He took her arm and nodded to the modiste as he escorted Callie from the shop. Once on the street, she said, "Am I meant to be your… your-" She could not quite put into words the scandalous role it seemed she was to play.
"You are my wife, and I am so much in love with you that I can't keep my eyes away," he said, still insisting on French. "Do you object?"
She really felt quite unable to reply. She managed to shake her head and give a small shrug.
"We're come over from a small corner of Belgium near Luxembourg. You need not say much, as you have little English. Are you comfortable in the French?"
"I will do my best." Her spoken French was only fair, she felt, but she could understand it quite well after years of listening to Madame de Monceaux and her late daughter.
"Good," he said, as they strolled leisurely along. "I think it's safest. I wouldn't suppose too many of your stockmen and farmers would understand us."
"No," Callie agreed. "But of course the gentry will. And I'm afraid Colonel Davenport will know you by your face."
"I'll take care to avoid Colonel Davenport," he assured her. He paused to allow a carriage to go by, the sleek team of matched bays swinging in under the sign of Gerard's Hotel. "I've taken rooms here in the High Town. You'll be with me most of the day while the show is on, but from time to time we'll see that you make an appearance as yourself with your cattle. And at night, of course, you'll go back to the Green Dragon with Lilly."
This plan sounded both extremely alarming and enormously attractive at the same time. She was not at all looking forward to impersonating a Belgian lady, but the thought of three entire days in Trev's company, cast in the role of his adored wife, was… impossibly wonderful, to put a point on it.
"We are newly wed," he said, as he touched her waist, guiding her up the marble steps of Gerard's. "That will excuse a good deal."
Callie glanced through her veil at the footman who held the door, trying to swallow her agitation. Gerard's was one of the most exclusive hotels in the city, but Callie had never stayed there. She and her father had preferred the shabbier comfort of the Green Dragon, where they were close to the fair and sales.
Seeing the world through the gauze made it all the more like a dream. She was with Trev. They were going to his rooms. They would be alone together there, while everyone outside thought they were newlyweds. She lifted her skirts and climbed the stairs, preceding him into the chamber. The door closed behind them.
Callie stood looking at the gilded curves of the French chairs and reclining sofas, the draperies held back by golden tassels. It might have been any smart drawing room in Mayfair, with a silver tea tray and paper-thin slices of cake laid out on china and crisp linen. Lady Shelford would have felt quite at home at Gerard's, but Callie felt anxious, as if at any moment she might be called upon to make conversation at some tonnish party.
Trev tossed his hat and stick aside. He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and pulled the veil free. She blinked and tried to smile, to show that she was primed for this adventure. He looked down at her a moment, his head tilted quizzically. Then he drew her close and kissed her.
All her uneasiness vanished in an instant, lost in the wonder of his touch. She let her head yield back under the searching kiss, the taste of him. She knew this-he had taught her. She lifted her arms in answer, clinging to him in spite of herself, or because of herself, because she wanted to feel him close to her so badly, and time was so short.
"Callie," he breathed against her skin. He held her cheeks between his palms. "Callie." He kissed her again. "I do look forward to this."
She gathered her wits enough to pull back a little. "You don't-I mean-we needn't pretend here, you know."
He laughed under his breath. "And decline the opportunity?" He held his hands at her waist and rocked her. "I have you in my evil clutches now, my lady. You may consider yourself lured to your doom."
It was only too true that he had her in his power. She seemed helpless to say or think a sensible thing. A part of her was looking on, warning her of peril in her father's troubled voice, but the most of her was simply full of joy at being here, at touching him, at being free to look up and return his smile without fear that anyone might notice.
It was only three days. It was a lark. Whatever Trev was-wild and a rogue and a teller of lies and tales-he had never abandoned her or allowed her to be hurt on one of their adventures. He'd always played the mother hen, constantly making certain she was safe and warning her of jeopardy, insisting that she remain in the background, so that it was all rather like a game in which she participated from within a cradle of his protection.
They were friends. There was nothing more to it, of course. Merely very dear friends.
But she had three days to live in the one daydream she had never dared to indulge.
She felt the corners of her lips turn upward. She lifted her face and forgot herself, put aside the thought that she was a wallf lower and a spinster lady of advancing years, forgot she wasn't beautiful, forgot anything but that she was standing in Trev's arms and he was holding her tight and close as he bent to taste her lips again. He slid his hands up the curve of her waist, taking her face between his palms. With slow deliberation, he kissed the corner of her mouth, and then her chin, and her nose, and her temple. Then he stood back and looked down at her.
Callie met his eyes. They both smiled at once, as if it were a conspiracy between them.
She pressed her palms together and held them over her mouth in excitement. She giggled. "Oh my!" she said in a muff led voice.
Trev's smile turned into a grin. His dark lashes lowered. "Do you know," he said, "when you smile at me that way, I'd like to…" He broke off his sentence and cleared his throat. "Well. Slay dragons, or some thing along that line."
"Mere dragons?" she inquired. "I was hoping it would be giant squids."
"Take care, wicked Callie, or I shall stop hedging and tell you what I'd like to do in fact."
"Is it something very wicked?" she asked expectantly.
"Very," he murmured, pulling her close at the waist. "You know I have a particular talent for that."
She moved her hips in a daring way and had the pleasure of seeing him close his eyes and draw in his breath. It felt a bold thing to do, but not entirely unfamiliar to her. And the look on his face was reward enough; he had that dreamy, hot expression, his lips parting in a slight smile. Callie put her arms around his neck, above the high collar of his coat. "Will you show me?" she whispered.
He gave a low groan. "Ah, a little, perhaps." His fingers toyed with the single button that held the upswept folds of the dress at her back. "Maybe just a little."
That was a familiar thing too. He had said it before-just a kiss, just a touch, he always said-like a promise between them that they could never keep. Each time it had gone a bit further, a little more dangerous, until that moment in her father's carriage that halted everything for good.
Callie held her breath as he worked the button. One layer at a time, her dress loosened. His fingers slid down into the open seam. Her father wasn't here now. There was no one to interfere, nothing to hold back the cascade of sensation as the gauze slipped and the dress fell from her shoulder. She tilted her head aside as he kissed the curve of her throat and pulled her hips up against him.
With a light direction, he urged her toward a chaise longue and drew her down with him. He didn't look at her; he kissed her shoulder while he unfastened the dress and pulled at all the pins that the modiste had so lovingly inserted to set her hat.