“I owe you an apology.”
Her brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
He set a soft kiss to her forehead, smoothing the lines there, pulling her tightly into his arms before continuing. “An apology. For everything. For the afternoon at Ralston House, for the fencing club, God, Callie, for this afternoon, even. I have treated you quite abominably, nearly compromising you at every turn. And—I should apologize.”
Callie blinked up at him, the sunlight pooling around her, turning her flushed skin the perfect shade of pink. When she did not speak, he said, “I should like to make it all up to you. I think taking you to Brooks’s would be a start.”
A shadow crossed Callie’s face fleetingly—as though she were disappointed—and then it was gone.
Ralston pressed on. “I shall take you tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Unless you have plans to spend the evening with Oxford as well?” he said, coolly.
“No…I was to attend the Cavendish Ball, however. I shall have to beg off.” She avoided his gaze.
“That would be ideal. If we go while the ball is in full cry, it will make the whole procedure much easier.”
“What shall I wear?” she asked quietly.
A memory flashed of Callie dressed in men’s clothing, wearing only tight-fitting fencing breeches, her br**sts unbound and pressed against him, her skin flushed with pleasure. Feeling his own breeches tighten, he shifted uncomfortably before saying, “I suppose you’re going to have to dress in men’s clothing. Do you have something appropriate for a club? Or will you be wearing your fencing suit?”
She blushed at his teasing before shaking her head. “No. I have something more appropriate.”
Of course she did. He refrained from asking her when she’d had cause to wear something more appropriate. This was a terrible idea.
Nonetheless, he’d given her his word. It was better that he escort her than someone else. Better him than Oxford. The thought of her clambering about in men’s clothing with Oxford was enough to make him want to put his fist into the baron’s face.
Eager to be rid of the vision of Callie and Oxford, Ralston moved to the edge of the screen, where he darted a quick glance into the room beyond to ensure they would not be seen returning from their hiding place. When he was certain they would remain unnoticed, he deftly guided her around the screen and into the main room, his pace indicating that she should attempt to appear casual as they walked through toward the main gallery. “Shall I meet you at Allendale House at half twelve?” he said, looking away from her but keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.
She nodded. “That is an ideal time. Late enough that everyone will be at the ball, early enough not to run into them coming home.” She looked up in surprise. “You’re rather good at this.”
He dipped his head as though accepting a compliment. “This isn’t the first time I’ve planned a clandestine outing.”
Her gaze skidded away. “No, I don’t imagine it would be,” she said quietly before she stopped in front of a large painting of a King Charles spaniel. She took a deep breath and continued, “The back entrance.”
He gave a hint of a nod. “I made peace with Juliana.” He did not know why he felt that he had to tell her, but he did.
Surprise flashed across her face, there and gone so quickly, he wasn’t entirely certain it had been there at all. “I am happy to hear it. She is a good girl. And I believe she is coming to care for you deeply.”
The words made him uncomfortable though he could not understand why.
Callie seemed to notice. “I am happy to hear it,” she repeated.
He nodded once. “What do you think of this?” he asked, indicating the painting nearby.
She gave him an odd look. “I think it’s an enormous painting of a dog.”
He made a show of considering the picture and nodded seriously. “An astute observation.” She gave a short laugh before he continued. “The visual arts have never been my specialty. I prefer to consider myself a connoisseur of music. As you know.” The last words were spoken softly near her ear. They were meant to fluster her, to remind her of the evening in his bedchamber…of their first kiss. The strategy worked, and Ralston couldn’t help the pleasure that shot through him at the sound of her breath catching.
“I think it best if I return to my sister,” Callie said, her voice wavering slightly.
“I shall take you.”
“No!” she said, a touch louder than she had planned. She paused, then continued. “I think I should go alone.”
For a moment, he considered pressing the issue—forcing her to accept his escort. But he recognized a battle won when he saw one. “Indeed,” he said, bowing low over her hand, before adding quietly, “Tonight, then?”
She met his gaze and held it for a long moment before she gave a small nod. “Tonight.”
And then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
Seventeen
By nine o’clock that evening, Callie was pacing her bedchamber and counting the hours until she could creep down the back stairs and begin her next adventure. Her nerves had been on edge since she’d escaped Ralston that afternoon. Between Oxford’s constant talk of himself and odd advances toward her and Mariana and Rivington’s doting upon each other, the rest of the exhibition had been interminable, not even seeing Jerusalem had made it enjoyable.
Of course, being at home was even less diverting than being at the Royal Academy. Callie had cloistered herself in her bedchamber immediately upon her return, crying headache to ensure that her mother would allow her to forgo the plans to attend the Cavendish Ball. Now she paced the little room, going quietly mad in captivity.
She turned to the clock in the corner of the room, checking the time once more. Ten past nine. She sighed, throwing herself onto the bench under the bay window that overlooked the back gardens of Allendale House.
If only Ralston hadn’t made it abundantly clear that the interludes they had shared—the moments that had made her feel so alive and exhilarated—were a mistake.
She’d wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole when he’d ended their kiss and promptly apologized. While it might have been the gentlemanly thing to do, it certainly wasn’t in Ralston’s character to apologize unless he truly regretted his behavior.
Callie could only assume that he regretted ever getting involved with her—after all, a naïve spinster wasn’t exactly the ideal companion for a first-rate rake.
But he’d called her lovely. She sighed again, pulling her legs up underneath her and playing the moment over in her mind. It had been exactly as wonderful as she’d imagined it would be—wonderful, handsome Ralston, the man she’d pined over for a decade, had finally noticed her. Not simply noticed her—said she was lovely.
And then he’d hauled off and apologized. For everything. She’d rather he’d never given her any attention at all than regret their time together.
Callie stood and went to the looking glass that stood in the corner of the room. Facing her reflection, she took herself in—Too-brown hair, too-brown eyes, too-short stature, too full a mouth, altogether unfashionably endowed with too-ample br**sts and too-wide hips.