He picked up a newspaper lying on the table, folded it, and tossed it aside. "Come in, it's warmer here."
Callie moved a little way into the room. He walked behind her and closed the bedroom door. She was very aware of her bare feet and her loose hair and the tumbled bedclothes behind her. If he had any similar sensation, he did not show it. They evaded one another politely, like strangers.
"Tea or coffee?" he asked briskly. "They've brought us some breakfast, if you like."
"I really should see to my cattle," she said. "It's turned cold."
"Yes, of course." He paused. "I suppose you have no slippers. I'm sorry. I didn't think of that." He poured tea for her. "I hadn't expected you to be here overnight."
Callie sat down on a chaise and curled her feet tightly under her. "I didn't expect you to come back," she countered, on a slight note of defense.
"No," he said. "I realize that." He brought her the cup. She could make nothing of his neutral tone, but as she took it, he stepped back with a small bow, as formal as if he were a butler. She began to feel more awkward yet. There were volumes of unspoken words between them.
"Did you tell me that Sturgeon had taken rooms here?" he asked.
Callie nodded. "He followed me. That is-he followed Madame Malempré. He seems to be acquainted with her."
"Acquainted with her!" Trev stopped in the motion of lifting his cup. "The deuce you say."
Callie raised her face. "He says he met her in Belgium, at a picnic after Waterloo. He seems to"-she cleared her throat-"to know her rather intimately."
He swore under his breath. "That's impossible. He must be feigning it. He suspects something. Damn, he followed you here?" He paced a step and turned. "It's as well you didn't go out again."
"He isn't pretending," Callie said. "I think he does know Madame Malempré. I think he knows her very well."
Trev looked at her sharply. "You do?"
Callie nodded. She lowered her eyes and took a sip of her tea.
"What did he say to you?" There was a taut edge in his voice.
"Not to me," she said. "He thought he was speaking to her."
"Indeed," Trev said suspiciously. "And just what did he say?"
Callie thought a moment. She wasn't sure she wished for Trev to know everything he had said. "He seems to have had an encounter with her, in a garden summerhouse."
He snorted. "An encounter in-" He stopped short. He stared, as if at some distant place, and then turned his back to her, looking out the window.
"Who is she, this Madame Malempré? Do you know her too?" Callie asked.
"Mordieu, it's just the name of a town I passed through once!" He made an impatient gesture, as if tossing something away from him. "I remembered it when I ordered the tarpaulins, that's all."
She gazed at his back. "It was quite an unfortunate choice, then." She gave a little shrug. "He would like to renew his acquaintance with her."
"Oh, he would, would he?" He turned back swiftly his jaw hardening. "He didn't touch you? You should have called Charles-" He stopped again. He frowned and then gave Callie an amazed look. "And he's been courting you, hasn't he?" It had taken a few moments longer for him to notice the incongruity of the situation than it had for her. He seemed shocked, as if he could not quite comprehend what he had just realized. "Callie!"
She lifted her eyebrows, trying to look arch. "Yes, it's rather a blunder on his part. That's why I think he isn't pretending."
"That whoreson bastard!" he exclaimed, striding across the room. He followed it up with several words in French that she had never heard in any lessons. He was not as amused by it all as she had expected. "By God, I'll kill him."
He had reached as far as the door by the time Callie had untangled herself from the robe and shawl. He seemed to have come to his senses, or at least paused to consider what method by which to eradicate the major, for he stopped and turned around. Callie was on her feet by then.
"Let me be certain I understand you," he said. "Sturgeon has asked you to marry him?"
"Yes," she said.
"And you are presently considering his proposal?" His voice was steely. He stood very still, looking at her.
Callie couldn't hold his eyes. Suddenly she could not seem to think of anything but his arms around her, his body over hers. She found it difficult to breathe. She could not at that instant recall why she had said, in the middle of the night, that they would not suit. It seemed mad, as mad as those moments themselves, and equally dreamlike now. He had asked her to marry him, and she had remembered just in time that for some reason she must say no. And afterward…
She hugged herself, standing in her bare feet, covered in mortification. "Trev," she said, turning with an agitated move. "We must-could we-discuss something?"
"What happened between us last night?" he asked bluntly.
She took a deep breath, daring to lift her eyes. "Yes, I… suppose… that."
"It was, of course, iniquitous of me to take advan tage of you." He gave a short bow and spoke as if he were reciting something that he had memorized. "Let me repeat, my lady, that I beg of you to become my wife, if you would see fit to accept me."
From the sound of it, the last thing he hoped was that she should do so. Callie looked down and fiddled with the fringe of the cashmere shawl. All her reasons for refusing him came back to her in a rush.
"I know you feel that you must offer now," she said with difficulty. "But I don't think we would suit."
"Yes," he said. "You mentioned that, I believe."
"I'm rather… awkward and not very clever in company, you know. I fear that I wouldn't be a fitting wife for you."
She glanced up at him, half hoping to be contra dicted, but he seemed to find the hem of her gown to be of more interest than her face. He remained silent, his jaw set.
"I'm not a lady of fashion," she added, trying to make a clean breast of the whole. "I'm seven and twenty. And I'm English, of course. And not a Catholic."
He made a slight deprecating shrug. But still he said nothing, altering his attention to some painting on the wall, frowning at it as if it offended him.
"I suppose that might be overcome," she said, trying to reply sensibly to his silence. "But-you may have noticed-I'm rather dull and plain. I can't see myself living amid the haut ton. I was really quite a failure at it before, you know. I'd have to be like Madame Malempré and wear a veil all the time, so that no one would see me," she added, in a stupid attempt at humor.
His expression grew darker as she spoke. "Nonsense," he snapped. "Don't talk that way."
Callie wet her lips and gave him one more chance. "But you must wish to find someone who would be more worthy of Monceaux."
He gave a short laugh and turned away, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Do not concern yourself on that head, ma'am."
So. She lifted her chin, growing more sure, and at the same time more disheartened. He had been eager in the night, and passionate, but what was that vulgar phrase she had overheard once among the stable lads? All cats look alike in the dark. She had fairly well thrown herself at him, even if she hadn't meant for him to find her in his bed, playing a trick like that impudent house maid who had tried to entice the parson on a dare. If he had even a slight wish to marry her, he would certainly show more delight at the idea. Even her jilts had managed to summon a greater show of gratification at the prospect than Trev appeared to feel.