Master of Love (9 page)

Callista clutched her empty reticule to keep the world from tilting out from under her.

The solicitor continued. “It's a strict interpretation of the law, and certainly not a kind move on His Grace's part, but he is within his rights.”

“And this amendment can legally include a demand for the entire year's newly doubled rent two days hence on Lady Day?” She heard the breathy thread of panic in her voice and fought hard for control.

“Residential rents, as you know, are by tradition paid four times a year on the quarter days, but commercial rents sometimes come due on a yearly basis. Miss Higginbotham”—he put down the contract and looked over his pince-nez spectacles at her—“if you'll forgive me for asking, how close would this take you to your limits?”

The too-knowing pity in his rheumy eyes had her on her feet in an instant. She needed to get out of the suddenly stifling rooms. “We'll manage—not to worry. My commission to organize Lord Rexton's library pays well and is leading to multiple new book sales.” She babbled other inanities and made her escape before he could even open the door for her.

On the long walk home, a scrap of handkerchief shoved into her bloody boot heel, she faced the fact that there was but one solution. It was so mortifying an answer to her predicament that she'd hidden it at the back of her mind all day long.

In accordance with the terms of the contract she'd worked out with Mr. Danvers, she'd so far received one-third of her payment, most of which she still held at her bank. The rest was due to her in the remaining thirds, when she and Lord Rexton agreed the job was half-done and then completed.

She would have to ask him for all the money at once.

Her total fee for the complete cataloging and reorganization of the library would just barely cover the rent now demanded by Garforth. If she gave it all to him, how they would live for the rest of the year was beyond her. For the moment, however, she could see no other solution.

Ask Lord Rexton she must.

Her soul shrank from the task.

It poured all morning, a depressing reflection of her dismal mood. She watched the endless rain stream down the library windows and soak St. James's Square, telling herself she'd shelve one more pile of books before seeking out Lord Rexton.

If she stretched her arm high, the top stair of the mahogany step stool was just tall enough for her to reach the upper shelves of the bookcases lining the library walls. The geography section was nearly in place, neatly labeled and linked to corresponding index cards. One last armful of oversized books on travel to the Americas would fill the remaining top shelf. But as she stood on the step stool, the knots in her stomach tightened with each heavy volume she slid into place. Coward that she was, she considered not approaching him at all.

Late into the night, she'd gone over the whole despicable situation again and again, until she'd cried tears of frustration. If she gave in to Garforth's demands, she'd lose her virginity and worse, but if she didn't pay him the money she'd lose the house. Both choices were unthinkable. It was well past midnight when she finally realized the truth. By asking Lord Rexton for the funds, all she'd really give up was the foolish fantasy she'd allowed herself to indulge in that the two of them were building a collegial friendship of sorts. Their daily interactions had allowed her to believe a . . . a
pleasant connection
was forming between them. She saw now that was simply a silly illusion she'd formed in her own mind. It would cost her her dignity, but asking for the fees up front would also force her to confront the reality of their relationship: purely professional, purely business, nothing else.

Such grim thoughts engrossed her when the viscount came strolling in, whistling.

“Not asleep today, I see,” he drawled. “Always a good sign.”

Although Lord Rexton's moods were unpredictable, most often he addressed her with this teasing banter. She never quite knew how to reply—nor what to do about the dangerous prickle of warmth his teasing lit within her.

He walked over to where Callista stood on the step stool. From this position, she looked down on the viscount. He tilted up his golden head at her, amused, it seemed, by the difference in their heights. “I see you're making most splendid progress, Miss Higginbotham.” With a wink, he reached up to stroke the book spines nearest her cheek.

She hastily pushed the last book into place and turned away, in time with the sudden rapid beating of her heart. The very air was warmer around him; the library smelled different with him in the room, spicier. She tried to step down, but her senses overcame her, and her balance gave out. With a little cry, she flailed and grabbed for the shelving as she tottered.

“Careful now.” He moved in with a firm hand on her waist to steady her.

It was too much; he was much too close. He stood almost pressed against her length, his head near her bosom, and her hands—how had this happened?—her hands clutching his shoulders. Even through the layers of Marie's borrowed silk—ruffled russet brown today—and her own crinoline and corset, she felt his touch. Worse, she felt her own body respond, an odd throb in her veins and a clenching low near her middle. For a moment, she couldn't speak, could only bow her head at the roiling confusion gripping her.

He must have felt it as well. “Callista,” he murmured low, in a different voice than his usual urbane drawl. It was the first time he'd used her Christian name. She shouldn't permit it, of course. There was no basis for such intimacy of address—none she could allow.

“You mustn't,” she began, breathless. But before she could attempt more, he tightened his grip on her waist. And then, somehow, his other hand slid to her leg. Had her skirt flared up?

Ah, sweet merciful heavens—she was lost.

That hand—large, warm, solid—grasped lightly around her leather-booted ankle. Her face and neck flushed with heat. It wasn't her balance that posed the problem now. It was a fire of some sort, simmering inside her, a fire that threatened to burn through all her defenses and unleash some wildness within.

“Lord Rexton . . .” She tried again to speak, on a note of desperation. But what to say? She had to stop him. It was wrong. Her reputation hung by a thread for precisely such reason as this. Her unchaperoned presence made such moments of abandon possible. To her shame, her own will seemed insufficient to prevent such abandoning of all sense and respectability. She had to tell him to stop. She
would
so tell him—in a moment.

But what sensations! What strange pleasure unfurled at his touch!

“Callista,” he repeated. “I won't . . . you needn't worry.” He seemed no more articulate than her at the moment, his own breath rather erratic as he slid his hand slowly up her calf.

Her sensible cotton stockings weren't as thin as the silk of a proper lady's toilette, but much sturdier and longer-lasting. And still able to transmit the sensation of a man's firm hand trailing up her leg. No one had ever touched her in such a way! She fought for control, but the sensation quite overwhelmed her.

Her breathing betrayed her, she knew—the too-fast pants. Surely he could hear her heart hammering, so loud did it beat in her own ears. She feared she was making a vast fool of herself. The Master of Love didn't need another besotted woman swooning at his feet.

And then he did seem to master himself. His hand stopped its upward climb, slowly lifted away—almost regretfully. He smoothed down her skirts, stepped back, and held out that hand to her to help her off the step stool, his other arm still firm about her waist.

“Miss Higginbotham?” His voice rumbled out unwavering, that deep brandy purr steady. “Graves indicated there was a matter you wished to discuss with me?”

He stood so composed, holding out that damned
hand,
the perfect chiseled planes of his face such a mask of polished sophistication, she wondered if she'd imagined his discomposure of a moment ago. Her own discomposure, she knew, was in humiliating evidence: her flushed skin, a new scent rising from her. He had the experience to judge the effect he'd wrought; she hadn't the experience to disguise it. What must he think of her?

And still, she had to ask him for the money.

After practically throwing herself at him, allowing him to take such liberties with her, she had to ask for the funds—or all was lost.

The brown silk rustled as she clutched it tight in both hands, turned to her side, and stepped carefully off the stool, her back deliberately to him. She walked, slowly, across the long expanse of the library to his newly installed desk.

Let him follow her.

After a moment he did, settling himself across the desk from the seat she took in front of it. He looked so gloriously attractive and in control that she felt an abrupt stab of hatred for his ridiculous beauty, his privilege, the wealth and ease of his life. What did this finely handsome man know of suffering or need? What right did he have to play such games with her? She drew a shaky breath and curled her fingers tight.

“My lord, there is indeed a small matter I would discuss with you, if I may.” It took a conscious effort of will not to twist her sweaty palms into her skirts and to sit calmly before his huge desk.

He raised a brow, giving away nothing. “Certainly—with what may I help you?”

Very well. If he wished to pretend nothing had happened, she could do the same. She perched on the very edge of the chair, her spine stiff with mortification. Too late, she realized she should have contrived to bring it up at luncheon. It had been only Mr. Danvers and the two of them today and they'd talked of books; an acquaintance had sent Lord Rexton a manuscript entitled “The German Ideology” by two young philosophers, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, who were looking for a publisher. As they'd discussed the difficulties of German translation, he'd made her feel like a valued colleague whose opinion he respected, and she couldn't—
just couldn't
—bring herself to destroy that pleasant glow. After luncheon, away from his mesmerizing presence, she'd cursed herself for a fool, sighing after his attention when what they needed, urgently, was simply his money. After all, it was
her
money, she fiercely told herself, legitimately earned, or would be by the end of this assignment, and with that mental shaking, she forced herself to open her mouth.

“My lord . . .” But it was all she could get out of her choked throat. His inquiring look only made her more self-conscious. She glanced away and desperately forced up a mental image of Garforth leering at her or, worse yet, turning that leer on Daphne. It was her sister's sweet face that finally enabled her to speak.

“My lord, I have a request in regard to my payment for the organization of your library collection,” she said quickly. “I realize our original contract arranges for payment on a regular schedule as the work proceeds, but I was wondering”—she closed her eyes briefly—“whether we could arrange for my full payment somewhat early. Now, in fact.”

“I see.” He blinked once. “Certainly, if you wish it. I trust there is not some problem? Do you foresee my imminent bankruptcy and wish to assure yourself of the payment?”

The corners of her lips lifted in a humorless smile. “No, of course not. It's simply a matter of scheduling needs on my part.” That vague explanation would have to keep his questions at bay.

He paused for a second, clearly wanting to know more, but she couldn't bear to speak the full truth to him. She could barely stand thinking about it herself.

“Very well,” he said finally, tapping the end of his pen against the polished mahogany of his desk. “I shall have Danvers prepare a bank draft in the full sum. It should be ready tomorrow morning at your arrival. Would that suit?”

She did twist a hand into her skirts then. “Actually, if I may have the draft before leaving this evening, I would appreciate it. And I may be somewhat late arriving tomorrow morning. But you have my word of honor, of course, that I will fully carry out the work of our contract.” She forced herself to keep her head up, although she couldn't look at his face. The rain was finally clearing and the sun, coming out from behind the departing clouds, streamed into one side of the window bay behind his desk. It lit up his honey-gold hair, too beautiful for any man. She kept her eyes fixed on the sunbeam, with its dancing dust motes, and felt a burning desire to be far, far away.

He finally did put down his pen and lean forward. “Callista, I hope you understand I would be honored to offer advice or other aid, should you find yourself in some complicated circumstance. I realize you are a woman alone in the world, and responsible for your household. Even one as competent and organized as yourself may occasionally benefit from minor assistance from others.”

Lord, he probably thought she had gaming debts or some such. “I wouldn't dream of troubling you, my lord. All is fine, I assure you.” Her tight smile fooled him not a whit, she was sure, but there was nothing more she could do or say, save pray he would not pursue the topic.