The Bedeviled Viscount Brockton, page 27
“We ought just to leave her,” Callie complained, hopping to her feet. “Fainting’s the only rest she’s been getting this past week or more, to hear her tell it. Now, not a another word until I return, you hear me,” she warned tightly. Then she followed after Roberts, who was telling her that two of the other footmen were supporting Her Ladyship and all that was needed until the poor dear roused was a woman present, to make things “proper.”
“Of course,” Simon promised. Then, waiting until he heard Callie’s heels clicking on the marble staircase, he leaned forward and began quietly, so that a near-to-dozing Sir Camber didn’t overhear, “I think, Justyn, my very new but soon to be very good friend, that you and I should meet privately at White’s at, say, one o’clock today, to join with two other friends of mine, and to have ourselves a small talk...”
This is a pretty flim-flam.
— Francis Beaumont
Chapter Fifteen
Callie was yawning into her hand as she heard the door to Simon’s chamber opening, signaling his return from his long day and evening spent gambling with Noel Kinsey. She sat up straighter where she sat, cross-legged and at her ease, which happened to be in the very center of Simon’s high, wide bed.
“It’s about time you found your way home,” she announced baldly, arranging her white-muslin dressing gown, which covered her from throat to toe and was, she believed, about as alluring, and seductive, as an empty grain sack.
Simon stopped where he was, lifted the small brace of candles he carried, and peered in the direction of the bed. “I must be slipping. I should have known she’d be here,” he said quietly, and to nobody in particular, or so it seemed as he then approached the bed and set down the candlestick. “Just champing at the bit to know everything that’s going on with Filton, aren’t you?”
“On the contrary,” Callie responded, stung. As if she’d stoop to begging to find out what she wanted to know! “Tomorrow will be soon enough for me, at which time I’ll quite easily pry it all out of Justyn. Unless you want to tell me first?” she added, for that was the reason she was there. She wanted to hear everything about their encounter with Noel Kinsey. About Justyn’s behavior when confronted with the man.
Not that she’d admit that to Simon. Especially after he was so correct in knowing why she had dared to invade his bedchamber.
“I’m only here to report to you about my day since you spirited my only brother out of Portland Place and left me here to fend for myself,” she continued firmly, her chin held high, when he remained silent to her suggestion.
He arched one eyebrow at her, provocatively, maddeningly. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” How strange it was to care for somebody so much, and yet want to box his ears at the same time. “You may have taken me out of the plans for Noel Kinsey, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got nothing to do but sit here and twiddle my fingers while you play at conspirator and Imogene makes a cake of herself with the squire. Your lies have set me up as an heiress, remember? You’ve introduced me to Society, foisted me on Society, as it were. Ah, you look surprised. As well you might, sir. Noel Kinsey is not your only problem at the moment, and mine, for once, aren’t the only fibs that must be maintained, perhaps confessed. However, even though this does present a problem—for you—I must admit I’ve had a vastly entertaining day, to say the least.”
“How gratifying for you. Entertaining, you say? In what way? Pardon my informality, but I’ve felt I’ve had my neck in a noose all night.”
She watched Simon lift his chin so that he could begin untying his intricate cravat, then slide the snowy white muslin from his throat. It amazed her, how at ease she felt here in his bedchamber, how at ease he himself seemed to be, with her sitting in the middle of his bed. There was something to be said for first crying friends with the man you loved. And she did love him. Madly. Not that she’d tell him. Oh no. That admission was going to have to come first from him. He owed her that much after tricking her about his plans for Filton, for making her feel the gullible fool.
“Are you going to tell me about your day, or make me guess? In what way was it so entertaining?” Simon prodded when she didn’t answer. He sat down on the edge of the coverlet Silsby had turned back hours ago, before Callie had given the valet permission to retire early—or go chase Scarlet around the carving table in the kitchens, whichever suited him best.
She stretched out her legs on the bed, allowing her bare feet to poke out from the hem of her dressing gown, and leaned back against the mound of full, soft pillows. “Well,” she began, then took a deep breath and went on quickly, “it would appear that I am a smashing success, if you must know. The drawing room, the music room, the breakfast room, and my bedchamber—all are filled to the brim with flowers from my devoted admirers. Nosegays, bouquets, even a potted palm—why on earth would anyone send someone else a potted palm?—began arriving almost the moment you and Justyn did your flit.”
“We did not do a flit, brat. We left. Men do that. Women entertain callers, and men go to their clubs.”
“Whatever,” Callie said, shrugging, then peered up at him from beneath her lashes.
“Ah, the flirt is back! You can’t wait for tomorrow, can you? You can’t wait for Justyn to feed you everything you want to know. Is Filton pockets-to-let yet? Was he devastated to have missed his chance to meet the great Johnston heiress, crushed to discover that her brother Justyn, also deep in the pockets, has finally learned his way around a fuzzed card? Is the man destroyed, broken? Have I, just to please you, then gone and shot him in the knee, to bring home our lesson? Oh, the questions that must be buzzing around in that inventive head of yours.”
Callie bit her lip, refusing to be baited. “Wrong, wrong, and wrong. I couldn’t care less. Truly. The world doesn’t revolve around you, you know. Now, if I might continue with my story? Thank you. Where was I? Oh yes. Imogene was highly put out that only five gentlemen chose to bring me candy, but she’s manfully making do with one particularly large box crammed with chocolates she had sent up to her rooms. We then learned that the squire cannot come within ten paces of a room holding roses or else go into a fit of sneezing likely to blow out the windows. He and Papa took themselves back to the Pulteney dining room, leaving your mama to lament the loss of ‘dear Bertram’ all the afternoon long—that was mightily depressing, I can tell you, much as I adore your mama. It’s very lowering, watching a strong woman go all soft and mooning and simpleminded. I mean, all he did was undo her buttons.”
“Imogene’s in love? Well, that could be depressing, couldn’t it? She’ll doubtless now have Kathleen pulling in her stays until they both turn blue.”
“Yes, that’s true. But it may have been for the best that the squire left, because Lester came down to tea with his sling on entirely the wrong arm, which undoubtedly would have been remarked upon by either Papa or the squire. Lester became so flustered he ripped off the sling and stomped on it, saying that he didn’t want to lie anymore and end up going to hell in a handkerchief—he meant handbasket, of course—and stomped off to help Scarlet roll out dough.”
“God bless the boy,” Simon said, shaking his head.
“Yes, God bless him. Oh, and I’ve had several dozen invitations hand-delivered, six offers to ride in the park tomorrow, four requests for my company at the theater, and three personal notes from ladies of the ton who are quite convinced they attended the same young ladies’ seminary as my dearest mother and wish for me to come to tea and meet their sons.”
“Society has clasped you to her bosom. Congratulations, Callie.”
“It’s not all that wonderful, Simon. I had to listen while two of my many gentlemen callers read odes they had written to my eyes and my dainty toes—did you know that after rose and bows, there, is virtually nothing that rhymes with toes? That did present a problem to young Baron Darton, but he overcame it with a will, somehow working the words highs and lows into his masterpiece. Oh—and I received one proposal of marriage, but Imogene said that really doesn’t count, as Sir Reggie is seventy if he’s a day and proposes to every debutante worth more than half a crown.”
Simon smiled, then stood up, beginning to shrug out of his jacket. “Dear Sir Reggie.”
Callie sighed theatrically. “Deaf Sir Reggie, you mean. I had to yell my very polite refusal into his ear horn, which gave me such a fit of the giggles that Imogene quit the room, saying she has washed her hands of me and refuses to be my chaperone anymore. She also has vowed that she’ll never sleep again; not because of me, but because of her affection for Squire Plum and his robust good health and, she hopes, stamina—discounting that misfortune with the roses, of course—and for fear you might not approve of the match.”
She crossed her hands behind her head and grinned up at him as he stood very still, one arm half out of his sleeve, clearly stunned at this mention of his mother’s ambitions. He’d talk to her now, she was sure of it. “There’s more, but it can wait. So. How was your day?”
She watched, delighted, as Simon threw back his head and laughed out loud, finally sobering to say, “Not half as exciting as yours, unfortunately, but it went tolerably well. I talked your brother out of spanking you, for one thing. I should be rewarded for that, don’t you think?”
Callie reached beside her and picked up the bowl of green grapes she had been munching on earlier. “Here,” she said, offering it to him. “Unless you’d like me to shower you with rose petals. That could be arranged—unless you sneeze like the squire? What did you tell Justyn—just so that we keep our lies similar.”
“I told him the truth,” Simon said, taking the bowl and putting it on the table beside the candles—which was probably a good thing, or else she might have pummeled him over the head with it.
Callie sat bolt upright on the bed. “The truth! Oh, Simon—how could you?”
“There was nothing else for it, Callie,” he explained as she maneuvered herself to the edge of the mattress and aimed her bare feet at the floor. “Your brother is no fool, and he knows you well.”
She sighed, pulling her dressing gown snugly around her body, very much aware of how close she was standing to Simon, how close he was standing to her. “No, he’s not a fool, is he?”
“I like him, Callie. Immensely. And you’ll be happy to know that he thinks I’m sterling—simply sterling. I saved his sister from a certain meeting with the gallows, and have even been so obliging—and simpleminded—as to find myself rather inordinately enamored with the chit, much to my dismay. All in all, I’d say Justyn is most pleased.”
Callie shook her head, rattling her brains back into line, for surely she hadn’t heard Simon correctly. “Say that again, please,” she asked, aware that her voice was wobbling.
“Say what again?” he asked, his smile telling her he knew exactly what she was asking.
“That last part, of course. That part where you said you’re enamored of me. Or is that enamored with me? Oh, never mind that. Are you? Are you really?”
“Enamored?” He ran the back of his hand along the curve of her cheek, a move that turned her knees to water. “Did I say that? I must be more tired than I thought. I always talk too much, you’ve said so yourself. It’s even worse when I’ve had less than five hours sleep in two days. Still, I couldn’t have said that.”
She could see the devil dancing in his sherry eyes, and her heart began a small, joyful jig. “Yes, Simon, you said that. I heard you most distinctly. And you’re right. Your tongue runs on wheels, you talk so much. I’ve heard you as you’ve all but cursed me. I’ve heard you joke about your feelings for me in the meanest possible way. I’ve heard you tease me, fling insults at me for being a silly, headstrong child. I don’t always find it convenient to obey you, but I do listen. I listen to you very well, so I know I heard you correctly just now. But please say it again, all right?”
He reached out a hand and cupped her chin, so that she swallowed down hard, feeling this new, exciting tension that had suddenly sprung up between them, reveling in it even as it frightened her. “This isn’t the time, brat,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a husky whisper. “And it is most certainly not the place. You should be in bed—in your bed.”
She put up her own hand, to capture his, to keep it pressed against her skin. She knew when she was too frightened to be anything else but brave. She also knew when to lie, and she recognized the time for truth. The truth all but burst from her now; she couldn’t hold back the words if she tried. “I’m where I belong, Simon, and we both know it. And if you won’t say the words, I will. I love you, Simon Roxbury. I love you with all my heart, all my mind. I love you when I’m angry with you, when you make me laugh, when you go behind my back and appropriate all my fine plans, even when you leave me alone to listen to ear-clanging poems from silly little boys who can’t hold a candle to you, you smug creature. There,” she ended with as much bravado as she could muster, knowing her voice was sounding clogged with her sudden tears, “what do you have to say to that?”
He was silent for some moments, so that she actually began to believe that she had been wrong, that she had mistaken everything, that Simon felt no more for her than he had for his erstwhile mistress—and they hadn’t discussed that yet, had they?
“Well, perhaps I overstated myself,” she said, trying to fill the silence. “I mean, I am young, aren’t I? And terribly impressionable? I mean, just because I find myself going to sleep each night thinking of you, and waking to thoughts of you—well, that’s really not important, is it? And just because something deep inside me melts whenever you smile at me, and even when you yell at me—that could just mean I should eat more vegetables, or sleep more, or something like that. So maybe I don’t love you.” She lifted her chin, challengingly. “Yes, definitely. I don’t love you, Simon Roxbury. Not a drop. I’m just a silly child, that’s all. I’m so sorry to disappoint you, as you’ve already admitted that you’re enamored with me, but there it is. I don’t love you. So sorry.”
He moved closer to her, his smile wide, his thumb tracing over her bottom lip before she could pull herself free of his casual touch. “I adore you, Caledonia Johnston,” he said, his voice coming to her from a great distance, even though he was now so close to her she could barely focus her eyes on his. “I adore you and love you with all my heart, all my mind. It’s the last thing I wanted, the last thing I expected, but I definitely do love you. How could anyone listen to a speech such as your last one, and not love you? I’m only a man, Callie, and I can only fight for so long. I love you. You love me—that speech to one side, of course, as I didn’t believe a word of it. But now, before we both go to hell in Lester’s handkerchief, you’re going back to your own chamber. Now, this minute. Right after I kiss you.”
“Kiss me? You’re not teasing? You really do love—oh, Simon, isn’t this splendid?” Callie breathed, as his mouth covered hers, clung to hers, heated hers.
But Simon Roxbury was a man of his word. Callie was back in her own bedchamber not five minutes later, her head full of dreams and her body tingling with strange sensations she longed to investigate more fully the moment she got the dratted man alone again. And, she decided with a sinking heart, that time wouldn’t come until Noel Kinsey was out of their lives.
If only there were something she could do to help speed him on his way...
“Simon—a moment, if I may,” Imogene called out as her son walked past the open doorway of the breakfast room the following morning. “That is, if you still have time for your mother, the woman who brought you into this world, the poor soul who labored for hours—days—enduring the rack of pain that is childbed in order to squeeze you out of—”
“I believe I’m summoning up a vague recollection of your identity, madam,” Simon said as he turned and entered the room, cutting Imogene off before she could go into further and quite lurid detail, as she was often wont to do. “What have I done wrong this time?”
The tightly laced Imogene sat back against her chair—well, she rather toppled back, as she could not really bend at all above the hips, so that she was leaning rather than relaxing against the harden wooden back. “If you don’t know, son, I’m certainly not going to tell you!” she announced, glaring at him as if he’d just broken her motherly heart into a million small pieces.
Simon pulled out a chair and sat down, although he had breakfasted an hour earlier. “I see this is going to take some time,” he commented, reaching for a breakfast bun someone had left on their plate. “Would it help if I simply apologized and promised never to do it again?”
His mother made a threatening noise low in her throat.
“No,” he said, smiling. “I suppose not. Yes, well, carry on then, Mother. Although why I’d think you’d need my permission is beyond me. Have at it. Flay me alive with all that you’re certainly not going to tell me.”
“Don’t be thick, Simon,” the viscountess commanded as she popped a piece of bacon into her mouth. “You talk too much, and entirely too smartly when you consider you’re speaking to your beloved and aged mother, but you’re hardly ever thick. Still, as I love you, I’ll help you along. Give you a hint or two, as it were. Prod your memory. Tell me, Simon—what haven’t I been doing these past weeks? Can you tell me that?”
What hadn’t his mother been doing? She was still complaining about becoming a dowager, about not becoming a dowager—her views of the subject shifting back and forth too rapidly for him to keep track of exactly where she stood at any moment. So what hadn’t she been doing?
A sudden thought hit Simon, and he turned his head away as he raised a hand to scratch at the side of his neck, only barely resisting the urge to slip a finger under his suddenly too-tight collar while he was at it. “Sleeping?” he then asked with a wince.
