound wasn’t mean-spirited, as Callie would have expected, but entertained. “You didn’t expect him to do it, did you? But I shall wager you enjoyed every minute of it. Ralston is a rare breed of man…one who cares more for his lovers than for himself.” Callie’s cheeks flamed as the Greek woman pressed on, frank. “I have had many lovers…and only one other who was as generous as Ralston. You are lucky he was your first.”
Callie thought she might perish from embarrassment right there. On the spot.
“May I offer you a piece of advice?”
Callie’s head snapped up, and she watched the raven-haired beauty in the mirror. Nastasia was no longer looking at her, but instead off through a large window through which the afternoon sun poured into the fitting room. After several long moments of silence, Callie’s curiosity got the better of her. “Please.”
Nastasia spoke, the words coming from far away. “When I was eighteen, I met the first of those men. Dimitri was generous and kind and a remarkable lover…everything I had dreamed of…everything I hadn’t known I longed for. It was inevitable that I fell in love with him. And it was a love that surpassed anything I’d ever known…anything I’d ever heard of—mythic in its proportions. He was the only man I would ever love.” She paused, sadness passing over her face so quickly that Callie was not entirely certain it had been there to begin with. “But he could not love me in return. The capacity for that kind of emotion…it was not in him. And, so, instead, he broke my heart.”
Tears sprang to Callie’s eyes, unbidden, at the sadness of the other woman’s story. She couldn’t contain her curiosity. “What happened?”
Nastasia gave a small, elegant shrug. “I left Greece. And my voice carried the day.”
Valerie stood, finished with her task, and Nastasia seemed to return from far away. Her eyes cleared as she inspected the young woman’s work in the mirror. “Ralston is your Dimitri. Guard your heart well.”
There was a pregnant pause as the two women each considered their own reflections. “If you could do it again…would you have taken him without love?” Callie blurted out the question, regretting it as soon as the words were spoken.
Nastasia thought for a long moment, her face a portrait of sadness. When her eyes met Callie’s in the mirror, they were liquid with emotion. “No,” she whispered. “I loved him too much for it to be one-sided.”
Callie brushed away an errant tear as Madame Hebert returned, apprentice in tow, unaware of the conversation that had taken place. Nastasia turned her head to the dressmaker. “Lady Calpurnia’s gown is beautiful,” she said, “I should like one of the same fabric.”
Madame Hebert spoke in clipped tones. “I am sorry, Miss Kritikos. The fabric is no longer available.”
Nastasia gave Callie a frank appraisal, from head to toe. “Well, then, it appears you are making a habit of receiving those things that I desire, Lady Calpurnia.” She offered a small smile. “May you have better luck than I. That dress will certainly help.”
Callie dipped her head in acknowledgment of Nastasia’s words. “Thank you, Miss Kritikos. And, may I say, I think you are a brilliant talent.”
Nastasia stepped from her platform and sank into a deep, gracious curtsy, finally acknowledging Callie’s social position. “You are too kind, my lady.” With that, she and Valerie exited to a side dressing room, where Callie could only imagine there were other garments for Nastasia to consider. She watched the other woman leave, surprised and saddened by the direction of their conversation.
Returning her attention to the curious dressmaker, Callie offered her a small, watery smile. She knew what Madame Hebert was thinking. What could an opera singer and the sister of an earl possibly have to say to each other?
The modiste had been running her salon for too long to risk insulting her patrons with questions about their personal lives, however, and her business acumen forced her to turn her focus to Callie’s hem.
Madame Hebert adjusted the length of Callie’s skirt, then issued instructions to the young apprentice and left the room. The girl began to pin Callie’s dress in silence, and Callie played the conversation with Nastasia over in her mind. The singer’s words had been powerful; Callie had felt them like a blow. She had known the truth, of course, that Ralston would never be able to love her the way she desired, but hearing Nastasia’s story—sensing its truth—had intensified Callie’s sadness from earlier in the day.
She watched her reflection in the mirror as her tears blurred it. She could be as beautiful as the woman in the mirror every day, but it would not make Ralston love her. And, perhaps, if he were anyone else—someone whom she loved less, or not at all—she would have embraced his offer of marriage and accepted. But she had dreamed of being his for too long. He had quite ruined her for a marriage of convenience. She wanted everything from him: his mind, his body, his name and, most of all, his heart.
Perhaps refusing him had been a mistake. Perhaps she should have jumped at the opportunity to be his marchioness. To be the mother of his children. Callie’s heart clenched at the idea of little dark-haired, blue-eyed babies clinging to her skirts. But it seemed that Nastasia was right. The worst misery would come not from being without him but being without all of him.
Callie heaved a little sigh, willing her morbid thoughts away for this moment, as she discovered this newer, lovelier version of herself. A burst of familiar laughter came from the front of the shop, and she forced herself to smile as Juliana and Mariana hurried through the curtain, stopping short at the sight of Callie.
“Oh, Callie…” Mariana said in a hushed, reverent voice. “You look beautiful.”
Callie dipped her head at the compliment, so uncommon. “No.”
Juliana nodded her head eagerly. “It is true. You are beautiful!”
Callie’s cheeks reddened. “Thank you.”
Mari walked a slow circle around her sister. “It’s a stunning gown, Callie…but there’s more…there’s something…” She paused, looking up into her sister’s big, brown eyes. “You feel beautiful, don’t you?”
The words brought a smile to Callie’s eyes. “I rather think I do, actually.”
Juliana laughed. “Brava! It is time you feel beautiful, Callie.” When Mariana nodded encouragingly, Juliana continued, “I have thought you were lovely from the beginning of our acquaintance, of course. But, now, with this dress…you must wear it to the ball. Dovete! You must.” Three nights hence marked the Salisbury Ball, when Juliana would make her official debut to the ton. The young woman clapped her hands, excitedly. “We shall have our coming out together! With new dresses! Although I cannot imagine that any of mine will be anything so beautiful as this one!”
Mariana nodded her agreement, and Callie looked from one girl to the other, overwhelmed. “Oh, I do not imagine this dress will be ready by the ball. It must be hemmed, and I’m certain that Madame Hebert has much more important customers than I.”
“If you need it for the ball, my lady, you shall have it for the ball.” The words came from the modiste, who had reentered the room to check on the progress of her assistant. “I shall hem it myself and have it delivered first thing in the morning on one condition.” She leaned in close to Callie, and said, “You must promise that you will dance every waltz.”
Callie smiled, shaking her head. “I am afraid that is not my decision to make, Madame.”
“Nonsense,” the dressmaker scoffed. “In this dress, you shall be leaving hearts in your wake. The men, they shall be chasing after you.”
Callie laughed at the unlikely image the words painted, only to discover that none of the other women found the idea remotely amusing. Her laughter died away, and Mariana spoke. “They shall, indeed!”
Juliana smiled a thoughtful smile, cocking her head as she took Callie in. “I agree. I cannot wait to see Gabriel’s response to this! You are a vision!”
Mariana looked to her friend and spoke matter-of-factly. “Oh, Ralston is a foregone conclusion, I’d venture to guess.”
Callie sputtered at the bold, inappropriate conversation, a blush flooding her cheeks. Were her feelings for Ralston that obvious? Had Juliana said anything to her brother?
Her discomfort was ignored; the girls continued to titter between themselves as Madame Hebert guided Callie back behind the dressing screen.
Once there, Callie risked a look at the dressmaker, noting the woman’s knowing smile just before she said, quietly, “The Marquess of Ralston is after you, is he?”
Callie shook her head in response to the bold question, immediately answering, “No. Certainly not.” With a little noise of acknowledgment, Madame Hebert began to unbutton Callie’s dress, remaining silent long enough for Callie to think the conversation was over.
It was only after she stepped out of the pool of aethereal blue silk that the modiste added, as though Callie had not spoken, “Well, if Ralston is your target, be certain to wear the lingerie, my lady. He shall enjoy it as much as you do.”
Callie blushed furiously as the dressmaker gave a little, knowing laugh.