She leaned into his caress, unable to resist, as he moved his hand to grasp her chin. “What is your name?” he asked softly.
She winced, knowing what was to come, “Calpurnia.” She closed her eyes again, embarrassed by the extravagant name—a name with which no one but a hopelessly romantic mother with an unhealthy obsession with Shakespeare would have considered saddling a child.
“Calpurnia.” He tested the name on his tongue. “As in, Caesar’s wife?”
The blush flared higher as she nodded.
He smiled. “I must make it a point to better acquaint myself with your parents. That is a bold name, to be sure.”
“It’s a horrible name.”
“Nonsense. Calpurnia was Empress of Rome—strong and beautiful and smarter than the men who surrounded her. She saw the future, stood strong in the face of her husband’s assassination. She is a marvelous namesake.” He shook her chin firmly as he spoke.
She was speechless in the wake of his frank lecture. Before she had a chance to reply, he continued. “Now, I must take my leave. And you, Lady Calpurnia, must return to the ballroom, head held high. Do you think you can do that?” He gave her chin a final tap and stood, leaving her cold in the wake of his departure.
She stood with him and nodded, starry-eyed. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good girl.” He leaned closer and whispered, his breath fanning the hair at her nape, warming her in the cool April night. “Remember, you are an empress. Behave as one, and they will have no choice but to see you as such. I already do…” He paused, and she held her breath, waiting for his words. “Your Highness.”
And with that, he was off, disappearing deeper into the maze and leaving Callie with a silly grin on her face. She did not think twice before following him, so keen was she to be near him. At that moment, she would have followed him anywhere, this prince among men who had noticed her, not her dowry, or her horrible dress, but her!
If I am an empress, he is the only man worthy of being my emperor.
She did not have to go far to catch him. Several yards in, the maze opened on a clearing that featured a large, gleaming fountain adorned with cherubs. There, bathed in a silvery glow was her prince, all broad shoulders and long legs. Callie caught her breath at the sight of him—exquisite, as though he himself had been carved from marble.
And then she noticed the woman in his arms. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp—her hand flying to her lips as her eyes widened. In all her seventeen years, she’d never witnessed something so…wonderfully scandalous.
The moonlight cast his paramour in an aethereal light, her blond hair turned white, her pale gown gossamer in the darkness. Callie stepped back into the shadows, peering around the corner of the hedge, half-wishing she hadn’t followed, entirely unable to turn away from their embrace. My, how they kissed.
And, deep in the pit of her stomach, youthful surprise was replaced with a slow burn of jealousy, for she had never in all her life wanted to be someone else so very much. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine it was she in his arms: her long, delicate fingers threading through his dark, gleaming hair; her lithe body that his strong hands stroked and molded; her lips he nibbled; her moans coursing through the night air at his caresses.
As she watched his lips trail down the long column of the woman’s throat, Callie ran her fingers down the same path on her own neck, unable to resist pretending that the feather-light touch was his. She stared as his hand stroked up his lover’s smooth, contoured bodice and grasped the edge of the delicate gown, pulling it down, baring one high, small breast to the night. His teeth flashed wickedly as he looked down at the perfect mound and spoke a single word, “Gorgeous,” before lowering his lips to its dark tip, pebbled by the cool air and his warm embrace. His paramour threw her head back in ecstasy, unable to control her pleasure in his arms, and Callie could not tear her eyes from the spectacle of them, brushing her hand across her own breast, feeling its tip harden beneath the silk of her gown, imagining it was his hand, his mouth, upon her.
“Ralston…”
The name, carried on a feminine moan, sliced through the clearing, shaking Callie from her reverie. In shock, she dropped her hand and whirled away from the scene upon which she had intruded. She rushed through the maze, desperate for escape, and stopped once more at the marble bench where her garden excursion had begun. Breathing heavily, she collected herself, shocked by her behavior. Ladies did not eavesdrop. And they certainly did not eavesdrop in such a manner.
Besides, fantasies would do her no good.
She pushed aside a devastating pang of sorrow as the truth coursed through her. She would never have the magnificent Marquess of Ralston, nor anyone like him. She felt an acute certainty that the things he had said to her earlier were not truth, but instead the lies of an inveterate seducer, carefully chosen to appease her and send her blithely off, easing his dark tryst with his ravishing beauty. He hadn’t believed a word of it.
No, she was not Calpurnia, Empress of Rome. She was plain, old Callie. And she always would be.
One
London, England
April 1823
The incessant pounding woke him.
He ignored it at first, sleep clouding the source of the irritating noise.
There was a long pause and a thick silence fell over the bedchamber.
Gabriel St. John, Marquess of Ralston, took in the early-morning light washing over the decadently appointed room. For a moment, he remained still, registering the rich hues of the chamber, adorned with silk wall coverings and gilded edges, a garish haven of sensual pleasure.
Reaching for the lush female beside him, a half smile played over his lips as she curved her willing, naked body into his—the combination of the early hour and her heated flesh returning him to the edge of slumber.
He lay still, eyes closed, trailing his fingertips idly across his bedmate’s bare shoulder as one lithe, feminine hand stroked down the rigid planes of his torso, the direction of the caress a dark erotic promise.
Her touch became stronger, firmer, and he rewarded her skill with a low growl of pleasure.
And the pounding began again—loud and constant on the heavy oak door.
“Cease!” Ralston surged from his mistress’s bed, entirely prepared to terrify his intruder into leaving him in peace for the rest of the morning. He had barely pulled on his silk dressing gown before he tore the door open with a wicked curse.
On the threshold stood his twin brother, impeccably dressed and perfectly manicured, as though it were entirely normal to call upon one’s brother, at the home of his mistress, at the crack of dawn. Behind Nicholas St. John stood a sputtering servant, “My lord, I did my best to keep him from—”
An icy look from Ralston stopped the words in the man’s throat. “Leave us.”
Nick watched as the footman scurried away, one brow arched in amusement. “I had forgotten how charming you are in the morning, Gabriel.”
“What in God’s name brings you here at this hour?”
“I went to Ralston House first,” Nick said, “When you weren’t there, this seemed the most likely place to find you.” He let his gaze slide past his twin to land on the woman seated in the center of the enormous bed. With a lazy grin, Nick gave a nod of acknowledgment in the direction of his brother’s mistress. “Nastasia. My apologies for the intrusion.”