A Secret Ambition

XIX

"That's what I consider true generosity: You give your all, and yet you always feel as if it costs you nothing." Simone de Beauvoir

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XIX.              

Callan had fully expected to be in a prison carriage right about this moment. He had certainly not expected to be sitting, sitting, down on the fanciest sofa that he had ever seen in his life as he awaited a duke's company.

He had nearly turned back towards his office a dozen times. Probably more like fifty times as he had forced his legs to take him to Mayfair. But every time he had wanted to turn away, his mind went to Lily, and he didn't want her coming to the office the next day to find out that he hadn't tried again.

All Callan felt like he did was try, but she had asked him to try once more, and Callan knew that he had nothing to lose. Literally nothing. Callan didn't want to disappoint Lily ... but it also brought him a comfort that he was wholly unused to in knowing that when this eejit turned out to be the eejit that Callan knew he was, that Lily would be there to support him.

Callan was entirely unused to leaning on anyone, and Lord knew that he ought not to be leaning on her. She was precious, and he meant that in the sense that she was innocent and very unworldly in comparison to him. But the more he thought about leaning on Lily, pleasing her, and trying for her, and for himself, Callan knew that he was already in worlds of trouble. He kept trying to remind himself that he was simply protective over her.

But because of her, because of Lily's belief in him, Callan found himself sitting in the fanciest room that there ever had been. When he had knocked on the door and given his name to the servant who had answered the door (and, mind, was wearing a finer suit than Callan was), he had fully expected to be turned away.

When the servant got one whiff of an Irish accent, Callan expected to be chased out by the hounds. But instead, he was received by a simple, "His Grace has been expecting you," before he was led inside the house.

'House' ought to be a criminal word when thinking about the building that Callan was currently inside. Granted, he had only seen the entry hall and this room, but it was simply extraordinary. Callan did not know quite where to look. Before he sat down on the sofa, he had brushed his behind, terrified he might have had some muck on him that would have leeched onto the upholstery.

This room seemed reserved for nothing but sitting. It served no other purpose. There didn't seem to be any baskets of mending about or anything else to warrant being in the room. There were several marvellous sofas and chairs all immaculately clean and ornate. The handles on the chairs were gold. Were they real? The very thought made Callan's stomach twist.

Every table had an urn that was filled with fresh flowers, and there was a pianoforte situated by the large window that was letting in a great deal of the spring sunshine. Callan had never seen a pianoforte in real life. He had come to that realisation upon setting his eyes on the white and gold instrument before him.

Everything about this room, and the whole house, he could surmise, made Callan feel entirely out of place. It felt wrong. It was wrong for him to be here. He could hear his father's voice in his head, and he could see the look in his mother's eyes when her family ignored her if ever they passed her. Every day of his childhood in Ireland, Callan had been reminded of his place by the people who lived in places like this.

These people didn't value people like Callan. There was no way on God's green earth that this duke had a vested interest in Callan's business. He had already been ruined by one of them. Sir Richard Frogmore was probably at his club right that moment laughing. Either that or preying on another innocent woman as he tried to ruin his next rival.