Master of Love (25 page)

She could talk with Marie about it, except she knew what her friend would say: “Share pleasure with him,
chérie
! Why not? He's renowned as a skilled lover, and I'm sure he would be generous as well.” Despite her horror at Marie's long-ago suggestion that the Frenchwoman seek a protector to augment their household finances, Callista had no real moral objection to a woman's making her way in the world as a rich man's mistress. It was the only path to survival open to many single young women. Her antipathy came from another direction, one her friend would dismiss and that she could barely admit to herself.

She feared—oh, how she feared—she
cared
for him.

She shied away from the thought like a frightened doe. How perfectly stupid—no doubt every young miss Lord Adonis condescended to favor with a dance and a smile fancied herself smitten with the scoundrel. The night they shared couldn't have meant anything of great import to him. She'd be the worst of fools to think otherwise. So she shut her heart up tight and refused to dwell on her bruised feelings or the queer clenching of her insides whenever their hands brushed as he handed her a book or a coffee cup.

He continued to write in the library every morning and tried to engage her in their usual discussions about the collection. She kept her answers to the briefest level of professional courtesy. Beyond that, she couldn't talk with him, even when—especially when—he tried to ply her with his most seductive charm.

The first day, he'd walked into the library and lifted her hand to press a warm kiss into her palm. “How do you feel this morning, Callista?”

She'd had to glance down quickly to blink away a sting of tears. The knowing look from those dark brown velvet eyes rent her soul. She desperately feared his mockery and feared even more being forgotten by him, yet she couldn't fathom he'd soon do anything but.

He put a finger under her chin and bent down to peer at her. “Are you all right?”

She licked her lips to speak but could think of nothing to say. She felt herself at a total loss as she struggled for the sophisticated nonchalance she imagined was the norm after a night such as they had shared.

“I'm fine, thank you.” It was all she could manage; she assured herself it was true. Or, pray God, would be one day.

“I want you to know my offer stands, Callista.”

“Please, my lord!” She pulled her hand from his and twisted away with a shuddering breath. She couldn't bear to look at him for the physical shock of connection rekindled in her belly by his simple gaze. An agony gripped her, of embarrassment and confusion and desire and fear. She stared down at her boot tips in mortification.

“So we're back to that, are we?”

There was an odd note in his voice. Surely it couldn't be hurt? He said nothing more for a moment, although she could feel the tension radiate from him.

“Nevertheless,” he said, “you will tell me should it become necessary.”

Necessary.
The word sliced through her.

She was already a burden.

Chapter 16

“I
be needin' yer help again,” Billy announced, chin out.

The lad had run Dom to ground on his way out of the study, where Dom had been checking the carpenters' headway on the new built-in shelving. He gritted his teeth. “You know, lad, I'm not the enemy.” He forced himself to speak in a mild tone. “You needn't treat me and the rest of the world as if you're always spoiling for a fight. Generally a polite request, as opposed to a brutish demand, produces the better result.”

“That's not the way things worked in my world, on the streets.”

Dom was suddenly curious about this guttersnipe houseboy who trailed Callista like a shadow. On a whim, he bowed Billy into the billiard room next door. “Shall we, then?”

The boy scowled at him suspiciously but marched in.

“Is that where Miss Higginbotham found you, on the streets?” Dom knew he'd bungled matters royally with Callista last week, but maybe he could break through the icy reserve in which she'd locked herself by getting closer to Billy.

“Aye, I don't have no parents.” The boy began to roll the billiard balls across the green baize tabletop. “I was left at the Foundlin' Hospital, near Brunswick Square.” His tone remained belligerent, but red stained his cheeks and he wouldn't meet Dom's eyes.

“There's no shame in being an orphan, Billy. It's what we make of the lot we're given that matters.”

The boy snorted at that. “I wasn't given much of a lot.”

“Tell me,” Dom said, walking around to the other side of the billiard table. He rolled the white ball gently toward the boy.

Billy stopped the ball and gave him a hard level stare. “After the Foundlin' Hospital, they put me in a boys' workhouse. It was horrible there, and when I got big enough, I ran away. I got a place for a while helpin' a rat catcher, but the master beat me bad, so I ran away from there too. Then I was livin' on the streets, scroungin' as a mudlark in the Thames.” Billy broke their gaze to pace over to the French doors facing the back garden.

“One day, I stole a currant bun.” He pushed aside the heavy gold velvet drapes to look out at the sunshine coaxing the spring flowers into bloom. “I know it was wrong, but I'd barely eaten in two days and I couldn't find no work or beg enough to live on. It was from a street cart, but the pie man caught me and started to yell for the bobbies. That's when Miss H. came by. I'll never forget it.” His voice took on a tone of wonder. “As calm as ye please she said, ‘I'm sorry, there appears to be some misunderstanding. I sent my footboy to purchase buns. Have you lost the money, Tommy?'

“That's what she called me, see”—he looked over his shoulder—
”
'cause she didn't know my name yet. Then she handed over the coins for a dozen buns and passed the whole packet to me. The pie man wasn't fooled, but it was easier to just let me go. When she said, ‘Keep the change, why don't you?' that's what he did. She walked me to the park, and we sat down on a bench. I didn't know what to say, so I offered her one of the buns. She thanked me just like we was at a fancy tea party and nibbled on it, all tidy-like. I ate all the others, every last one. She asked me about myself and after I told her she brought me home with her.”

He let the curtain fall in place and walked back toward Dom. “Mrs. Baines didn't like it, but they scrubbed me down and burned my clothes and then fed me some more. I've been with them ever since. Miss H. taught me my letters, you know; I practice with Miss Daphne every day. Miss H. saved my life,” he concluded. “She's . . .” He shook his head slowly from side to side, words clearly failing him. “She's a true lady.”

Dom swallowed past a lump in his throat. “She is that, Billy. But has it not sunk in yet that you're not in the world of the streets anymore?”

The boy's mouth tightened.

“Do you think she'd throw you out?” Dom asked, prodding.

“It's happened before,” Billy muttered. “I don't see why she shouldn't.”

“You doubt your mistress's constancy?”

“No—I don't doubt her!” he answered hotly. “Just me. Why would she want to keep me around?”

“Frankly, I've never seen a servant more loyal than you, Billy. It's highly commendable.”

The boy ducked his head. “She might not have a choice one day. I know she's got money worries.” His voice dropped to a low mumble. “I'd be the first let go.”

“Billy, I don't think that will happen, but let's make a deal, man to man. You continue to give Miss Higginbotham your full loyalty and look to her interests. Also, stop treating me like the enemy. In return, should you ever find yourself in need of employment, I guarantee you can come to me for a suitable place in my household.”

Billy stared at him hard. “Ye really mean that?”

“I do.” Dom held out his hand. “You have my word.”

After a long moment, the boy shook firmly. “Deal.”

“So what was it you wanted to talk with me about?” He pulled out a chair for Billy at the card table in front of the hearth and took a seat himself.

“All right, here's my problem.” The boy dropped into the chair and leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I let Miss H. down. I cocked somethin' up bad and I need to fix it.” Dom listened as Billy explained Lady Mildred's determination last winter to sell her cameo brooch and a resulting fiasco at the pawnshop. “She ordered me to take her, but I should have checked with Miss H. first. Lady Mildred is sometimes”—the lad paused, clearly not wanting to be disloyal to his employers—“a little confused, ye know? She's much better now,” he hastened to add. “She was just real worried this past winter, and it was wearin' down her nerves and all.

“The brooch is still in the shop window where we hocked it; I've been checkin' on it every week. So I've been savin' up my money—the wages from here and from Miss H. That first day I met her, even before she brought me to Bloomsbury, she gave me a silver crown, 'cause she said no one ‘should ever feel completely without resources.' ” Billy slanted Dom a sideways look and asked softly, “Have you ever known anyone that good to someone like me who don't deserve it?”

Dom thought of Callista's open and loving response to his seduction last week. He'd taken far more than he should have and had yet to figure out how to make it right. Faker that he was, he wasn't worthy of her goodness either. “You deserve more than you think, Billy,” he said gently.

“Well, what with the crown and all my wages, I've got enough money now to get the brooch out of hock. But when I went back to the pawnshop yesterday, the owner told me to bugger off! The bloomin' codger said he ran an honest business—which is a crock o' shit, if ye pardon my sayin' so, m'lord—and that I must've stolen the money. I swear to ye, I ain't buzzed nothin' since the day she found me! I made a promise I wouldn't, 'cause she looked at me on the bench and said, ‘A fine young man like you knows it's wrong to steal. How about we find another way?' ” The boy scratched at the polished wood tabletop. “No one ever called me a fine young man before. Ye know what? She made me believe in God again.”

He pushed back an unruly shank of hair and looked Dom in the eyes. “I can't ask Miss H. to come with me to the pawnshop 'cause I didn't realize before, but it's not a fit place for a lady. I shouldn't never have taken Lady Mildred there. And it's my honor now, do ye see? I need to get them back that brooch.”

Billy pushed his chair away and stood to his full height, shoulders straight. “Lord Rexton, I would be very grateful if ye'd be willin' to come with me to buy back Lady Mildred's brooch. I'll run whatever errands or messages ye want in exchange for yer time.”

Dom stood as well and bowed his head gravely at the boy. “Billy, this is a fine thing you're doing. Lady Mildred and Miss Higginbotham will both be most touched. I'd be honored to help you.”

The boy's shy smile was the first he'd ever granted Dom. It lit up the lad's face and did something strange to Dom's innards.

Not turning maudlin over a houseboy's travails, are you?
But his cynical voice seemed less certain today.

“Do you have the money with you now?”

“Aye, it's in my boot.”

“No time like the present,” Dom said casually. “Shall we be off?”

“Goodness, Callie, I could cast up my accounts, I'm so nervous!” Beatrice moaned and wrung her hands. They'd assembled for the receiving line to greet the first guests, soon to arrive at DeBray Hall for the Society of Love Ball. “Are you sure this gown is quite the thing?” She fretted, glancing down at herself and smoothing out her pale lavender skirts. “I've never worn anything like it before.”

Callista smiled fondly at her friend. Although she dreaded the ball as much as Beatrice, the blond heiress looked so stunning tonight that Callista had to admit Marie and Lady Rexton were correct: the right clothes did make the woman. Freed from the excessive ruffles and bows and bright colors that had overpowered Beatrice's petite frame, her friend looked spectacular. The elegant ball gown's sleek lines elongated and flattered her round curves. Its delicate lavender tones set off her peaches-and-cream coloring to perfection. “You look beautiful, Bea—that gown suits you to a T! With your hair swept up like that and with your mother's pearls, you're the exact picture of what the society pages call you—England's most enchanting heiress.”

Beatrice made a face and waved away the compliment. “Bah! One thing I've learned since my parents died, Callie—there are no ugly heiresses.” She grabbed at Callista's arm. “Oh no, I hear the first carriage!”

Beatrice's maternal aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Norton, ceased their conversation about
megalosaurus
bones and straightened to their hosting duties. The Duchess of Sherbrooke took up her place as well, as the sole remaining founder of the Society of Love, along with several other current grande dame patronesses who'd been casting Callista curious glances.

Trying to smile politely at them all, Callista twisted around, searching for golden curls atop a tall male form among the early arrivals in the reception room behind the massive frescoed entrance hall. In the last two weeks, matters had become so frosty between herself and Lord Rexton—she'd made herself return to using his title whenever she thought of him—that she'd tried hard to beg off from tonight's event, especially with her work driving her to exhaustion and her reputation still so shaky. But Beatrice had promised hysterics if Callista abandoned her. Rexton had raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and invoked his honor: “I offered my escort and had the pleasure of its being accepted. No gentleman would withdraw now.”

Among the many hectic preparations for this evening, Callista's only true occasion for happiness—along with a few poignant tears—came from Billy's shy pride and Great-Aunt Mildred's delight in the return of her cameo brooch. It seemed the final step in restoring the lady's health and spirits from the dangerous low to which they'd sunk last winter. When Sir George had arrived tonight in Bloomsbury with his nephew in a splendid Avery-crested carriage to escort Mildred and Callista to the ball, her great-aunt's shining eyes told the story of a woman reborn. She'd even eschewed her cane and laughingly accepted Sir George's challenge to dance every waltz.

After the many introductions of the receiving line, the evening passed for Callista in a whirring blur of endless dances—prompted, she assumed, by some back-room machinations on Beatrice's part. Rexton was never far away, offering cups of lemonade to her and frosty bows to the young gentlemen who sought her out for the dance floor. When midnight arrived and the butler announced the supper feast—an extravaganza of cold roast meats, Scottish smoked salmon, pastry delicacies, hothouse fruits, confections of spun sugar, and endless champagne—Rexton shouldered aside a young pup to offer his arm as escort. His look of affront at the man's presumption to usurp Rexton's place had her hiding a smile.

“Marie tells me you're rumored to be losing your touch as Master of Love. Perhaps Mr. Burrows”—she nodded back at the disappointed gentleman they were leaving behind—“merely hoped to take up your baton.”

“What do you think, Callista?” He cast her a brooding look. “Have I lost my touch? Is it no longer pleasing to you?”

Her mouth went dry as heat shot through her. She should have known better than to cross swords with this man. His mood tonight—dark, even menacing, instead of his usual maddening flirtatious tease—put her even more off kilter. “Lord Rexton, I'm sorry if I've—”

He held up a hand, cursing under his breath. “Callista, stop. If you try to apologize, I swear to God I won't be responsible for my actions.”

“But I don't know how to behave in such a situation!” Suddenly overwhelmed with the emotion she'd been trying so hard to bottle in, she halted, hands fisted at her sides, amidst the chattering flow of guests on their way into the supper rooms. “You've had dozens of these amorous encounters!” she hissed. “How is the lady supposed to act afterward? How does she just go on about her daily business, meeting you here and there, as if nothing special has happened?”