mob of mere humans would stymie him for long.
“Yes, well, I’d love to chat, but is your daughter within?” He edged Callista and himself around Lady Fowler and ever closer to the door. “Such a sweet girl. Full of . . . verve.”
“Really? I don’t remember your ever noticing Harriet. She’s just inside by the—”
“No worries. I’ll find her myself.” David made a final storming of the breach, dashing past the proud mother and into the entry hall.
“What are you doing?” Callista hissed.
“Saving our asses,” David answered. “No one will risk barging into the Fowlers’ drawing room after us.”
“We barged in.”
“But we—or at least I—was invited. That’s different.”
“Fine. So, we’re in. How do you propose we get out?”
“Just stay close, follow my lead, and try not to draw attention to yourself.”
Callista pinched her lips together. “A bit late for that advice, wouldn’t you say—Mr. St. Leger?”
He acknowledged the hit with a smile and took her hand. Together they shoved through a gaggle ofgirls in virginal white hovering by the stairs, a cluster of rowdy young men by the punch table, and a row of stern matrons overseeing the couples on the dance floor like high court judges. Most were too caught up in their own amusements to notice an oddly dressed couple scurrying through the crush. And the few who recognized David and raised a voice in friendly greeting were left behind with a tossed grin and a wink. Luckily, Callista didn’t seem to notice the appreciative nods or knowing nudges.
“We’re almost there,” David encouraged. “Freedom is through those terrace doors and across the garden to the mews beyond.”
“Then what?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Oh, Mr. St. Leger!” toodled Lady Fowler above the din. “We need to speak.”
That was one raised voice that would not be so easily fobbed off.
“Bugger all. Quick. In here.” David dragged Callista through the closest curtained archway into a tiny alcove full to the brim with wraps, coats, hats, umbrellas, and cloaks. Trapped. No other way out. They were pressed together on the six inches of floor space not taken up with cast-off outerwear, Callista’s body snug against his.
“Is this supposed to be better?” she asked, her breath whispering against his throat.
“Much,” he answered as her warmth, combined with the tingle of Fey-blood magic, shivered over his skin.
“Mr. St. Leger? I have some lovely etchings I want to show you,” Lady Fowler’s voice sounded from justoutside their refuge, a slight predatory edge coloring her tone. “I think you’ll find them exquisite.”
“Etchings?” Miss Hawthorne scoffed. “Really?”
A ringed hand gripped the curtain to draw it aside.
Frantic, out of ideas, and because, damn it, this whole horrible mess could be laid squarely at Callista Hawthorne’s door, David kissed her—again.
* * *
No sooner had David’s lips touched hers than Callista’s spine stiffened with instinctual fear and her stomach clenched in knots. No, not David. His name was Mr. St. Leger. A very proper and formal address to stop the wild quivering up her spine.
Follow my lead.
The words flickered to life in her mind, but so, too, did the deep velvet of his voice, roguish amusement coloring even his mental touch.
He slid an arm around her resisting body, crushing her against him just as Lady Fowler dragged the curtain back. Light blazed into every corner of the dim cloakroom, and Callista quickly shut her eyes, trying to look like a woman enjoying the attentions of a man.
Trouble was, she didn’t know what that looked like. She placed a tentative hand upon his waist, but that seemed so intimate somehow. So possessive. Not that lips were less intimate, but somehow offering him encouragement made it real and not the act it was.
“Oh!” Lady Fowler exclaimed waspishly. “Second cousin indeed.”
This was where St. Leger would break away to offer his
“Yes, well, I’d love to chat, but is your daughter within?” He edged Callista and himself around Lady Fowler and ever closer to the door. “Such a sweet girl. Full of . . . verve.”
“Really? I don’t remember your ever noticing Harriet. She’s just inside by the—”
“No worries. I’ll find her myself.” David made a final storming of the breach, dashing past the proud mother and into the entry hall.
“What are you doing?” Callista hissed.
“Saving our asses,” David answered. “No one will risk barging into the Fowlers’ drawing room after us.”
“We barged in.”
“But we—or at least I—was invited. That’s different.”
“Fine. So, we’re in. How do you propose we get out?”
“Just stay close, follow my lead, and try not to draw attention to yourself.”
Callista pinched her lips together. “A bit late for that advice, wouldn’t you say—Mr. St. Leger?”
He acknowledged the hit with a smile and took her hand. Together they shoved through a gaggle ofgirls in virginal white hovering by the stairs, a cluster of rowdy young men by the punch table, and a row of stern matrons overseeing the couples on the dance floor like high court judges. Most were too caught up in their own amusements to notice an oddly dressed couple scurrying through the crush. And the few who recognized David and raised a voice in friendly greeting were left behind with a tossed grin and a wink. Luckily, Callista didn’t seem to notice the appreciative nods or knowing nudges.
“We’re almost there,” David encouraged. “Freedom is through those terrace doors and across the garden to the mews beyond.”
“Then what?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Oh, Mr. St. Leger!” toodled Lady Fowler above the din. “We need to speak.”
That was one raised voice that would not be so easily fobbed off.
“Bugger all. Quick. In here.” David dragged Callista through the closest curtained archway into a tiny alcove full to the brim with wraps, coats, hats, umbrellas, and cloaks. Trapped. No other way out. They were pressed together on the six inches of floor space not taken up with cast-off outerwear, Callista’s body snug against his.
“Is this supposed to be better?” she asked, her breath whispering against his throat.
“Much,” he answered as her warmth, combined with the tingle of Fey-blood magic, shivered over his skin.
“Mr. St. Leger? I have some lovely etchings I want to show you,” Lady Fowler’s voice sounded from justoutside their refuge, a slight predatory edge coloring her tone. “I think you’ll find them exquisite.”
“Etchings?” Miss Hawthorne scoffed. “Really?”
A ringed hand gripped the curtain to draw it aside.
Frantic, out of ideas, and because, damn it, this whole horrible mess could be laid squarely at Callista Hawthorne’s door, David kissed her—again.
* * *
No sooner had David’s lips touched hers than Callista’s spine stiffened with instinctual fear and her stomach clenched in knots. No, not David. His name was Mr. St. Leger. A very proper and formal address to stop the wild quivering up her spine.
Follow my lead.
The words flickered to life in her mind, but so, too, did the deep velvet of his voice, roguish amusement coloring even his mental touch.
He slid an arm around her resisting body, crushing her against him just as Lady Fowler dragged the curtain back. Light blazed into every corner of the dim cloakroom, and Callista quickly shut her eyes, trying to look like a woman enjoying the attentions of a man.
Trouble was, she didn’t know what that looked like. She placed a tentative hand upon his waist, but that seemed so intimate somehow. So possessive. Not that lips were less intimate, but somehow offering him encouragement made it real and not the act it was.
“Oh!” Lady Fowler exclaimed waspishly. “Second cousin indeed.”
This was where St. Leger would break away to offer his
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