Master of Love (30 page)

Dom paced his entry hall, his formal evening wear immaculate, his polished leather dancing shoes slapping a worried staccato across the marble.

Where the hell is Callista?

If he'd known the frenzy it took to pull off a major ball in only two weeks' time, he mightn't have insisted on it. But he wanted everyone to know Callista was his and to cement her acceptance into society. A grand betrothal ball seemed just the thing. His mother and sister—delighted, if not actually gloating—had set to work, with invitations, flowers, decorations, musicians, champagne by the case, and a menu to die for. Callista's household, he knew, was in a state of equal excitement. When he'd announced their engagement on their return from Edinburgh, her family had erupted into a tizzy of delight.

But the happier they all were, the more Callista withdrew and became distant. She seemed far from thrilled at the prospect of becoming his wife, and Dom was rather disgruntled at how depressed and anxious she became. His mother saw him worrying and tried to tell him it was only a girl's wedding nerves, yet Dom couldn't believe his Callista was one for jitters.

He'd asked her what was wrong, but she only repeated her line about not wanting him to regret the marriage. To reassure her, he presented her with an Avery family heirloom ring of ruby and diamond and told her it brought out the fire in her Titian hair. But she only thanked him politely and put it back in the box. Violet shadows appeared under her eyes as she ate little and worked later and later in his library, insisting she must finish the collection before the wedding could take place. He'd feared it was another delaying tactic and refused to move back the date for their nuptials; she'd raised her chin and worked herself to the bone.

She seemed to use her busyness in the library as an excuse as well to avoid making plans for her remove to Rexton House. When Dom turned that task over to Daphne, he'd hoped the girl's cheery enthusiasm would rub off on Callista and erase her look of frozen terror at the prospect of the move. Daphne supervised a thorough cleaning of the mistress's stylish bedchamber adjoining the suite long occupied by Dom, arranged furnishings in a pretty room for herself down the hall, and assured them Billy's new quarters in the servants' wing were most generous—but nothing seemed to reach Callista. When frustration finally drove him to grab her shoulders and pull her close, something like panic flared in her beautiful gray eyes. After that, she refused to let him touch her at all and avoided any chance of a private moment. “After all,” she'd said flatly, pushing him away, “our marriage isn't a love match, is it?”

So it was he found himself pacing his own hall in full formal wear on the evening of their engagement ball, feeling somewhat panicky himself and not knowing what the hell he was getting into.

When Graves approached, looking even more sepulchral than usual, Dom knew something was wrong. “My lord, Meacham requests a word with you. He's in the delivery room at the back entrance; shall I show him to your study?”

The coachman was to have fetched Callista to dine privately with Dom before the guests arrived; she should have been here a half hour ago. “Did he bring Miss Higginbotham?”

“The carriage came back empty.”

A coldness started to grip his heart. “I'll go to him.” He wanted answers, now.

Meacham stood hat in hand, looking miserable, as servants streamed by carrying the massive floral arrangements his mother had commissioned. “She weren't there, my lord. There's quite a commotion at the house.” He held out a folded paper. “Lady Mildred sent this note.”

The hasty scrawl spoke volumes in itself.
Rexton, I don't understand what's happened! Callista apparently went to meet a Mr. Thompson this afternoon, a young gentleman from Cambridge, I think you know him, and has sent a note she's not returning. It makes no sense! Do you know what's going on? I am so sorry—I know not what to do! Mildred.

She wasn't coming.

Dom's collar grew uncomfortably tight. He never thought he'd be stood up at his own betrothal ball.

Graves reentered the delivery room and bowed. “Lady Barrington has arrived, my lord, and says she has a note for you from Miss Higginbotham.” The butler's voice was gentle in a way Dom hadn't heard since Graves had offered his condolences on his father's death.

The coldness spread. How was Anna involved in all this?

He did have Graves put her in his study. Anna looked stunning of course, dressed for the ball to which his mother had insisted they invite her: “Otherwise, dear, it'll appear you're trying to hide something.”

Anna wasted no words on a greeting. “I'm sorry, Rex. You must know by now she's not coming. I ran into her yesterday, when I was shopping in Bond Street. She was very upset and begged me to deliver this note to you this evening. She said she was too ashamed to see you herself.”

He cast her a long look, then turned to read the sealed sheet she handed over. He recognized Callista's hand, her neat and precise writing on the page.

I hope you will find it in yourself to forgive me, but our marriage would never work. Our backgrounds are too dissimilar. Mr. Thompson has asked me to elope, and I've said yes. We head to Gretna Green this evening. My mind is made up. Good-bye. C.H.

He put both notes together and folded them slowly and carefully before slipping them into his pocket.

Callista was standing him up, not just for tonight, but for the wedding. She'd left town with another man. She didn't want him.

It made a strange sense. She hadn't allowed him to get close in the two weeks since Edinburgh; she'd clearly resisted their marriage. She'd probably been plotting this escape since their return, but creature of conscience that she was, she had insisted on finishing his library first.

He turned back toward Anna. “What do you know of this?”

She fidgeted but held his gaze. “I know she's not right for you, Rex. The way she's humiliating you tonight proves it. She's not of our class, what with her penchant for trade and books. It's not at all becoming of a real lady. If she prefers Thompson, let her go. It's much more fitting for her to be a professor's wife at Cambridge.” Anna came up and laid a hand against his lapel, tilting her face up to him. “There'll be a bit of a flap, but it'll die down. Then you and I could be together again. I've missed you, Rex.”

Anna was right—he was humiliated. And furious. And even felt some guilt over how he'd treated Anna, perhaps unfairly led her on. For a fraction of a second, looking at her, he was tempted.

Then he remembered Callista's eyes in his room at the inn, her choked-off words: “Dominick, I love you.” He'd caught it at the time but discounted what he'd heard. He'd had the woman on the verge of climax; it was surely his skills as a lover and not his self that had moved her to say such. It was too much to hope she loved him, although he had let himself believe she'd eventually reconcile herself to their marriage. Their mutual interests and shared affection, along with their compatibility in bed, could lead to a good marriage. He'd planned to win her over gradually to love.

More fool, he.

A thought struck. “The note was sealed, Anna. How did you know about Thompson?”

Something guilty flashed through her eyes. “Callista brought up his name in Bond Street. Hadn't I mentioned it?”

“No, you hadn't.” He paused, wondering what she was hiding. “What else haven't you mentioned?”

Her glance slid away. “Nothing.”

Dom sighed. “Anna, you and I have both pretended to a lesser intelligence for far too long, simply to fulfill an expectation of society. I've learned recently the strategy is not a good one.”

“Perhaps not for a man—although society barely has room for an
Adonis-philosopher,
” she said with some bitterness. “A woman has no choice.”

“Maybe she doesn't, not yet. But Callista always insisted on creating her own choices. And on presenting them honestly. Have you spoken with Thompson?”

“No! Why would I?”

“I don't know,” he said grimly. “But I'm going to find out.”

He stalked out of the room, glancing at the grandfather clock. “Graves!” he called to his butler, who stood at worried attention in the hall. “I need a fast horse in five minutes. I'm changing into something I can ride in. My mother and sister are due shortly to oversee final arrangements for the ball; tell them what's happened and that I've gone to Bloomsbury.”

“Shall we cancel this evening's festivities, my lord?” The man was practically wringing his hands.

“Certainly not.” He shot Graves a wolfish grin, the most he could manage in comfort. “I expect we'll offer our guests quite an entertainment, one way or the other.”

Dom arrived to find Callista's household frantic.

Billy was standing on the steps; he pulled on Dom's sleeve as soon as he dismounted. “Come inside—somethin's not right. She wouldn't leave like that, not Miss H.”

Lady Mildred was weeping into a handkerchief on the sofa in the morning room, with Daphne patting her knee awkwardly. Marie paced the room but looked up with a cry of relief as Billy brought Dom in. They all started talking at once, until Dom raised his hand. “Lady Mildred—you first, please, if you can, ma'am.”

The older lady nodded and patted her eyes, rising slowly to her feet. “All was fine until earlier this afternoon,” she sniffled. “Callista's been quiet and somewhat strained since you announced the engagement, but I swear she intended to go ahead with the marriage! Marie had her in the bath after luncheon today and then the two of them went down to Marie's shop for the final fitting of the ball gown and to curl and arrange Callista's hair. That's when the first note came.”

“It was from that Monsieur Thompson.” Marie spat out the name. “Billy brought it in. Callista read it and then asked me to help her change into a day dress. She said she needed to meet Thompson in the Bloomsbury Square garden to pick something up, but that she wouldn't be long. I didn't want her to go, monsieur. She was still wearing the ball gown petticoats—that's six layers of French silk trimmed in Alençon lace! Between the petticoats and her hair, she was not dressed for errands in the city!”

Billy piped up. “I offered to fetch whatever it was for her, but she said she had to go herself.”

“Do you have the note?” Dom asked. It might answer some questions.

Marie shook her head. “I looked everywhere, but she must have taken it with her when she left.”

“She never came back.” Lady Mildred ended the tale, her voice wavering again. “But soon after, a boy delivered another note.” She handed over a missive with obvious reluctance.

Dom unfolded it, saw it was in Callista's hand and initialed by her. Much like the note Anna had delivered, this one announced Callista's elopement with Thompson to Gretna Green in a few brief lines. She asked for her family's forgiveness and understanding and said she'd be in contact soon.

“She sent me something similar,” he told them coldly. Only the aristocratic training of a lifetime kept him from howling out his rage and anguish.
She had left him!
“Do you see any reason we shouldn't believe her?”

“If Miss H. agreed to marry you, she wouldn't go back on her word,” Billy said stoutly. “And she wouldn't leave like this; she worries about us too much to just run off.”

It did seem out of character. But he'd pushed Callista hard the last few months, in more ways than one. Perhaps this was how she'd broken.

“I don't believe she wrote this note at all,” Marie said. “She loves you, monsieur! I've known it for weeks—although she's afraid to admit it to herself, let alone to you. She made those broadsides and took them to Edinburgh to protect you. She believed your life was endangered by the secret of your writing identity. To protect you she felt she had to expose that secret.”

“But if she didn't write this letter, then who did?” he asked.

“I think it were that Thompson,” Billy said. “He's seen her handwritin' enough at yer house that he could have screeved it. I've seen him look odd-like at her, even before the conference. And didn't ye yerself say it's strange he hasn't been around the last while, since ye've been back? I think there's somethin' dodgy with that bloke.”

Dom thought fast.

Who could have any reason to harm him, to benefit from his writing when its authorship had been secret? To his knowledge, Thompson had been the only person aware of his pseudonym until Callista had informed the world; Dom had shared his latest essay with the young instructor at Callista's urging and taken him into his confidence some time ago. Thompson struck him as rather obsequious, but the man had given no indication of murderous intent. Yet if what Billy and Marie said was correct, it couldn't be mere coincidence that Thompson was now his apparent rival.