‘Yes.’ Her eyes were clear and dark and happy as she looked into his and Cal felt a jolt of some emotion he hardly recognised displace the sensation of apprehension in his heart. Happiness. Such a perilous emotion. ‘Yes, please, Callum. And the necklace is beautiful, thank you. I am sorry if I seemed ungrateful.’
‘I do not want gratitude,’ he said, meaning it and wondering as he spoke what he did want. ‘But a kiss would be very acceptable.’
Her arms went around his neck and she smiled up at him. ‘But that is as much a pleasure for me as for you, Mr Chatterton,’ she said as he lowered his mouth slowly to hers, savouring the anticipation.
‘The Marquess and Marchioness of Iwerne, Captain the Count d’Aunay, Lady d’Aunay, ma’am,’ Hawksley pronounced with the air of a butler who felt he was loftily above such circumstances as discovering his master and mistress locked in a passionate embrace in the middle of their drawing room.
*
Callum took absolutely no notice of the butler, or of the four guests who entered on his words, until he had finished the kiss, apparently to his satisfaction.
Sophia emerged blushing and laughing to meet the sardonic amber gaze of a tall, black-haired stranger. Instinct alone would have told her that this was not Callum’s bachelor colleague from East India House, even if he did not have Perdita at his side: he had a tangible air of confidence and privilege that warned her that this was the Marquess of Iwerne. Warned was the apt word, too, she was certain. A good man to have on your side, a dangerous enemy.
‘My lord.’ She was not certain how low one had to curtsy to a marquess—he was one step below a duke, after all—but she had hardly begun to bend her knees when he stepped forwards and took her hand.
‘Alistair,’ he said and smiled. Really, if she was not already in love with Callum, Sophia thought, managing somehow to keep her composure, she would not know where to look, his friends were such attractive men.
He released her hand and held his out to Callum, pulling him into a hard, rapid embrace that seemed to communicate more than words would have done. It hit Sophia suddenly that perhaps the last time Callum had sat down to eat with three of the people here Daniel had been with them too. Had she been extraordinarily insensitive to invite the Lyndons?
Then she saw that Callum had relaxed and was smiling and realised that she had not understood. He did not have to explain anything to his friends, they did not have to say anything out loud for him to know he had their support. It was only she, his wife, who was uncertain and who risked blundering with everything she said, or left unsaid.
‘The Honourable Mr George Pettigrew, ma’am.’ Mr Pettigrew’s arrival released some of the tension she was feeling; he had never known Daniel, presumably had no idea of the circumstances of his colleague’s marriage and his presence forced everyone to talk of more general subjects.
Dinner had gone well, Sophia decided two hours later, looking down the length of the table with some satisfaction as the guests finished sampling the selection of sweet fritters that flanked the orange-cream cups. Callum met her gaze and she took a breath to ask the ladies to retire. Instead he said, ‘Would you like to own a ship, my dear?’
‘A ship? You mean a yacht?’
‘No, an East Indiaman. That is where we have been today, looking at one for sale in the docks.’
‘A whole ship?’ She managed not to gulp. One could not ask one’s husband if he could afford to buy something vastly expensive, not in the middle of a dinner party.
Callum grinned. ‘A share. Pettigrew and d’Aunay and Lyndon are joining me. Together we will own one quarter.’
‘It sounds wonderful. What is she called?’
‘The Morning Star,’ Mr Pettigrew said. ‘I think it ought to be changed, there are at least three others of that name that I can think of.’
‘Wouldn’t the other owners object?’
‘I cannot see why, not if we can suggest something acceptable and unique,’ Alistair said.
‘I know.’ Callum looked round the table, then his gaze came back to fix on Sophia. ‘There is inspiration enough sitting here.’ He raised his glass. ‘Gentlemen, I give you The Three Belles.’
‘Three—? Ah, a pun.’ Luc smiled. ‘It will make a marvellous figurehead.’ He lifted his glass to his own wife and then to Averil and Sophia. ‘Three belles, indeed.’
Sophia waited until the laughter and toasts had subsided, then nodded to Andrew who came to pull back her chair. ‘Ladies. Shall we?’ As they left the room the men resumed their seats and she heard George Pettigrew say, ‘I reckon she’ll do us proud.’
‘Perhaps we should start our own shipping—’ Luc’s voice was cut off by the door closing.
‘This is delicious,’ Averil said happily. ‘A ship named after us.’
‘If the other owners will allow the change.’ Sophia still could not quite take it in.
‘I don’t know who they are, but we do have the fact that Alistair is a marquess on our side,’ Dita pointed out. ‘I would guess he outranks most of them.’
‘And the fact that we have our Mr Chatterton,’ Averil put in. ‘Luc tells me that the rumours are that he is very well thought of at Leadenhall Street.’
‘He is?’ Of course, she had every confidence in Callum’s ability and hard work, but it was early days yet, surely?