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“So did your mother and I, when we first met. It’s a sign of passion, y’know.”
“Father!” Calliope cried, feeling hot embarrassment flood her cheeks. She turned away to fuss with an arrangement of chairs.
Her father chuckled. “You don’t want some milquetoast who would just agree with everything you say, would you? Not my Calliope. You would be bored within an hour. And Westwood appreciates the same things you do. Art, history.”
“His father appreciated those things, too, and you two were great rivals.”
“So we were. And enjoyed every moment of our rivalry. One wants to be opposed at times. Life is so dull otherwise.”
“I don’t think I would want a rival as a spouse, though,” Calliope protested. “And Lord Westwood’s views are so different from mine.”
“I’m sure he would come round to a more correct way of thinking, with my Calliope’s help. One more for our cause, eh? You always did enjoy a challenge, my dear.”
Calliope had to laugh. “I do indeed. He might prove too great a challenge, though.”
“For a Chase Muse? Never!” He gave her a sly wink. “Lady Rushworth tells me Lord Westwood is considered quite handsome among the ladies. An Apollo to adorn your side?”
“Father!” Calliope said, kissing his cheek amid helpless laughter. “You should not try to matchmake, you do it ill. I will find the right gentleman, never fear.”
He patted her hand. “I just want to see you happy.”
“I am happy. But I will be even happier once I dress, so I don’t have to greet our guests in my round gown and shawl.”
“You run along, then, Calliope. I will sit here and savour the anticipation of trouncing Mr Berryman at cards. He won ten shillings off me last time.”
“Such shocking extravagance, Father,” Calliope teased. “While you sit here, make sure the servants properly arrange the cakes for the tea table.”
“I shall, my dear. You can always trust me with cakes.”
Calliope left the drawing room and went up the stairs, past servants bustling with final preparations. She should be thinking about refreshments and the guest list, too, but instead she thought only about her father’s words.
For a man with such a crowd of daughters, he seldom showed any concern for their matrimonial prospects. He lived in his own classical world, where dowries and betrothals had little place. Had he really been looking to Lord Westwood with an eye for an engagement? Scheming a match, along with his friend Lady Rushworth? Was everyone around her expecting her to marry Cameron, simply because they were prone to quarrels?
Calliope stepped into her bedchamber, watching as Mary prepared yet another white evening gown. Had she grown so predictable, then? She feared she had—white gowns, arguments with Lord Westwood, the evening was set. Too bad life couldn’t follow such easy patterns. It always insisted on throwing obstacles in one’s path. Things like thieves, and dukes obsessed with one’s sister.
And handsome young earls.
Calliope pushed all that away, and discarded her shawl to begin her evening toilette. A card party was not the place to suddenly become unpredictable. But if society thought they really knew Calliope Chase—well, soon, they would just have to think again.
The scene in the Chase drawing room was a distinct contrast to the one that happened in the duke’s grand ballroom. There were no fantastical costumes, no gods and monsters and nymphs, just ordinary mortals in stylish, if subdued, evening dress. No wild dancing, no crowds packed to the walls, and much less artwork. But at least their statues, Calliope thought with satisfaction, were legally obtained and properly looked after.
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