"The tip of your nose is turning pink."
She hid it quickly in her fan.
"A charming portrayal of an ostrich," he said, "but I'm afraid you'll suffocate in those feathers. We'd better dance, so that you can thrash me about the head with them instead."
Callie realized with alarm that the music had paused and the sets were reforming into couples. "Oh no, it is a waltz-"
But he was standing, holding out his gloved hand to her. Callie found herself lifted by the strong clasp of his fingers, in spite of her intentions, drawn irresistibly as always into whatever adventure that Trevelyan Davis d'Augustin, duc de Monceaux, comte de Montjoie, and seigneur of any number of exotic-sounding villes somewhere in France, might propose.
He led her to the f loor and bowed. Callie curtsied and turned her face aside, terrified to look at him as he rested his hand on her waist. She had only waltzed in public three times, once for each of her betrothals. People were already staring at them. Mrs. Adam had just come from the refreshments-she stood stock-still in the doorway with a look of horror on her face. Callie saw her start forward in determination, as if she would tear Callie bodily from his indecent embrace, but the music began and his firm guidance swung her into motion.
Callie held herself as far from him as she could, barely allowing her fingertips to rest on his shoulder, trying with little success to make her fan lie down instead of f ly in his face. She could scarcely recall where to put her feet, but he directed her with simple assurance, looking down at her as they spun around, smiling that intimate half smile.
"I never hoped I'd be so fortunate as to discover you here," he said warmly. The room seemed to whirl past with the music, everything a blur but him.
Callie could hardly comprehend that she was dancing with him. She glanced up and then away again, feeling oddly weightless, as if he carried her on air just by the light touch of his gloved palm.
"I must beg of you a favor," he added, squeezing her hand a little.
Callie nodded, gazing at his shoulder. It was handsomely clad in a tailored coat, a broader and taller shoulder than she recalled. He was familiar and yet unknown-far more intimidating than the grin ning and unruly youth of her memory. Her heart and breath felt as if they had deserted her, declaring they were off to join the navy and might come back to visit in a few years if she were lucky.
"Can you recommend to me a decent cook?" he asked.
The prosaic question pulled her from a momentary dream of… of something. She missed a step and caught herself, f lushing deeply as he lifted his chin to prevent the feathers of her fan from obscuring his face entirely. "Oh," she said, gaining control of the wayward fan. "Don't say that Mrs. Easley has taken to drinking again?"
"I fear so. I came in hopes of stealing a seedcake or two to save us from starvation."
"That woman!" Callie exclaimed, dropping her hand. She almost stood still on the dance f loor, but he lifted her glove and kept her moving. "She's beyond saving," she said severely. "But has your mother not had nourishment? I sent a whole haunch of beef to her two days ago!"
"Thank you." He smiled. "But I don't know what's become of it, bumbling fellow that I am in these domestic matters. There was some broth, which is all that it seems she'll take, in any case."
"She must have more than broth!" Callie did stop then, causing a brief f lurry as the other dancers found a path around them. "I'll go to her directly."
"No, do not trouble-"
"It's no trouble," Callie said, drawing away from him. "Only let me speak to Mrs. Adam. She'll see my sister home in the carriage. It's too late for the cook shop, but I'm sure I can find something of substance in your kitchen if Mrs. Easley hasn't sold it all to that wicked butcher's boy."
He shook his head. "You need not. I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to interrupt your entertainment."
Callie waved her fan in dismissal. "That's hardly an aff liction to me. I'm happy to go to your mother."
He hesitated, frowning down at her. For a moment she thought he would refuse again, but then a wry look came into his dark eyes. "In truth, it would be a blessing. I found the place in disarray, and I hardly know how to set things right."
"I do," Callie said. "Pray go and tell your mother I'll be with her directly."
Something brushed Trev's face in the darkness as he fumbled at the door. He cursed under his breath and pushed a trailing ivy out of the way, finding the latch with some difficulty. He didn't bother with the bell-there was no maid to answer it. The place was overgrown, the garden gate falling to pieces. He let himself inside and pulled off his gloves, stuffing them into his pocket instead of laying them on a table he already knew to be grimy with dust.
If it had been a roulette wheel to balance, or a boxer's bloodied head to stanch, Trev could have managed well enough, but the mysteries of a hearth and home were baff ling to him. His sisters and mother had always seen to all of that: supervising the linen and directing the servants. They would have been aghast if he or his majestic grandfather had interfered or inquired about the smooth running of the household. Not that Trev had ever been inclined to do so. But even he could see that the rambling old house at the edge of Shelford was falling deep into disorder, and his mother's deteriorated condition appalled him.
She had hidden it well. Not once in her letters had she begged or even hinted for him to come, even after Hélène had died. He saw now that he should have come then; he had wanted to, but he had hidden certain things himself, and it had not seemed possible at the time.
The considerable amount of money he'd been sending to Shelford for the past few years had obvi ously gone astray. Surprising, but not inconceivable, considering the circuitous route he had arranged for the funds to take. Trev narrowed his eyes. He hoped that somewhere in France, a certain banking correspondent was enjoying his remaining interlude of good health.
He felt his way to the stairs. There were no candles or spills, not even a rushlight. But he remembered the low ceiling and heavy railing well enough. He made his way up to his mother's chamber. The lamp he had left with her still burned low.
She was sleeping. He stood for a moment, watching her labored breath. His mischievous, sweet-faced maman-he had hardly known her for herself when he saw her. She was drawn, her cheeks sunken, her lips parted, thinned by the effort to take in air. But she had a trace of a smile, as if she dreamed a pleasant dream.
Trev scowled. He hardly cared to admit the vast feeling of relief that he had felt when Lady Callie offered to come. It was not something he would have asked of her. They were all but strangers now. But still, the moment he had recognized her, it was as if no time had passed; he had wanted to sit down and confide everything in her, his shock and fear at his mother's illness, his consternation at the state of the house, his amazement to find Lady Callista Taillefaire here in Shelford yet.
Unmarried.
He put that thought away, not yet ready for the surge of anger, the wound that lay behind it. Even that surprised him-he had supposed himself long ago over that juvenile affair. But they could still be friends, it seemed, for which he was glad. He liked Callie. Admired her. What other lady of her position would stop dead in the midst of a waltz and insist upon coming instantly to the aid of a Frenchwoman who had no earthly claims upon her?
He smiled a little. A lavender turban, with that hair. Only Callie: oblivious to every fashion, as sweet and shy as a wild doe. He shook his head and sat down on the edge of the bed, lightly touching his mother's hand.
"May I have the honor of this dance, Mademoiselle?" he murmured in French.