Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake (Love By Numbers #1)(15)

And what if Ralston were to open the door?

Callie shook her head at the thought. First, marquesses did not go around opening their own doors. And secondly, the odds of this particular marquess being home at this particular hour were slim to none. He was likely off with a paramour somewhere. An image flashed through her mind, pulled from a decade-old memory of him locked in a heated embrace with a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

Yes. She had made a horrid mistake. She would just have to escape as quickly as possible.

She squared her shoulders and approached the imposing entrance of Ralston House. She had barely let the knocker fall when the large oak door swung open, revealing an aged servant who seemed not at all surprised to find a young woman standing outside his master’s home. Stepping aside, he allowed her to enter, closing the door behind her as she took in the warm, inviting entryway to the long-established London home of the Marquesses of Ralston.

Instinctively, she began to push the hood of her cloak back from her face only to realize that the events to follow would be easier if she were shielded from recognition. Resisting the impulse, she turned to the servant, and said, “Thank you, good sir.”

“Indeed, milady.” The butler offered a short, respectful bow and began to shuffle toward the wide staircase leading to the upper floors of the house. “If you will follow me?”

Follow you where? Callie recovered quickly from her surprise, “Oh, I do not mean to—” she paused, not sure of the end of the sentence.

He stopped at the foot of the staircase. “Certainly not, milady. It is no trouble. I shall simply provide you escort to your destination.”

“My—My destination?” Callie stopped abruptly, her question laced with confusion.

The butler cleared his throat. “Above stairs, milady.”

“Above stairs.” She was beginning to sound like a ninny even to herself.

“That is where his lordship is at the moment.” The butler gave her a curious look, as though questioning her mental faculties, before turning back to the staircase and beginning the climb to the second floor.

“His lordship.” Callie watched the servant mount the stairs as understanding dawned and her eyes went wide as saucers. Good lord. He thought her a lightskirt! The shocking realization was quickly followed by another—the butler thought her Ralston’s lightskirt. Which meant that Ralston was here. In the house.

“I’m not…” her words trailed off.

“Of course not, milady.” He spoke the words with perfect decorum, but she had the distinct sense that he had heard the same, meek protest from countless other women, countless times before. Women who had feigned innocence for propriety’s sake.

She had to escape.

Unless…

No. She quashed the little voice. No unless. Her reputation was hanging by a thread. She’d be safer hailing a hackney by herself on the dark London streets than following this ancient butler to Lord knew where.

To Ralston’s rooms.

Callie nearly choked at the thought. She would never drink sherry again.

“Milady?” The word, delivered with all decorum, held an unspoken query. Was Callie going to follow?

This was her chance. Misguided or not, this was what she had hoped for when she’d sneaked from the house and hailed a hack. She’d wanted to see Ralston—to prove that she had the courage for adventure. And here she was, her objective squarely within reach.

This is your chance to prove yourself more than passive.

She swallowed, staring mutely up at the old man. Fine. She would follow him. And she would ask Ralston to help get her home. It would be embarrassing, but he would come to her aid. He had to. She was the sister of a peer of the realm, and he was a gentleman.

She hoped.

Maybe not, though. A thrill coursed through her at the thought.

She pushed it aside, giving a silent prayer of thanks that she had thought to change into her most flattering gown before making the trip. Not that Ralston would see the lavender silk beneath her plain black traveling cloak—she had absolutely no intention of revealing her identity to the marquess except as a last resort—but knowing that she wore her prettiest dress gave her an extra ounce of confidence as she lifted her skirts and began to climb.

As she moved up the staircase, Callie detected the sound of faraway, muffled music that became louder as the butler led her sedately down a long, dimly lit corridor. He stopped in front of a large mahogany door that did nothing to contain the music that spilled from the room. Callie couldn’t help the flash of curiosity that, for a brief moment, overpowered her nervousness.

The butler rapped twice, and a strong, clear “Enter” sounded above the music. He opened the door, but did not cross the threshold. Instead, he moved aside to let Callie enter alone, which she did, tentatively.

The door closed behind her. She was in the lion’s den, wrapped in a cloak of shadow and sound.

The large room was barely lit, a hint of light from a few spare candles illuminating the space in a quiet, intimate glow. Even without its enveloping darkness, it was the most masculine room she had ever seen—decorated in rich, dark wood and deep, earthen colors. The walls were covered in a wine-colored silk; the floor boasted an enormous woven carpet that could only have come from the Orient. The furniture was large and imposing—bookshelves lined two walls, each one full to bursting. On the third wall was a large mahogany bed draped in midnight blue fabrics. As her gaze fell to it, her mind flashed to her earlier fantasy of Odysseus and Penelope and a very different but equally alluring bed.