Chapter 14
Calliope had surprised Edward the other day in Hyde Park when she’d admitted her desire to see more of London.
His first impression of her had been that of a girl who hated her current predicament so much that she would rather ignore the fact that she was in London than appreciate anything the city had to offer.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. His first impression of her had been that of just another American debutante in a long line of her husband-hunting compatriots, searching for English titles and English land, and if they had to marry an English gentleman to achieve those ends, so be it.
Some of those debutantes were as cutthroat and heartless as their own mothers in their search.
Others were prone to romantic imaginings, daydreaming of knights in shining armor, true love’s kiss, and all of that other ridiculous drivel American women tended to associate with men of the peerage, even though men like Wellesby were a perfect example of why having a title did not ensure their husbands would be the perfect gentlemen they expected them to be.
In truth, Edward hadn’t cared much which sort of debutante Calliope was when his mother had pointed her out to him across the ballroom. He had simply known he needed a wife with enough capital to rebuild Whitefawn from the ground up ten times over, and Calliope fit that bill perfectly.
But now . . .
Now Edward was anything but certain when it came to Calliope.
His breath had caught when he’d watched her in the Tower courtyard, placing her hand against the wall, closing her eyes, and breathing deeply, as if she had wanted to absorb the history of the place into her very marrow.
She was quite bewitching in that moment, standing there with the sunlight glimmering in her snowflake hair, a touch of pink on her cheeks from their walk, her slender fingers bending and finding purchase in the stone.
But it wasn’t her physical beauty that had given him pause.
Rather, it had been the serenity in her features.
He had seen her tipsy with drink and in turns mortified by his words and then angered by them, drawing harsh lines between her brows.
He had seen her smug and had enjoyed the intelligent glimmer in her eyes whenever she responded to him with the perfect quip (as well as enjoyed the gleam of challenge in her gaze whenever he responded in kind).
But his favorite version of Calliope was the one he had witnessed here and at the House of Lords:
Peaceful.
Happy.
Content.
He imagined it was what she looked like when she was in New York, or possibly while sleeping, and that thought had spurred further images of what she might look like with her hair loosed from its pins and cascading over a silk pillow, a wedding ring glinting on her finger in the candlelight—
He tried to keep such thoughts out of his head, focusing intently on the suits of armor and, when that didn’t work, solving random calculations in his head.
And when that didn’t work, trying to decide what he should buy his mother for her birthday in seven months.
But it didn’t help. Everything Calliope did—the tilt of her head, the smile tugging at her lips when she spoke of home, the way her hands curled around the railing—enchanted him, so that he found he could focus on nothing else.
That is, until he noticed the other gentleman eyeing her from across the room. Then his thoughts had turned to how good it would feel to shove that man into the Thames for a midmorning swim.
What was wrong with him? He had never once lost his head over a woman like this. He was usually very practical, but an hour in Calliope’s presence had turned him into a bumbling idiot.
Whitefawn. It all came down to Whitefawn, and the fact that its very survival depended on Edward convincing Calliope to marry him. That was why she, far more than any other woman Edward had ever encountered, could make him feel so off-kilter.
She held his very future in her hands.
Which meant he needed to take control of the situation. Fast.
They surveyed the crown jewels before strolling the corridors of the Tower. When a guide asked if they would like to see the torture chambers, Calliope hesitated.
Edward leaned in close enough to smell her lilac-water perfume, a scent that reminded him, fondly, of Whitefawn’s gardens in the spring. “We don’t have to see them.”
“No,” she said quickly. “If I am to properly tour the Tower and understand its history, I must see every side of it. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Edward said, although he could argue there was a high likelihood she would marry an Englishman, whether it was him or someone else, and then she would have plenty of opportunities to visit the Tower and see the torture chambers any time she liked.
But seeing every side of a property was what he hoped she would do at Whitefawn, so that she could properly understand what it was he was trying to save, and he could not bring himself to disagree with her.
She took his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve as they stepped into the rooms where countless men and women had been questioned over the years. Some had actually committed the crimes of which they’d been accused; others had been unjustly imprisoned.
Calliope paled as they inspected the equipment that had been used, chewing her bottom lip and gripping Edward’s arm as if forcing herself to stay here, in this reality, instead of allowing herself to venture into her imagination, where she might see these instruments used on their victims in the most gruesome ways.
Only ten minutes into the guide’s speech, Edward held up his hand and declared, “That’s enough for today. Thank you for your time.”
“W-wait,” Calliope stammered as Edward tugged her into the hall. “I’m fine. We can stay—”
“You are most certainly not fine.” He led her up a staircase and into a deserted hall. “You’re trembling.”
“Am I?” She took a deep breath. “I just feel a bit lightheaded, is all.”
“Here.” He steadied her against the wall, standing in front of her with his hands on her shoulders. “Rest a moment.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the stones. “I don’t know what came over me. You must think me a silly, squeamish little girl.”
Compassion overcame him at her embarrassment, and he felt his features, which seconds before had been contorted with concern, soften as he stared down at her, this compassionate soul who felt the pain of people so much more deeply than he would have ever thought possible.
“I think,” he murmured, “you enjoy transporting yourself to another time in places such as this, to connect with those who came before us, and to wonder at how those people could be gone, but these buildings in which they lived and worked and died still stand. I think it is a gift, but also a curse, for you feel entirely too much when confronted with a place that has held so much suffering.”
Her lips parted at his words. “How do you know all of that?”
“Because as I’ve said before, we are very much the same, you and I.”
She nodded, and suddenly he realized he was closer to her, although he did not remember leaning in. His hands were on either side of her head, his palms against the cold stone wall, his chest inches from her own.
Her gaze roamed from his eyes to his lips and back again.
“Feeling better?” he asked, his own head suddenly light.
She swallowed. “Much.”
He placed his hand under her chin, telling himself he did so to get a better look at her, and not because he’d felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to touch her.
She lifted her head with the movement, bringing her lips dangerously close to his.
Her cool breath fanned across his mouth, tasting of lemon scones and lavender tea, and then—
Footsteps.
He reared back as if he’d been slapped.
What in the world was he doing? Had he lost all common sense? He wanted Calliope for his bride, yes, but not in this way—not by kissing her in a public venue, ruining her reputation and forcing her into marriage by threat of scandal.
At least, he didn’t think that’s what he wanted.
He growled and tugged on her hand.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s time I got you home.”
He wasn’t entirely certain, but he thought he detected a hint of disappointment in her tone as she murmured, “All right.”