Anne, you must help me.” Callie’s tone was pleading as she watched her outraged maid unravel the long strands of hair that she had carefully arranged prior to the betrothal ball.
“I must do no such thing,” the older woman scoffed. “You do realize that, if it were discovered, I could lose my position!”
“You know that I would never allow that to happen,” Callie said. “But I cannot do this without you!”
Anne met Callie’s eyes in the looking glass. “Well then, you shall have a very difficult time of it, Callie-mine. If you were caught…think of your reputation!”
“I shan’t be caught!” Callie spun to face Anne, her half-unraveled hair flying out behind her. “First, everyone is so distracted by the ball that no one would even notice that I have gone. With your help in securing a disguise, the odds of my being caught would be virtually nil! Just one night, Anne. I will be back in no time, with none the wiser.” Callie paused, her hands coming together, as she added, “Please. Don’t I deserve an evening of excitement, as well?”
The older woman paused to consider Callie’s quiet words, then heaved a resigned sigh. “This list shall be the death of both of us.”
Callie grinned broadly. She had won. “Excellent! Oh, Anne, thank you!”
“You shall have to do more than thank me when the earl comes for my head.”
“Done.” Callie couldn’t stop smiling as she turned to provide the maid with better access to the row of buttons down the back of her gown.
As Anne began to unhook the fastenings, she shook her head again, muttering to herself. “A tavern. In the dead of night. I must be mad to help you.”
“Nonsense,” Callie said vehemently. “You are merely a very good friend. A very good friend who should have Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday free.”
The maid offered a noncommittal grunt at the obvious bribe. “Have you ever even seen the inside of a tavern?”
“Of course not,” Callie said. “I’ve never had the opportunity to do so.”
“One might think there was a reason for that,” Anne said dryly.
“Have you ever been inside a tavern?”
The maid nodded brusquely. “I’ve had reason to visit a public house a time or two. I simply hope that the Marquess of Ralston has recommended one with a respectable clientele. I do not like that he was so willing to help you tarnish your reputation, Callie.”
“Do not blame Ralston, Anne. I’m sure that he would not have made the recommendation had he thought I might be the one to patronize the Dog and Dove.”
Anne snorted in disbelief. “The man must be something of a dunderhead then, Callie, because anyone with a brain can see through your fibs.”
Callie resolutely ignored her. “Either way, I’m in for an adventure, don’t you think? Do you imagine there will be a ruddy-cheeked barkeep with a missing tooth or two? Or a tired, winsome barmaid, working to keep her children fed and clothed? Or a group of young workmen eager for a pint of ale to chase away their tiring day?”
Anne spoke dryly. “The only thing I imagine there will be in that tavern is an overly romantic lady doomed to be disappointed by reality.”
“Oh, Anne. Where is your sense of adventure?”
“I think you have more than enough of that for both of us.” When Callie ignored her, she pressed on. “Promise me one thing?”
“Yes?”
“If you become uncomfortable in any way, you will leave immediately. Perhaps I should send Michael with you,” she said, referring to her son, one of the Allendale coachmen. “He would make certain that you were safe.”
The idea set Callie on edge. She whirled around to face the maid, clutching the loosened gown to her breast, urgency on her face. “Anne, no one aside from you must ever know that I’ve done this. Not even Michael. I cannot risk discovery. Surely, you understand that.”
Anne paused, considering her next move. With a firm nod, the maid spoke matter-of-factly, “A plain brown wool should do. And you’ll need a cloak to hide your face.”
Callie smiled broadly. “I defer to your superior understanding of disguise.”
“Well, I don’t know about disguise, but I should think I’d be rather an expert on dressing you as a commoner.” Anne pointed to the dressing screen nearby before continuing. “I shall go to fetch you a frock and cloak. You remove that gown while I am gone.”
“And I’ll need a cap.”
Anne sighed. “I thought we were rid of lace caps.”
“We are. But tonight, I need as much disguise as possible.”
With a huff, Anne left, muttering to herself, likely about the challenges that long-suffering maids must endure.
Once Anne was gone, Callie removed the dress she had worn for the ball earlier that evening. As she slipped out of the blue satin gown, she swayed gently to the faint music that drifted up from the floor below, where revelers continued to dance and celebrate Mariana and Rivington.
There was little question that this was the greatest ball of her life. It wasn’t just the waltz with Ralston—although that certainly was a factor—or the decadent, rather scandalous interaction with the marquess in the midst of the festivities, where anyone could have found them. It was that, for the first time in her life, she had been filled with an undeniable strength—as though she could do anything.
As though the adventure she craved was hers for the taking.
The powerful feeling had been almost too much to bear, and Callie had escaped above stairs soon after Ralston had left the ball. Her secret encounter, paired with the thrill that came with the tavern recommendation Ralston had provided, had rendered her unable to continue her sedate interactions with the ton. How could she discuss the season when there was scotch to be tried? A tavern to visit? A new Callie to encourage?
She couldn’t, of course.
It was not the first ball she had left early; she doubted that anyone would notice or care that she had disappeared—a truth that made for an easy escape to adventure. At long last, some good comes of being a wallflower.
She smiled at the thought as a sharp rap announced Anne’s return. The maid bustled back into the room, arms laden with brown wool.
Consumed with excitement, Callie couldn’t stop herself from clapping her hands, eliciting a scowl from her companion.
“I should think you’re one of the first people to ever applaud brown wool.”
“Perhaps I am the first person to recognize brown wool for what it really is.”
“Which is?”
“Freedom.”
The Dog and Dove was, evidently, a popular haunt.
Callie peered out the window of the hansom cab she had hired to take her to the tavern, curiosity bringing her to the edge of her seat, nose nearly pressed against the glass window. She had ridden down Jermyn Street countless times by day, never realizing that it was an entirely different place at night. The transformation was really quite fascinating.
There were dozens of people on the street in front of the tavern, bathed in the yellow light that poured from its windows. She was surprised to see aristocrats in their starched cravats mingling with gentlemen and members of the merchant class, the “cits” who were so publicly criticized in ballrooms across London for working.
Interspersed among the men was a handful of women, some clearly the companions of the men upon whom they hung, others who seemed to be without an escort. The last filled Callie with apprehension; there had been a small part of her that had hoped to arrive at the tavern and, finding no unchaperoned women, to be required to ask the hack to return her home immediately.
Frankly, she wasn’t sure if she was miserable or thrilled that she had been provided with no viable excuse to turn back.
Callie sighed, the exhaled breath clouding the window, turning the light beyond into a hazy yellow fog. She could just go home and drink scotch in Benedick’s study. With Benedick. After all, he’d offered before. At Allendale House, where she would not risk her reputation.
At Allendale House, there would be no adventure. Callie winced at the thought, clutching the square sheet in her gloved hand, feeling the rich, thick paper crinkle in her palm as doubt assailed her.
She should have let Anne come with her. Solitary adventure was fast becoming overrated.
She couldn’t go home now, however. Not after she’d gone through the trouble of asking Ralston for the name of a tavern and securing an appropriate disguise. She fidgeted under the rough wool of the gown, which irritated her skin despite the linen chemise she wore. With the hood of her cloak up, no one would even look twice at the plain young woman who entered, ordered a tumbler of whiskey and sat quietly at a table at the back of the taproom. She’d begged Anne for information about the inside of taverns as well. She was fully prepared. All she had to do was exit the hack.
Unfortunately, her legs did not seem to be willing to cooperate.
To list? Or not to list?
The door opened. And she no longer had a choice. The driver spoke, exasperation filling his tone. “Miss? Ye did say The Dog and Dove, did ye not?”
Callie crushed the list in her hand. “I did.”
“Well, here y’are.”
She nodded. “Quite.” And, stepping down onto the block he had set on the ground for her to exit, she thanked him.
She could do this. Shoring up her courage, Callie took the last step down to the street and planted her kidskin boot right into a puddle of murky water. With a little, involuntary cry of distress, she hopped to dry land and looked back at the now-amused driver. He offered her a cocky grin. “Ye should be watchin’ where ye step, miss.”
Callie scowled. “Thank you for the advice, sir.”
He tilted his head at her as he added, “Are ye certain ye want to be here?”
She squared her shoulders. “Quite certain, sir.”
“Right, then.” He tipped his cap, leapt up to the driver’s seat, and, with a click to his horses, was off to find his next fare.
Adjusting her hood, she faced the tavern. To list, it seems. Carefully checking the cobblestones in front of her for additional pitfalls, she made her way through the crowd of uninterested people outside, toward the door.
He saw her the moment she entered the tavern.
There had been no question that she’d been lying earlier in the evening about her brother’s looking for a tavern in town. There was little chance that the Earl of Allendale needed his sister’s interference to find his way to a pub.
Which begged the question, why on earth was Lady Calpurnia Hartwell looking for a tavern?
And what on earth was she doing inside a tavern in the middle of the night? Had she no concern for her reputation? For that of her family? For that of his sister, for God’s sake? He’d placed Juliana’s reputation in her care, and here she was prancing into a public house, bold as brass. She was certain to get herself into trouble.
Ralston leaned back in his chair, whiskey in hand, his attention focused entirely on Callie, who was frozen just inside the doorway of the tavern, looking equal parts fascinated and terrified. The room was packed with people, most in various stages of drunkenness. He’d selected one of the more reputable establishments in St. James. While he could have sent her to Haymarket or Cheapside to teach her a lesson, he had predicted—correctly—that this place would be enough to set her back on her heels.
She pulled her cloak tight around her, eyes darting around the room, not sure where to direct her gaze to retain the calm demeanor that her upbringing required. A burst of masculine laughter startled her into turning toward a large group of men seated at a long table to her left. The men were eyeing a barmaid as she set tankards of ale on the scarred oak tabletop, revealing her ample bosom to the appreciative patrons. Callie’s eyes widened as one particularly forward man grabbed the buxom server and pulled her, squealing, onto his lap for a rude grope. Callie snapped her eyes away from the scene before she could see the next, certainly more scandalous, scene in the tableau.
Unfortunately, she turned toward another, more mutually accommodating couple. To her immediate right, a young woman showing an indecent amount of skin was running a long, feminine finger along the jaw of a gentleman clearly in search of companionship. The two were whispering to each other, lips scant inches apart, eyes locked in a passionate gaze that could only result in one thing…something even the innocent Lady Calpurnia Hartwell could understand. The couple did not notice Callie’s quick intake of breath before she catapulted herself farther inside, heading for the back of the tavern, straight to an empty table in a dimly lit corner—and to him.
If he weren’t so angry with the ridiculous woman, he would be amused.
As she made her way through the crowded room, she tried desperately to avoid touching or even brushing accidentally against the other patrons—an impossible task in the crush of humanity that stood between her and the sanctuary of the empty table within her sights. She seated herself without looking at the people nearby, in an obviously desperate attempt to regain some semblance of calm. She sat with her back to him, but the hood of her plain woolen cloak had fallen back, and he watched as she collected herself and waited for a barmaid to approach. Her hair was up, tucked into a horrid lace cap, but a few auburn curls had escaped and were brushing against the nape of her neck, drawing his attention to the lovely, straight column, flushed with excitement.
For a fleeting moment, he considered what it would be like to kiss the skin there. The scene at the Allendale ball earlier in the evening had confirmed his suspicions that Lady Calpurnia Hartwell was an eager and passionate woman. Her responses were irresistibly uninhibited—so different from those of the women he usually partnered—he couldn’t help but wonder how she would react to his touch in other, more scandalous places.
What was she doing here?
She could be discovered at any moment, by any number of people with connections to London society—she was in St. James, for God’s sake! If that weren’t enough, she had also entered the tavern alone, without protection; were she discovered by the wrong sort of man, she could find herself in a very serious and unpleasant situation. He noticed she held a square of paper firmly in both hands, as if it were a talisman. Could it be a love letter? Was it possible she was meeting a man here?
Of all the irresponsible things she could have done, this might well be the most rash. She tucked the parchment into the pocket of her cloak as a barmaid approached.
“I shall have a whiskey please. A scotch whiskey.”
Had he heard her correctly? Had she just calmly, from her position alone at a darkened table in a London tavern at an ungodly hour, ordered a scotch as though it were the most normal thing in the world?
Had the woman taken leave of her senses?
One thing was certain. He had entirely misjudged little Callie Hartwell. She was most definitely not the appropriate sponsor for Juliana. He’d been looking for a woman of impeccable character and, instead, he had found Callie, who calmly ordered whiskey in London taverns.
Except—
Except there was nothing calm about her. His eyes narrowed as he watched her carefully. She was as stiff as a board. Her breathing, which he measured by the rise and fall of her shoulders, was uneven and shallow. She was nervous. Uncomfortable. And, yet, here she was, in a place he could have told her would make her both of those things. Why? He was going to have to ask her. To confront her. And he knew she wasn’t going to enjoy it.
The barmaid returned with the drink, and Callie paid for it; Ralston noticed she included a handsome addition for the woman’s service. When the server left, he leaned forward to watch as Callie lifted the glass and took a long whiff of the alcohol within. He couldn’t see her face, but he saw her physically recoil with a single harsh cough, shaking her head as if to clear it before repeating the action. This time, she restrained herself from an obvious response, but from the way she bent her head to address the glass, he could tell she was skeptical of the beverage. It was clear she’d never had a drop of scotch in her life. After several moments of her investigation, during which she appeared to be debating whether or not she should drink, Ralston could no longer contain his curiosity.
“That is what you get for ordering whiskey.”
Callie nearly dropped the glass. Ralston couldn’t help feeling a touch vindicated by that. It served the chit right.
She had turned instantly toward him, scotch jostling violently in her glass, and he rose to move to join her at her table.
He gave her credit for quickly recovering from her surprise enough to respond, “I suppose I should have guessed you would be here.”
“You will admit, a lady of good breeding requesting a recommendation for a tavern is not exactly the most common of occurrences.”
“I suppose not.” She looked back at her glass. “I do not suppose I could convince you to return to your table and pretend that you never saw me?”
“I am afraid that would be quite impossible. I could not leave you alone here. You could easily find yourself in a compromising situation.”
She gave a half laugh. “I find that difficult to believe, my lord.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Are you honestly unable to see the damage that your being found alone here would do to your reputation?”
“I would imagine that the damage would be significantly less than that of being discovered here with you.” She gave a little wave, indicating the rest of the tavern. “There are plenty of unaccompanied ladies here.”
Ralston’s eyes darkened. “I highly doubt that those particular ‘ladies’ expect to remain unaccompanied.”
She did not immediately take his meaning, furrowing her brow in confusion. When, after a few seconds, understanding dawned, she looked to the unattached women around the pub and then back to him, wide-eyed. He nodded, as if to confirm her suspicions.
She gasped, “But—I am not…”
“I know.”
“I would never—”
He tipped his head in acknowledgment of her words. “It begs the question…Why are you here?”
She was silent long enough for him to think she might not answer the question. Then she said, “If you must know, I am here to drink scotch.”
One dark eyebrow rose. “Forgive me if I do not believe you.”
“It’s true!”
“It does not take a master investigator to see that you are not a scotch drinker, Lady Calpurnia.”
“It’s true,” she repeated.
He gave an irritated sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Really,” he said, as though it was nothing of the sort.
“Yes!” She grew indignant. “Why is that so difficult to believe?”
“Well, first, I can assure you that the scotch at Allendale House is likely legions better than whatever swill they’ve given you here. So why not simply have a drink there?”
“I want to drink here. I find the atmosphere…engaging.”
“You didn’t even know here existed until two hours ago,” he pointed out.
She was silent. Realizing she was not going to respond, he continued. “Secondly, you seem to be thoroughly averse to actually drinking the scotch in front of you.”
The gleam in her eyes became defiant. “Do I?” And with that, she lifted the glass, saluting him with it before taking an enormous swallow of the amber liquid.
She immediately began coughing and sputtering, clutching a hand to her chest and blindly setting the glass on the table. It took her several moments to regain control of her faculties; when she did, it was to find that he had not moved except to assume a look of smug superiority.
His voice was dry as sand when he said, “It is an acquired taste.”
“Evidently,” she replied, peevishly. Then adding, “I believe my throat is on fire.”
“That particular sensation will abate.” He paused, then added, “It would probably be best if your next taste is more of a sip than a gulp.”
“Thank you, my lord, I hadn’t considered that,” she said dryly.
“What are you doing here?” The words were quiet and cajoling, matched with a warm curiosity in his blue eyes.
“I already told you.” She took a little sip of the liquid in her glass, grimacing.
He sighed again, gaze locked on her. “If that is true, you are more careless than I thought. You are taking a serious risk with your reputation tonight.”
“I wore a disguise.”
“Not a very good one.”
She lifted a hand to her lace cap, nervously. “No one recognized me.”
“I recognized you.”
“You’re different.”
He paused, watching her. “You are right. I am different. Unlike most of the men an unchaperoned female would meet in an establishment such as this, I have a marked interest in preserving your honor.”
“Thank you, Lord Ralston,” she scoffed, “but I do not need your protection.”
“It appears that you need precisely that. Or, shall I remind you that you and your family are about to be linked to my sister? She has enough against her. She doesn’t need you ruining your reputation and her chances at success in one fell swoop.”
The whiskey made her bold. “If you have such concern for the quality of my reputation, my lord, may I suggest you find another to guide your sister into society?”
His eyes narrowed on hers. “No, Lady Calpurnia. We have an agreement. I want you.”
“Why?”
“Because she trusts you and enjoys your company. And because I do not have enough time to return to the beginning and find someone else.” His tone turned to steel.
The barmaid returned then, leaning close enough to provide Ralston with an excellent view of her more-than-ample charms. “Is there anything else yer needin’ this evenin’, milord?”
“Not tonight,” Ralston said with a careless smile, registering Callie’s shock at the woman’s overt invitation.
“I’ve got other ways of makin’ ye comfortable, luv.”
Callie’s eyes were wide as saucers.
“I’m certain you do,” Ralston said wickedly, producing a crown and slowly sliding the coin into the barmaid’s palm. “Thank you.”
Callie inhaled sharply. Her tone iced. “I grow weary of being told how to behave, as though I am unable to think for myself, especially by someone like you.”
“Whatever do you mean?” he asked innocently.
“You cannot mean to suggest that you did not notice her…her…”
A smile played across his lips. “Her…?”
Callie made a little sound of frustration. “You, sir, are incorrigible.”
“Indeed. As we can agree that my reputation is beyond repair, may I suggest we return our attention to yours?” He did not wait for her response. “You will cease risking your reputation, Calpurnia, at least until Juliana is out. That means no unchaperoned visits to London public houses. Strike that. No visits to London public houses whatsoever. And, if you could see to it that you avoid leaving the house in the dead of night, that would be excellent.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Callie turned willful, her courage bolstered by drink. “And how would you suggest I prevent men from inappropriately accosting me in my ancestral home?”
The brashness of her statement surprised him, and he was immediately chagrined. “You have an excellent point. Please accept my—”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” Callie’s voice shook as she interrupted him. “I am not a child, nor will I be made to feel as though I have no control over my actions. Not by you, or by anyone else. And I could not—”
She stopped short. And I could not bear hearing that you regretted our kiss.
Of course, she knew in her heart that it was true, that he had trapped her in that alcove to prove his superiority, to pass the time, or for some other decidedly unromantic reason. But, for the first time in her life, she had felt sought after. And she would not have him ruin it with an apology.
In the silence that fell between them, mind reeling, Callie finished the last of her scotch. Ralston had been right, of course. The liquid seemed to go down much more easily with practice. She set the glass down, watching a droplet of whiskey make its slow, meandering way down the inside of the glass to settle at the bottom. She traced its path on the outside of the glass and waited for him to speak.
When he didn’t, she was flooded with a desire to escape the now-too-small space. “I am sorry to have spoiled your evening, my lord. As I have completed the task for which I came, I believe I shall leave you in peace.”
She stood, replacing her hood and pulling her cloak around her. He stood with her, immediately swinging his cloak around his shoulders and taking his hat and walking stick in hand. She offered him a direct look, and said, “I do not need a chaperone.”
“I would not be much of a gentleman if I did not escort you home, my lady.” She noted a slight emphasis on the last two words, as if he was reminding her of her position.
She refused to argue with him, refused to let him further ruin an evening that should have been bright with possibility—after all, she had succeeded in crossing yet another item off her list. Instead, she turned and began the long journey through the crowded taproom to the door, eager to exit the tavern ahead of him, certain that, if she could only reach the street first, she could hail a hackney and leave him—and this horrid interlude—behind. This time, however, she seemed less able to avoid being jostled by the crowd; her balance seemed somehow off, her thoughts slightly fuzzy. Was it possible that that small amount of scotch had gone to her head?
She exited the room into the cool spring evening beyond and marched to the street, head high, to search for a cab. Behind her, she was aware of Ralston calling up to the driver of his coach, who was waiting for him. Excellent, she thought to herself, perhaps he has decided to leave me alone after all. Ignoring the pang of disappointment that came with the thought, Callie stepped off the edge of the sidewalk to peer around another parked carriage. At the last minute, she recalled the puddle that she had met with earlier in the evening, and she increased the length of her stride, avoiding the muck. She landed off-balance and felt herself pitching forward onto the cobblestones. Flinging her hands out to catch herself, she prepared for impact.
An impact that never came.
Before she could grasp what had happened, she felt the earth shift and was caught against a rigid wall of warmth. She heard Ralston’s mutter of “Infuriating female” as his arms came around her like stone, and she gave a little shriek when he lifted her into the air, flush against his chest. His very broad, very firm chest. The hood of her cloak fell back, and she found herself staring straight into his angry blue gaze. His lips were scant inches from her own. Such marvelous lips. She shook her head to clear it of such silly thoughts.
“You could have killed yourself,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion she could not quite place. Likely fury, she thought to herself.
“I would think ‘killed’ is rather unlikely,” she said, knowing as she spoke them that the words would not engender his goodwill.
“You could have fallen and been run over by a passing coach. I think killed is a fair statement.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he shifted her, distracting her from continuing their argument. Setting her down on the sidewalk in front of the open door to his carriage, he pointed a single finger toward the dimly lit interior of the vehicle. The single word he offered brooked no refusal. “In.”
Taking his offered hand, she stepped up into the carriage, settling herself on the seat. Noticing that several curls had come down and were brushing against her cheek, she lifted a hand to check the positioning of her cap, only to discover it was missing. “Wait!” She called to Ralston just as he was about to lift himself into the coach. He paused, offering her a questioning look. “My cap. It is gone.”
At the words, he ascended into the vehicle, taking the seat next to her and nodding to the footman to close the door behind him. She watched in shock as he removed his gloves and hat and set them on the seat across from them before banging on the roof of the carriage, signaling to the coachman to drive on.
“Did you not hear me?” she asked.
“I heard you,” he said.
“My cap—” she started.
“I heard you,” he repeated.
“But, you didn’t—”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“The loss of that cap is no loss at all. You should be thankful that it is gone. You’re too young to be wearing such a loathsome thing.”
“I like it!” she said, indignantly.
“No, you don’t.”
She turned her face away from him, looking out the window to the street passing beyond. He was right of course. She hated the lace cap and everything it represented. After all, hadn’t she incinerated one of the awful things already? She couldn’t help the little smile that crossed her face. Fine. She was happy to be rid of it.
Not that she would allow Ralston to know that.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, the words echoing in the silence of the carriage. When he did not reply, she added, “For saving me.”
Ralston gave a noncommittal grunt in response. Clearly, he was put out by her actions. Fair enough.
After several minutes of silence, Callie tried again, offering what she hoped would be a conversational olive branch. “I look forward to Juliana’s coming out, my lord. I have every hope that she will find a love match.”
“I hope she finds no such thing.”
Her eyes flew to him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“Love does not bode well for the Ralston family. I do not wish it upon any of us.”
“Surely you cannot believe that.”
He responded matter-of-factly, “Why would I not? My mother left a trail of broken hearts through Europe, cuckolding two husbands and deserting three children—all of whom she claimed to love—along the way. And you suggest that a love match should be the standard by which I measure my sister’s success in society? No. I shall measure Juliana’s success by her marriage to a man of character and kindness—two qualities with far higher value than love.”
Were they in any other place at any other time, Callie would have likely allowed the conversation to end at that. Whether because of the whiskey or the adventure as a whole, she turned on the carriage seat to face him. “My lord…are you saying that you do not believe in love?”
“Love is merely an excuse to act without considering the consequences,” he said with disinterest, “I’ve never seen evidence of its being anything more than a precursor to pain and anguish. And, as a concept, it does more harm than good.”
“I must disagree.”
“I would expect no less,” he said frankly. “Let me hazard a guess. You think that love exists in all the poetic glory of Shakespeare and Marlowe and the wretched Lord Byron and whomever else.”
“You needn’t say it with such disdain.”
“Forgive me.” He waved a hand in the air, meeting her gaze directly in the dim light. “Please, go on. Educate me in the truth of love.”
She was immediately nervous. No matter how academically he seemed to be able to discuss it, one’s views on love were rather…well…personal. She attempted a scholarly tone. “I would not go so far as to believe that love is as perfect as those poets would like us to believe, but I believe in love matches. I would have to. I am the product of one. And, if that weren’t enough proof, I should think tonight would have been at least moderately convincing. My sister and Rivington have eyes only for each other.”
“Attraction is not love.”
“I do not believe that what is between them is simple attraction.”
The words faded into silence, and he watched her intently for a long moment before leaning in, stopping mere inches from her. “There is nothing simple about attraction.”
“Nevertheless—” She stopped, unable to remember what it was she was trying to say. He was so close.
“Shall I show you how complicated attraction can be?” The words were deep and velvety, the sound of temptation. His lips were nearly on hers, she could feel their movement as he spoke, barely brushing against her.
He waited, hovering just above her, for her to respond. She was consumed with an unbearable need to touch him. She tried to speak, but no words came. She couldn’t form thoughts. He had invaded her senses, leaving her with no other choice but to close the scant distance between them.
The moment their lips touched, Ralston took over, his arms coming around her and dragging her into his lap to afford him better access to her. This kiss was vastly different than their first one—it was heavier, more intense, less careful. This kiss was a force of nature. Callie moaned as his hand ran up the side of her neck cupping her jaw, tilting her head to better align their mouths. His lips played across hers, his tongue running along them before he pulled away just barely and searched her half-lidded eyes. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
“So passionate,” he whispered against her lips as he drove his fingers into her hair, scattering hairpins and sending her curls tumbling around them. “So eager. Open for me.”
And then he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, and she did open for him, matching him stroke for stroke, caress for caress. She became caught in a web of long, slow, drugging kisses, and all she could think was that she had to be closer to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he opened her cloak and set his hands on a path to her breasts, cupping and lifting the heavy flesh there. She tore her mouth from his in a gasp as he ran his thumbs over the tips, hardened beneath the strained wool of the borrowed dress, freeing him to set his lips to the taut muscles in her neck, his tongue tracing a line along the column to her shoulder. He ran his teeth over the sensitive skin there, sending a jolt of pleasure through her, then laved the spot with his tongue. She sighed at the sensation and felt the curve of his lips against her shoulder, just as the taut wool of her bodice came loose, and her breasts spilled into his hands.
She opened her eyes at the sudden freedom, at the cool air rushing across her chafed skin, and she met his searing gaze for an instant before he pulled back to look at her bare breasts. Her skin shimmered in the flickering light from the streets beyond, and when he set one hand to her, she found herself unable to tear her gaze from the image of his fingers, stark against her paleness. The picture was more erotic than she could have imagined. She watched as he soothed the abraded skin and rubbed a thumb across her bare nipple, circling it gently, causing it to harden.
She shifted in his lap at the sensation, and he let out a low hiss as her hip pressed against the firm length of him. She was consumed by a feeling of feminine power, and she repeated the motion, this time rocking deliberately against him. He breathed deeply and stilled her with an iron grip, meeting her eyes. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “It’s a dangerous game you play, Minx. And I am a formidable opponent.”
Her eyes widened in surprise at the words. When he set his mouth to her breast, it was her turn to gasp. His tongue circled one peaked nipple before his lips closed around it and he sucked gently, working the hardened tip with mouth and teeth until she cried out, putting her hands to his head, clutching his hair.
He lifted his mouth from her, blowing a stream of cool air across her pebbled nipple, teasing her with the lightness of the caress. “Ralston.” His name on her lips was harsh, pleading.
“Yes?”
“Don’t stop,” she whispered into the darkness. “Please.”
His teeth flashed in a wicked grin. He shook his head, watching her, fascinated by her request. “So bold. You know exactly what you want, despite never having had it before.”
“Ralston,” she said again, writhing on his lap, frustration in her tone. “Please.”
He kissed her, unable to deny the keen satisfaction he felt at her honest response to his caresses. How long had it been since he’d been with a woman who was so open? He could become addicted to her eagerness, to her enthusiasm. He pulled away from the rough kiss to reward her. “With pleasure, my lady,” he said, and set his lips to her other breast. Callie cried his name, the sound echoing in the darkness, sending a jolt of pleasure through him, straight to his core.
He wanted her. In the carriage. He wanted to bury himself deep within her and show her what passion could be.
The thought shocked him from the moment, and he lifted his mouth from her breast, turning his attention to the street beyond. He swore roundly. This was not a woman one took in a carriage. This was Lady Calpurnia Hartwell, sister of the Earl of Allendale. She was half-undressed, and they were mere minutes from her home. How had he so lost control?
He began to set Callie to rights, straightening the bodice of her dress as she sat, confused, on his lap, watching him with wide, searching eyes. “We are almost at Allendale House,” he said.
The words spurred Callie into motion. She leapt from his lap onto the seat across from him, yanking at her bodice. Her gloves made dexterity impossible and she clawed at them, freeing her hands to tighten her laces. She scrambled to collect her hairpins, which were scattered across the coach, to restore her hair to its former state. He watched as she did it, trying not to notice the swell of her breasts straining against the rough wool of her dress. He resisted the urge to stop her from taming her mane of hair, instead reaching down to collect several more pins from the floor and offer them to her.
She took them, brushing her fingers across his, releasing more of the searing heat that had built between them. “Thank you,” she said quietly, flustered. She secured the last of her errant curls and placed her hands in her lap.
Gone was the passionate woman he had uncovered; returned was the prim and proper Lady Calpurnia. Ralston leaned back on the seat, watching her as the carriage pulled to a stop just outside of the Allendale driveway.
“I was not certain if the driver should take you to the door,” he said. “Are you planning a clandestine reentry?”
She gave him a small smile. “Indeed, I am, my lord.”
“Ah, so we are back to ‘my lord.’”
She did not reply, instead dipping her head shyly. He couldn’t see in the darkness of the coach, but he knew she blushed.
“I should like to escort you to the door.”
“There is no need.”
“Nevertheless—”
She interrupted. “I think it best I go alone. If we were found together…” The sentence did not have to be finished. With a nod, Ralston swung open the door and alighted to hand her down to the street.
He stood unmoving, watching until she had safely entered the house through the darkened front door before he climbed back up into the carriage and, with a sharp rap to the ceiling, signaled the coachman to drive on.