Master of Love (22 page)

At the door, she reached up to straighten the cravat of his elegant evening wear, just for the devilish delight of watching him squirm. “You'll adore Verrey's. Get the five-course dinner,” she instructed him. “I recommend their filleted sole—it's the specialty of the house—and order a soufflé to finish. And you must certainly choose a good bottle of champagne.”

He surprised her then, by leaning down for a quick peck on her cheek. “Thank you, Lady Rexton. You are, as always, a marvel.”

“Save that for Marie, you naughty boy,” she said, swatting at him. “Although you're right, of course—I am.”

She waved him down the steps with a pleased grin and turned to Callista next. “And you, my dear, I will see tomorrow night at Rexton House. I am
most
looking forward to Dominick's dinner party.” Her next plan involved ensuring her son and this girl had some time alone to themselves after the dinner. Watching their smoldering looks and lingering hand-holding as they bid each other good night in the doorway, Celeste feared a conflagration if the sparks between them snapped any hotter. She could almost feel sorry for these young people—they were so pitifully slow and incompetent at managing their own affairs.

She tossed Dom her ermine pelerine and allowed him to settle it around her shoulders as they stepped into the chill of a darkening Bloomsbury Square. They strolled toward the corner where Meacham held the horses as the lamplighter fired the gas down the street. Carriages clattered by, and top-hatted gentlemen walked home carrying work satchels. Looking up at her son's chiseled profile, she was struck again by how beautiful he was—a ruggedly masculine version of herself, playing at the same society games of love she did. Yet few could tell he played to lose himself. A mother knew, however; the games only deepened his buried sadness. She tried to search his dark eyes, but their mask of shadows hid his true self even from her.

Maudlin dramatics, indeed. Those two needed to resolve their attraction, soon.

“You're at the top of your form this evening, Mother,” Dom commented dryly, after he'd settled her into the carriage.

“I am, aren't I?” She hunched her shoulders in delight and ticked off couples on her gloved fingers: “Marie with Danvers, you and that delightful Miss Higginbotham, and me with my two young bucks, clothed in a fabulous new wardrobe.”

The whip cracked and the horses' harness jangled as the carriage started to roll. “Not everyone appreciates you arranging their life for them,” Dom grumbled. “I don't need to be set up by my own mother.”

“Certainly not. Not the Master of Love.” She reached over to pat his cheek. “I only want you to be happy, dear.”

Dom rolled his eyes. Were not his mother a widow with enough money to do as she pleased, a generous heart, a reputation during her marriage free of any scandal, and a woman still celebrated as the “Celestial Beauty,” she'd have suffered more social censure for her ways. As it was, Jane and he marveled at how much she got away with. But he loved his outrageous mother, and he'd never doubted she loved him.

Unlike his father.

He asked a question much on his mind of late, aided by the gentle rocking of the carriage and the deep gloaming within it. “Why did you marry Father?”

She shrugged and seemed to take his inquiry in stride, almost as if she'd anticipated it. “He was intelligent. I knew he'd produce bright children. I didn't count on his being so difficult toward you, however.”

“You married him
because
he was intelligent, a philosopher and scholar?”

“Of course, darling! Intelligence is what really matters, along with basic kindness. Everyone knows that.”

At his puzzled frown, she gave a little smile and sank back against the cushions as the horses clattered over the stone pavement of the city streets. “I seduced him deliberately. I'd already had a dozen or more splendid proposals, but the men all seemed so . . . flighty compared to your father. I wanted smart children. My parents hadn't allowed me to study with George and his tutors—your grandmama always said brains didn't become a lady. Pooh!” She flicked a hand. “What nonsense! I made sure Jane was well educated beyond the typical drawing-room accomplishments, even whilst I taught her how to hide it from men.”

“So Father was attractive to you
because
he was intelligent?”

“I already said that, Dominick. Do try to focus. Of course intelligence is the most attractive quality in a man. It would be in a woman as well, if men weren't so stupid and shallow.”

“Did you love him, then?”

“Love?” She wrinkled her nose. “That's such a newfangled notion, and a dangerous one in my opinion. One loves children and dogs. One enjoys a lover. And if one is lucky, one gets along with a spouse. Your father was an appropriate match with an excellent fortune, willing to sign a marriage contract for a most generous jointure—one thing your grandmama
was
smart about—and, as I said, in possession of a solid intellect. I thought that would be enough.”

“Was it?” It was a new question for him, whether his mother had been satisfied with her marriage. She was such a social butterfly, a reigning beauty even as she aged, setting fashion trends and flitting gaily from party to party. As a boy, he'd assumed that meant she was happy with her husband and that his own inability to please the man only served to prove Dom was a failure.

“The one area in which your father disappointed me,” she answered slowly, rearranging the folds of her cloak, “was his coldness to you and your sister. He had no idea how to relate to children and truly didn't care for them. But worse in your case was his cruelty about your studies and your looks. Do you know what he told me once? That he'd never known anyone to pick up Latin as quickly as you did. Your first tutor said you had the makings of a genius.” She glanced at Dom sadly. “Your father fired him the next week.”

“But why?” His question held all the bewilderment and pain of a boy who could never please his father and never understand how it was he always failed.

She sighed deeply and held on to the strap as Meacham turned the horses onto the Strand to set them trotting smartly toward Belgravia. “Your father was a very insecure man. He'd agonize over his writing, worried it was never as good as some rival philosopher's work. He didn't want you to become a competitor.”

“But I wouldn't have! I'd have been his student, perhaps eventually a collaborator.”

“He couldn't see that,” she said, shaking her head. “He saw you as a rival, so he became an impossibly demanding perfectionist who put you down all the time. He took pleasure in dismissing you as my ‘mama's boy' because you favored me so much in looks. The more handsome you became, the more it gave him an excuse to mock you and your studies.” She cocked her head at him. “Do you still have those essays you used to work at, Dom, or any new ones?”

He was certainly avoiding
that
question. “Father made me believe my mind was worthless, that my only value was in this bloody face!” He hated that he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. In angry frustration, he lifted the curtain to look out the window at the pools of gaslight shining through murky patches of fog.

“You know better than that, dear. I'm afraid it's your cross to bear in life that you're both brilliant and the most comely man in all of England,” his mother teased.

He cast her a sour glance.

She continued more gently. “You can't let the past determine your future, Dom. What's important now is Callista and what comes next.” She appraised him with a sideways look. “You two are good for each other. And the girl comes from fine stock, even though her family is impoverished. You could marry her, you know. We don't need the dowry.”

“I wouldn't make her a fit husband—I'm a fraud,” he mumbled.

She clucked her tongue. “Such self-pitying dramatics, Dom. Is it really as bad as all that?” She arched an eyebrow slyly. “Why don't you take her as a lover, then? Say tomorrow, after the dinner party?”

“Mother! She's a respectable woman! That's what the whole party is about—remember?” The irony was not lost on him that his mother was suggesting exactly what he had in mind. He just didn't want her saying it, for God's sake.

“Having a lover is a perfectly respectable thing to do. Leave it to me. I'll arrange it.”

“No—no!” He leaned forward, waving his hands. “Don't do anything!”

His mother took his hand and patted it reassuringly. “Don't worry, dear. What matters here is Callista. I think you've finally found a woman who means something to you.” She gave him an arch look. “Perhaps it's time to be Master of Love for real.”

A strangled laugh escaped him.

His mother was right about one thing, however: nothing mattered but Callista. Suddenly, his doubts and hesitations fell away.

He didn't know how it would all work out.

But she was his, and it was time to make it so.

Chapter 13

I
t was entirely inappropriate for her, an unmarried young woman, to remain after the dinner party as the last guest of the evening. But Dominick and his mother arranged it so smoothly, with even more than their usual share of charming finesse, that they pulled it off without a hitch. Callista's heart quickened as she realized what it meant.

She was alone with him.

The Duke and Duchess of Sherbrooke had been first to leave, after much affectionate chitchat and Her Grace's insistence that Lady Mildred and Callista pay her a morning call soon. The duchess was the only remaining lady of the original four Society of Love cofounders; she was mother to Lenora, girlhood best friend of Callista, Beatrice, and their other bosom companion Genevieve. Although Lenora and Genevieve were both in Europe, Her Grace expressed the wish that the young women would all renew their friendship. Callista didn't dare hope for that miracle but was grateful every day to have Beatrice back in her life.

Sir George left next with her great-aunt—whispering something naughty in Lady Mildred's ear, to judge from her giggled “Oh, George!”—and headed off to a card party hosted by friends. Dominick's sister and her husband, Gideon, Lord Yarborough, offered to take Callista in their coach; Lord Yarborough had been particularly congenial all evening, as Callista had procured him a signed original edition of Machiavelli's
The Prince
to present to the prime minister. Lady Rexton, however, told Gideon she and Dominick would see Miss Higginbotham home to Bloomsbury, as Lady Rexton had an evening engagement to the east and her son could drop them both off before heading to his club.

A few hearty handshakes at the door ushered everyone out. With a wink, Lady Rexton slipped out last, in a midnight-blue creation by Marie that had her son studiously fixing his eyes above her neck all evening, as though he could steer all other men's eyes thusly. She disappeared into a phaeton waiting up the square manned by a smart-looking buck.

Dominick picked up from the hall table the boxed set of Seneca's early essays that Lady Beatrice had brought as a gift. “An excellent choice on your friend's part. I remember mentioning to you just last week how I was searching for these essays. It's quite an amazing coincidence”—his eyes twinkled—“that Lady Beatrice presented them to me this evening.” He held out a hand and adopted his most innocent tone. “Before I take you home, Miss Higginbotham, perhaps you could show me where we should shelve this new acquisition?”

At the quirk of her mouth, he tugged her down the corridor to the library. She didn't have it in her to protest. The evening had been so lovely—with warm conversation, delicious food, and not a hint of scandal or censure—that she didn't want it to end. She sank contentedly into what had become her favorite leather chair in front of the fireplace, where the coals burned low, while he shelved the Seneca among the newly completed Roman classics section.

It gave her an excuse to watch him move—one of her greatest secret pleasures. Surely no man had ever been so beautiful, so leonine in his grace. In the dim light of the library, his hair shone that dark burnished gold and his eyes were an unfathomable black.

As he stretched up to slip the volumes into place, his dinner coat pulled tight across the broad width of his shoulders. Just looking at him did something chaotic to her insides. She couldn't help it—the elegant male line of his body drew a sigh of pure delight out of her.

Turning in her direction, he lifted an eyebrow. A smug smile curved his lips into a look of arrogant male self-satisfaction.

Oh dear, he'd heard her. And now he was stalking toward her like a tomcat on the prowl.

“You seemed to enjoy yourself this evening, Callista.” The leather creaked as he settled into the chair beside her.

Somehow her name, on his lips, rang differently now they were alone. She had to shake herself from the foolish idea that he was making it sound exotic and lush and that he found
her
to be exotic and lush as well.

She was only the librarian, a book dealer, very proper and plain, despite Marie's emerald silk gown and French perfume and primping.

She cleared her throat. “It was a lovely dinner party. Your cook outdid herself, and seeing the duchess again was a great treat.”

“You were the treat, Callista.” Dominick leaned toward her. “Do you know your inner fire glows to match your flaming hair when you let yourself relax?”

She patted her coiffure self-consciously. “My hair is hardly flaming. It's more auburn, surely, than red.” Far too conspicuous and ridiculous a color for her taste, but it did run in the family.

His lips twitched in a smile. “Trust me. Glorious, flaming, glowing, passionate red. Your hair
and
the fire within you. I watched you glow all evening. It gave me great pleasure.”

“Well.” She hardly knew what to say to
that
daring comment. He flirted with ladies all the time, but she still found herself badly tongue-tied in response. “I'm happy to provide you with pleasure.”

As soon as the words escaped her, she flushed. Good Lord, she was an intelligent and well-read woman! Couldn't she come up with a better reply than that she wanted to pleasure the man? To her shame, however, she recognized its truth. She did want to pleasure him. She'd even allowed herself to imagine he'd perhaps set up this evening with such an end in mind. After all, she had asked him to show her the passion between them. But now they were alone, the butterflies in her stomach testified to her rapidly fleeing nerve.

Dominick reached over her lap to tug her twisting hands into his warm grip. “Callista”—and now he did, undeniably, pull out her name into a seductive, low-pitched drawl—“sweet Callista, there are more pleasures we could share.”

She risked a quick glance at him. What wicked lights glinted in his dark chocolate gaze!

He turned her palm over in his large hand and stroked it lightly with the tip of a long finger. Her stomach did a strange flip, and she struggled for control. “You have me at a disadvantage. I'm not one of your sophisticated society ladies. I don't know how to flirt and tease.” She ducked her head and tried to pull her hand away. “I fear you mock me. Perhaps I should be heading home.”

Dominick let go of her hand but blocked her rise by dropping to his knees in front of her armchair. “I'll see you safely home whenever you wish, but I assure you I'm not mocking you. Your name in Greek means ‘most beautiful,' and you are when your fire glows like this. I would have you glow more.”

Very slowly, softly, with no more pressure than a warm breeze, he began to brush his lips across the side of her face, high on her cheekbone. She felt his breath in her ear and the sound of his low purr. When he dipped his head to set his lips at the base of her throat and trail wet kisses back up to her ear, she couldn't stop her head from lolling against the chair and a deep shuddering breath from escaping her body.

She wanted to arch up and pull him to her, but the wantonness of her desires confused her. She tried to think like the mature woman she claimed to be, although rational thought was fast becoming difficult. Was this merely a harmless after-dinner kiss in the library, the sort of dalliance sophisticated members of the ton engaged in regularly? Was this leading somewhere?
Please, God, yes!
she felt some part of her cry. Or was he only toying with her?

He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. The earlier merriment was gone, replaced by a burning intensity and a look something like amazement. “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he took a deep breath and attempted, apparently, to regain his own control.

“Why are you kissing me?” she squeaked out breathlessly.

“God, how can I not?” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “I think you're made for me to kiss. I
need
to kiss you. You
need
to be kissed,” he said firmly, as if he'd reached some decision that brooked no debate. This did not sound like the smooth-talking and self-possessed charmer of his reputation. Indeed, he sounded a little dazed himself.

When he looked at her again, his big hands now motionless on her shoulders, his gaze fell immediately to her lips. He bent his head slowly toward her, as if a magnetic pull centered at her mouth left him helpless to resist.

Truly, she couldn't disagree with the man's logic; she
did
need to be kissed, and by him. There seemed a quality of magic to the moment, a suspension of normal reality. When again would she, the Honorable—the prim and oh-so-proper—Miss Callista Higginbotham ever find herself in the arms of London's most notorious lover? A beautiful man possessed of godlike looks, yes, but more importantly—so much more importantly—a powerful man of honor and keen wit and some mesmerizing ability to call her soul to his.

For years, she'd had no illusions a life of passion and romance would ever form any part of her fate. And yet here, now, was passion—kindling that inner fire Dominick described with an intensity that shocked. If he was offering lovemaking, she'd not back down now. To say no would be like saying no to breathing, to tilting one's face to the sun, to one's heart beating. Here was the fire of life and living.

Heavens,
he
needed to kiss her?
She
needed to kiss, to know what it was to be desired, to be treated tenderly and with fierce passion as a woman. Not only as a sister, a household manager, a friend, a female book dealer tottering on the edge of ridicule and financial collapse.

As his mouth nibbled at the corners of hers, she knew she would freely give all he asked, greedily take all he offered, and deal with the damned consequences tomorrow. Tonight she wanted to be—
for once in her life!—
impulsive and improper and wayward and loved. Some back part of her mind, where rationality sat banished but not silenced, warned her there lay the rub. This wasn't about love, but about bedding down; she would forget that distinction at her peril.

“Shhh.” The sound whispered from her was meant for her wiser self. She
knew
she'd never have all of him. But she could have some, for now. Surely that was enough?

It would have to be, because it was more than she could turn down. She felt a fluttering within her breast, an opening up and release of a new self beginning to stretch wings.

“Callista?” There was inquiry in his voice but seduction in his mouth. He used his tongue to trace a wet path along the edge of her lower lip and lick into the corners of her mouth. “Mmm, delicious . . . cream and honey and wine.”

He rubbed his smooth-shaven cheek against her own. “Rose petals and velvet,” he murmured into her ear.

And then he dipped his head to inhale deeply along the column of her throat. “Gardenias, the ocean at night, and some indescribable essence of Callista.”

He leaned his forehead into hers, his voice thickened with passion. “Let me make love to you, beauty. I'll see no harm comes to you, I promise.”

She wasn't entirely certain what this promise was in reference to—her reputation? the pain of her virginity? the possibility of breeding?—but discussion seemed beside the point. She had needs of her own, and, at the moment, they involved having his mouth on hers, doing those delightful little tricks with his tongue.

She realized with a start he'd already seduced her long ago. Perhaps from that afternoon when he'd gifted her with Pliny's
Historia
and confessed abashedly that he liked to read it himself. Perhaps while he squired her around her back garden.

For answer, she looped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He was still on his knees in front of her low crimson leather chair. He set his hands on her own knees to spread her full skirts and push into the V of her body. It felt horribly wanton to open her legs like that and yet thrilling at the same time.

With a low growl, he set one hand against the shoulder blades of her back and another on her bottom and slid her into full contact with his form. The breath fled her body, and she heard herself moan.

His hard chest crushed her breasts, his hand kneaded her buttocks, and that other hard piece of him began to rock rhythmically into the juncture of her thighs. Her stomach clenched, and heat seared her. What
were
those secret parts of them called? The French erotica in Sir George's collection had proven most enlightening reading but was still rather vague on specifics. Their position seemed to align them perfectly for a joining, the details of which were rapidly becoming clarified.

“Your hair. I need it down, now.” He began to pull pins from her coiffure and toss them aside. “Do you know how much I think about this hair of yours, how often I've imagined you with it down, caressing your naked body as you tease me to come to you?”

Good Lord,
she thought, stunned by his words.
That is me, in his fantasy!?
He thought about her that way? Could she be that erotic image he painted?

He needed two hands to get out all the pins and loosen the complicated twists and ringlets and ribbons Marie had woven for the evening. But his other hand didn't seem to want to leave her bottom, where it kept her tightly tucked against his insistent rubbing.

Not wanting him to stop that intoxicating pleasure herself, she reached up her arms to dismantle her coiffure. The movement caused her breasts to arch toward his face, and she watched with some amusement as his gaze dropped into her cleavage. He was like a boy opening too many presents at once and abandoning the favorite of a moment ago for a new excitement.

He brushed a thumb pad across the tops of her breasts, pushed up by her corset. The full brilliance of Marie's dressmaking skills became clear to her. This low-shouldered gown became more enticing the more one was seduced in it, so to speak. It gave a lover something to play with. The stiff horizontal bands of fabric pleating around the bodice shielded her bosom from the gaze of onlookers. But a lover, holding her close and gazing down, was treated to a lovely shadowy area that begged to be explored.