Master of Love (4 page)

“So you do have a recommendation,” Lord Rexton murmured, dangling a Tokay dessert wine in one hand while he popped grapes into his mouth.

And what a hothouse expense those must be this time of year,
Callista couldn't help but think. “Yes, my lord. Instead of a catalog book, I'd like to experiment with a catalog system of individual cards, perhaps arranged in specially made drawers. One could then easily add a new card with identifying details for each additional book acquired into the collection.”

“But how, then, does one know where to find the book?” Lady Barrington asked. “Surely any catalog is useless unless it directs one to the properly numbered shelf?”

“I think perhaps instead of numbering the shelves, we could number the books themselves, perhaps with some special code to indicate a subject classification as well.”

“It sounds terribly confusing to me,” the lady replied, shrugging. “But then again, we're quite the outsiders in such a roomful of intellectual luminaries, aren't we, Rex? I fear I don't know what we can contribute.”

“Don't fret, my lady. Your beauty warms the room,” Mr. Claremont said, gallant and oblivious, as seemed his wont.

To Callista, the unspoken statement about what contribution Lord Rexton had to offer was all too obvious: the patronage of his money, the bounty of his table, his own pretty face. She found herself feeling strangely sorry for him and wanting to offer a defense on his behalf. “In possession of such a library, Lord Rexton's credentials are quite stellar. I'm beginning to suspect there's not another collection in England outside the British Museum to rival what's under this roof.”

Her comment hung awkwardly in the air. “Somewhat lost on Lord Adonis, though, isn't it?” Mr. Thompson offered jokingly. “If I had the looks and manners of his lordship, I wouldn't waste my time in a library.”

An uneasy chuckle rippled round the room. “You waste enough of your time there now, Thompson,” joked Mr. Walpole, the graying shock-haired head tutor from the university, “although at least you're not as bad as that fool lord last year. Remember that scandal? The young buck fancied himself the next Plato, actually got his father the earl to bribe the university so he could teach our students the drivel he was churning out. They ended up laughing him off the lectern. Last I heard, he was licking his wounds in India.”

“Lord Rexton's situation is nothing of that sort,” Callista said staunchly. “I'm sure he simply appreciates these books for the treasures they are.”

“They'll look lovely on my shelves.” Their host tossed another grape into his mouth with studied nonchalance. “Heaven knows when I'll ever have time or occasion to read them.”

She furrowed her brow at his indifference and saw his expression harden over in response.

He straightened to pour himself more of the Tokay from the table decanter. “Not everyone, my dear Miss Higginbotham, spends their evenings curled up with a book. Some of us are otherwise occupied.” He gave her a lazy and dismissive once-over and popped in another grape.

She felt a crimson flush spread at his implication, clear to all, that she was a washed-up spinster.

Lady Barrington stood to signal the end of luncheon and began to lead the company from the table. She smiled and took Lord Rexton's arm. “To each their own. Miss Higginbotham obviously cares little for balls and musicales and questions of social standing and reputation. She's content to spend her time on books and sales to gentlemen who I'm sure are very grateful for all the useful services she provides.”

Callista stiffened in hot humiliation. So much for a pleasant luncheon—she should have known the harpy and Lord Adonis weren't to be trusted. She couldn't have been more clearly branded a fallen outsider. Even Mr. Claremont frowned in some confusion. The company turned, stepping away from Lord Rexton and Lady Barrington, and left them standing arm in arm. Rexton looked rigid, frozen to the spot. Even the tightness of Lady Barrington's smile seemed to indicate she sensed she'd gone too far.

Callista backed away, pushing a hand hard against the knot at her waist. “If . . . if you'll all excuse me, I must get back to the library.” She hesitated, desperate to escape and loath to have any further contact with
him,
yet conscious of the requirements of her duty. “My lord, might I have a moment of your time later today? There are some questions of organization I really do need to settle with you.”

He bowed, a Greek god of icy perfection. “I shall put myself at your service.”

Her eyes rested on his for just a moment, and then she fled.

Chapter 3

C
allista:
Dom mentally tried out the name he'd had to inquire from Danvers. Bizarre though it was—she wasn't at all Dom's usual type—she'd intruded into his thoughts all afternoon. He'd endured squiring Anna and Lady Vaughnley on an interminable round of social calls through which he'd valiantly flirted and engaged in the expected risqué double entendres. As he now paced down the corridor to his library, an irritating twinge of conscience marred his anticipation. To his surprise, the delectably prim Miss Higginbotham had defended him at luncheon; to his disgrace, he'd returned the favor by exposing her to ridicule. He knew he'd behaved badly when he'd done nothing to deflect Anna's snide comments and instead added his own, but the earnestness of the woman's defense had prodded his old shame to lash out. On seeing her whitened cheeks, he'd regretted right away setting her up for sport. Too late—the damage had been done.

He sighed. He should have been inured to feeling left out, and jealousy over the scholar's life was only ridiculous self-indulgence at this point. The bookish woman, however, had a strange way of provoking his demons. She'd reacted with such courageous hurt that he could tell she, too, was accustomed to being made an outsider.

Callista:
he savored the name. Gorgeous gray eyes—he'd caught mere flashes—luminous, heavily ringed by black lashes and winged brows, yet haunted somehow. Porcelain cream skin, but so pale across the cheeks and shadowed under those lovely eyes. A tall, elegant frame, almost painfully thin—except, he'd noted, for a most pert little bosom. And hair he was ready to bet she would loathe to have described as red. Perhaps one could charitably call it a rich auburn brown, but he would put down money that, unpinned and unwound from those damnably tight braids and that chignon, her hair would be a vivid Titian red.

He'd tried at first to be as lightly flirtatious with his new librarian as he was with the other ladies—indeed as he was with all ladies. But she just threw him fleeting glances from those serious gray eyes and refused to reply in kind. So he'd watched her throughout the meal and tried to figure her out; it was an old seducer's trick—pay attention not to a woman's words, but to the tone of their delivery, to her hand gestures and the movement of her body. In the case of the Honorable Miss Higginbotham, everything about her bespoke caution, reserve—even fear. He'd never met a woman who held herself so stiffly, with such an air of tense fragility radiating from that rigid spine. She cut her food with obsessive precision and drank very sparingly, although she ate surprisingly well for someone so thin. Had she gone hungry recently? She'd held her own with the company but hadn't smiled once during the meal—not even while talking with the professors.

What in blazes made someone so tautly controlled?

And what made him so intrigued?

You're getting jaded, old boy.

Self-disdain was no new emotion. What did surprise him, as he walked through the library's heavy double doors, was the itch tingling through his veins to see her again. His prickly librarian put him off his stride, yet despite his careening emotions around her, he found he rather welcomed the novel sensation.

It was his favorite time of day to be in the room. The late-afternoon sun slanted in low through the west windows overlooking St. James's Square and cast the room in a rich golden glow. As a boy, he'd often hidden among these lengthening shadows to devour books his father and tutor had said scathingly were far beyond him. Pacing now into the chamber, the sight of its occupant brought him up short and lifted the corner of his lip.

The oh-so-correct Honorable Miss Higginbotham was tucked in his favorite leather armchair by the low-burning hearth, asleep. One hand held a blue-bound book on her lap and the other pillowed her cheek in a childlike gesture that broadened his smile.

He approached quietly. As a gentleman, he admonished himself for spying on a lady in a private moment, but the devil in him found it impossible to resist.

Relaxed in sleep, she no longer gave off such a formidable impression of tight-lipped, grim determination. She was a handsome woman, although her looks were far more challenging than Anna's petite and blond prettiness. She was quite tall for one thing, coming up even to above his chin, he'd noticed earlier. A strong jaw and high brow framed her face, centered by a nose he'd call . . .
assertive,
he decided, cocking his head for a better look. And her lips, soft in repose, had a tantalizing bow shape. Taken all together, her features made for a striking combination.

Pacing silently around the armchair, he considered her gown—well-tailored, good-quality woolen, but in a drab gray with a high neck and no ornamentation; she had been the sole lady at luncheon without jewelry. He tried to judge her age. Not a young schoolroom miss, but he doubted she was as old as his thirty-two years. Late twenties, perhaps? He frowned at those dark shadows marking the thin skin under her eyes. Surely she wasn't supporting an entire household by herself?

She shifted restlessly, and one of the last sunbeams of the day fell upon her hair.
Yes, definitely a fiery red
. It would have some curl, he guessed, were it not so ruthlessly scraped back into those braided loops, now hanging crooked at her temples, and bound at her nape. She was definitely not making the most of her looks, although the severity of her toilette somehow suited her, for she was clearly not a frivolous woman.

And then he saw they were not alone. A scrawny boy of about fourteen years sat on the floor with his back against the far corner of the settee, scowling at him fiercely.

Ah, this must be Billy.

Dom lifted one arched brow in inquiry. Damned if he'd be made to feel ashamed by some footboy for standing in his own library. When the lad jerked his chin back toward the door and stalked silently over there himself, Dom didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused. Apparently he was being summoned for an interview.

He followed the boy. “Billy, I take it?” He kept his voice quiet but adopted his haughtiest tone.

“Aye, Billy Miller, and ye must be his lordship.”

Dom sketched him a mocking bow, but the boy wouldn't be intimidated.

“I saw ye watchin' her,” Billy spat out. “I know what ye were thinkin'.”

“Clairvoyant, are you?” Dom drawled.

“I may not know all yer big words,” the boy sneered, “but I do know Miss H. is not one to be trifled with. And she's not for the likes of ye, m'lord.”

He felt himself bristling to have his measure taken so easily by this urchin. “And who are you, to be making such pronouncements?”

“I work for Miss H. She saved my life and now I help her with things. She's probably the smartest lady in the world. Do you know she speaks six languages?” Billy's voice cracked.

“A most admirable accomplishment.”

“Aye, but there be some things she don't know much about, if ye take my meanin'. Miss H.'s a proper lady.”

“I would never have presumed otherwise.” The woman exuded straitlaced propriety. As he'd noted, not at all his type.

“Ye be presumin', all right,” the boy said. “I could see it on yer face when ye were spyin' on her.”

“I was certainly not spying on Miss Higginbotham,” Dom answered hotly before remembering he was defending himself to a footboy. He took a deep breath. “I came in here to discuss a matter of business with your mistress.”

“Then let's keep it businesslike, shall we, m'lord? Miss H.'s got those that care to look out for her.”

“You protect her honor, lad?” He was amazed at the boy's gall yet found he couldn't help but admire him.

“If need be, aye.” Billy glared up at him, hands fisted at his sides on long, gangly arms.

Dom supposed he should cuff the boy for his insolence but actually had to fight to keep a smile off his face. Miss Higginbotham gave the impression of being rather alone in the world, with burdens on her slim shoulders, but she clearly wasn't without friends, at least of a sort.

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I respect your position.”

The boy held his gaze for a long moment and then nodded. “As long as we understand each other.”

Their voices must have reached Callista, for she began to stir. “Billy?”

Upon seeing them, she gasped and sat up so quickly her book fell to the floor.

“My lord, you startled me!” She picked up the volume and put it on the chair's arm as she sat there, blinking and bemused. “I'm sorry, I must have dozed off.”

He smiled and sketched her a small bow. “My apologies for waking you.” This was better, with her cheeks pink and hair loosened from her nap.

She looked to the ornate gilt clock on the mantel. “Goodness, how long did I sleep?” The worried little frown he'd thought permanently etched on her forehead was already starting to return.

Billy rushed to defend her. “It's not Miss H.'s fault! No one works harder than her! She just don't get much sleep lately, what with worryin' about us and all.”

“Billy!” She flushed. “His lordship does not need to hear any of this.”

Dom turned to her young protector. “Lad, go find the footman in the hall and request coffee in the library for Miss Higginbotham and myself. And then head around back to the stables and tell them I said the carriage should be brought out front for your mistress within half an hour. You can wait there until the horses are ready.”

The boy looked at his mistress, clearly unwilling to take orders from him.

Dom rolled his eyes.

“Go on, Billy, and do as Lord Rexton bids,” she said, nodding at the boy. “I'll be fine.”

As the lad left the room, she smoothed her hair and pushed pins firmly into the chignon.
Putting your armor back in place,
Dom thought.
Pity
.

“I assure you this behavior is not typical for me.” She pushed to her feet. “I am usually very responsible—” She broke off as she teetered a bit and put out a hand to steady herself against the armchair. Her book fell again to the carpet with a soft thud.

He stepped up and put a hand under her elbow. “Easy now.” She was the perfect height. And he was close enough to catch her scent: warm, female, soft. Gardenia? It filled his nose and slid down to tickle the base of his spine.

“I'm fine, thank you.” She tried to step back but had to content herself with turning away sideways from his light grip.

He hid a smile at her retreat.
What a prickly little creature you are, Miss H.

“And I do promise this will not happen again. I fear I am not accustomed to such a large midday meal.” She cleared her throat. “It apparently left me a bit sleepy.”

“Ah, well”—he leaned toward her and did smile then, in his way that always had the ladies swooning—“we'll have to ensure we starve you at noontime from now on.”

She shot him a furtive glance from beneath that jet-black fringe of lashes. Was she checking to see if he was serious? He kicked himself again at the hint of fear in her serious gray eyes. But he registered a flicker of irritation as well that his jest fell unaccustomedly flat, as did his smile.

“There is no need to concern yourself,” he said, trying again. “I've often fallen asleep with a good book after luncheon myself.” It was a lie, but he wanted that anxious look off her face, now.

“I'm delighted you enjoy such leisure, but I do not fall asleep whilst working.” She smoothed down her skirts and squared her shoulders.

More armor, but at least she's looking in my general direction now.
And he liked the salt back in her tone. “With a paragon such as yourself, I have no doubt.”

She pursed her lips into a disapproving line and stepped back to bend down for the fallen book.

He stooped to reach it first and handed it to her as they both crouched low. “I trust you won't make a habit of dropping all my books to the floor? Hard on the bindings, you know.” Teasing her appealed as a potential pleasure, if his proper librarian wouldn't allow him to flirt.

“I shall contrive, my lord,” she replied dryly, “to keep them where they belong. Is it your desire that I put this one with the other blue-bound books, so they might all look lovely on your shelves?” She tossed his words from luncheon back to him. She stood, placing the book and most of a stack tottering on the floor onto the leather seat of the chair. She then picked up the remaining volumes and marched to a long central table, where she slapped them smartly on top of a pile.

He followed, hard-pressed to keep a smile off his face. “A little testy, aren't we, Miss Higginbotham?” Her feathers seemed delightfully easy to ruffle, and he sensed a temper beneath her mask of formal politeness that the devil in him itched to test. Unable to help himself, he strolled up behind her and murmured in her ear, “Do you have a guilty conscience, perhaps?”

“I beg your pardon?” That got her attention, and she shot a startled glance over her shoulder at him.

“You seem unable to look me in the eye. Are you plotting to steal my prize books, perhaps?”

“My lord!” Outrage widened her eyes and brought them squarely to his for the first time. A shock of connection sizzled in his gut.
Not gray, but moonlit ocean flecked with silver
. He felt an odd sort of shift within himself, as if the woman came abruptly into sharper focus.

“I . . . I would never—I have never stolen in my life!” she sputtered.

The annoyance in her eyes gave way to worry, and he suddenly found it most aggravating. Did she think he would throw her out on a suspicion? He wasn't an ogre. Although, he had to admit, that “Master of Love” drivel meant it had been ages since he'd felt honest. He'd played a part so long, some days he wasn't sure who he was anymore. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I was merely teasing.”