Chapter 17
Westminster Abbey
London, England
Edward was acting strangely.
Since their almost-kiss at the Tower, he had taken Calliope to see Big Ben, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Buckingham Palace.
He was perfectly pleasant, giving her the histories he knew of each location, but he always kept a good foot and a half of space between them, and when he spoke to her, he would stare at a spot just over her head, never directly into her eyes.
She did not think she’d done anything to offend him, and so she thought he must have read the article in the London Ladies’ regarding their ‘questionable condition in an empty hallway’ at the Tower.
For her part, Calliope hadn’t had a moment’s peace since her mother had discovered the article.
Mercy Bissette Hart could be positively ruthless when she had her sights set on something, and she currently had her marriage pistol locked, loaded, and aimed at the Earl of Hayward.
She forced him to sit down for tea every morning before he and Calliope left for their excursions, never mind it was nowhere near the typical afternoon teatime, all so she could rant and rave about Calliope’s many admirable qualities (some of which, like the claim that Calliope was a master at watercolors, were completely imaginary).
When the earl wasn’t around, her mother lectured her on conversation points that were acceptable when speaking to a man of his station and advised her on how much flirting was considered the correct amount.
“And above all,” her mother had insisted on more than one occasion, “if he tries to kiss you again, make sure someone sees you!”
It was in times like these that Calliope could see the little girl who’d grown up in a household perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy in her mother’s eyes, before Calliope’s grandfather finally made some good business dealings that launched the Bisette Coal Empire.
Her mother had been sixteen at the time, with only two years before her coming-out season to catch up with all of the other debutantes who’d spent their entire lives studying proper etiquette, foreign languages, and other distinguished cultural pursuits.
Calliope also saw the debutante who, through carefully devised friendships, had plotted and schemed her way into more sophisticated drawing rooms than she should have been able to enter, given how recently her family had acquired their wealth.
The young wife who, in the height of the Gilded Age, had single-handedly steered her husband into reaching for ever greater heights within the realms of society and finance, until she had become the queen of New York’s nouveau riche set.
There were still heights to ascend, however.
Hallowed realms to which Mercy Bisette Hart’s queendom did not extend.
The world of New York’s oldest families, the Knickerbockers, remained closed to the Harts and others like them, for no matter how far Calliope’s mother and other affluent Manhattan families climbed, their fortune was new, their manners uncouth (according to the Astors and their ilk), and their lineage unimpressive.
The way the Knickerbockers made her mother feel was exactly how Calliope felt here, among London’s oldest and noblest families.
Unwanted and unworthy. And although she had the feeling her mother recognized how much this hurt Calliope, Mrs. Hart considered it a small price to pay for the upward mobility marrying into London’s ton would provide, for if the Harts could not impress New York society with an ancestor who had arrived on the Mayflower, then they would impress them by marrying into the ranks of British nobility.
Surely then, at least by her mother’s estimation, no door would be closed to them, and the little girl who grew up wanting more so she would never again have to fear the strictures of poverty could finally feel as though she had made it.
As though she had become someone.
There was no sense in arguing with her mother regarding the propriety of allowing herself to be seen kissing the earl in public, for any means would do when it came to achieving her mother’s ends.
It didn’t matter that the Hart fortune wasn’t going anywhere and that their family would be taken care of for generations to come.
Mrs. Hart needed the assurance of continually open doors and invitations to the best society functions that only marrying into nobility could provide.
And so, seeing no benefit to reminding her mother that she would return to New York an unwed debutante or die trying, Calliope remained silent.
“I hope my mother has not been too much of a bother,” she whispered now as they strolled through the north transept, their footsteps clicking against the polished stone floor. “She means well.”
“An Englishman can never have too much tea,” he replied, his hands clasped behind his back. He still did not look at her, preferring instead to inspect the architectural details of the columns supporting the vaulted Gothic ceiling above them.
It was as if, in the span of a few days, she had suddenly ceased to be of any interest to the earl.
She was quite certain, given his behavior, he would have rather watched the dripping of candle wax than engage her in any sort of real conversation.
She felt like a complete fool for having thought so much about their near kiss when it had clearly not affected the earl in the slightest.
Frustrated, she blew out a breath and decided to come right out with it. “Did you see the article about our trip to the Tower?”
His jaw tightened as he continued inspecting the column. “Which one?”
Her brows rose. There had been more than one?
“In the London Ladies’?” she asked.
He shook his head. “In the gossip section of the Times. I would not have seen it had I not overheard several of the maids chattering about it.”
Calliope winced.
“London has eyes and ears everywhere,” he continued, and for the first time since he’d pulled away from her in that deserted hallway, he looked at her.
Really looked at her; not just a half-glance that made her feel as though he wanted to be anywhere else.
“I should have remembered that, but I have not found myself the center of gossip in quite some time.”
Now that was interesting. She could not imagine the staunchly proper Earl of Hayward getting into the sort of mischief that would set people talking.
“What sort of gossip have you found yourself the subject of before?” she asked.
They moved into the crossing and started down the long aisle known as the quire. Calliope breathed in the peace that emanated from the holy incense and the old stone and the traces of sunlight that spilled onto the floor like strewn gold.
“I’ve been mentioned in the society pages from time to time as an eligible bachelor, even more so since my father’s passing.” He stopped walking. “And of course, there was my time spent at Eton.”
Her brow arched. “Do tell.”
They started forward again, the soles of their shoes tapping against the black-and-white-checkered floor. Calliope’s dove gray skirt swished as she moved, a ghostly whisper in the quiet.
“My friend August, the Marquess of Holbrook, got me into quite a few scrapes in school. We made the morning paper once after drinking a touch too heavily at a dinner party hosted by his parents.” He chuckled at the memory.
“We decided it would be a marvelous idea to go about Mayfair releasing horses from their stables.”
“And then you returned them to their carriage houses, surely?”
“Of course,” he said, her heart picking up speed as he held her gaze. “We would have done so even if the constable hadn’t requested it. The majority of the article had been about the mess the horses had made of Hyde Park after grazing on the lawns all night.”
Calliope laughed. “It sounds as though you were a bit of a scoundrel in your formative years, my lord.”
“Does that surprise you?” he asked.
“It does. I took you for one of those adolescents who always did what he was told and never set a foot out of line.”
“I was, until I met the Marquess of Holbrook,” he explained. “He was a terrible influence.”
Calliope’s lips twitched as the faces of her friends back home came to mind. “But I bet he’s given you the best memories.”
“So far, anyway. I hope my wife will give me some as well.”
His eyes met hers again, and for a moment, the same spark lit within their depths that had been there at the Tower.
And although he shuttered himself again after that, only choosing to speak when pointing out an architectural detail of the space, such as the thirteenth-century Cosmati pavement in front of the high altar, or telling her which great person of British history had been laid to rest in which tomb, she felt satisfied that his interest in her hadn’t disappeared completely.
Although why she should care about such a thing, she had no idea.
An hour later they were standing on the stoop of her Mayfair townhome. She expected him to make his excuses quickly, just as he had after their other excursions since the Tower, and had even begun turning toward the door when she felt his hand clasp her own.
He looked at her from beneath slashing brows in a manner that made her breath hitch in her throat. “I hope you had a nice time.”
“I did,” she said, willing her heart to slow. “Thank you.”
He tipped his hat, a slight smirk dimpling his cheek. “Same time tomorrow?”
She nodded. “I imagine Mother will expect you for another round of tea.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
He turned to go, and even though the logical part of her brain told her to remain silent, to let him leave, to not encourage whatever strange fancy was taking over the rest of her body whenever he was near that made her, for some incomprehensible reason, want to be the center of his world, she found herself blurting, “Are you attending the opera tonight, my lord?”
He glanced back. “I had not planned on it.”
Disappointment hit her with all the force of a battering ram, shocking her in its intensity. “Oh.”
His brows drew together, curiosity sparking in his gaze. “Why?”
Since she could not tell him the truth—that she was not yet ready to say goodbye to him—she fumbled for an excuse.
“Mother always ventures out of our box during intermission to find some poor, eligible bachelor to sit next to me for the remainder of the performance, which is just as awkward of an encounter as it sounds. So I thought . . . perhaps . . . you might like to save me from a night of insufferable awkwardness by being that poor, eligible bachelor?”
He turned fully toward her now. “I knew you’d warm to me eventually, Miss Hart.”
She swallowed. “Is that a yes?”
He inched closer, the toes of his shoes almost touching hers. His comforting scent of bergamot, pine, and summer rain enveloped her. “Why me?”
“You know how difficult my mother can be,” she told him, forcing a teasing quality to her tone. “But I wouldn’t feel guilty if she made your night miserable. You’ll already know it’s coming.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he stared down at her. Was it her imagination, or had his entire body tensed, as if he were barely holding himself back from something?
“I have a feeling, Miss Hart,” he said, his voice low and deep, rumbling through her, “that a night spent with you would be anything but miserable.”