Chapter 7
Calliope had been wrong.
Dreadfully, horribly, frustratingly wrong.
The Earl of Hayward was not an ogre after all.
If anything, he looked even more handsome in the light of day.
More relaxed somehow in his simple suit than he had in his tuxedo, his dark hair framing his eyes now that it wasn’t slicked back with pomade.
His smile came more easily as well, no longer forced for polite society’s sake.
Her heart fluttered when he aimed that slightly crooked smile her way, and she silently cursed the little turncoat.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, my lord?” Calliope’s mother asked once they were situated in the drawing room, taking a seat on a filigreed, mint-green armchair.
Edward sat on the sofa with the matching filigreed arms and serpentine back, so Calliope took the chair across from him.
She turned slightly to the side to show her disinterest, but she could not stop her eyes from sliding over his pronounced shoulders and broad chest. Nor could she stop herself from remembering how strong he had felt when his arms had been wrapped around her; when her hand was on his shoulder; when they’d spun around the ballroom and his body had, just for a moment, brushed hers.
Even through the layers of expensive fabric, she could feel the tautness of his muscles.
But that was a silly thing to focus on. Any good dancer held a strong frame when twirling his partner around a ballroom, and she had danced with countless numbers of them.
So why had Edward felt different?
The champagne. Perhaps it hadn’t exaggerated his looks in the way she had hoped, but it had certainly affected her balance.
She had relied on him to keep her upright in a way that she’d never required of a partner before, and so it was only natural she would have noticed his frame, his muscles, the little freckle on the side of his neck—
Goodness, she needed to stop.
“I was in town on business,” he said, blessedly distracting wherever her traitorous thoughts were taking her, “and with it being such a beautiful day, I was hoping I could take Miss Hart on a walk through the park.”
“It isn’t beautiful,” Calliope replied. “It’s sweltering. A stroll through a blast furnace would be more enjoyable.”
Edward laughed. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
She squared her shoulders. “Regardless, it is entirely too warm for a walk. This time of year, one must walk early in the morning or not at all.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Calliope’s brow furrowed. “What’s settled?”
He gave her that infuriating half-smile again. “I’ll come by early tomorrow morning. If that’s all right with Mrs. Hart, of course.”
Her mother beamed. “Of course, it’s all right! Although you must take Calliope’s maid as chaperone.”
“I wouldn’t dream of leaving her behind,” Edward said smoothly. In fact, everything he did was smooth. Effortless.
It set Calliope’s teeth on edge.
“Don’t you have to get back to Whitefawn?” she blurted.
“Soon enough.”
Calliope opened her mouth to argue, but Archer chose that moment to appear with the tea service and begin filling everyone’s cups from the sideboard.
“How do you take your tea, my lord?” he asked.
“Plain,” Edward said. “Thank you.” He took the cup from Archer’s hands, then returned his attention to Calliope’s mother. “Did you enjoy yourself at the ball, Mrs. Hart?”
“Very much so,” she replied. “I had half a mind to steal your cook right out from under you after that delicious meal.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Cooper is quite a gem. She’s worked for my family for nearly thirty years now. I do not know what we would do without her.” He flashed a grin. “Perhaps lose a bit of weight.”
Her mother laughed.
Calliope blinked.
Was this really happening? Was the Earl of Hayward—the one who had made her somehow feel like a harlot in that ballroom of his even though she was the one with the money and he the one who needed it—really sitting in her drawing room, sipping tea and making small talk with her mother?
“I’m still waiting for that apology, my lord,” she said, picking at an invisible thread on her lap.
Her mother frowned. “What apology?”
Edward cleared his throat, setting his tea on the side table. “I am afraid I was rather rude to your daughter at the ball. I was not entirely myself that night. I do not regret what I said, but I regret the manner in which I said it, and for that I am truly sorry.”
Calliope measured him.
Edward measured her back.
Mrs. Hart hung on the edge of her seat.
“Well?” her mother asked, unable to stand the silence a moment longer. “Is the apology accepted?”
Calliope narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know.”
Mrs. Hart gaped. A moment of disbelief passed, and then she let out a boisterously nervous chuckle. “My daughter, ever the jokester. I try to tell her it is unbecoming of a lady, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other.”
Edward’s lips parted. “I do not think it unbecoming at all.”
Mrs. Hart squeaked. “No?”
He kept his gaze fixed on Calliope as he uttered, “Not in the slightest.”
Mrs. Hart’s wide eyes bored into her daughter. Calliope could practically hear her mother’s thoughts: This man is obviously the one we’ve been waiting for. Be nice to him, for heaven’s sake!
Calliope met Edward’s gaze, silently daring him to look away first. He didn’t, and in the ray of light pouring in through the windows, she noticed flecks of gray in his sapphire eyes that reminded her of a Tiffany lamp she’d once admired in the department store window at Lord & Taylor’s.
The juxtaposition of dark-blue glass with shards of timber gray had ignited her imagination, making her dream of daring adventures on star-strewn seas.
In her mind, that lamp had been the single most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Until now.
Calliope looked away first.
“Very well,” she said. “I accept your apology.”
Edward smirked. “Good. Then I shall pick you up tomorrow morning. Say around . . . six?”
Her jaw dropped. “Six o’clock in the morning?”
“You said early.”
Oh, he was good. Maybe it was just her mind playing tricks on her, but she got the impression he actually enjoyed baiting her.
“Nine o’clock,” she said, “and not a moment sooner.”
Edward nodded, that frustrating smirk still in place. Standing, he thanked her mother for the tea and took his leave. Calliope had the strangest urge to move to the window and watch him walk down the street—no doubt to ensure his departure before letting her guard down.
But that didn’t explain the way her heart had fluttered around him earlier, now did it?
Just remember what he said to you that night, she thought to herself, purposefully putting her back to the windows.
Accepting an apology did not mean one had to forget the offense.
If anything, she had seen his true colors in that ballroom, which meant she was better prepared to arm herself against his advances.
And arm herself she would.
Dearest Callie,
Mother is determined to send me to England directly following my coming-out season this winter. I hope you’re happy. I blame this entirely on you.
When are you coming home?
New York is dreadfully dull without you.
—Lenore Hastings, Telegram Posted June 13th, 1908