Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake (5 page)

What if she could live a life other than the staid, boring mockery of one that she currently lived? What if she could do all the things that she would never dream of doing? What was to keep her from taking such a leap?

At twenty-eight, no one much thought about her. Her reputation had been impeccable for years—for all the years that it had mattered that she retain such an untarnished name. It wasn’t as if she were about to traipse off and completely destroy that reputation, anyway. She wasn’t going to do anything that a well-respected male member of the ton wouldn’t do on any given day without a second thought. And if they could, why shouldn’t she?

She reached up and removed the pins securing her lace cap. Once it came free from its moorings, she plucked it from her head, several long curls of hair tumbling free as she did so, and held it in her hands, turning it over and over as she considered her next move. When had she become the type of woman who wore lace caps? When had she given up hope of being en vogue? When had she become the type of person to allow Aunt Beatrice’s malice to send her into hiding?

She stood, slightly unsteady, and moved slowly to the fireplace, wringing the cap in her hands, the heady combination of her conversation with Benedick and the sherry offering a heightened sense of power. She stared down at the dying embers, the hiss of the orange coals taunting her.

What would she do if she could change it all?

Without pause, she tossed the lace cap into the fireplace. For a few long moments, nothing happened; the round disk of cloth simply lay there, its pristine whiteness in stark contrast to the hot, charred wood. Just as Callie began to wonder if she should reach in and retrieve the now-ruined garment, it burst into flames.

She gasped, taking a small step back in the face of the angry orange fire that engulfed the small piece of lace, but was unable to stop herself from crouching low and watching as the finely wrought fabric took on a life of its own, curling and coloring until every inch of it was aflame.

Watching her lace cap burn, Callie started to laugh, feeling at once scandalous and wonderful—as though she could do anything she had ever dreamed.

Spinning on one heel, she marched across the room to the earl’s desk. After lighting a stubbed candle, she opened the top drawer and removed a clean sheet of paper from its place. Smoothing her hand across it, she pondered the vast, ecru expanse before nodding emphatically, opening the silver inkpot that sat nearby, and reaching for a pen.

She dipped the nib of the pen in the black ink and considered the list of things that she would do…if she had the courage.

The first answer was obvious and, while she hadn’t wanted to share it with Benedick earlier, she felt strongly that she should be honest with herself and commit it to paper. After all, it was the only item she could think of that she truly dreaded never being able to complete.

Setting the nib to the parchment, she wrote, her script strong and certain.

Kiss someone

She looked up as soon as the words were written, half-afraid that she would be discovered writing such a scandalous thing. Returning her attention to the words on the paper, she cocked her head to one side. It didn’t seem enough, did it? “Kiss someone” didn’t seem to capture exactly what she meant.

Biting her lower lip, she added one word.

Kiss someone—Passionately

Callie let out a long breath—one that she hadn’t known she was holding in. No turning back now, she thought to herself, I’ve already written the most scandalous thing.

The next few items came easily, born of her conversation with Benedick.

Smoke cheroot and drink scotch

Ride astride

Fence

Attend a duel

Fire a pistol

Gamble (at a gentleman’s club)

After a flurry of activity, Callie brought her head up and sat back, looking at the words she had written. A hint of a smile played across her lips as she considered each item, imagining herself seated in a smoky room at White’s, scotch in one hand, playing cards in the other, sabre lying at her feet, discussing the duel she was to attend the next morning. The image brought a deep chuckle from far within. Imagine!

She almost stopped there, with the seven items that had come quickly. But for all that the list was a flight of fancy, Callie knew that it was much more. It was a chance for her finally to be honest with herself. To write down the things that she would most desperately like to experience. The things that she had never admitted to anyone—not even herself. With a heartfelt sigh, she eyed the list, knowing that the next few items would be the most difficult to write.

“Right, then.” She spoke the words in a strong tone, as if preparing herself for battle. Then, she set pen to paper.

Dance every dance at a ball

Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. Well, Callie, that item proves that this is an imaginary list. She adored dancing. She always had. When she was a child, she used to sneak from her bedchamber to watch the balls her parents had hosted. There, high above the ballroom, she would twirl and twirl in time to the music, imagining that her night rail was a beautiful silk gown to rival the ones swirling below. Dancing was the one thing that Callie had looked forward to when she had her first season; but as she had aged into spinsterhood, invitations had tapered off. She hadn’t danced a country dance in—well, it had been a long, long time. Too long.

There in the darkness, she allowed herself to admit that all those years of standing on the edges of ballrooms across London had taken their toll. She loathed being a wallflower, but she had never been able to lift herself out of that position. And, in the ten years since her debut, she had become so comfortable as a witness to the elegance of society that she couldn’t imagine actually being at the center of it. Of course, she would never be at its center. The women at the nexus of the ton were beautiful. And Callie was too plain, too plump, too boring to be considered beautiful. Blinking back tears, she scrawled the next item on the list.

Be considered beautiful. Just once.

It was the most unlikely item on the list…she could only remember one time, one fleeting moment in her life when she had even come close to achieving the goal. But, thinking back on that night long ago, when the Marquess of Ralston had made her feel beautiful, Callie was certain that he hadn’t perceived her that way. No, he was just a man who did what he could to make a young girl feel better so that he could escape to a midnight tryst. But in that moment he had made her feel beautiful. Like an empress. How she wanted to be that girl again; how she wanted to feel like Calpurnia again.

Of course, she couldn’t do it. It was just a silly exercise.

With a sigh, Callie stood from the desk, folding the paper carefully and tucking it just inside the bodice of her gown before she replaced the ink and pen. Snuffing the candle, she moved quietly toward the door. Just as she was about to exit the study and make her way upstairs, she heard a noise from outside—quiet and unfamiliar.

Opening the door carefully—just a crack—Callie peered into the darkened hallway, squinting to make out anyone who might be there. The blackness beyond made it impossible to see, but there was no question that she was not alone; the open door allowed a soft giggle to reach her.

“You are beautiful tonight. Perfect. The Allendale Angel indeed.”

“You’re required to say so…to flatter your fiancée.”

“My fiancée.” The reverence in the words was palpable. “My future duchess…my love…”

The words trailed off on a feminine sigh, and Callie’s hand flew to hold in her shocked laughter as she realized that Mariana and Rivington were in the darkened foyer. She froze for a moment, eyes wild, uncertain of her next move. Should she close the door quietly and wait for them to leave? Or should she contrive to stumble upon them and end what was most definitely a lovers’ tryst?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a little gasp, “No! We shall be caught!”

“And what then?” the words came on a masculine chuckle.

“I suppose then you shall have to marry me, Your Grace.” Callie’s eyes widened at the blatant sensuality in her little sister’s tone. When had Mariana become a doxy?

Rivington groaned in the darkness. “Anything that gets you into my bed more quickly.”

It was Mariana’s turn to laugh, entirely inappropriately. And then there was silence, punctuated only by the soft sounds of lips on flesh and silk on skin.

Callie’s mouth dropped open. Yes, she should definitely close the door.

Then why didn’t she?

Because it wasn’t fair.

It simply wasn’t fair that her baby sister—who had looked up to her for so long, who, for so many years, had turned to her for advice and guidance and friendship—was now experiencing this remarkable new world of love.

Mariana had come out with a vengeance, the star of the season, and Callie had been so very proud of her. And when Mari had caught the eye of Rivington, the catch of the ton, Callie had celebrated alongside her little sister.

And Callie was happy for Mariana.

But how much longer could she happily stand by as Mariana lived the life that Callie herself had longed for? Everything would change. Mariana would do all that Callie had never done. She would marry, and bear children, and run a household, and grow old in the arms of a man who loved her. And Callie would remain here in Allendale House, a spinster.

Until Benedick found a wife. And she was relegated to the country. Alone.

Callie swallowed back the sting of tears, refusing to allow herself to feel self-pity in the face of Mariana’s happiness. She moved to close the door to the study softly, to leave the lovers in peace.

Before she could, however, Mariana spoke, breathlessly. “No, Riv. We cannot. My mother would horsewhip us both if we ruined her chance for a wedding.”

Rivington groaned softly. “She has two other children.”

“Yes, but…” There was a pause, and Callie did not have to see her sister to read her thoughts. What are the odds that either of them will marry anytime soon?

“Benedick will marry,” Rivington said, humor in his tone. “He’s simply waiting until the last possible moment to do so.”

“It is not Benedick about whom I worry.”

“Mari, we’ve discussed this. She is welcome at Fox Haven.”

Callie’s mouth dropped open in outrage at the mention of Rivington’s country seat. She? Could they mean her? They had discussed her fate? As though she were an orphaned child in need of care?

As though she were an unmarried female with no prospects.

Which, of course, she was.

Her mouth closed.

“She will make a wonderful aunt,” Rivington added.

Excellent. He’s already sloughing off the heirs to the dukedom on the spinster aunt.

“She would have made a wonderful mother,” Mariana said, and her emphatic words brought a watery smile to Callie’s face. She tried to ignore her sister’s use of the past tense as Mari added, “I only wish she could have had what we have. She so deserves it.”

Rivington sighed. “She does. But I am afraid that only Callie can seize such a life for herself. If she remains so…” He paused, searching for the word, and Callie strained to hear—the angle of her body so unnatural that she risked toppling over entirely. “Passive…she shall never have those things.”

Passive?

Callie imagined Mariana nodding her agreement. “Callie needs an adventure. Of course, she shall never seek one out.”

There was a long pause as their words—so lacking in malice and still so painful—echoed around Callie, suffocating her with the heavy weight of their meaning. And all at once, she could not seem to catch her breath or stop the tears from welling.

“Perhaps you would like an adventure for yourself, my beauty.” Rivington’s sensual tone was restored, and Mariana’s responding giggle proved too much to bear. Callie closed the door quietly, blocking out the sound.

If only she could block out the memory of their words.

Passive. What a horrible word. What a terrible sentiment. Passive and plain and unadventurous and destined for a boring, staid, utterly uninteresting life. She choked back tears, leaning her forehead against the cool mahogany door and considering the very real possibility that she was about to cast up her accounts.

Taking great, heaving breaths, she attempted to calm herself, the powerful combination of sherry and emotion threatening to bring her low.

She did not want to be that woman—the one of whom they spoke. She had never planned to be that woman. Somehow, it had happened, however…somehow, she had lost her way and, without realizing it, she had she chosen this staid, boring life instead of a different, more adventurous one.

And now her younger sister was mere feet away, on the brink of self-induced ruin, and Callie had never even been kissed.

It was enough to drive a spinster to drink.

Of course, she’d done enough of that tonight.

It was enough to drive a spinster to action.

Reaching into her bodice, she produced the folded piece of paper she had placed there only minutes earlier. Fingering the rounded edges of the square, she considered her next move.