Chapter 20
Lord help her, she couldn’t breathe. Hadn’t breathed since her mother had informed her she would be sharing a box alone with Edward. She felt dizzy, her head much too light, as if it would float away at any moment, a blond hot-air balloon drifting through the opera house.
“Is it warm in here?” she asked, her corset digging into her ribs. It had fit comfortably this morning at the abbey. Had she gained a few pounds in the past eight hours?
“Terribly,” he replied, his gaze falling to her parted lips. And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, he leaned back, totally unaffected by their nearness.
Meanwhile, Calliope was reeling.
“You know,” he murmured, his tone all business once more, as if he were discussing a matter at a board meeting, “something has just occurred to me.”
Scrambling away and hoping he hadn’t noticed how breathless she’d become, Calliope did her best to reply with perfect nonchalance. “Oh?”
“I fear I overlooked a grave matter in my proposal.”
Calliope blinked. “How could there possibly be more?”
“Well,” he said, watching the players on the stage as their voices rose and fell with all the dips and peaks of a mountain range, “I was just thinking that, while we both agree there could never be love between us . . .” He chanced a look her way as if seeking confirmation.
She nodded. “None at all.”
He inclined his head in agreement and continued, “. . . there is a certain level of physicality that is unavoidable in a marriage that we have not discussed.”
Calliope’s mouth went dry. “Physicality?”
“Well, there is the aspect of children, and the need to produce an heir to run the estate.”
“Yes,” Calliope squeaked. She coughed to cover it and internally rolled her eyes. If he could talk about something so intimate in such a practical, matter-of-fact way, then so could she. “Of course.”
“Now, I am not so naive as to think there must be love between a man and a woman in order to continue the family line, but I have noticed that those members of the peerage who are not in love tend to stop at only one or two children.”
Calliope had noticed the same thing. “My parents stopped when they had me. That”—she swallowed—“aspect of their marriage never much interested my mother.”
“I was also an only child,” Edward replied, “although I am thankful to say my parents loved each other very much, and I am certain it was not for a lack of trying on their part.”
Calliope’s cheeks had grown so warm, she was certain their coloring must have matched the curtains adorning either side of the stage. Thankfully, it was too dark for Edward to notice.
“But that brings me to my point,” he continued. “I want a large family.”
“How large?”
He thought for a moment. “I’ve always felt six sounded like a nice, healthy number.”
“Six what? Children?”
She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw his lips twitch and cursed herself for letting her guard slip.
“To start. I had a very lonely childhood, with no brothers or sisters to keep me company. Being the sole focus of my parents’ attention helped, of course—they never missed a chance to shower their love or affection upon me—not to mention there were a string of governesses and professors sent to train me up in every proper academic and cultural pursuit, but having only Nanny to play with in such a big house was boring, to say the least.” His jaw tensed as he met her gaze.
“I don’t want that for my children. I want them to have an assortment of playmates to choose from right there in their own home.
I want them to run and play and fight epic battles on the lawn and picnic by the river.
I want a bevy of voices singing Christmas carols around our tree and a cacophony of noise at our dinner table as they all scramble to tell us about their day.
” He paused, allowing the vision he had painted enough time to settle in her mind.
“Does that sound like something you might also want?”
In truth, Calliope had never given it much thought.
She hadn’t felt the same loneliness as a child as Edward had, although she imagined that was because she, Tommy, Lenore, and Charlie had been inseparable since birth.
She couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t all together, and so in that way, she did have siblings to play with whenever she’d wanted.
But she could see how Edward, growing up in the country, on such a large estate, with no other children in the house, would have longed for playmates.
Her heart broke for him as she imagined him much younger, staring out the windows at Whitefawn’s rolling green lawns, longing for a friend.
That image was quickly replaced by another, this one of children scampering across the grass with her white-blond hair and his oceanic eyes, giggling as they toddled and played.
She smiled at the thought but quickly hid it. What was she doing? If she did have that many children, they would not be Edward’s. They would belong to whatever nice gentleman swept her off her feet once she returned to New York.
And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from indulging in the fantasy, if only for a moment.
“Yes,” she said, shifting slightly in her seat. “I could see myself wanting to have that many children.”
“Don’t you think, then” he asked, leaning closer, though he’d fixed his gaze on the stage, “it would help us make a more prudent decision if we knew without a shadow of a doubt that we could at least tolerate being physically close to one another, even if our marriage is one of convenience rather than romance?”
Her breath caught as he turned toward her then, awaiting her response, the sleeve of his tuxedo brushing her arm, sending that same electric spark coursing through her body.
She didn’t think she’d ever been so aware of another person in her life.
“What is it you are suggesting, my lord?” The words came out in a breathless whisper, so low she was shocked he heard them over the crescendo of music thundering through the room.
He slipped off his glove and, tentatively, placed his hand upon her cheek. “I am suggesting we explore whether we are compatible enough in this regard to ensure the large family we desire.”
She knew she should be worried about the fact that the whole of London society was surrounding them, but they were back in the dark recesses of their opera box, where the light only barely touched the tips of her fingers.
Someone might be able to tell they were turned toward each other, but even with lorgnettes, she was certain no one could see his hand cradling her face, or the outline of her heart as it rammed against her ribs.
She swallowed. “Edward?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to kiss me?”
“I am considering it,” he whispered. “Are you giving me permission?”
She thought for a moment. This was precisely the sort of thing that would cause an insurmountable scandal if witnessed by anyone outside their box, forcing her to either marry Edward or give up this charade of finding an English husband and return home.
It surprised her that she found both options equally appealing.
She hesitated.
And then, as if the word had been perched on the tip of her tongue since their almost-kiss in the Tower, requiring only the smallest puff of breath to escape, she murmured, “Yes.”
She thought it would be gentle—weren’t first kisses supposed to be gentle?
—or perhaps awkward and fumbling, as her kiss with Tommy had been.
She wasn’t prepared for the fervency in Edward’s kiss, nor for the way he crushed his mouth upon hers, as if he were a drowning man and her lips were his only source of oxygen.
But my, was it glorious. To feel so wanted, and to find she wanted him just as deeply in return.
He cupped her face in his hands and angled his mouth deeper, until her head spun and all she could think was closer.
She had to get closer.
She wove her hands around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair.
She wished she had thought to remove her gloves as he had done, so that she could feel the silky strands slide across her skin, and then she wasn’t wishing for anything at all, because she couldn’t form a coherent thought to save her life.
This was dangerous.
Foolish.
Positively insane.
And yet he couldn’t stop.
He had never felt this way with a woman before. Kissing Calliope was like opening the door to heaven, and he was scared to walk through, to go any farther, for fear that it would all be an illusion. That he would be judged and found unworthy, closing the gates to him forever.
She’d made it clear that she had no intention of marrying him, or any English gentleman for that matter.
She was simply passing the time until her mother gave up this foolhardy errand and sent her back to her beloved New York.
Which was why, when he’d proposed the kiss, he’d done so as if it were merely a sensible component to their arrangement and not something he’d been longing to do for days.
He couldn’t let her know how he was really feeling, lest it frighten her away before he’d been given the chance to show her how much Whitefawn needed her.
Perhaps how much he needed her, as well?
No. That he could not do, not if he didn’t want her running for the hills, or worse, laughing in his face.
Part of him wondered if he would be better off cutting his losses now.
Surely it would be better for him to find an heiress who didn’t make him feel this way—so out of control and sputtering and unable to catch his breath to save his life—so that his marriage could be the mere business transaction it ought to be.
That had to be better than giving his heart away to a woman he was certain had no intention of keeping it.
He started to pull away—or, at least, had the thought of pulling away, but it faded into the shadows in a wisp of smoke.
If this was the closest to Calliope he would ever get, he wanted to relish these few moments they had together, so the memory could keep him warm at night when she sailed back to New York and left him looking for someone who could never replace her.
He did not know for how long he kissed her before there was a creak on the staircase leading to their box, causing Calliope to stiffen and pull away.
He tried to control his breathing as a footman appeared at Calliope’s side.
“Excuse me, Miss Hart,” the lad whispered, holding out a silver tray with a square of thick paper sitting atop it. “A note from your mother.”
Calliope took the note and thanked him. She sat forward into the light, her hands shaking.
“What does it say?” he asked once the footman had retreated.
Had her mother seen them? Had they accidentally shifted into the light, where everyone could see?
Calliope laughed and handed him the note.
If you’ve run out of topics of conversation, ask the earl about his hobbies. I read somewhere that he has a penchant for cricket.
Edward smiled. “Well, she’s right. I do enjoy a good game of cricket. Holbrook and I were on a team back in our Eton days.”
“I would say something to impress you, I’m sure, if I knew anything about the sport,” she replied. “Perhaps you could teach me at Whitefawn?”
It was the first time she’d spoken of Whitefawn as if she were excited about the visit, and the mere thought that perhaps he wouldn’t lose her after all—that perhaps his plan would work and she would fall in love with the estate and accept his proposal; that the large family he desired would finally be within his grasp; and that, while she might never feel the same way about him as he was beginning to feel toward her, he could devote his entire life to her happiness—caused a spark of hope to blossom in his chest.
He smiled. “Perhaps I shall.”
They watched the rest of the performance until the curtain fell and the lights came up for intermission, keeping a safe distance from one another, and only rarely catching the other’s eye, but Edward was vitally aware of her every movement, her every gesture, her every sigh.
He was falling in love with his intended fiancée, and nothing felt more dangerous to his mission to save Whitefawn than that.