Chapter 33
“Tommy!”
The name of her beloved childhood friend flew from Calliope’s lips on a surprised exhale that could not have left her with any more force than if someone had struck her—which, incidentally, was exactly how she felt, seeing Tommy Daily standing there, in the entryway of Whitefawn Manor, the very last place she’d ever expected him to be.
“What are you doing here?” Calliope asked as the tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed boy she’d grown up alongside crossed the space between them and swept her into his strong embrace.
“I should think it would be obvious,” he replied, spinning her around so that the water clinging to her gown wicked onto the Aubusson carpet runner and the various antiques surrounding them. “I came to see you!”
Appalled, Calliope’s mother shouted, “Put her down this instant, Thomas! Can’t you see she’s soaked through?”
“I can see it,” Tommy said, setting her back down and wiping away the dampness on his sleeves, “and I can feel it. Whatever happened to you?”
“I was about to ask my son the same thing,” the dowager countess remarked, eyeing Edward, who had entered the foyer several steps behind Calliope, having given the basket of fish to the butler with instructions that their catch be distributed to the local families in need.
He now looked as though he’d been punched in the stomach as his gaze darted between Calliope and their newest guest, although she could not figure out why.
“We got caught in the rainstorm,” Edward explained, his brow furrowed at Tommy.
“Yes, we can plainly see that,” his mother commented. “But what were you doing so far from the house at this time of day?”
Edward glanced at Calliope, and even though it was only for a moment, the heat of his gaze took her right back to the lake—to their bodies pressed against one another and his lips dancing so fervently, so passionately against hers, that neither one of them seemed able to get enough.
“Fishing,” he responded.
Mrs. Hart laughed. “Calliope doesn’t fish.”
“She does,” Tommy said, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Although not nearly as well as she catches frogs.”
The dowager’s brows arched.
Calliope let out a nervous laugh. “He’s only joking.”
“Wish I was,” Tommy answered. “Then I’d be the record-holding frog catcher of Tuxedo Park.”
Calliope only barely resisted the urge to smack him across the arm and whisper, “Not helping,” choosing instead to ask, “How ever did you find me?”
“I went to your address in Mayfair first, the one you’ve been writing on all your letters? Your butler told me you’d come here for the week, and I know it’s terribly rude of me to invite myself to someone else’s house party—”
“Nonsense,” the dowager replied. “A friend of the Harts is a friend of ours.”
“Are you sure?” Tommy asked, concern shaping his countenance as he turned to her. “I’d be happy to put myself up in the village and simply steal Calliope away when she has a spare moment. There is . . . much I would like to discuss with her.”
If it were possible, Edward’s posture became even more rigid at the words steal Calliope away, although for her part she had no idea what Tommy could possibly have to discuss with her that demanded his physical presence rather than simply writing it down in his next letter.
“I’m afraid my mother would skin me alive were I to refuse you lodging when we have so many rooms available,” Edward ground out through his teeth. “Isn’t that right, Mother?”
“Yes, of course,” the dowager agreed. “You must stay, Mr. Daily, and add a much-needed male presence to our number.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am,” Tommy replied, causing Calliope to wince even though Edward’s mother took this extremely informal title in stride. “I’d be delighted.”
A hint of a blush crept into the dowager countess’s cheeks beneath the glow of Tommy’s charming smile and grateful manner. Calliope shook her head, bemused. Even across the pond, Tommy Daily could woo the heart of any woman he set his sights on.
Now if she could only figure out what in the world he was doing here.
Edward was seething.
He knew he had no right, of course. Knew it was pure jealousy that drove him to hate Tommy Daily (the most American name Edward had ever heard) the moment he set eyes on him.
To hate the familiarity he shared with Calliope, the way he could embrace her in Edward’s own foyer without caring what anyone thought about it.
To hate how, within the span of seconds, he had stolen Calliope’s attention away so completely, and to hate the ease that settled over them both as they began speaking of New York and everything Calliope had missed while she’d been away.
It was not that Calliope was ignoring Edward.
She did try to include him in their conversation as they stood there, dripping wet, in the foyer, but Edward could not think of much to say other than, “Oh, really?” and “How interesting,” and, once, after Tommy had told a story that had made Calliope laugh so hard, she’d had to wipe tears from her eyes, he’d muttered something akin to, “Yes, well, that does seem to be the way with swans.”
Finally, nearly twenty minutes after their tête-à-tête had begun, Mrs. Hart, who seemed just as unenthused as Edward at this turn of events, announced, “Yes, yes, there will be time for catching up later. We must allow Lord Hayward and Calliope to change lest they catch their death of colds.”
When Edward caught up with the rest of the party in the library half an hour later, his wet hair slicked back, his clothing dry, it was to find Tommy regaling his relations (Calliope having not yet returned) with tales of a New York social season that did not end with the onset of autumn, but rather moved to the Adirondacks, where the Four Hundred would enjoy autumn festivities that transitioned into tobogganing, sledding, and other winter sports during the day and roaring fires, warm drinks, and parlor games by night.
Tilly sighed. “That sounds heavenly.”
“You are all more than welcome to experience it yourselves at my invitation,” Tommy told them.
“My father recently purchased a home there. It is a bit modest, with only eighteen bedrooms, so we’ll be a bit snug, but smaller homes are, of course, easier to keep warm during those chilly New York winters. ”
He winked, and Tilly, already seated on the edge of her chair, her head in her palm, melted so thoroughly that Edward was surprised she did not fall to the floor.
Bethilda sat dreamy eyed, clearly painting pictures in her mind’s eye of all Mr. Daily had described, while Aesop kept his trumpet permanently affixed to his ear in a way Edward had never seen him do for anyone else.
Meanwhile, the dowager beamed at Tommy like a besotted schoolgirl.
Only Mrs. Hart appeared unamused.
Tommy glanced up and met Edward’s stoic gaze. “Ah, Chase. Just the man I need. What do you do for fun around here? A week at sea and the car ride from Liverpool has me feeling rather restless.”
Edward opened his mouth, intent on directing him to hike the acres of forest on his property in the hopes he would get lost in them, but stopped as the pressure of a delicate, female hand pressed against the middle of his back.
Calliope. It was a fleeting gesture, a momentary burst of recognition, but it made his heart lighter than it had been since they’d returned from the lake to discover Mr. Daily in his entryway.
Perhaps she had not forgotten him in the incandescent glow of Tommy’s magnetism after all.
“You mean Lord Hayward, Tommy,” she chided, her touch slipping away as she moved closer to her mother.
“Is Chase not his surname?” Tommy asked.
“It is,” Calliope conceded, “but it isn’t the proper title.”
Tommy chuckled as he turned his attention back to Edward. “Do forgive me, old chap. I’m not quite used to all the pomp and circumstance on this side of the pond.”
Edward nodded his pardon for Calliope’s sake but remained tense.
“As for things to do, Lord Hayward has promised to teach me how to play cricket,” she told Tommy, throwing a smile Edward’s way before taking the empty armchair next to her mother. “Perhaps we could set up a game after luncheon?”
Edward inclined his head. “It would be my pleasure.”
The light in Calliope’s eyes grew.
Tommy scoffed. “Isn’t cricket nothing more than an inferior version of baseball? No offense, Hayward.”
Seeing an opportunity to bring Tommy’s ego down a peg or two—and hopefully win back Calliope’s undivided attention in the process—Edward replied, “None taken, Daily,” and immediately set off to make the necessary preparations with a renewed spirit and a sudden bounce in his step.