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The Muses of Mayfair Trilogy
from Harlequin Historicals.
A meeting of
the Ladies Artistic Society at the home of Miss Calliope
Chase and her sisters is rudely interrupted…
“Oh!” Calliope’s
instructions were cut off by a sudden cry from her friend
Lotty, who sat closest to the window. She pressed her nose
to the glass, leaning forward precariously. “Oh, it is Lord
Westwood!”
Those words—Lord
Westwood—caused a great rush to the windows, silks a ribbons
furiously a-rustle. More noses and fingers pressed to the
glass, unheeding of smudges and dignity.
“Oh!” cried
Thalia. “He is in his beautiful phaeton. I wish Father
would buy one for me. I’m sure I would be a rare hand at
the reins. But Westwood appears to be in some sort of
altercation with Mr. Mountbank. How fascinating.”
Oh, what a
great surprise, Calliope thought sarcastically. Where
Cameron de Vere, the Earl of Westwood went, altercations
were sure to follow.
“Cal, Clio,
come, you must see this. It’s too amusing,” Thalia said.
Clio left off
her scratching of pens across parchment and joined the
others, peering down coolly as if observing some scientific
demonstration.
Calliope did not
want to go and gawk with her friends, as if they were
all silly schoolgirls who had never before seen a man rather
than the intelligent, rational women they were. She did not
want to give Lord Westwood the satisfaction of yet more
attention. Yet somehow she could not help herself. It was
as if a thick cord suddenly tightened around her waist,
pulling her inexorably towards the window. Towards him.
Calliope dropped
the newspaper and strolled reluctantly towards the others,
peering past Thalia’s shoulder to the scene below. It was
indeed Lord Westwood, his bright yellow phaeton wedged into
traffic, at a complete standstill. His matched bay horses
snorted and pranced restlessly, as Mr. Mountbank, in his own
conveyance, blocked Westwood’s way, shouting and
gesticulating. Mr. Mountbank’s face was an alarming shade
of purple above his overly starched cravat, yet Westwood
looked on with an expression of amused boredom on his
ridiculously gorgeous face, as if the quarrel had nothing at
all to do with him and he merely watched the action at Drury
Lane.
“How very
handsome he is,” sighed Lotty.
Handsome—well,
yes. Even Calliope had to admit that, albeit grudgingly.
Westwood was sometimes called “the Greek God,” and strictly
from an aesthetic viewpoint it was all too true. He could
have been their Apollo statue come to warm, breathing life,
if he were to shed his buckskin breeches and exquisite
bottle-green coat. He was hatless now, his glossy,
sable-dark curls tossed by the wind until they fell in
artistic disarray over his brow. His skin was always a
golden-bronze, his eyes dark and maddeningly unreadable.
But he was not so much a god as a young Greek fisherman,
virile, earthbound, as secret as the deepest sea.
His hair fell
away from his chiseled face, the sharp angles of his
cheekbones and nose. He leaned back easily on the cushioned
seat, free as a corsair at the helm of his ship. Passers-by
paused to stare at him, as if drawn by the sheer life
of him, yet he noticed not at all, so comfortable in his own
skin, his own world.
Calliope reached
up for the fringed edge of the satin drape, clutching at it
to draw it over the window. Before she could do so,
concealing herself and all her unruly emotions, Lord
Westwood glanced up and saw her there. Saw her staring at
him.
For an instant,
it was as if a cloud passed over the Grecian sun. He
frowned, his velvety brown eyes narrowing. Then, as swiftly
as it came, the cloud vanished. He smiled, a wide, white
Corsair grin, and gave her a jaunty salute.
She spun away
from the window—only to find Clio observing her closely.
Calliope adored
her sister, but sometimes, just sometimes, she was a bit
uneasy to be faced with those unerring, unwavering green
eyes.
“You should stay
out of the sun, Cal,” Clio said quietly. “It makes your
cheek so flushed.”
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