Chapter 11
Hart Residence
Mayfair, London
Although her mother had been waiting with bated breath to hear every exquisite detail of Calliope’s promenade with the very handsome and very distinguished (her mother’s words, not Calliope’s) Earl of Hayward, Calliope was able to evade the dreaded discussion by rushing back out the door, insisting she would be late for Madame Dupré’s if she did not depart immediately.
In actuality, she arrived thirty minutes early and used the time to practice walking with a book on her head. She felt no guilt at her duplicity, knowing her mother would appreciate the improvement in her posture.
She’d hoped to further skirt the topic at dinner but discovered upon her return that the guests they had been expecting—the Marchioness of Littleforth and her daughter—had canceled last minute due to the both of them having come down with an ill-timed cold.
“How unfortunate,” Calliope had muttered.
“Isn’t it?” her mother responded, a twinkle in her eye that made Calliope doubt very much that the ladies had been the ones to cancel the evening’s festivities. “Oh well, at least it will give us a chance to talk. I feel it has been ages since we’ve had dinner together just we two, don’t you?”
Calliope bit her tongue and agreed it would be lovely to spend the time together, then hurried to her room to change, deciding if she could not avoid talking with her mother about the time she had spent with the earl that morning, it was best to get it over and done with quickly.
Now she sat at the dining table, opposite her mother, picking at a watercress salad and waiting for the inevitable.
“So,” Mrs. Hart began in a singsong voice. “How was your walk this morning?”
“Very . . . illuminating.”
“How so?”
Calliope chewed slowly. Perhaps it was slightly ill-natured of her, but she was curious to see how far forward her mother would lean in her seat as she awaited Calliope’s response, eyes round with anticipation.
Very far, apparently.
Dabbing her napkin against the corners of her mouth before resting it on her lap, Calliope explained, “Lord Hayward offered to guide me around London this week, having heard that I have not visited many of the landmarks I’ve been hoping to see.”
Her mother’s brows rose. “Really? What sorts of landmarks?”
“Parliament, Big Ben, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey—”
Mrs. Hart nearly dropped her fork. “He’s offered to take you to all of those places?”
“As many as we can get to before the week is out,” Calliope replied, delicately spearing one of her leaves.
Mrs. Hart’s brows inched ever closer to her hairline. “Do you believe a proposal is imminent?”
Calliope paused, taking a sip of water and working up the courage to endure the enthusiasm about to befall her. “It’s hard to say, but he has invited us to stay at Whitefawn the following week.”
This time her mother did drop her fork. It clattered against the fine china plate and onto the floor.
“Is the earl having a house party?” she asked without blinking.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Calliope replied. “I believe it would just be us, the earl, and his mother.”
Mrs. Hart’s eyes grew alarmingly bright.
“Do we have any engagements that would prevent us from accepting?” Calliope asked as a footman silently replaced the now-soiled fork with a new one.
“Not at all! Or at least nothing that can’t be avoided.” Mrs. Hart clapped with delight. “Oh, this is wonderful, my dear, simply wonderful! I cannot imagine a better installation for you than as the countess of that great estate.”
Calliope knew she should leave it at that but couldn’t help asking, “And what if I catch the eye of a duke at the opera and he makes similar overtures?”
The light in her mother’s eyes grew even brighter at the prospect, so that Calliope felt as though she were staring at two miniature suns. “All the better, to have your pick of the litter!”
“Mother, I was teasing,” Calliope chided. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“Don’t be so sure. A lady who has caught the eye of a suitor instantly becomes more attractive to other gentlemen looking for wives.
I myself declined five proposals before accepting your father.
Of course, he says he had no idea anyone else had proposed and jokes he might not have offered if he had, but I know better! ”
Calliope bit her cheek to keep from laughing.
She’d always felt her father had been roped into marrying her mother to some degree—their personalities were so different, with her mother always scheming her way into loftier circles and her father content to stay hidden behind his books and company reports—that she could not imagine they’d ever been much of a love match.
Of course, Calliope was thankful the marriage had taken place, as she would not be here otherwise, but she did wonder what manner of peaceful life her father might have lived had he wed someone much more mild mannered than Calliope’s high-minded mother.
“Now then,” Mrs. Hart continued, barely pausing to draw breath, “we’ll have to plan your gowns accordingly. I do not want the Earl of Hayward seeing you in the same frock twice.”
The next morning found Calliope slumped in a chair in the entryway, her elbow on the accent table and her chin propped on her palm, yawning as she awaited Edward’s motor vehicle.
She’d been up half the night with her mother and Sara, combing over her selection of Worth gowns as they debated which functions would show off each to its best advantage.
It was two o’clock in the morning before Calliope had been able to convince her mother that the final lineup had been achieved, and even when she fell asleep, she dreamed of gowns being paraded in front of her.
She’d woken with a headache that only three cups of strong tea could cure and promptly changed into the selection of the day: a rose-pink muslin gown that, according to the designer who had fashioned it for her, perfectly suited her complexion.
Of course, Calliope knew she could have worn a potato sack for all the Earl of Hayward cared.
All he wanted was her money.
Although to be fair, that was all any Englishman who’d shown her the slightest interest wanted.
At least the earl had possessed the decency to say it aloud, and since she had no intention whatsoever of actually accepting his proposal at the end of these two weeks, she no longer cared what his motivation was for spending the time with her.
At least she was getting something good out of the endeavor.
Sara stepped into the entryway just as a knock sounded at the door. Half-asleep, Calliope pushed herself up and took the parasol Sara proffered.
“How do I look?” Calliope asked, barely able to keep her eyes open.
“Like the smallest breeze would knock you over,” Sara replied.
“Perhaps I should wash my face with cold water?”
“There isn’t time. Here.” Sara pulled a small vial from her reticule and wafted it under Calliope’s nose. The resulting smell hit her like a dagger to her nasal cavities.
“Really? Smelling salts?” Calliope asked, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger as a surge of magma-hot flame shot through her sinuses.
“Did it work?” Sara held out the vial. “Should I do it again?”
Calliope bit her lip to keep from cursing. “Yes, it worked, and no, you shouldn’t.”
“Are you sure?” Lord Hayward asked, a wide smirk splitting his face. “I for one would love to see it.”
Calliope had been so focused on the pain that she hadn’t heard Archer march into the entryway, nor noticed him open the door.
Her cheeks warmed at the realization that she’d been caught in such an unseemly and unladylike predicament, but her embarrassment was nothing compared to her annoyance at the fact that the earl, once again, looked devastatingly handsome.
Wearing a fitted suit she was certain he had not spent nearly as much time agonizing over as Calliope’s mother had her gown, his hair once again fell into his Tiffany eyes, which caught a shaft of morning sunlight, making the silver flecks turn gold.
How was it that he also seemed even taller than the last time she’d seen him?
His shoulders, which had blotted out the rest of the world as they’d danced at his ball, even broader?
He stood rigidly straight, a proper gentleman to his core, and yet the strength so evident in his athletic form made Calliope feel that he would be the type of husband who would shelter his wife from any storm—that such a woman would be completely safe, so long as she was in his arms—and this realization made her feel even less guilty taking him up on his offer, knowing he could snatch any American heiress he wanted once their two weeks together were over.
“Good morning, Your Lordship,” Archer greeted him. “May I take your coat?”
“No need, Archer,” Calliope told him. “Lord Hayward is taking me to tour Parliament.”
“Very good, Miss.”
“Lord Hayward!” Mrs. Hart exclaimed as she waltzed into the entryway.
Edward stepped forward and placed a gentle kiss across her knuckles. “Mrs. Hart. You are looking particularly lovely today.”
Her mother blushed. “It is so good of you to offer your valuable time to my daughter, and we are both so looking forward to returning to Whitefawn next week.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Edward replied, sending a smug grin Calliope’s way.
Calliope glanced at the clock on the sideboard. “Sorry, Mother, but we really should be going. There’s only a short window in which we can tour the House of Lords before they convene.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” her mother said. “Do have fun.”
“We will.” Calliope looked to Sara. “Ready?”
Sara nodded and started forward, but Mrs. Hart moved in front of her, a familiar, calculating look in her eyes.
“Actually, I need Sara’s help around the house today,” her mother proclaimed.
Calliope narrowed her gaze, instantly suspicious. “With what?”
“Oh, just some odds and ends that have gotten neglected,” Mrs. Hart singsonged.