As he made his way up the walk to the portico, he skirted the guests awaiting entrée. He would be damned before he would wait in line to enter his own abode.
Grimly, he slipped inside, his ire growing with each step. He fumed as he handed off his outerwear. By the time he reached Young, who was making announcements in the grand ballroom, he was furious. He took his butler aside.
“Why the devil was I not informed there was a ball being held here this evening?” he growled.
Young looked as if he had swallowed a toad. “Lady Calliope expressed a desire to surprise Your Grace.”
Of course she did. He was going to lock Callie in her chamber for the next sennight.
“Damn it, Young, who is your employer?” he demanded. “My sister or me?”
The retainer, whose marked devotion to Callie had not gone unnoted by Benedict, swallowed. “You are my employer, Your Grace. It is merely that Lady Calliope asked that this ball remain a secret.”
This was not the first time his hellion of a sister had thrown a ball without his knowledge or approval. Nor, he suspected, would it be the last. Callie had a way about her that lured in the most hardened of hearts. He wondered at how he had failed to note the preparations earlier, but he supposed he had been buried in his study first and then so distracted by Miss Hilgrove’s visit that he had simply departed for his meeting.
“No more secrets, Young,” he ordered, his gaze sweeping the crowd for his sister.
“Shall I announce you, Your Grace?” asked his butler.
“No, you shall not.” Grimly, Benedict joined the crush.
She was holding court on the opposite end of the massive ballroom, easy enough to spot both by the number of gentlemen surrounding her and the bold brilliance of her blood-red gown. He could not very well tear a strip off her before an audience, and that was no doubt part of her plan.
“Your Grace.”
At the familiar voice, Benedict stopped in his determined pursuit of his sister and turned to find Roberta, the Countess of Entwhistle. She greeted him with a slow, seductive smile. She was dressed beautifully this evening, her silk ball gown hugging her figure like a lover. Her brilliant red hair had been coiled atop her head, and she wore the Entwhistle diamonds at her creamy throat. Her bodice was cut daringly low, revealing her most famous assets.
“Roberta,” he returned, bowing as he wondered what the devil she was doing in attendance.
It was decidedlyde tropfor one’s sister and one’s mistress to be bosom bows. But Callie made an art form of flouting propriety at every opportunity. Then again, he was not entirely certain Callie was aware of his arrangement with Roberta. He liked to hope he was discreet enough for her to remain ignorant.
Roberta moved nearer, and he caught the sweet scent of her perfume. Her proximity should have affected him, yet he could summon no more than a polite smile of appreciation. She was a beautiful woman and relentlessly clever as well.
She tapped his arm with her closed fan. “You are hardly dressed for the occasion, darling. Was this another of Lady Calliope’s surprises?”
He considered denying it to save face, but Roberta was too intelligent to be fooled. “Of course it is. What the devil is her cause tonight?”
“Artists, I believe.” Roberta’s smile turned flirtatious as her gaze dipped to his mouth. “Monsieur Bisset and Monsieur Moreau are in attendance.”
Christ.
Moreau had painted Callie in Paris. The gossipmongers had gleefully seized upon the suggestive nature of the portrait after it had been shown in exhibition in London. Benedict himself had been tempted to plant the Frenchman a facer.
“Why would she invite the opportunity for further scorn and ridicule?” he muttered, half to himself.
He and his sister were opposite in appearance as in temperament. He was fair-haired and science-minded. She was raven-haired and an unabashed lover of the arts. He preferred calm and quiet. Callie was like a storm.
“Monsieur Moreau’s work is celebrated,” Roberta said, sliding her fan down his forearm as if it were a caress. “He is a friend.”
Friend.
Rumors certainly suggested Moreau was far more to Callie. Benedict did his part to make certain eyes were upon her at all times, keeping her from trouble as much as he could now that she had returned to London from abroad. But she was still Callie, and no one could tame her.
“She should not have invited him,” he growled, his irritation with his sister deepening.
“But you invited him, darling,” Roberta countered. Her fan trailed over his wrist, just the slightest of touches over his skin.
“Of course I did not invite him, and you know it.” He cast a glance back toward his sister, who was sipping champagne and laughing, standing far too near to a tall, dark-haired gentleman. “This was all Callie’s doing, as usual.”
