He wrapped the linen into a small bundle and tucked it inside his waistcoat before leaning to retrieve his topcoat from the floor. As he did, he noted the square of paper that lay beneath it—the list that had set them on this wild course.
He straightened, opening his mouth to offer her the paper, but stopping just short of sound when he realized that she remained resolutely faced away from him, her back straight, shoulders squared as though she were about to do battle as she calmly inserted pins into her hair, restoring it to its original state.
For some reason, he did not want to mention her silly list. Instead, he tucked the wrinkled square into his pocket and waited for her to face him again.
Several minutes later, she did, and he was struck by the emotion in her eyes, liquid with unshed tears. In the face of her sadness, he felt like an utter ass. Swallowing, he searched for the right thing to say. He could see that she was waiting for him to speak, to say the words that would redeem him…the words that would stop the tears that threatened to spill over.
He wanted to say the right thing. He might not have been able to repair the damage he had done with his unthinking, callous behavior, but he certainly could behave the gentleman going forward. And so, he said the thing that he imagined gentlemen said in such a situation. The thing that he was certain women wanted to hear in such a situation. The thing that was sure to stop her tears.
“Please, forgive me for my behavior. Of course, we shall marry.”
He waited out the long moment during which the words hung between them, while Callie’s eyes widened in shock, then narrowed upon him as though his mind were thoroughly addled. He waited for her to realize that he’d done the gentlemanly thing. Waited for her to be pleased by—grateful for, even—his offer of marriage. Waited for her to say something—anything. He waited as she wrapped herself in his greatcoat, pulled on her gloves, and set her hat upon her head.
And, when she was done, and she had faced him and finally spoke, it was as though he’d said nothing at all. “Thank you for the supremely edifying evening, my lord. Would you mind very much taking me home?”
Well. At least she hadn’t cried.
Nineteen
Of all the arrogant—pompous—horrid—men!” Callie wrenched books from the shelves of the Allendale House library and tossed them onto the growing piles at her feet as she muttered aloud to herself. “‘Of course, we shall marry’? I wouldn’t—marry him—if he were the last—man—in—London!”
She blew a stray lock of hair from her eyes and wiped her dusty hands on the gray woolen dress she was wearing before surveying the damage she had caused over the last hour. The library had been torn asunder. There were books everywhere—on tables and chairs and in progressively less neat piles on the floor.
After a stony-silent ride home with Ralston mere hours ago, Callie had crept back into the house and found her bed, torn between a longing to crawl under the covers never to reemerge and an equally strong desire to march straight to Ralston House, wake up its master, and tell him precisely what she thought he should do with his generous, gentlemanly offer.
For several hours, she’d attempted the former…playing the events of the evening over and over in her head—alternating between tears and anger at how thoroughly he’d ruined such a remarkable evening. He’d shown her precisely how amazing passion could be, she’d seen her first glimpse of ecstasy, and then he’d gone and destroyed it. And she’d been reminded, mere moments after her discovery, that she was not destined for passion of any kind.
No, instead of Ralston saying any number of wonderful things that could have been appropriate for the precise situation in which they had found themselves—from You are the most unparalleled female I have ever known, to How can I ever live without you now that I’ve found heaven in your arms, to I love you, Callie, more than I had ever dreamed to even Shall we have another go?—he’d gone and mucked it up by apologizing.
And, even worse, mentioning marriage.
Not that marriage would have been the entirely wrong thing for him to mention. Indeed, she would have welcomed it, somewhere between You are the most unparalleled female I have ever known and How can I ever live without you now that I’ve found heaven in your arms. It would have been lovely if he’d looked into her eyes with absolute devotion, and said, Make me the happiest, luckiest, most satisfied man in the world, Callie. Marry me.
Certainly, if he’d said that—or, she allowed magnanimously, any variation on the theme—she would have collapsed, elated, into his arms and allowed him to kiss her senseless all the way home. And she would still be abed, dreaming of a long, happy life as the Marchioness of Ralston.
Instead, it was half past nine, the morning after what should have been the most marvelous evening of her entire life—including all those still left to come—and she was rearranging the library.
Hands on her hips, she gave a curt nod at the scene before her. “It seems as good a time as any.”
Well, at least she hadn’t cried.
She sneezed. First, she would have to dust.
She marched to the door and yanked it open to have footman fetch her a duster, only to discover Mariana and Anne, heads bowed, deep in whispered conversation with a maid across the hallway.
All three heads snapped up at the sound of the library door opening, and Callie noted that the maid’s jaw dropped at the sight of her. Callie spoke evenly to the servant. “I am in need of a duster.” The girl looked entirely dumbfounded, as though she failed to understand the statement. Callie tried again. “To dust. The books. In the library.” The girl appeared to be rooted to the floor of the foyer. Callie sighed. “I should like to dust the library today… do you think that will be possible?”
The question spurred the girl into motion, and she scurried off down the hall to do her mistress’s bidding. Callie leveled Mariana and Anne with a stern look. At least they had the good sense not to comment.
“Oh, my,” Mariana said, “it appears that it is worse than we thought.”
Callie’s gaze narrowed on her sister, speaking volumes, before she spun on one heel and returned to the library to begin the long process of alphabetizing the books that were now thoroughly out of order. From her spot on the floor, Callie noted that Mariana and Anne had followed her into the room. Anne stood resolutely by the closed door as Mariana perched cautiously on the arm of one chair.
They watched Callie carefully, remaining quiet for several minutes as Callie collected titles from nearby piles. Mariana broke the silence finally, asking, “What letter are you on?”
Callie looked up at her sister from amidst the towering books and said, obviously, “A.”
Mari leaned over to consider a pile of books by her feet. Deftly removing one from the stack, she flashed a self-satisfied smile, and said, “Alighieri. Inferno.”
Callie turned back to her piles. “That’s Dante. It should be shelved under D.”
“Really?” Mariana wrinkled her nose at the book in her hand. “That seems odd. His surname begins with an A.”
“Michelangelo’s surname begins with a B and we still file him under M.”
“Hmm,” Mariana said, feigning interest in the conversation. “It must be the Italians.” She paused briefly as the maid knocked and entered with a duster for Callie. When the girl had come and gone, closing the door behind her, Mari continued absently, “I wonder if Juliana would be filed under J or F?”