Chapter 6
Hart Residence
Mayfair, London
It wasn’t difficult to find Miss Calliope Hart.
It seemed that, in the short time she had been in London, her mother, Mrs. Mercy Bissette Hart, had seen to it that every single person in the ton knew exactly where her daughter lived, should any prospective husbands desire to leave their calling cards, or should any equally scheming, high-minded mothers wish to invite Calliope to dinner in order to meet their bachelor sons.
Out of all of the mothers who had brought their daughters over from America looking for husbands—perhaps even out of all of the mothers in England—Mrs. Hart seemed to have a knack for getting her daughter’s name on the tip of everyone’s tongue.
Which had made it very easy for Edward to discover whatever he wanted to know about her, but it was frustrating as well, as that meant another suitor could find her just as easily and Edward did not like the idea of that at all.
It was rather boorish of him, he was willing to admit, but he had already marked Calliope as his own, and he would not let another gentleman take her from him without a fight.
He told himself it was because Whitefawn needed her, but he had to admit there was a bit of pride mixed in there as well.
An urge to prove to her that not only would she marry him, but she would walk down the altar with a skip in her step.
Gunpoint indeed.
No, the difficulty had come in waiting a full week before he could take the train into London.
There had been some business to attend to with the estate, concerns from the tenant farmers over the current drought and balancing the books to keep Whitefawn viable for another six weeks before the banks came calling again.
He’d even found himself in the kitchen one night after the old stove had caught fire.
It had been put out quickly, with minimal damage to the kitchen, but the oven was now in disrepair, and he’d had to scrounge up the money for a new one by selling a vase that had sat in their entryway for nearly two hundred years.
His mother had not been pleased.
Whitefawn was crumbling around him, and the answer to his problems currently resided in London. Which was why he now found himself on the doorstep of Miss Hart’s rented Mayfair townhouse, straightening his tie, tugging on his waistcoat, and trying to figure out what exactly he should say to her.
Just do it, he thought. Just ring the bell.
He reached for it.
Froze.
This was ridiculous. He had no reason to be nervous.
They were both sensible, mature people. He need only explain that they were after the same thing, and that they could mutually benefit from entering into a marriage where both parties knew exactly where they stood. Certainly she would see reason in that.
He rang the bell.
The Hart’s butler opened the door. “May I help you?”
“Ah, yes,” Edward said, handing the man his card. “The Earl of Hayward, here to visit Miss Calliope Hart, if she’s in residence.”
The butler bowed. “Very good, my lord. If you would—”
“No,” Calliope’s voice echoed from somewhere behind the butler’s shoulder.
Edward shifted an inch to the right. Calliope stood on the staircase in the front hall, several books cradled in her arms and her white-blond hair swept back into the sort of complicated knot that only a highly proficient lady’s maid could pull off.
She wore a morning gown that matched the peaches-and-cream color in her cheeks, and the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window on the landing at her back created a soft, dewy halo around her.
Radiant.
She looked radiant.
“His Lordship isn’t welcome here.”
Did he say radiant? He meant repugnant.
The butler stood with his mouth agape. “Miss Hart, that is . . . I mean to say . . . well, it is simply not done!”
“What isn’t done?” Calliope asked. “Not allowing a gentleman who’s humiliated me into my own home?”
Edward gritted his teeth and said the words he was hoping he wouldn’t have to say. “Even if he’s come to apologize?”
Calliope’s eyes narrowed. “Even if.”
Luckily, Mrs. Hart chose that moment to stroll into the front hall.
“Why, Your Lordship! Isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” She strode forward, all warmth and grin where her daughter had been all ice and growl.
“Mrs. Hart,” Edward greeted her, kissing her hand.
She blushed slightly under the direct attention of his gaze. “What are you doing standing out here in the hall? Surely you could have shown him to the drawing room, Archer?”
The butler stammered. “I-I was going to, madam, but—”
“I told him not to,” Calliope called from the staircase.
Her mother turned, noticing her daughter for the first time. “Oh, how silly of you, my dear. I’m afraid Archer did not realize you were joking.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes. You were,” her mother bit back, showing Edward exactly where Calliope had learned to clip her words so well. “Please, come in, my lord. Archer, would you ask Mrs. Grange to put on the kettle?”
“Of course, madam,” Archer said, looking relieved now that the proper order of things had been restored.
Mrs. Hart gestured to the room on her left. “If you’ll follow me, my lord.”
Edward stepped into the foyer.
Calliope remained on the staircase.
“You can come down from there,” he told her as Mrs. Hart disappeared into the drawing room. “I won’t bite.”
“I like where I am, thank you.”
Edward felt his mouth curl into a smile of half amusement, half annoyance. “Come now. You do not wish to be rude.”
Her brow arched. “Don’t I?”
“I really did come to apologize—something I don’t often do, I can assure you—and it would be a much easier task if you would deign to come down from your perch.”
She hesitated, then blew out an exasperated breath. “Oh, all right.”
Edward waited for her at the bottom of the staircase, enjoying her scowl quite more than he probably should.
“Tell me,” he requested, drawing closer, “was it my charm that convinced you to come down, or do you simply wish to avoid your mother’s wrath?”
She smiled. It was quick, but he caught it. “Which do you think?”
He offered his arm.
She slid past without taking it.
“You are going to be a challenge, aren’t you?” he muttered under his breath so she wouldn’t hear.
Unfortunately, excellent hearing seemed to be one of her many aggravating qualities.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”