Bombshell Page 18

  “Do you want something to have happened? Or not?” he asked.

  Before Sera could answer, Sesily groaned and looked to the ceiling in frustration. “Remaining silent is always an option, American. Nothing happened.”

  He’d said it first, of course. It wasn’t Sera’s business, and that was the easiest response to her questions. But damned if he didn’t loathe the emphasis Sesily put on the response, as though nothing at all had happened. And damned if he didn’t want to point out that while they might not have experienced the full scope of the act in question, he knew the feel of her full breasts in his hands, and she knew the feel of his tongue against her core, and he knew that she got hot when he asked her to be quiet, so something had occurred, dammit.

  He’d thought that three days apart from her, resolving to put her out of his sight and thoughts, would have given him a chance to regain some strength when it came to her. Some sense. Some ability to resist her.

  But no, here he was, wanting her all over again. Even as she looked . . .

  And then a little girl with dark curls and bright blue eyes broke the awkward silence by running into the foyer with a shining silver platter calling, “Aunt Sesily! Mama said you could use this as a looking glass!” and presented it to her clearly favorite aunt like a tribute.

  As though nothing at all was amiss, Sesily looked down into the shining silver, gasped her surprise, put a hand to her wild hair and said, without hesitation, “I look beautiful!”

  And she did. She looked beautiful.

  No good would come of thinking Sesily Talbot beautiful. Indeed, no good would come of him being here at all. Which was precisely what they were all about to agree on before he’d been distracted by Sesily and her general . . . Sesilyness.

  He promised himself he’d sort out his return to London, just as soon as he was able to tear his attention from Sesily’s laugh.

  It was big and bold and perfect—the kind of laugh that welcomed all comers, making you feel like you’d been offered a glimpse at the sun after a voyage through the darkness. If only you were willing to take it.

  Except, it wasn’t for him. She’d just said as much.

  And even if it were, he couldn’t take it.

  Not with any promise of the future.

  The future.

  Now, where in hell had that come from?

  He should have stayed away. He’d known it would be a mistake. It was always a mistake to get too close to her. But the truth was, now he’d let himself get close. He’d let himself revel in her. And he wanted her now, more than ever, just as he’d always known he would.

  So, he’d ignored all the clear, logical reasons why he shouldn’t come, and he’d listened to the singular hope that if he did, he might see her. Even though he’d spent the last three days doing everything he could not to see her. He’d called in a favor from the brothers who provided the Sparrow with smuggled liquor—brothers who had eyes on every corner of Covent Garden and a wide swath of the rest of London—and asked them to keep eyes on Sesily, in part to keep his promise to Seraphina and in part to make sure that he could avoid her.

  But an invitation to a family gathering—to a warm meal in a warm home full of people who cared for each other and welcomed him into their fold, one of whom was the woman whose taste still lingered in his memory—he hadn’t been able to resist.

  Of course he’d come. He’d wanted to see her.

  He watched as she returned the platter to the little girl, and leaned down to point at him and stage whisper, “That man is Mr. Calhoun, Aunt Seraphina’s very good friend. And if you ask him very nicely, he shall give you a whole bag of treats to share with the others.”

  The little girl’s eyes went wide with excitement.

  Caleb knew his role. He extended the sack of sweets as she inched closer and closer and then snatched it from him, as though he might change his mind. He might have been amused at the way she turned tail and ran off in the direction of the library, but instead, he was consumed with Sesily’s description.

  Aunt Seraphina’s very good friend.

  And what did that make him to her?

  Nothing.

  He was nothing to her. He would never be anything to her.

  He couldn’t be.

  As the girl’s footsteps faded away, Sera took a deep breath. “Well. One of you is my friend and one of you is my sister, and as I am not willing to sacrifice either of you to whatever this is, I highly suggest that you sort it out before dinner.” She turned her brown eyes on him. “Do you understand?”

  Caleb swallowed around the heavy knot in his throat at the words—Sera and he had been through enough battles for both of their lifetimes. “Yes.”

  She looked to Sesily, who flattened her lips into a defiant line.

  Reading her sister’s resistance, Sera said, “Or I’ll tell the others everything.”

  Sesily narrowed her gaze at the threat. “You’re going to tell them anyway.”

  “Of course I am, but it’s your choice if I do it before or after dinner—and one of those choices will make the meal unbearable for you.”

  Sesily crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine.”

  Satisfied, the Duchess of Haven swept from the room, looking no less aristocratic for the babe on her hip. When she was gone, Caleb met Sesily’s gaze for what felt like the first time that day, because suddenly, her mask was gone.

  Her jaw was set, her chin was lifted, her eyes were flashing, and no amount of rouge or kohl or hair in a wild halo around her could make her look ridiculous. Not then.

  Not when she was Athena, ready for battle.

  Caleb wanted that battle. He wanted to tangle with her. He wanted to lift her off her feet and press her to the nearest wall and set his lips to the line of that jaw.

  She was magnificent.

  Too magnificent for the likes of him.

  She deserved so much more than what he could give her. “I—”

  “Don’t,” she cut him off. “Whatever you are about to say, don’t. Don’t tell me you’re sorry, or tell me what you shouldn’t have done, or what you wouldn’t have done, if only. And whatever you do, don’t tell me you . . .” She trailed off. “Just don’t.”

  He hadn’t intended to say any of those things. “Sesily—”

  “Don’t say my name, either,” she said. “I love my sister and you love my sister and she wants us to be cordial, and we surely can do that.”

  “Cordial,” he said, flatly.

  “Yes. Cordial. Surely you’ve seen that done before. Tip of the hat and ‘how do you do’ and”—she dropped a little curtsy—“how pleasant to see you again, Mr. Calhoun.”

  Except it wasn’t pleasant to see her. It was like looking into the sun.

  “Cordial,” she repeated, as though it was simple.

  He didn’t want to be cordial. He wanted to strip her naked in her sister’s foyer. That was the problem.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to find a washbasin. I’m sure I look ridiculous.”

  She didn’t, but he didn’t trust himself to say so.

  Instead, he watched as she turned her back on him and headed for the east wing of the house, where the family kept its rooms. He watched her go, knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing that if he were a gentleman, he wouldn’t notice the wide curve of her hips, the full swell of her bottom beneath the dusky rose of her skirts. Knowing that no gentleman would linger on the thought of the pretty little bows at the front of her gown, imagining what it would be like to untie them. To watch the silk of her dress pool around her ankles. Knowing that no gentleman would wonder what she wore beneath. The color of her stockings. The design on her corset.

  But then, he’d never been a gentleman, had he?

  He had to get out of this house, which was suddenly too small, despite being able to sleep the entire population of Boston, and too hot, despite being in England in November.

  He should leave.

  Instead, he watched this woman who twisted him in
knots until she reached the entrance to the east wing, and he could no longer stay quiet. He called out to her, knowing no good could come of it. “Lady Sesily.”

  She stilled at the honorific—one he never used, but she’d asked for cordial, had she not? Then she turned, just enough to look over her shoulder, covered by a little pelisse that he could dispatch with in an instant if the opportunity presented itself.

  “Do you have a coat?”

  What was he doing?

  She turned to face him fully. “A coat?”

  “They’re traditionally worn out of doors to keep one warm,” he said, ignoring the thrum of pleasure he received when one corner of her mouth tilted upward. “Do you have one?”

  “I do.”

  “When you return, wear it. We’re taking a walk.”

  Fuck cordial.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Whatever this was, it was a mistake.

  But here they were, taking a walk, as though that were a perfectly normal thing to do. Which, of course, it was for most people. Most people enjoyed walks. They were full of things like fresh air and natural beauty and Sesily understood that many, many people enjoyed those things.

  Highley Manor boasted some of the freshest air and the most natural beauty in all of Surrey, she suspected. Though, if someone sat her down and offered her access to the secrets of every man in Mayfair, she would not be able to tell them where the nearest tree was, as she was having difficulty paying attention to anything but her companion, who was several feet in front of her, and as big as a tree, his long stride eating up the ground.

  Her companion who had unsettled her not a small amount by—instead of agreeing to civilly ignore her like any self-respecting man who’d decided he was done with a woman—inviting her for a walk. In November.

  This was what she got for attempting to make a deal with an American.

  She pulled her coat tighter around her and muttered into the collar, “This was a mistake.”

  “Hmm?” he asked, the sound perfectly cordial, as requested.

  Another mistake. She hated cordial.

  Sesily cleared her throat. “Did you have a destination in mind?”

  “Some people believe the journey is the destination.”

  “Those people don’t have things to do.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up in a half smile and Sesily resisted feeling pleased about it. He pointed to a nearby ridge. “There.”

  “Why there?”

  “A nice view.”

  She looked over at him, sure she’d find him laughing at her. “You’re taking me to see the view?”

  “I am.”

  “On a cloudy day in November.”

  “It’s England, my lady. If we waited for sun we’d never see it.”

  She winced. “Don’t call me that.”

  “My lady?”

  “Yes. It’s . . .” Awful. Most people said it with a snide humor, as though there was nothing about Sesily that was worthy of the honorific. But it was worse from this man who’d served her whiskey and exchanged barbs with her and leveled her with heated glances, and who knew too many of her secrets, and who’d made love to her earlier in the week. “It’s odd.”

  “Probably the accent,” he said.

  “Definitely the accent.” She clung to the excuse.

  “But you told me I couldn’t call you Sesily.”

  “I didn’t think an opportunity for conversation would present itself so quickly,” she retorted.

  “And yet, here we are.”

  “Fine. Call me Sesily.” He was infuriating. “Why does it feel like you’ve just won a battle?”

  “Because you view everything as a battle,” he said, simply.

  She pulled up short. “That’s not true.”

  He stopped. “Isn’t it?”

  “No. How would you know how I view things?”

  A muscle flinched in his jaw. “In the two years since we met, you think I haven’t noticed?”

  She ignored the thread of warmth that came at the knowledge that he, too, had been paying attention to the calendar. “You’re never here.”

  “I don’t have to be here. When I am here, you are always ready to fight. It’s your natural state. You’ve battled your sisters and society and the rest of the world, never ceding an inch of turf. Claiming your space and your time for yourself. For your future. For your own path, whatever it may be.”

  Sesily’s breath caught in her chest as she listened, as she watched this man who understood far more than he let on. Who understood far more than most people had ever even tried to understand about her. Most people saw her tight bodices and her generous curves, heard her loud laugh and her bawdy jests, and decided she was the most dangerous of The Dangerous Daughters.

  But not Caleb. Oddly, never Caleb.

  “And you think I haven’t seen it.” He turned away from her, continuing his march up the long, slow rise.

  She followed, as though she was on a string. “You’ve never seemed to pay attention.”

  She almost didn’t hear his reply, collected on the wind to be carried away from her. But this was Caleb, and in the two years she’d known him, in the handful of days she’d been allowed to watch him, she’d drunk him in. Memorized the sound of his voice, the tenor of his laugh. The scent of him. Been desperately jealous of the women he flirted with over the bar at The Singing Sparrow. Wondered about the women he flirted with in Boston. Wondered if he ever imagined taking her there.

  So she heard his reply.

  “I’ve paid attention.”

  Her heart began to pound. Before she could ask more, he repeated himself. “I’ve paid attention since the moment we met—every time I’ve been on English soil, I’ve watched your battles. I used to think it was for sport, and maybe it was, at some point. A way to resist the future the rest of the world insisted was mapped out for you. I—like everyone—thought you’d eventually settle. Take to the path.”

  Marriage. Children. Family.

  “Domestication,” she said, disliking the word.

  He shook his head. “You want everyone to think you’re wild.”

  “I am,” she said, flashing her most Sesily smile. “The feral one. Unable to be tamed.”

  Something flashed behind his eyes. “Mmm. Maybe.”

  “Never say there’s hope for me, yet?”

  He ignored the teasing in the words. He wasn’t interested in playing. And that alone made Sesily nervous. “You don’t want there to be hope for you. You’re not fighting for sport.” He turned his back on her, as though the conversation was done.

  Sesily followed, playfulness gone, replaced by frustration. Defensiveness. “So tell me, if you know so much about it. What am I fighting for?”

  He looked back at her. “I used to think you were battling for yourself. Your own path. To keep on it as your sisters paired off and peeled away, and as they’ve pressured you to do the same. But I don’t think that anymore.”

  “How do you know that?” She’d never said that to anyone.

  He ignored the question. “I used to think that you would one day decide to follow them.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want that.”

  “I know. You’re like no aunt I’ve ever met.”

  “Nine times over . . . it’s the practice that makes the work perfect.” He smiled at her, and she stepped toward him, unable to stop herself. Unwilling to. “Though I confess I am surprised you noticed. Have you met many aunts?”

  “Are they so uncommon?”

  “I mean, in their natural habitat. In my case, surrounded by altogether too many children under the age of five.”

  Another low rumble of laughter, like praise. “My own aunts count, don’t they?”

  Surprise flared. “I . . . suppose they do.”

  “I’ve shocked you with the presence of my aunts?”

  “It’s just . . . difficult to imagine you being a nephew.”

  “It’s almost as common as being an aunt,
no?”

  “Surely. But now I’m wondering how it was that you were ever a child.”

  Something clouded his eyes. Something a little dark and a little sad and extremely curious, and Sesily bit her tongue, knowing that if she asked to see more of it, he would never allow it. So, instead, she said, “I would have wagered that you’d simply sprung, fully formed, from some place.”

  His amusement came in a little puff of air. “I thought we decided that Athena was reserved for you.”

  She grinned. “I could warm to the idea of being a goddess.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said.

  “For a man who claims not to have secrets, this surprise aunt suggests otherwise,” she quipped. “Never say there’s more. An uncle. A grandparent.”

  “A sister.”

  She froze, the words truly feeling like a secret. “You have a sister?”

  He looked away, across the immense estate, and took a deep breath. “I do.”

  “Is she—”

  He cut her off immediately. “We haven’t spoken in a long time.”

  There was something in the words—something like sorrow. Like there was more to the story. And of course there was. This was Caleb. Full of secrets. Every time she unearthed one, a dozen more appeared. She nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it.

  “Thank you,” he said, lifting his hand as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world, and stroking his thumb along the side of her face.

  The air on the rise grew thin.

  His thumb continued its path, down over the edge of her jaw, his touch becoming even more gentle on her neck. “There is a shadow here, still,” he said, his voice low and graveled. “Does it pain you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I had covered it with paint, but . . .”

  He smiled. “It washed off with the rest.”

  “The downside of aunting.”

  “Risk of revealing your other work.” A pause. “Tell me about it.”

  That thumb, warm and rough—he wasn’t wearing gloves—lingered at her pulse for a moment, and she worried that he might feel the way it raced, divining its truth.

  Making her want to tell him everything.

  Which would be a mistake, because the more of herself she gave to Caleb Calhoun, the more she wanted him to claim. And Caleb had no interest in claiming her.