Master of Love

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To Theo
Such is my lover, and such my friend.

Chapter 1

Rexton House, St. James's Square, London

March 1847

T
he Honorable Miss Callista Higginbotham felt the precise moment her reputation came to totter on the brink of ruin.

She stopped outside the closed doors of the drawing room, shocked into stillness by the haughty voices within.

“You're saying she's here without a chaperone, in the home of an unmarried gentleman?” The woman's question carried easily into the hall.

“Oh, it's worse than that, Anna. She's in trade! And for herself!” This second lady's tone rose even more sharply than the first's. “She seems to think she's running a bookselling business of some kind, carrying on from her father.”

Callista's heart began to hammer in her ears, and a cold sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. Although she'd never eavesdropped in her life, her legs felt frozen to the spot, unable to carry her any farther down the hallway.

They were talking about her! In the crackling flames of these ladies' gossip burned up her good name.

She bit her bottom lip. That name was nearly all she had left these days. She'd not expected to endanger it by drawing such notice from the household guests.

“And you heard she rents herself out during the day as a visiting librarian as well?” A shudder of distaste rippled through the first woman's question. “Is that why she's here at Rexton House?”

“Apparently! The secretary told me her own home is across town in
Bloomsbury
”—the second woman scoffed at that hardworking neighborhood of artists, intellectuals, and professionals—“and that starting today she'll be coming here to set up Rexton's library.”

“But I thought her father was a baron. Why in heaven's name would a baron be in trade and selling books?”

“I think he'd fallen into trade long before inheriting the title. He was just barely a gentleman by birth.”

The clink of a spoon against a teacup accompanied the churn of anxiety in Callista's stomach.

The woman continued. “So many of the working class these days seem to think they can sell goods in trade and mingle above themselves. It's really contemptible, Anna, how things are changing.”

“You're right then, Leticia. Working at Rexton House will ruin whatever claim the chit has left to being a gentlewoman.” Although the lady's tone was mild, her judgment was final.

“Indeed. A reputation as torrid as Rexton's will only further shred her own once this gets out.”

Their self-satisfied gloating left Callista little doubt the tale would make the rounds at society events this evening.

A rustle of skirts signaled that one of them must have stood. Callista backed up, her cheeks blazing, wanting neither to be discovered at the door nor to hear more of their invective. She retreated downstairs to the library, trying hard to dredge up a righteous anger to chase away the tears that threatened to overflow.

She forced her chin up.
It doesn't matter what those harpies think.
All that mattered was doing her job and keeping her motley household together. Shame and anger were on the long list of luxuries she could no longer afford.

Yet her insides twisted at the thought of her life made fodder for the gossip mill. She hadn't anticipated society's judging her presence in Lord Rexton's household so harshly. Stupid, stupid, not to have remembered how unforgiving the ton was of a woman who violated its rules! Ladies were not supposed to work in trade for their living, especially not young, unmarried, or gently born ones. Never mind that her choice had been to either accept this commission or see her family carted off to the poorhouse. Her sales were slim enough without a scandalous reputation to further discourage wealthy book-collecting gentlemen.

Or, worse, to encourage them in the wrong way.

As she reentered the library and closed the doors, she rested for a moment against their polished surface and tried to draw comfort from the sight before her.

The enormous library of Rexton House glowed with the honeyed warmth of the gleaming wood, the gilt lettering on the blacks and burgundies of the leather book bindings, and the rich blue and red swirls of the Turkish carpet. Her lungs filled with the aroma of fine Corinthian book leather and the musty under-note of dust from the shipment of so many trunks. Never again did she expect to work with such a vast array of exquisite volumes collected in one place. It was her fantasy of a perfect library. Were it hers, she would live in it blissfully forever.

But what had seemed a sanctuary just minutes before now felt tawdry and spoiled. Could a place so wonderful become the cause of her ruin?

Don't think about it,
she chided herself.
Focus on the task at hand
.

Indeed, the present task was problem enough. The library was a disorganized mess, with forty-eight trunks spread out across the floor and stacks of books piled on seat cushions and tabletops everywhere.

Sighing, she headed back to work. She braced herself to lift the heavy lid of yet another trunk. The sight inside curled a small smile onto her lips, as it had with every trunk she'd pried open this morning.

Books. More beautiful, precious books.

Callista was the first to admit high society was not her proper place, even when her reputation wasn't dangling by a thread. Her younger sister was the vivacious and sociable one, able to charm birds from the trees, and her father had always handled their elite sales to the wealthy book collectors who made up their trade. For her part, Callista often found people hard to handle—especially pleasure-seeking, aristocratic
male
persons, such as the infamous Viscount Rexton. Books, however, she loved. Along with her small circle of family and friends, the world of books was her life.

Mr. Danvers, Lord Rexton's secretary, had informed her when they arranged her contract last week that the early bequest from his lordship's uncle numbered well over eight thousand volumes. Added to those items already in the viscount's collection, the complete library would total upwards of eleven thousand volumes. Her job was to organize, catalog, and shelve them all.

How she was to accomplish this huge task, she frankly had no idea. But do it she must, or her great-aunt, little sister, and the rest of her household would end up in the street. Creditors nipped hungrily at their heels already.

The oak doors opened, and she froze, a stack of scientific treatises in arm, before seeing it was only Mr. Danvers. She'd gone to seek him with a request for additional blank card stock when the ladies' conversation had sent her scurrying back to the library.

“Good morning, Miss Higginbotham.” He smiled and made her a very correct bow. “Starting right in to the task, I see. Here, let me help you.”

His warm manner made her remember how she quite liked the pleasant and unassuming young man, with his smooth, regular features. He had the heavy volumes out of her arms and on the table before she could frame a protest.

“Good day, Mr. Danvers,” she said, smiling weakly back at him. Surely she should be stacking the books herself to at least
appear
competent? “Thank you, but I can manage, I assure you.”

“I have no doubt. Sir George, his lordship's uncle, was effusive in his praise of your abilities.” His blue eyes twinkled at her. “I merely hoped to have a look at the books myself.”

He did seem a most agreeable man, and she resolved not to let her insecurities make her so defensive around him. “Allow me then to show you the prize I found in the last trunk: a beautiful complete set of Greek tragedies, some with the pages still uncut.” She led him over to the trunk.

“A favorite of his lordship—we'll have to show him when he arrives.”

“He's coming by, then?”
That
wasn't welcome news. She had yet to meet her new employer and was, truthfully, in no hurry to make his acquaintance.

“Yes, he should be here in a moment.” Mr. Danvers accepted the volume of Euripides and examined the elegant binding. “He's been meeting in his study with Mr. Claremont, the president of the British Philosophical Society. Lady Barrington and Lady Vaughnley arrived recently and are taking tea in the drawing room, but Lord Rexton told me he wanted to meet you before joining the ladies and his other guests for luncheon.”

She felt the butterflies start. “Lord Rexton is involved with the Philosophical Society? I know his late father was a renowned philosopher, of course; his works are quite famous. But I didn't realize his son continued the family tradition.” The thought was bizarre enough to distract Callista from her nerves. This reputed self-indulgent roué of London society was an intellectual? How odd.

“The present Lord Rexton doesn't write philosophy, of course,” Mr. Danvers said, as if to acknowledge the unlikelihood of that possibility. “But he does continue the Avery family's long-standing support of the British Philosophical Society. He took up his father's baton as the society's patron when he came into his title.” Mr. Danvers passed the volume back to her. “You have an excellent eye, Miss Higginbotham. This set is lovely.”

They examined together some of the books Callista had unpacked, and she had almost begun to relax when the sound of a booted approach echoed into the library.

Lord Rexton entered alone. As she glanced up to see him in the doorway, her stomach clenched. She was determined, however, not to be cowed by this rich peer upon whose patronage her family now depended. She straightened her spine as he strode in.

Mr. Danvers stepped forward. “My lord, may I have the honor of presenting Miss Higginbotham, your new librarian? Miss Higginbotham, Viscount Rexton.”

Lord Rexton repeated her name as he bowed over her hand.

The jolt of contact at his warm grip startled her.
Goodness!
she thought, immediately flustered.
Can a man really look like this?
It was one thing not to be intimidated by his power and wealth, but did he also have to be so absurdly handsome?

Her housemate Marie had tried to warn her about Dominick Avery, Viscount Rexton, society's most renowned and sinfully attractive lover. “The society pages always refer to him as ‘Lord Adonis,'
chérie,
” Marie had said, miming a shiver of delight. “That or ‘Master of Love,' ” she added with a cheeky grin. “It's a compliment, a pagan title for a man with the looks of a Greek god.” But Callista had dismissed her friend's gossip as ridiculous, assuring her neither the looks nor the exploits of Lord Rexton would have any bearing on the performance of her duties.

Callista saw now that she had been wrong.

This man was so outlandishly beautiful, in a classical male way, that he stopped the breath in her throat. His thick hair was long enough to show the wave that curled away from his brow and over his collar. You could really only describe the color as a deep burnished gold, daft though that sounded, glowing even in the weak light of a London March morn. She supposed there were women who would kill for such hair, let alone those high cheekbones and preposterously long eyelashes. And that mouth!
My word!
Surely no man should have such lips. They were outright decadent, almost feminine, in their sensual fullness and curve. He even had a dimple in his chin, although it was balanced by a jaw that was all male in its strength.

She withdrew her hand and curtsied with fingers balled in her skirts to erase the tingle of his touch. She'd never trusted handsome men. Such looks inevitably bred shallowness, conceit, and a false sense of entitlement. And this man had looks to make the gods bow down. Lord Adonis, indeed!

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Rexton.” At least her voice sounded steady, even if her heart beat rather erratically. His eyes, she couldn't help but notice, were dark, in striking contrast to his hair. She caught herself thinking of chocolate-brown velvet before she gave herself a mental shake and forcibly banished the thought. She managed to continue. “Thank you for engaging me on this project. I look forward to the privilege of working with so many fine books.”

“Uncle George was quite insistent you alone could manage to integrate my few volumes with the wonders of his collection,” Lord Rexton said. “What did he write in his letter to us, Danvers?” He turned toward his secretary. “That we were to look up Higginbotham Book Dealers in Bloomsbury and secure your services before he'd even send on the books? I'm delighted you had time to take us on.”

While his cultured, upper-class tones were little different from her own, there was a deep rumbling purr to his voice that rolled over her skin like a warm bath. She clasped her hands behind her back, afraid goose bumps might show at her wrists. “Sir George is too kind,” she said, glad of an excuse to gaze down modestly. The truth was, she found it hard to look at the man. It was like gazing at the sun.

Callista didn't consider herself vain, and she didn't begrudge the man his golden Adonis looks, but he made her feel so common and plain beside his divine grandeur that she couldn't help but resent it. It wasn't exactly fair. Did he have to be rich
and
outrageously gorgeous
and
newly gifted with the most stunning collection of books she'd ever seen?

The arrival of Rexton's other guests further scattered her wits. An older, rotund gentleman, whom she took to be Mr. Claremont, ushered two young matrons into the room. Callista tensed, knowing the ladies could be none other than her attackers from the drawing room. One of them immediately walked over to their host, gracefully skirting the trunks. She was a beautiful and petite blonde in a blue and green tartan day dress Marie would have raved over as dernier cri.

“Rex, dear, I knew we'd find you here,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “When Leticia and I finished our tea, we ran across Mr. Claremont downstairs in the morning room. He said he thought you'd headed down the hall to see your new books before luncheon.”