Master of Love (20 page)

“Yes”—she held his look—“I did, didn't I?”

“Why didn't you come to me for help?” The question escaped despite himself.

“I had no right to do so, and there didn't seem to be time.” But then her voice softened. “But I'm very grateful you came, Dominick. You saved me.” She laid a soft hand against his chest and smiled tremulously up at him. “When you came through that door, I'd never been so glad to see someone in my life. You were wonderful. I'm not sure what would have happened if you hadn't arrived.”

Dom knew all too well what could have happened, and it twisted a sick knot of fury in his guts. Garforth's wound had been slight—a shallow cut across his side—and he'd been roaring with wrath. Callista would've had to mortally stab him to escape his clutches, or he'd have raped and murdered her in the hall. Dom cursed under his breath as he fought to banish the image.

“Billy came to fetch me right away,” he said, seeking distraction. “That's why I was able to get to you quickly.”

“I told him to take Daphne to Lady Beatrice, to make sure she was safe.”

“He knew she'd be safe here. And he knew you needed help. He wasn't going to abandon you to that bastard. That's a quote, in fact, if you'll forgive the language.” Dom smiled at the memory of Billy's wild ferocity. The lad would have stayed at Garforth's to rip the bloody rotter apart with his bare hands, if not for “Miss H.” ordering him to get Daphne out. It had put him in a desperate quandary, and Dom didn't doubt he'd have suffered Billy's wrath if he hadn't brought Callista home to safety.

“Billy said that?” She gave a small smile and didn't look quite so lost. “It's one of his new personal rules, never to swear in front of a lady. But it sounds just the sort of thing he'd say to you. You should have heard his tongue when he first came to live with us.”

“He'd give his life to see you not hurt.” Dom barked out a laugh and raked a hand through his hair. Billy had said more, as well. That he refused to let her sacrifice herself for the family any longer. That she hadn't accepted it yet, but “yer lordship” was her man and it was Rexton's job to save her now. Dom had agreed with the last bit—the rest he'd sort through later. “I think I'm jealous of a fourteen-year-old houseboy.”

“He's a good lad. I couldn't have got Daphne out without him.” Her lip began to tremble again.

He swore softly and wrapped her in his arms once more. “And you're a good woman, Callista. A brave and loving woman who protects her own. And a fierce fighter.” He chucked her under the chin. “Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you and your page cutter.”

She looked up at him, and he smiled as he saw the shadows retreat from her eyes. That he could do such for her—keep the wolves at bay, tease her back to good humor, protect her, and make her happy—suddenly seemed a marvelous thing. He
mattered
to someone, someone important to him.

And then those eyes of hers—those gorgeous silver-gray eyes with her dark winged brows—went soft and smoky as a new need spread into them.

“Dominick,” she whispered. “I don't want the memory of a man touching me to be him.”

His breath stopped.

To take advantage of her at this moment would be despicable, but to put her aside was impossible. He needed to soothe her as much as she needed him. He needed to know she was unharmed; he needed to make it better for her. She was right; men could be awful brutes.

He enfolded her in his arms and bent his head to her temple, inhaling deeply.
God, she smells so good.
Some indescribable essence of Callista, warm and feminine and delicate, but so strong under it all. He feathered light kisses across her brow, over to the pink shell of her ear and down her neck. He felt a shudder of response rack her as she grasped his arms more tightly. Then he captured her mouth and drank from her like a man parched in the desert.

When she opened to him and gave herself over to his kiss, desire slammed into him like a freight train. “Callista,” he murmured, nibbling at her mouth. She was so responsive and unguarded in her reaction to his lovemaking. Her utter honesty was one of the things he most admired about her.

Because it's so damned lacking in you,
mocked his demons.

He could tell she wanted to be lost in it, to not have to think or feel, and because kissing happened to be one of his special skills in life, he fulfilled her wish. It wasn't quite what he wanted—her, focused on him, desiring him—but it was enough for now.

She allowed him a full minute of torturous paradise as he kissed and licked and explored her soft mouth, before she pulled away. “Dominick,” she whispered again breathlessly, clutching at his lapels. Her eyes shone, huge and luminous. “I want to ask you something; I want to ask you
for
something.”

“Anything, beauty.” He nibbled toward her ear.

A small smile plumped her cheek. “A dangerous promise, Dominick. It's this: because of you, I want things now I didn't think about before. I know I'll never marry; as you've pointed out, that ship has sailed. But I want to know,
to feel,
what this thing is”—her voice wavered and she tucked her head shyly into his neck—“this
thing
that burns between us. I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone, wondering and regretting, with nothing but memories of Garforth.”

She took one faltering step back. Hands fisted at her sides, she held his gaze. “Dominick, I want you to show me.” She swallowed hard. “But if you want me, you have to offer all of you. The real you.”

He thought of a pagan goddess, of the nymph of Artemis for whom she was named, bravely offering herself to some half-known beast.

Him. She wanted
him
. Dominick. Not his mask.

Her honesty awed, humbled him. Her courage allowed him to speak. “Callista, I don't know if I can give what you want. But if you let me, I can show you who we can be together. I can offer us.”

It was strange phrasing. He wasn't sure what he meant by it, but it had the appeal of shutting up his damn inner voice.

As her gaze fell, he knew it wasn't enough. Of course it wasn't. When she raised her head, shadows were back in her beautiful fey eyes. Staring down into their silver depths, he knew were he a better man he'd feel guilt for the conflict he'd stirred there. But guilt be damned. The heated flush of desire rising from her body burned him like a brand. Nothing mattered more than bringing them together. An affair with Callista was all wrong, and he had no idea how to make it work without hurting them both, especially her, with her reputation dangling by a thread. But he had to have her—hell, body and soul,
he needed her
.

He held out his hand to her, palm up.

Her chin firmed. “All right. Yes.”

He almost stumbled at the punch of lust that surged in his gut.

He wasn't worthy of her. She deserved far more. He'd end up disappointing and hurting her and feeling even more like a wastrel bastard. But she'd said yes, and not for his soul would he turn her down now.

Soon, very soon, he'd make her his. “Come, I'll take you up to Daphne,” he said. “Uncle George should have Lady Mildred and Mademoiselle Beauvallon out of the sponge house soon.”

Her eyes, so uncertain yet so open, searched his. He felt a rip of shame over the ridiculous public face he still put on at the balls he attended and that equally ridiculous name under which he wrote.

But she placed her hand in his.

They said nothing more as they walked upstairs. He felt absurdly grateful she let him hold her hand all the way up.

Chapter 12

D
om wasted no time laying his plan to claim Callista.

First, he insisted she take the rest of the week off work, to put her household back together and spend time with her family. Lady Beatrice came over twice, and Callista paid a morning call on her friend at DeBray Hall, where they worked on plans for the Society of Love Ball. Callista also called on Lady Yarborough in Belgravia. Both ladies were doing all they could to keep quiet this latest scandal and rehabilitate Callista's badly tarnished reputation.

Two burly footmen, a new housemaid, and some painters came in temporarily to replace the furniture carted back by the bailiffs and give the house a thorough polish. Marie's dress shop materials were returned and cleaned. For those fabrics and items damaged in the eviction and for the harassment of the false accusation, Dom convinced the Duke of Bedford to make a generous restitution. As for the duke's former business agent, Garforth was in jail, awaiting conviction on charges carefully laid to avoid all mention of Daphne and any need for Callista to testify.

Lady Rexton, who loved drama and excitement in all forms, had been more than delighted to be of service in caring for “dear Daphne” after her rescue and incensed on Callista's behalf upon learning the whole story. Her ladyship now stopped at Bloomsbury Square most afternoons to inquire after the two sisters and engage in strategy sessions with her newest dressmaker. Marie was thrilled yet nervous at this breakthrough opportunity to launch her trade. She and Lady Rexton were plotting an audacious new wardrobe featuring the latest trends in French fashion, including daringly low, off-the-shoulder necklines for the evening gowns.

All these happenings Dom learned of from Danvers, who seemed to find endless reasons to escort Dom's mother to Bloomsbury and linger in the sitting area of Marie's shop. Luckily, the secretary needed only the slightest of prodding—a casual query: “So, how were the ladies today?”—to prattle on with a nicely detailed account of life in Callista's household.

While Callista recuperated, Dom also enlisted his sister to help with a weekend dinner party at Rexton House featuring a high-level guest list. His dual intention—only the first part of which he shared with Jane—was to further mend Callista's reputation and allow him the opportunity to seduce her. He was not oblivious to the serious contradictions of this plot. But with the supreme disregard for logic of a powerful male deep in thrall to lust, he told himself as long as he protected her reputation, he and Callista could explore this fascination that now gripped him so hard she was all he could think of, day and night—especially night.

By the day before the dinner party at week's end, Dom found himself restless with an almost physical need to see Callista. It took a morning's worth of maneuvering, with footmen running back and forth from St. James's to Belgravia and his inner voice deriding him all the while as a callow and smitten youth—not at all in the style of the Master of Love. By the end of it, however, he'd wangled a family dinner invitation out of his sister for which he would need to collect his mother, who just happened to have a late-afternoon appointment at Callista's house, finishing up a fitting for her first ball gown.

Dom brought Danvers along for extra cover. He and his secretary arrived amidst lengthening shadows. Margaret admitted them to the hall—gleaming with a fresh coat of pale blue paint and the huge bouquet of yellow tulips he'd sent the previous day—as loud female laughter greeted them.

“Miss H. and Lady Beatrice are taking a sherry in Mam'zelle Marie's shop with your mother, my lord.” Margaret bobbed them a curtsy as she took their hats and gloves. “I'll go announce you.”

Dom realized suddenly he'd never heard Callista laugh. He hatched a plan on the spot. “I'm sure you don't stand on such ceremony with Danvers, Margaret. We can find our own way.” He smiled down at the maid, his special smile that always got him what he wanted from women.

It worked like a charm as Margaret blushed shyly and bobbed again. She stepped away and waved them down the hall toward the open doors of the atelier sitting area, out of which spilled golden gaslight and another burst of hilarity.

Danvers cocked an eyebrow at his employer.

“Listen to them!” Dom said, grinning. “They sound almost tipsy! Wouldn't you like to catch a bit of their conversation before they realize we're here? It's not eavesdropping if we happen to walk in slowly.”

“Your mother is there, sir. I'm not at all sure we want to hear the paths down which she's leading those young ladies. She's been telling me about the two beaus she's juggling. I think one of them is younger than you.”

Dom blanched. “Good Lord.”

“Indeed.” It was Danvers's turn to grin and flourish a hand down the hallway. “But by all means, lead on.”

Celeste Avery rocked back in her chair with laughter. Between commissioning her new wardrobe and playing ringleader to these three delightful young women, she was enjoying herself immensely. “Marie, dear, more sherry! I haven't had such fun since that garden party at the Duc de Rochelet's château last summer.” She winked broadly at her young companions seated around a low table scattered with a half-empty decanter, magazine copies of
Le Follet: Courrier des salons,
and an explosion of colorful fabrics. “I highly recommend getting lost on winding garden paths with handsome visiting Italian tenors.”

“More than one at a time, Lady Rexton?” Beatrice asked, eyes wide and teasing.

That set Celeste off on another peal of mirth. “Oh, don't tempt me! The stories I could tell!” It had been her idea to break out the sherry. She'd discovered this intriguing creature Miss Higginbotham—Callista, actually, as she'd proceeded to a first-name basis this very afternoon—kept a surprisingly good cellar. The girl most generously made it available to Marie and her best customers, of which Celeste knew herself to be the prime and perhaps only such example. Despite Danvers's earlier warning to Marie, Celeste didn't mind at all that the shop was unpopular. She loved nothing more than discovering and working with a fresh new talent in couture—well, perhaps there were
some
things she loved more—and Marie clearly possessed a true genius for fashion design. At five o'clock, she'd declared they'd labored long enough over the final alterations to her ball gown and in poring over the latest French fashion plates, pinning dummy patterns, and considering colors and trim. The arrival of Lady Beatrice to hand-deliver Callista a ball invitation made the excuse all the more perfect.

“I would have brought your invitation along as well, Lady Rexton, had I known you were here,” Beatrice was saying. “I'd be most honored if you'd consider putting in an appearance.”

“To your annual Society of Love Ball? How could I resist with a name like that?”

Marie chimed in: “Madame, you could wear the crimson silk! Remember, the one for which we decided on the pleated seed-pearl décolletage?”

“Oh, yes, it's very daring!” Celeste searched through the haphazard pile on the table to pull out the sketch and gaze at it again with satisfaction. “It'll be just the thing. And you must design something equally stunning for Lady Beatrice and Callista. The gowns will be my treat.” Celeste had known Beatrice's parents and found their only child to have a solid head on her shoulders—always important for a young woman, in her opinion—as well as a most charming air. She only hoped Marie could help both young women with their wardrobes. Beatrice's gowns were far too fussy for someone of her petite and rounded stature. And Callista looked a veritable dowd in the gray wool dress she wore today. “I'm determined to launch Couture by Beauvallon as London's most exclusive source for ladies' fashion. If all three of us are at the ball in Marie's gowns”—she clapped her hands—“it will be the perfect opportunity.”

It took her five minutes to override the predictable objections stemming from Callista's prickly pride, Marie's desire not to impose, and Beatrice's amusement over being made a charity case at her own ball, but she got her way in the end.

She always did, she thought smugly.

“If you insist, Lady Rexton”—Callista was finally capitulating—“but only for Marie's sake, since your offer is far too generous. And I must warn you, I'm not wearing daring décolletage!”

Marie pleased Celeste by ignoring Callista's wail. Really, what woman didn't want to show off her cleavage? Breasts, Celeste had long been convinced, were one of God's special gifts to women.

“What about the amber
peau de soie
we looked at earlier, the new bolt that replaced the one that was ruined? It would be very
dramatique
with Callista's vivid shade of hair and porcelain skin,” Marie suggested, tilting her own perfectly coiffed head to the side and considering her friend with professional eyes. She flipped through a recent
Le Follet
to a ball gown fashion plate with a deep V-shaped boned bodice and pointed at it with a confident hand. “Look, we could lower the shoulder line, here and here, to highlight Callista's lovely collarbones, and then fill in the bodice,
just a bit
”—she cast a placating glance at Celeste, who drew breath to protest—“with a flounce of ivory lace.”

“But that gown is far too conspicuous!” Callista protested.

“Nonsense,” replied her friend firmly. “You have a most elegant neckline,
chérie,
a tiny waist, and a beautiful willowy carriage. You'd look spectacular in this gown.”

Celeste had to agree. This redheaded girl had potential. She would be most aristocratic, if only she'd relax her air of defensive tension. Now, for example, with her eyes glowing and a smile curving her mouth as she argued good-naturedly with her friend, she was quite captivating.

And more and more intriguing all the time was the way her son talked about the young woman. It had taken Celeste but a moment to tell which way the wind blew. This morning, she'd seen right through that boy's dozy missive about stopping at Bloomsbury Square to collect her for dinner at Jane's.

Really, men were so obvious.

Beatrice chimed in: “Marie's perfectly right, Callie. You shouldn't try to blend in, not with your height and that glorious fiery hair. Flaunt your difference! I'm a little blond dumpling next to you, but you're a goddess!”

“Oh, for goodness sakes!” Callista laughed. “You're hardly a dumpling, and I'm no goddess. You're the most vibrant young lady I know, England's richest heiress, and an earl's daughter to boot!”

Beatrice shook her head and waved away Callista's compliments. “Please, just say you'll wear the gown and come to my ball! I'll be terrified unless you're there with me.”

“Bea, you've never been terrified in your life! You used to lead us into the most awful scrapes when we were young. You were perfectly fearless.”

“People change, Callie,” she said in an odd tone. “Life gets scarier as you grow older.”

Callista reached over to squeeze her friend's hand. “Yes, I suppose it does,” she said, sighing. “You win—I'll be at your side in Marie's gown.”

“Goodness, the maudlin dramatics of youth!” Celeste reached for the decanter. “We're planning a ball here, ladies, not a wake! And, Callista—I want your agreement that you will give Marie carte blanche to design the gown as she thinks best.”

“But won't it be too tight across the shoulders with that dropped sleeve line? I won't be able to move my arms.”

“You're not supposed to move your arms! You'll look most charmingly demure and helpless—gentlemen love that.” Celeste chortled, with some sense of the challenge her son must have been getting from this strong-willed filly. “You have to suffer a bit to be beautiful, Callista dear. Didn't your mother ever tell you that?”

“No, my lady.” Callista smiled wryly over the rim of her glass. “I'm afraid my mother's lessons didn't include such wisdom.”

Celeste was starting to like this smart-tongued girl more and more. She widened her eyes and played the role of brainless flirt to the hilt. “Really, I can't imagine what the two of you ever talked about!”

“Books, mainly. And we did talk about love,” Callista said.

“Ah, now that's a topic I can embrace! What were your dear mama's lessons?”

“She told me to follow my heart and marry for love, as she did. And that it's important to find a man whose intellect you respect.”

“Hmm . . . interesting advice. What about a pair of broad shoulders and a strapping chest?” Celeste wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Did she mention respecting those as well?”

The girls burst out laughing.

Callista reached across the table to pour for Celeste with a warm smile. “I'm afraid my parents lived in a realm of philosophy beyond such considerations.”