He lost his temper then, capturing her hand, wagging finger and all, in his own and using it to pull her flush against him. “If I am to be labeled as such, I may as well stop resisting the part.” And, with that, he kissed her.

She fought him, wriggling under the strength of his kiss, but no matter which direction she turned, he was there, all strong arms and firm muscle and hard, unyielding mouth. Her fists pounded on his shoulders fleetingly before he grasped her waist with both hands and lifted her from the ground—leaving her with no choice but to cling to him as he pressed her against the wall. She gasped in surprise at the sudden movement, and he took the opportunity to plunder her mouth, both hands cupping her face, stealing her breath.

She matched his movements with lips and tongue and teeth, refusing to allow him the upper hand, even in this. Stroke for stroke, where he went, she followed. He captured her sighs with his mouth; she reveled in his low hum of pleasure. After several intense moments of the sensual battle, his lips gentled, caressing hers as his tongue stroked along the soft, sensitive skin of her lower lip, ending the kiss infinitely more gently than it had begun.

The caress wrung a little cry from Callie, and Ralston smiled at the sound, pressing a final, soft kiss at the corner of her mouth. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and their gazes collided. There was no sound in the hallway save their labored breathing—reminding them both of the intensity of the argument that had preceded the kiss.

He raised a single dark eyebrow in a silent, victorious gesture.

The arrogant expression renewed her fury.

Pulling herself up to her full height, she said, “I am not one of your women, to be mauled in public. You would do well to remember that.”

“Forgive me,” he said, mockingly, “but you did not seem so very opposed to playing the role.”

She could not help herself. Her hand flew of its own volition, in a direct line for his cheek. Even as she moved to slap him, she dreaded the blow, unable to stop the motion. When he caught her hand in a viselike grip, mere inches from his face, she gasped in surprise, meeting his eyes and immediately recognizing the anger in them.

She had overstepped her bounds. Dear Lord. She’d tried to strike him. What had possessed her? She struggled to free her hand, only to discover his hold was thoroughly unyielding.

“I—I’m sorry.”

He narrowed his gaze but remained silent.

“I shouldn’t have…”

“But you did.”

She paused. “But, I didn’t mean to.”

He shook his head, dropping her hand and taking a moment to straighten his coat. “One cannot have one’s cake and eat it, too, Lady Calpurnia. If you plan to make a habit of acting without care of the consequences, I would recommend taking ownership of those actions. You meant to strike me. At least have the courage to admit it.” He paused, waiting for her to respond. When she didn’t, he shook his head. “Amazing. I hadn’t thought you a coward.”

His words sent an angry wash of color across her cheeks. “Stay away from me,” she said, voice shaking with emotion, before she spun away from him, fleeing in the direction of the lit foyer and Rivington’s box.

Ralston watched her go, his expression betraying none of his thoughts.

Eleven

I knew you would come.”

The words, spoken with soft sensuality, reeked of a feminine arrogance that immediately set Ralston on edge. He remained casually draped over a chintz-upholstered armchair in Nastasia Kritikos’s dressing room, refusing to allow her to see his irritation. He had spent enough time around the woman to know that she would take particular satisfaction in her ability to provoke him.

Ralston cast a heavy-lidded gaze over her as she moved to her dressing table and began to take down her hair in a ritual he had watched dozens of times before. He took her in: her br**sts, heaving from the exertion of singing for nearly three hours straight; the heightened color on her cheeks marking her exhilaration at her performance; her bright eyes signaling her anticipation for the next part of the evening, which she clearly believed would be spent in his arms. He had seen this exact combination of heightened emotion in the beautiful singer before—it had never failed to raise his own excitement to a fever pitch.

Tonight, however, he was unmoved.

He had debated leaving her note unanswered, considered remaining in the box until the end of the performance and exiting with his family, as planned. Ultimately, however, the note had served to underscore the fact that the opera singer was unable to be discreet. He was going to have to articulate their new relationship more explicitly.

He supposed he should have known that she would not be cast aside so easily, should have seen that her pride would not allow it. That much was clear now.

“I came to tell you that tonight’s note will be the last.”

“I do not think so,” she purred, as the last of her ebony tresses fell around her shoulders in a cloud of silk. “You see, it worked.”

“It won’t work next time.” His cold blue gaze emphasized the truth of his words.

Nastasia considered his reflection in the mirror as a silent maid moved to remove the elaborate costume the singer had been wearing. “If you did not come for me tonight, Ralston, why are you here? You loathe the opera, my darling. And yet, your eyes did not leave the stage tonight.”

For all she declared herself an artist, Nastasia was always acutely aware of her audience. He’d often admired her ability to recall the precise location of certain members of the ton in the theatre—she had a gossiper’s eye for who was watching whom through their opera glasses, for who exited the theatre midperformance with whom, and for what excitement and drama was occurring in which box, and when. He was not surprised she had noticed him and sent the note.