“These are quite remarkable, Miss Barrington,” he had said, looking her in the eye as he spoke.
Calliope had been breathless for a moment, unprepared for the impact of his nearness or his unguarded perusal.
“Thank you, Mr. Lewes. I hope you don’t say so because you feel you must. It would not hurt my feelings in the least if you thought my drawings nothing more than the scratchings of an amateur.”
“Not at all. In fact, they’re quite the best I’ve seen from someone who can only claim to pursue art as a hobby. What a talent you have.”
By the end of the afternoon, she had completely shrugged off her reservations and decided that Martin Lewes would make a most wonderful husband. In fact, when considering the other possible candidates, he was the only one that stoked any sort of excitement or interest.
Diana had been thrilled with this news, and had set about conspiring with Hastings to put Calliope in the man’s company as often as possible. Her brother-in-law was not a man typically concerned with such intrigues, but he was still basking in the first months of newly-wedded bliss. He would have done anything to please Diana, and apparently, it seemed nothing would delight her more than her sister making a match with the future viscount.
As a result, Calliope had spent more time in Mr. Lewes’s company in one week than she ever had in the few years of their acquaintance. There had been a carriage ride in the park with Hastings and Diana for chaperones, a night at Vauxhall during which she and Mr. Lewes had danced a waltz, and another afternoon tea that had led to a dinner invitation.
Hastings and Diana were not subtle in their manipulations, so the man could hardly fail to notice what they were about, which suited Calliope just fine. She was beyond coyness and pretending to be anything other than an unmarried woman with a prospective suitor in her sights.
There was only one problem.
Martin Lewes was as charming and affable as ever, but made no overtures of his own, nor did he give any indication that he was interested in her beyond their newly-formed friendship.
While she had few people she could call true friends, and should be delighted to count Mr. Lewes among them, Calliope couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed.
As she dressed for a night at the opera—with Hastings and Mr. Lewes set to escort her and Diana—Calliope expressed her frustration to both her sister and her lady’s maid.
“Perhaps I am being a bit impatient,” she admitted, staring at her reflection in the cheval mirror as her gown was fastened up the back. “But it seems the need for you and Hastings to go on orchestrating our encounters should be at an end by now. If the man were truly interested, he would make it known on his own accord.”
“I agree,” Diana said from where she sat at Calliope’s vanity table, shuffling through a collection of pots and vials. “You are impatient. Mr. Lewes is a bachelor and has a reputation for avoiding romantic entanglements. A fellow like that needs time to have his mind changed. We are nudging him in the right direction. Give it time, Callie.”
“You young people have no notion what you truly want,” mumbled Ekta, who produced a pair of shears from the pocket of her apron and snipped at a loose thread on Calliope’s bodice. “That is why, in Bengal, parents arrange the marriages of their children. That way, a girl and boy grow up already knowing what the future holds. There is no need for these games and intrigues.”
Calliope smiled indulgently at the woman who had always been a motherly figure of sorts. She’d served in the household of her father during his years of service in Bengal, and had been selected as Calliope’s ayah upon her birth. It was Ekta who had nurtured and reared her, becoming much more than a nurse once Vedah Barrington had died giving birth to her second child. The babe, a boy, had died along with her, leaving Calliope and her father with no one but each other. The recent loss of his brother the viscount, who’d had no son of his own, had forced her father to resign his post and return to England with Calliope, Ekta, and a retinue of Bengali servants in tow.
Now that she was a woman grown, Calliope had no need for a nurse, but neither she nor her father could imagine