The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle: The Charm School

“It’s indecent.”

He parked their shoes on the bench. “You’re not going to start that again. I won’t allow it.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s walk.”

She took three steps in the warm sand and stopped. “Oh, dear.”

“Now what’s wrong?”

She looked down at her shockingly bare feet, buried to the arches in silken sand. “This is the most sinfully delicious sensation I’ve ever felt.”

He laughed. “Oh, love. You have led a sheltered life.”

They walked on, passing Sugar Loaf Rock. Beyond the rock, they found a deserted spot where cliffs towered over the shore and the waves stole onto the beach. Without hesitation, Ryan led her directly into the surf.

“We mustn’t,” she said. “This is—”

“Don’t squeak and squawk at me, Isadora,” he said with excessive patience. “It’s so tiresome when you do that.”

The surf was creamy and sinuous as it rushed to the shore, swirling around their ankles. “It’s warm,” Isadora exclaimed, “and I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“This is the most sinfully delicious sensation I’ve ever felt.”

“No,” he said, pulling her against him. In that one movement she felt the multiple pressures of his thigh against hers, hip to hip, chest to breast. “You are.”

Fifteen

Oh Lord! If you but knew what a brimstone of a creature I am behind all this beautiful amiability!

—Jane Welsh Carlyle

(1836)

“Why are you scowling at me so?” Isadora asked, holding the running strap of the carriage.

Ryan deepened his scowl, peering at her in the dim light of the coach lamp that shone through the window. “I was wondering if Senhor Ferraro will believe my supper companion was the same laughing, carefree girl he met at the marketplace yesterday.”

“Not all men put such stock in a person’s appearance,” she said, shifting her gaze out the window.

Ryan had a devilish urge to grab her, muss her hair and clothes, to make her sorry she’d attempted to crawl back into her proper Bostonian shell. She wore the black-and-brown dress he’d hated from the start, the drab skirts belled out over multiple crinolines. She’d scraped her hair away from her face, though he was pleased to see the wavy stray locks retained a golden vibrance imparted by weeks of exposure to sun and sea.

But far more alarming than her sober mode of dress was her attitude. She had once again adopted a cowed and apologetic demeanor, holding her shoulders hunched and her chin lowered almost to her chest. This was the way Isadora Peabody of Beacon Hill had presented herself to the world: as a woman who had absolutely no sense of her own worth.

“You look as if you’re dressed for a funeral wake,” he grumbled.

She turned from the window, let her gaze flick over him, taking in the yellow waistcoat and turquoise jacket. “You more than make up for my lack of color.”

“Could you at least try not to look as if you’re on the way to the gallows?”

“I am not fond of social engagements. I never have been. You should have come without me tonight.”

Somewhere along the way, life had taught her that social engagements were painful. She had learned to gird herself for the ordeal like a soldier arming for battle. A tough corset and a servile attitude became her shield and her sword. Once again, she’d bitten her fingernails ragged, a habit he’d hoped she’d conquered on shipboard.

Why do you do this? he wanted to ask her. But he didn’t. Criticizing her lack of poise was dangerous. Because as soon as he let himself worry about her, he’d start to care, and that could be deadly, could distract him from his cause. He needed to marshal all his reckless nerve in order to do what had to be done about Journey’s wife.

The coach delivered them to a fashionable address in the Botafogo section of Rio. Turning in from the broad brickwork lane lined by carabba trees, they passed through a massive gate of wrought iron. Family crests bearing ships and lions hung from the bars of the gate. The conveyance followed a cobbled circular drive with a lighted fountain in the center.

The Ferraros’ home was a multilevel mansion lit by torches ensconced in the walls. A houseman, smiling hugely, conducted them into a salon decked in gauzy draperies and carved wooden screens, potted palms in the corners. Turkish divans and ottomans overflowed with large, soft cushions. The atmosphere of luxury and sensuality enclosed them like a seductive embrace.

Ryan looked at Isadora to see how she was taking it all in. She was biting her nails, he saw with a heated rush of annoyance. He put his hand on hers. “You have such a sweet mouth, Isadora,” he whispered. “I can think of a much better purpose for it than nail biting.”

She slapped his hands away. “I wish you wouldn’t speak to me in such a suggestive manner.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…improper. No, it’s worse than that. It’s insincere.”

“How so?”

“I say so.”

“And you would know.” He cupped her blushing cheek in the palm of his hand, lightly rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip, marveling at how soft it was, remembering how it had tasted when he’d kissed her. “You are no expert on men, Isadora. And you’re especially no expert on me.”

She jerked away, blinking fast as if on the verge of tears. “Captain Calhoun, I am not well suited to teasing.”

The stark, honest hurt in her expression bothered him. Although she had no idea about the depths of his interest in her, she was right about one thing. Unless he could offer her something more than flirtation, he should keep his distance. Except that the flirtation was so damned fun.

“After yesterday, I thought our friendship had progressed to a toleration of teasing.”

“Yesterday was…yesterday.” Isadora made a turn around the room, gingerly exploring the rich surroundings. “It’s not much like Boston, is it?”

“Do you disapprove?”

“Heavens, no. It all looks so wonderfully comfortable. Quite decadent.”

“And decadence meets with your approval?”

“Senhor Calhoun! Senhorita Peabody!” Ferraro bustled into the room. He wore an elegant coat and trousers made of fine black fabric with a red sash around his middle. “Welcome to our home!”

At his side stood a plump, smiling woman in a flowing pale dress. “May I present my wife, Amalia.” Though she was well past middle age and clearly no raving beauty, Doña Amalia’s dark eyes shone with affection for her husband and welcome for her guests. Her affable look drew Ryan in, and he found himself warming to her instantly.

“Welcome to Rio,” she said, holding out both hands to Isadora.

Maurício cocked his head to one side. “You are looking very formal, senhorita.” He winked. “And the two of you—are you affianced?”

“Absolutely not!” she burst out.

Ryan was offended by her vehemence.