“I have plans to be very careful,” Callie protested.
Anne shook her head. “Unless you work for the War Office, Callie-mine, you can’t do half of the things on that list without your reputation collapsing into the gutter.” She paused. “You do know that, don’t you?”
Callie gave a little nod. “Is it wrong that I don’t much care this morning?”
“Yes. You cannot do it all, Callie. Gamble? At a men’s club? Are you mad?”
Callie grew serious. “No.” The two fell silent for a long moment. Finally, Callie seemed to find the words she was looking for. “But, Anne, it was so wonderful. It was the most incredible, freeing adventure. Can you blame me for wanting more?”
“It appears that you are already getting more than you’ve bargained for. Give me that.” Anne took the peach muslin from Callie and exchanged it for a grass green jaconet day dress.
“What was wrong with the one I chose?”
“Oh, stop pouting. If we are going to Ralston House, this is the gown you’ll wear. You look lovely in green.”
Callie accepted the dress, watching as Anne rummaged for underclothes. “We are not going to Ralston House.”
Anne said nothing, still engrossed by the contents of the wardrobe. Instead, she thrust the missive toward Callie. Ignoring her shaking hands, Callie broke the wax seal, at once desperately curious and filled with dread.
Lady Calpurnia,
My sister will expect you at half eleven.
R.
There was no turning back now.
“Anne,” Callie said, unable to pull her gaze from the text, “we are going to Ralston House.”
The day after her first visit, Callie found herself on the steps of Ralston House again—this time, quite respectably, by light of day, lady’s maid in tow—to meet Miss Juliana Fiori, the mysterious younger sister of the marquess.
Callie took a deep breath, sending a silent prayer to the fates that Ralston be away from the house in the hopes that she could avoid the inevitable abject mortification. Of course, she knew that she could not avoid future interactions…she had, after all, agreed to shepherd his sister into society. She could at least hope that she would be able to avoid him today, however.
A footman opened the door, revealing a stone-faced Jenkins in the foyer beyond. Please, don’t recognize me, she pleaded silently as she looked up into the butler’s weathered, wrinkled face, attempting to appear cool and collected.
“Lady Calpurnia Hartwell, to see Miss Juliana.” Drawing herself up to her full height, Callie spoke, willing the words to come in the most even-mannered of tones. She offered an ecru calling card to the butler, who received it with a low bow.
“Certainly, my lady. Miss Juliana is expecting you. Please, follow me.”
Once Jenkins had turned his back, Callie let out a long, silent sigh of relief. She followed him to an open doorway off the main marble corridor and offered him the most regal of nods as he stepped aside to let her pass into a lovely green receiving room.
Callie took in the grassy green silk that lined the walls, the detailed chaise and chairs, all beautifully crafted from mahogany and upholstered in the finest of fabrics. The lightness of the room was complemented by a stunning marble statue that stood to one side—a tall, limber female figure, carved as though holding a wide swath of fabric above her head, billowing out behind her. Callie caught her breath at the beauty of the statue; she was unable to resist moving toward it, drawn in by the quiet, secret smile that graced the goddess’s lovely face, by the liquid movement of the marble. She was admiring the fall of the figure’s gown, reaching out to touch the drape of it, half-expecting to feel warm fabric rather than cool stone, when a voice sounded from the doorway.
“She is beautiful, is she not?”
Callie whirled toward the sound with a little gasp. In the doorway was Ralston, flashing a rakish grin, as though he was amused by her discomfort.
No—not Ralston.
The man in the doorway was Lord Nicholas St. John, tall and broad, with a chiseled jaw and glittering blue eyes, identical to Ralston in every way but one. St. John’s right cheek was marked with a wicked scar, a long, thin white line that tore across his bronzed skin in stark contrast with the rest of the man, an impeccable gentleman. Where the scar should have given St. John a dangerous countenance, instead it made him more alluring. Callie had seen respectable women of good ton turn into utter imbeciles when near St. John—something he seemed not to notice.
“Lord Nicholas,” she said with a smile, offering a short dip of the head as he crossed the room to take her hand and bow deeply.
“Lady Calpurnia”—he smiled warmly—“I see you have discovered my lady love.” Nicholas indicated the statue.
“Indeed, I have.” Callie turned her attention back to the marble. “She is stunning. Who is the artist?”
St. John shook his head, a gleam in his eye revealing his pride. “Unknown. I found her off the southern coast of Greece several years ago. I spent seven months collecting marbles there, came home with far too many and donated this beauty to the betterment of Ralston House, on the condition that my brother give her a proper home.” He paused, transfixed by the statue. “I believe she is Selene, goddess of the moon.”
“She looks so content.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well,” Callie said tentatively, “Selene’s is not the happiest of stories. After all, she is doomed to love a mortal in eternal sleep.”
St. John turned at her words, obviously impressed. “Her own fault. She should have known better than to ask favors of Zeus. That particular course of action never ends well.”