With Major Sturgeon's cold words to steady her mind and prevent any f lights of fancy, she tried to think back on the things Trev had said to her, the contradictions and awkward moments. He did care about her, she had no doubt of that. He didn't wish for her to be unhappy. He'd tried to buy Hubert back for her, he'd created this outlandish scheme to make an adventure for her, he worried that Major Sturgeon would hurt her. He said… he said that he loved her.
She should put no great stock in that, of course. Trev could not endure to see unhappiness around him. Nearly every adventure she had shared with him had been a rescue of some hapless creature from captivity, or a clandestine attempt to emulate Robin Hood on behalf of a downtrodden victim. If truth be told, she had known him to go to absurd lengths in his efforts to heal the smallest hurt or suffering in those he cared for. And if he could not do it, he would disappear.
She felt a deep chill inside, a prickle at the nape of her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering how she had almost-almost-blurted her dream out loud to him. He had understood her perfectly, of course, but he had not betrayed it. It was like a play, and they each had their parts. She could be Madame Malempre and enjoy this moment that he offered, understanding that it was only as enduring as a single waltz, but better at least than sitting out every dance.
Callie's throat felt closed and swollen, but she did not weep. She felt no anger now when she thought of Major Sturgeon, only a vague distaste, and a sharp hole in her heart that was impossible to fathom. With mechanical moves she made tea for herself, pouring water into the polished kettle and placing it on an ornate hob beside the fire. She sat down, toying with one of the delicate slices of cake.
They were friends. She should not, could not, must not, think of more.
It calmed her to reach this conclusion. She had been struggling in a welter of confused feelings ever since his return, unable to make sense of his intentions. As it all came clear to her now, the heavy feeling in her chest receded. It was not as if she had ever really believed that she would marry Trev. She couldn't even imagine it, in truth: living in France among strangers, dealing with aristocratic guests and the evil Buzot and great vats of wine. It was as improbable as her fantasies of Trev as a pirate and herself the captive governess who stole his heart by learning to wield a cutlass like a Cossack.
She smiled a little at her own absurdity. The kettle began to boil, a soft rumble in the quiet room. Callie made her tea and sat sipping it, trying to take a sensible view of her future. It was high time that she left behind these silly daydreams, before she became odd and ended up locked in some attic, collecting bits of string and candle wax and muttering.
She must exert herself to make the best of things as they were. She was dull and plain; a definite pronouncement had been made on the subject, and it was stupid to argue the point any further, no matter what Hermey and her father and the village goats might claim. They loved her-at least Hermey and her father did; she couldn't say about the goats-and people who loved one saw a different person, a person bathed in the f lattering light of affection. Look at how Hermey seemed so taken with Sir Thomas, who was certainly as dull as Callie, and perhaps even duller.
No, to live out her life as a spinster sister, politely unwanted, was impossible. She would marry Major Sturgeon in spite of his faithlessness. There was no other tolerable prospect. She knew the truth about him, and while she didn't enjoy knowing, there could be no further wound in it. Her eyes were open. It was a common thing among the ton, she believed, for a married couple to live quite-unrelated lives.
Before Trev went away, she would make sure that he knew she had accepted the officer's very f lattering proposal. He wouldn't depart thinking she was unhappy with her choice. She had never lied to him before, but she would.
A gentle knock made her put down her cup. The boot boy's muff led voice spoke the name of Madame brief ly as he slipped a folded paper underneath the door. She stood and peered down at the handwriting.
Major Sturgeon had not yet given up and gone away, it seemed. The preposterous man-he had sent up a letter, which Callie put into the fire without breaking the seal. She had a pretty exact idea of what it would say. He must be desperate indeed, to be so rash as to send a missive to the very chamber where Monsieur Malempre himself was supposed to be resting with the headache! No doubt the thought that he might find himself engaged at any moment to the tedious Lady Callista made him wish to cement a more agreeable alliance at once.
For an instant she wished Trev were there to share the bleak comedy of it all. She laughed in spite of herself, thinking of what he would say about Sturgeon lurking at the hotel door and writing fraught pleas to Callie under the illusion that she was his long-lost paramour.
In the wee hours of the morning, a sleepy groom threw a blanket over Trev's horse and led it away, its breath frosting in the lantern light. After a warm autumn afternoon, the wind had arisen and the temperatures dropped suddenly to a bone-cracking cold. By the time Trev reached Hereford, well after midnight, his muff ler was frozen and his hands were stiff inside his gloves.
Fortunately he'd left word that he would return late. The boots unlocked the door promptly, greeted him in a cordial, low voice, relieved him of his great coat, and led him upstairs with a shielded candle. The service at the Gerard was excellent.
Trev sat down by the fire, pleased to see that it was still well tended. He allowed the boy to pull off his boots, gave him a generous coin, and then sent him away, murmuring that he could do for himself tonight. By the red glow of the coals he stripped, feeling prickly sensation come into his toes as they warmed after a long ride in the icy night. He sat drowsing in his shirttails, his bare feet stretched out beside the fire.
He'd lingered late with his maman, for she'd been in a lively humor, full of questions and gentle gibes, laughing over the portly 'peeg,' and demanding a full description of what the couturier had done for Lady Callista's wardrobe. She'd scowled at the intrusion of Major Sturgeon, as engaged in the difficulties as if she'd been in the midst of the Hereford scheme herself. He could see that she expected him to announce at any moment that Callie had agreed to marry him. He did not disabuse her of this notion. To be perfectly candid, he might even have encouraged it a little, because it pleased him to see her look so knowing and contented, smiling like a cat over a bowl of fresh cream.
What difference did it make? He'd not yet brought himself to mention anything about putting her affairs in order. His maman didn't have any affairs that he knew of anyway-there were those spiritual matters that the Reverend Hartman had been so eager to address, of course, but he could leave that to her priest. She didn't appear as if she were going to fail within a short time. She seemed to him to be improving each night that he visited her, with more energy and strength, but the doctor had warned him to take no comfort from that.
He sighed heavily, standing up. His nightclothes were in the bedchamber, but he'd sent the candle away with the boots, so he pulled his shirt over his head and left his clothes by the fire in the parlor. He padded to the closed door. The bedroom was pitch-black, the air frigid. He moved quickly across the cold f loor, feeling his way by the faint light of the fire through the door. The bed curtains were already closed, a good sign that the maid would have put a hot brick between the sheets. He climbed hurriedly into the warm cavern of the bed.
He froze in the motion of pulling the bedclothes over himself. A f lash of alarm went through him as someone turned over-someone waiting in the bed-he reached instinctively for his pistol, found himself naked, and then just as suddenly relaxed, lying back on the pillow with a low, surprised laugh.
'Callie?' he whispered, feeling toward her in the dark. Her warm, sweet hay scent filled the close confines of the bed; her hair was spread loose over the counterpane. He touched her shoulder-shocked to find it bare-and she responded with a sleeper's sigh, a delicate sound that spoke to his body like a wild f lute in a dark, beckoning forest.
He was instantly af lame for her. He had kept it brutally at bay until now, using every mental trick he'd ever learned from his grandfather and the considerably more crude methods he'd discovered on his own. He'd always prided himself on his self-control concerning women. In the circles he frequented, it had served him well on more than one occasion. At seven and twenty, he had no bastards or vengeful mistresses to trouble him. He conducted his love affairs the same way he conducted his business, with cold caution and ruthless disinterest.
But it had cost him. Until this moment he had not known how much. He carried always a slow simmer of lust-that was as much a part of his life as breathing. The loneliness he dealt with. He thought he did. He could just see a coppery glint, an outline of her hair riding down in a lovely curve to the shape of her hips, and suddenly it was as if every time he had denied himself was compounded and concentrated, years of turning away, of sleeping alone, all coalesced into this one warm girl in his bed.
He held himself still, staring into the dark toward her, trying to bring sense and distance to the hot physical f lood that engulfed him. If this was an offer, it was an unexpected one. She should have been at the Green Dragon for the night-he was sure he'd explained that clearly to her. Callie had always been careful to attend to every detail of her role in their adventures-she was too nervous of making a mistake to do otherwise.
He didn't think she'd misunderstood him. And Lilly wasn't here to provide propriety. But then, Lilly belonged to Lady Callista, not to Madame Malempre. And he'd said he wouldn't be back until morning. He was having difficulty thinking rationally with the feel of her hair drifting over his bare arm, the soft shape of her body pressing down the feather bed. He ached with a longing that was lust and something beyond lust, almost a sickness of desire. He tried to reason it, to tell himself that whatever the circumstance or error, he'd best get up and leave the bed, but his mind wasn't making much headway against his body.
He turned abruptly onto his back and lay staring upward, listening to her soft breath. He should sleep in the sitting room. He could close the door and ring for coffee-roust the poor boots off his cot again and annoy the kitchen staff. Or just dress and go down stairs to the parlor.
He ran his hand over his face and then thrust it through the curtains, testing the freezing air outside. He drew back quickly. The bed was thoroughly warmed where she lay, an invitation drawing him near. He moved a little closer to her, pulling the counterpane over her bare arm where her skin had cooled in the open air. She stirred but did not waken. He tucked it around her, trying to be protective, or something like it. He didn't want her to be cold.
He laughed silently at his own excuses, turning fully toward her and putting his arm across her shoulders. She felt indescribably soft, moving a little, settling into him. There was a thin slip of silk between them, some low-cut confection that pressed tight across her breasts. He could feel them, their tips taut against the inside of his arm.
He was going to die. He really thought it possible. He knew a number of ways to make love safely, to please a woman without undue risk, but he wanted to fumble now like a untaught boy, so hot he could not think past the fact that he could feel her nipples. His ears were roaring. Memories of erotic kisses they had shared engulfed him, instants of passion that he had carried in his memory for years, the images he used to take his own pleasure.
He held himself very still and ran his fingertip around one small nub, feeling it rise in response. Her leg stretched out, sliding along his as she sighed in her sleep. She had wanted more this afternoon; he told himself he would satisfy her now. Gratify her and please her and go no further.
He bent his forehead against the nape of her neck, his mouth and jaw locked in an ironic smile. Self controlled lover that he was, he was trembling, his full member pressed against her just below her buttocks. He'd never been in a bed with Callie. He doubted he was able to move without losing mastery of himself.
She stirred, rolling over toward him. He pulled back, feeling her awaken, expecting her to jerk away and cry out in surprise. But she only stiffened a little, holding herself still. His hand was resting on her shoulder.
'Trev,' she mumbled drowsily.
'Wicked Callie,' he whispered.
