LITMIR.BIZ

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not help it. She knew what suited her, what she liked.

      And she had even dared fantasise once that Cameron de Vere would “suit her”. When he first arrived back in London, after a very long voyage to Italy and Greece, rumours raced through the drawing rooms of how handsome he was, how dashing, how scandalous. But that was not what fascinated her. She was interested in the fact that he was a student of art and history, as she was. She longed to hear tales of his travels, to see the beautiful antiquities he had surely brought back with him for study and preservation.

      It seemed they were destined to be friends, as their fathers had once been many years ago. Sir Walter Chase and the late Earl of Westwood were both scholars and collectors, great rivals as well as friends. The earl finally pulled the trump card in their collecting race, a bride who was actually Greek, not just French as Lady Chase was. Calliope and Cameron both grew up surrounded by the glories of the ancient world, though they never met after the de Veres departed for their incessant travels when their son was small.

      When he came back to London, a grown man, the earl in his own right now, Calliope listened to the whispers about him and dared to let a tiny hope grow in her heart. Could this, then, finally be a man who could understand her? Share her passions, as none of her suitors could?

      Those hopes were blighted when they at last met in person, at a reception he gave at his parents’ townhouse, his house now.

      From her earliest childhood, Calliope remembered an antiquity she had adored, a bust of Hermes that once graced the foyer of that house. Her father had tried to buy it, but the old earl refused all offers, much to Calliope’s sadness. She loved Hermes’ mischievous smile, carved to be almost lifelike in the cold marble, loved his winged helmet and the swirls of his curling hair. She was so very excited the night of that reception, so looking forward to seeing Hermes again.

      But he was not there! His niche was empty, as were all the others that had once held exquisite vases and goblets. Stunned, Calliope stayed there in the foyer as her father and sisters joined the gathering in the drawing room. She stood below that empty niche, staring up as if she could make her Hermes appear. Her plans for this reception—seeing all the lovely antiquities, meeting the new earl, talking with him about those cherished objects and perhaps forming a bond—were completely thrown awry.

      Calliope did not much like having her plans upset.

      “Well,” she heard a voice say, deep and velvety, faintly amused “you must be the missing Miss Chase.”

      Calliope glanced over her shoulder to find a man standing a few feet away, a faint half-smile on his lips, as sensual as that of her lost Hermes. He was dressed most properly, in buff breeches, a dark blue coat, and a pale grey brocade waistcoat, his cravat simply tied and skewered with a cameo pin. Yet he seemed an alien creature dropped into the sumptuous foyer, a man of bronzed skin and too-long, glossy dark curls. Of flashing, familiar brown eyes.

      “The Greek god,” she remembered Lotty sighing. “Oh, Calliope, he is a veritable Greek god!”

      “And you must be Lord Westwood,” she answered coolly, disconcerted by her reaction to him, to that smile of his. This was not how she pictured their meeting!

      “I am indeed,” he said, moving closer, graceful as a cat. He stopped close to her side, so close she could smell the faint lemony scent of his cologne, feel the heat of his skin, reaching towards her enticingly. She stepped away, closer to the reassuring chill of the marble wall.

      “There used to be a bust of Hermes here,” she said, swallowing hard to still the sudden tremor of her voice. “A most beautiful piece.”

      “Most beautiful,” he answered, gazing not at the niche, but at her. Steadily. “I returned it to Greece. Where it belongs.”

      And that was when she knew they could never be friends…

      “Miss Chase? What do you think?”

      Calliope jumped a bit in her seat, startled out of her memories by the sudden sound of Mary’s voice. She glanced into the mirror, only to find that her cheeks were flushed, her eyes too bright. As if that scene in the de Vere foyer, weeks in the past now, had only just happened.

      But her hair was tidy, swept back in her usual braided knot and decorated with the remaining white roses, her curls perfectly smooth.

      “It’s lovely, Mary. As usual,” Calliope said breathlessly.

      Mary nodded, satisfied, and went about finding Calliope’s shawl and slippers. Calliope reached for her pearl drop earrings, trying to forget that past evening, to focus on the soirée ahead. Cameron de Vere did not matter in the least! He was merely a misguided individual. Albeit a handsome one.

      As she clasped on the earrings, there was a knock at her chamber door. “The carriage is waiting, Miss Chase,” the butler announced.

      “Thank you,” Calliope answered. She took a deep breath, and rose slowly from her seat. It was time for the show to begin.

      “If Lady Russell’s plumes were any higher, I fear she would launch up into the sky like some demented parrot and leave us quite without a hostess,” Clio whispered, leaning close to Calliope’s ear.

      Calliope pressed her gloved fingertips to her lips, trying not to laugh aloud. The hostess of the musicale did indeed look a bit like a bizarre parrot, with towering, multi-coloured feathers spraying forth from a purple-and-green satin turban. Clio always did this; she was so very quiet that everyone believed she had nothing to add to any conversation and thus ignored her. This was a great mistake, for her sharp green eyes observed everything, and she sometimes broke forth with startling—and acerbic—insights. Comparisons to jungle parrots were quite mild for her.

      “But what of Miss Pratt-Beckworth?” Calliope whispered back. “I’m afraid someone told the poor girl that orange stripes were all the rage this season and she believed them.”

      “Indeed. It is better than that chartreuse creation she wore to the opera last week. Perhaps the Ladies Society needs to take her under its wing?” Clio shook her head sadly.

      Calliope joined her in perusing the room, turning away from the mediocre painting of a stormy sea she and Clio had been pretending to admire. An evening of ancient Greek music would surely not sound too jolly to most of the ton, but Lady Russell was popular, turban or no, and tended to attract around her those of a more philosophical bent. So the room was quickly filling up, people milling about between the rows of gilt chairs, chatting and sipping lemonade—and stronger beverages—before the music began. It was not a “dreadful crush” by any means. There was no danger of overheating, or fainting, or having one’s train trodden on. But the colours were vivid against Lady Russell’s collection of bad paintings and very good antique statuary, a swirl of pastels, blues, greens, reds—and one orange—mingling with the hum of conversation. Talk of music and history were de rigeur tonight, exactly what Calliope usually loved.

      But she could not entirely concentrate on the classical world. She still felt so restless. Unfocused.

      Next to Calliope, Clio removed her spectacles, squinting out at the crowd as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Unlike Calliope, who usually wore Grecian white muslin because it was the simplest choice, Clio was clad in emerald-green silk embroidered with a gold-key pattern, her auburn hair bound back by a gilded bandeau. A parrot of a far more subtle sort.

      “What do you think, Cal?” she asked quietly. “Is the Lily Thief among us tonight?”

      Calliope stiffened. The Lily Thief—how could she forget? Her gaze quickly scanned the gathering, jumping lightly from one young man to the next. There were so many there, tall, short, plain, handsome. Yet not the one she sought.

      Could that possibly be the cause of her strange restlessness?

      Certainly not! Calliope shrugged that away. The doings of Cameron de Vere were none of her concern. Just because she had been certain a Greek evening would appeal to him…

      “I don’t believe so,” she said.

      “Then

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