London, 1813
The heat emanating from the cup of tea in Lady Calliope’s hands wasn’t enough to fight off the chill running up her spine. Nor was the warm June air in the sunlit yellow sitting room of her home, Sumhall Place.
William King, the Marquess of Huntingham, sat across the tea table from her, holding her captive with his cold glare. Even with her grandmama, her brother Preston, and his wife of two months, Penelope, present in the sitting room, her heart raced with a panic she hadn’t felt since she was twelve years old—the last time she’d seen William.
What a mistake it was to allow William’s visit, she thought. And yet, she couldn’t alert her family of his true nature, or it would expose her dirty secret. The secret William possessed.
“We all heard about your dear papa,” said Grandmama, cocking her perfectly styled, regal head of silvery-gray hair as she scratched behind the ear of a fluffy white Persian cat lying on her lap. Despite the caress, which Miss Furrington usually loved, the cat didn’t show a single sign of her usual bliss, instead staring at Huntingham with wide, dilated eyes. Calliope quite shared the sentiment. “How terrible for you. For your whole family, dear William.”
William, that was how she had known him then. Though her grandmama had used the name, this man was William no more. Gone from his face was the softness of a fifteen-year-old boy.
Instead, the pleasingly angular face of a grown man stared at her, with high cheekbones and big brown eyes framed with dark eyelashes. His wide, attractive mouth—lips tightly pressed together, a slight, ever-present curl in his upper lip—hinted at arrogance, and the lines around his mouth spoke of harsh judgment. His square jaw was shaved immaculately, and the whole was framed by thick, dark brown hair in a fashionable windswept style.
Though he was undeniably handsome, the immaculate surface hid a cold interior. Giving her much-needed strength of spirit, the memory of another man caused heat to rush through her. Only a few days ago, she was swaying in the arms of Nathaniel, the Duke of Kelford, at the Royal Navy ball. Golden-haired, tall, muscular, and gorgeous, he’d been striking in his navy uniform. She couldn’t help but feel like she was flying in his arms. Like her heart was full of butterflies fluttering their wings. She had burned under the intense gaze of his turquoise eyes, and her skin had tingled under his palms. If only that charming rake were sitting across the table from her now rather than this snake…
William’s broad shoulders showed his strength, and he had the muscular thighs of a horse rider. But Nathaniel was much larger, with bulky muscles under his uniform—not many gentlemen were built like him. Calliope’s eyes dropped to William’s large hands. One of them lay on the handle of the intricately carved chair, casual and relaxed. And yet she knew how cruel that hand could be. How much pain it could cause. A shiver ran through her at the memory.
And her eldest brother, Spencer, was not here to defend her honor like he had back then, the only one who knew anything about what had transpired.
“Grandmama,” said Preston with an apologetic smile. “It’s Huntingham now.”
“I know,” she said, petting Miss Furrington. “Huntingham, I hope you forgive my informality. It was meant kindly. Our families used to be great friends.”
Another shiver slid down Calliope’s back. All that was true…until their families fell apart—because of her.
Preston nodded his black-haired head, an expression of genuine sadness clouding his dark eyes. “I am sorry, too, Huntingham. Our fathers used to be great friends and neighbors. I remember him well.”
Sitting on the sofa by Calliope’s side, Penelope, who had quickly become one of Calliope’s best friends, narrowed her eyes as she scanned Calliope with concern. Penelope looked gorgeous with her pretty dark blond hair and immaculate purple silky dress worthy of the duchess she now was. But what made her even more beautiful was the happiness that practically radiated from her, just as it did from Preston.
Huntingham nodded without a twitch of grief. “Quite. Papa will be dearly missed.”
Grandmama opened her mouth to say something, but Huntingham wasn’t finished. “While we’re all still grieving, however, I cannot afford to wallow in my feelings for much longer.” He glanced at Preston. “Grandhampton, I’m sure you understand as you inherited your own title quite recently and know all the responsibilities.” He offered Penelope a shadow of a cool smile. “You found a wife very soon after your mourning period was over, as you should have.”
Preston’s eyebrows drew together, and the corners of his mouth turned downward, giving away the tension he was not supposed to reveal on his usually collected face. His and Penelope’s union hadn’t been a regular wedding as people believed. Preston had married her to avenge Spencer’s assumed death, thinking he was ruining her father. But the woman he had thought his enemy had become his greatest love.
“Quite right,” he said politely.
Huntingham continued. “Now that I am the next marquess and the mourning period is over, I must do the same as you and find a wife.”
As he said the word “wife,” his heavy gaze settled on her again, and an icicle was dragged down her back. Wife…she…to him?
This would be it; she would lose it right here. She’d jump to her feet, embarrassing herself and her family, and run out.
But she didn’t let herself fall apart.
Calliope had an odd sensation of stepping out of her own body, watching herself as if she were another guest. The cool and collected lady didn’t show a trace of distress that raged within her soul. Her pristine white teacup didn’t rattle against the saucer as she placed it back on the table. Her back was perfectly straight, her head was held high, and her legs didn’t fidget from the urge to jump to her feet and run. She even managed to suppress the need to breathe as deeply and as quickly as she could. The only indication of her turmoil may be the color of her cheeks, but Penelope was a little flushed, too, no doubt from the summer heat in the room.
Preston scanned the man quickly, his eyes estimating. “Forgive me for speaking so frankly,” said Preston, “but I must admit, I am surprised by your visit today given there was no contact between our families for years.”
The marquess’s upper lip curled in a fleeting expression of anger. He wouldn’t tell them, would he? No, surely he wouldn’t. But even if he kept his silence—as he had for all these years—he could still hold that information over her head like the blade of a guillotine.
“Yes, you were at that boarding school in Scotland,” said Huntingham, putting one long leg over the other. Heavens, he was tall. He may be even taller than her brothers; although, no doubt, not as well-built as them. “So you didn’t know that your deceased brother and I had a disagreement.”
From September, she and her family and the whole world had thought Spencer was dead. Then from June, they had searched for him for weeks never knowing if he really was dead or alive. If he really had been press-ganged or not. Calliope’s gaze fell on the large intricately carved chair by the fireplace, which Spencer favored, and her chest hurt from how much she missed her eldest brother. Had he been there, William wouldn’t have dared to show his face.
Spencer, who’d been eighteen then and had been practicing boxing for years, had, with only a few precise and masterful hits, split William’s lip, giving him a black eye, and, based on the speed with which William had run away holding his side, broken one of his ribs. The King family had never returned to Grandhampton Court.
“What was the disagreement about, if you don’t mind my asking?” asked Preston.
William’s warm brown eyes felt icy cold when they landed on Calliope once again. He didn’t reply, eyeing her, trapping her in the torturous memory of the day that had changed the trajectory of her entire life.
The day when long curtains had swayed as a warm summer breeze flowed between the open French doors in the library. The day when she had felt the smooth leather cover of the book she wasn’t supposed to go near at the age of twelve. The first day in her life when she had felt that way—burning, aching, and touching herself in the most intimate place as she imagined the brown-eyed boy doing things to her that she was reading about…
And then two strong hands had ripped the book out of her fingers… And the brown eyes staring at her weren’t only in her imagination anymore. Two fingers had stroked her neck, making her quiver in a wonderful surprise—
And then a hard, painful pinch at the base of her neck had wiped it all out in a cold, prickly shock. And the eyes had turned from warm to angry, disgusted.
And he’d uttered a single word that made her soul shrink and shrivel in upon itself.
“Whore.”
Calliope shuddered with the memory, clutching the skirt of her pastel-green muslin gown.
“The disagreement…” said William King slowly, his gaze like sharp claws digging under her skin. “I can’t recall. Can you, Lady Calliope...?”
