The Wedding Challenge (11 page)

“Do you have a lucky man in mind? Or is this Season to be an open tournament for your hand?”

“Lucien…” Francesca said warningly. “I do hope you are not planning to cast that news about. We shall have every adventurer in the city on our doorstep.”

“My dear Francesca!” The man placed his hand over his heart, assuming an appalled expression. “How can you say so? Of course I will not say the slightest word, if you and Lady Calandra do not wish it. Besides…” A mischievous grin played about his lips. “It will be far too much fun to watch it all play out.” He turned, raising the lorgnette that hung by a black silk ribbon from his lapel and making a survey of the audience. “Let us see, who are you considering? Bertram Westin? He is a devilishly handsome sort, but I have heard that he is far too fond of the cards.”

“No, I have never really liked the man,” Callie replied, casting a look around. She had been doing so as unobtrusively as possible since they arrived. She hoped it did not appear as if she was looking for someone in particular, though she was honest enough to admit to herself that she would not be displeased to see that Lord Bromwell was attending the play.

Not, of course, that she was considering him as a prospect for marriage. Still, she had not been able to get the man out of her mind for the past few days, and she could not keep from surveying the crowd now and again, just to see if he had entered the theater.

“There are Lord and Lady Farrington,” Francesca said, raising her fan to speak behind it. “The third box from the stage across from us. Their oldest son will inherit a fortune.” She frowned. “Though one rarely sees him about. I wonder why.”

“Shy, I hear,” Sir Lucien supplied the answer. “It is said that he prefers, um, relationships of a more, shall we say, commercial nature? ’Tis easier than facing a line of young ladies, you see.”

“Oh, dear,” Francesca said. “Well, I suppose we shall have to cross him off the list.”

“What about Sir Alastair Surton?” Sir Lucien asked, his glasses stopping on a man in the audience below them.

Callie let out a groan. “He is forever going on about his horses and his dogs. I like riding as much as anyone, but I would like some of my conversation to be about something else.”

“True,” Lucien agreed. “He is rather dull. I fear the selection is small until the Season starts.”

“We are simply making a preliminary survey. A reconnaissance. Is that not what you call it?”

“Not I. Not much of a military sort, myself,” Sir Lucien remarked.

Francesca reached out to give his arm a playful tap with her fan.

“You know, Lady Calandra,” Sir Lucien said dryly. “You need not look far to find the perfect spouse. He is sitting right here in this box.”

“You are putting yourself forth as a candidate?” Francesca asked, raising a brow skeptically. “Everyone knows you are a confirmed bachelor.”

“Perhaps I simply have not had the right incentive,” Sir Lucien protested, the twinkle in his eyes belying his words. “You must admit, ladies, that it would be difficult to find a more agreeable or entertaining man than myself. I am a marvelous dancer.”

“That is true,” Callie admitted, smiling.

“And who is better at talking to all one’s old boring female relatives?”

“No one,” Francesca agreed.

“And,” he added triumphantly, “you would always have someone to advise you on your ball gowns.”

“What more could one ask?” Callie said.

“The only problem is that you would have to get married, Lucien,” Francesca pointed out.

“That is a drawback,” he conceded, then offered Callie a brilliant smile. “But in the case of one as beautiful as Lady Calandra, it would surely be worth the sacrifice.”

Callie laughed. “Careful, Sir Lucien. Someday someone is going to take you up on one of your jests, and then what will you do?”

He cast a laughing sideways glance at her as he murmured, “There is always a trip to the Continent.”

A smile still lingering on her lips, Callie turned to glance out over the audience again. Her eye was caught by movement as the door to one of the boxes opened and two men entered it, casually chatting. One of them was the Earl of Bromwell.

Callie’s heart began to pound, and she quickly glanced away. She kept her face turned firmly from the box, letting some time pass before she made another slow survey of the house.

It was, indeed, her Cavalier of the other night, dressed more sedately in black jacket and breeches, a blindingly white shirtfront and cravat showing between the lapels of his jacket. He had taken off his greatcoat and now sat in one of the chairs, the other man beside him. His arm was on the ledge of the box before him, and he was half turned toward his companion. She could not see his expression. But she remembered well enough how he looked—the smile that started with a crinkling around his eyes and spread to his lips, the gray of his eyes that changed to silver or the dark color of a storm cloud depending on the emotion that touched his face.

Callie turned toward her friends. “Who are those gentlemen in the box to our right—almost in the center of the theater? One has dark hair, and the other is lighter, almost blond.”

Francesca turned to scan the audience. “The box beside Lady Whittington and her daughter?”

Callie turned to check, and this time she found Lord Bromwell and his companion looking straight at her box. Color rushed into her cheeks. The earl smiled faintly and nodded to her.

“Yes,” Callie said in a constrained voice and quickly looked back down at her hands.

“Do you know him?” Francesca asked, astonished.

“Not exactly. I—he was at Lady Pencully’s party.”

“Who wasn’t?” Sir Lucien asked rhetorically as he, too, swiveled his head to gaze at the two men. “I do not recognize the dark one, but the other is Archibald Tilford.” He glanced back at Callie. “He is not anyone for you to consider. Pleasant chap, but he lives on a stipend from his cousin—wait.” Sir Lucien paused, frowning a little, and turned back to look once again at the other box. “Yes, that just might be his cousin. The Earl of Bromwell. If it is,
he
would definitely be a contender. I have met him only once, a few years back. Yes, that could be he.”

“The Earl of Bromwell…” Francesca said consideringly. “I don’t think—oh.” She stiffened slightly. “Do you mean the brother of Lady Swithington?”

Sir Lucien nodded. “He is rarely in London. He went north to his estate in Yorkshire when he inherited—oh, a good ten years ago. Not long after I left Oxford. The old earl’s pockets were pretty much to let when he died, but they say the son has recovered their fortune. Better than that, actually. I hear the man is positively wallowing in money now.”

“How did he make all this money?” Callie asked.

Sir Lucien gave her a droll look. “My dear, I haven’t the faintest idea. But I do know that the family does not like to discuss it. The whiff of trade, you see.”

“I cannot imagine why people feel they need to hide the fact that one makes money. Sinclair always says that he sees no reason why gentility should have to include poverty.”

“For some, I fear, gentility is one’s only asset,” Sir Lucien replied.

“Alas, not a very marketable one,” Francesca added wryly.

Francesca continued to study the man in the other box. He and his companion were no longer looking in their direction but were once again chatting. From time to time the earl glanced down at the playbill in his hand.

Finally Francesca said in a careful voice, “Do you wish to add him to your list of prospects?”

Callie shrugged, doing her best to look unconcerned, as if her stomach had not turned somersaults when he looked over at her. “I—the other night at the party he seemed…pleasant.”

She looked over at Francesca. There was something in the other woman’s eyes, an expression of—she was not sure what. Uneasiness, perhaps? Francesca glanced at Sir Lucien, then down at her hands.

“What?” Callie asked, straightening. “Do you know aught about this man? Is there some black spot in his past?”

“No. Indeed, I do not know him at all,” Francesca assured her, shifting a little in her seat.

Callie narrowed her eyes, studying her, and Francesca went on, “I know his sister…slightly.”

“You know something bad about her?”

“I—truly, I do not know her well,” Francesca said. “I—she has lived for the past few years in Wales, I believe, at the estate of her aging husband. I have heard, however, that he has recently departed this world, and she is a widow. No doubt, she will now return to London to find another wealthy husband.”

Callie recognized a distinct trace of venom in Francesca’s voice, and she wondered at the cause of it. It was unlike Francesca to display even that much ugly emotion. She was normally one to turn aside a barb when someone else made it, or to couch her own remarks, even disparaging ones, in a light and witty way. But, clearly, she did not like the earl’s sister. Callie would have liked to pursue the matter, but, just as clearly, it was not a topic that Francesca wished to discuss.

“Ah, look, the play is about to start,” Francesca said, turning toward the stage with an air of relief.

Callie settled down to watch the play, as well, telling herself that she would delve into the subject of the earl’s sister later, during the intermission, when Sir Lucien would doubtless leave to get them all refreshments.

The play was not a particularly exciting one, and Callie had trouble keeping her mind on the stage. She was aware of an urge to glance over at the earl’s box, but she would not allow herself to do so. It would not do to let him see that she had an interest in him. But she could not keep her mind from going where it would, and her thoughts kept turning to the man.

Why had her brother objected to him? Francesca and Sir Lucien, two of the mainstays of the
ton,
had not even recognized him, and they were much more likely than Sinclair to know all the gossip. The earl could not be a well-known rake, which had been Callie’s fear after the way Sinclair had reacted to his being with her on the terrace. If the earl was a man who was in the habit of seducing maidens, Callie was certain that Sir Lucien would know that fact, even if by some stretch of the imagination Francesca did not. Callie was also sure that Sir Lucien would have, at the very least, found a delicate way of warning her away from the man.

So, if there was no scandal attached to his name, why did Sinclair dislike him? He must know Lord Bromwell. But, according to Sir Lucien, the earl spent his time in Yorkshire on his estates, so Callie had no idea how Sinclair would even be acquainted with him. The duke had no land in Yorkshire that Callie knew of; certainly she had never gone there with him.

Perhaps at some time Sinclair had done some sort of business with the man. Sinclair, unlike most noblemen, not only paid active attention to the welfare of his many lands, he also was wont to invest his money—as well as Callie’s own, smaller, fortune. She supposed that Sinclair could have thought that the earl had done something ethically wrong in his business. Callie was certain that Sinclair would not dislike the man simply because he was involved in making money, even though many of the aristocracy did consider such a thing crass.

Or, Callie thought, perhaps Sinclair had merely reacted to the situation. He had been anxious about her welfare; he had been looking for her. And when he had found her alone on the terrace with a man, perhaps it had alarmed him so much that he simply assumed the man must be a scoundrel, even though he did not know him.

That, she thought, seemed the likeliest thing. If Sinclair had leaped to such a conclusion, that meant that when time passed and he looked back on the situation, he would probably realize that he had acted hastily and without any real knowledge. And Sinclair, being the fair sort he was, would admit that he had been wrong to judge the other man so quickly and on such little evidence. If he could be made to see that he was wrong, Sinclair would always admit it and apologize. Surely that would be the case with the Earl of Bromwell.

On the other hand, Callie could not forget that Sinclair had called the other man by name. And that meant, of course, that he
did
know him, even if Francesca and Sir Lucien did not. It had seemed to her that the earl had recognized Sinclair, as well.

She was still worrying over the problem when the lights of the theater came back up, and the audience began to rustle and move about. Sir Lucien volunteered to go out into the lobby and bring back glasses of ratafia for the two women. As soon as he left, Callie turned toward Francesca, determined to steer the conversation back to Bromwell’s sister, but Francesca had scarcely gotten past a few generalities about the play when there was a knock upon their door.

Callie suppressed her irritation as Francesca called out a polite invitation to enter. It was in general the custom to pay calls back and forth among the boxes at the play or opera. Callie had been hoping to get in a few words with Francesca before visitors began to arrive, but obviously that was not to be the case.

Like Francesca, she turned toward the door with a welcoming smile. It opened to reveal the blond man whom Sir Lucien had identified as Mr. Tilford. Next to him stood the Earl of Bromwell.

C
ALLIE’S HAND CLENCHED
on the handle of her fan, and her pulse began a tumultuous run, but she managed, she thought, to keep her face coolly polite.

“Lady Haughston,” the blond young man began, somewhat tentatively. “I hope you will not find me too presumptuous. We met at Lady Billingsley’s soiree last Season. Mr. Archibald Tilford.”

Since Francesca had not known the man’s identity, Callie felt sure that she had no memory of the meeting, but the man looked so nervous and uncertain that Francesca took pity on him and smiled, nodding graciously to the gentlemen.

“Of course. Mr. Tilford. Do come in.”

“Thank you. Most kind,” Tilford said quickly, looking relieved, and he and his companion stepped into the small room.

The box, Callie noticed, which had seemed quite roomy with just the two of them in it, now appeared rather small. There was nowhere to look except at the man who had occupied her mind so much over the past two days.

Callie had thought that perhaps the Cavalier costume had romanticized Lord Bromwell, made him appear more dashing and handsome than he actually was. In truth, she thought as she covertly studied him now, Bromwell was, if anything, even more handsome in the simpler clothes of the present day. His long, lean body needed none of the padding the doublet provided, and the narrower trousers that were currently fashionable emphasized the strong musculature of his legs. There was no need for the jangle of spurs or the sword at his side to add to the masculine aura that hung about him.

“Lady Haughston, please allow me to introduce my cousin Richard, Earl of Bromwell,” Mr. Tilford went on.

“How do you do?” Francesca greeted the other man politely, offering her hand to him. She and Callie had both stood and turned to face the men as they came into the box. Now Francesca gestured toward Callie. “Lady Calandra Lilles.”

There was a twinkle in Bromwell’s eyes as he turned toward Callie, executing a respectable bow. “Lady Calandra and I have met…if you remember, my lady.”

“But of course,” Callie replied, pleased that her voice came out relaxed and natural. “How could one forget Lady Pencully’s masquerade?”

“Ah, then I must be excused for not recognizing you, Lord Bromwell,” Francesca commented. “As we were all in disguise.”

“But some are memorable even in disguise,” the earl replied smoothly. “As you were, Lady Haughston—a shepherdess, if I remember correctly.”

“Indeed, sir, I was.”

“And Lady Calandra came as Katherine Parr, though she is far too young to have been that lady when she was queen.”

“Is that who you were?” Francesca asked, turning toward Callie. “And here I assumed you must have been Anne Boleyn.”

“A Tudor lady, really,” Callie said. “That was all I intended. ’Twas Lord Bromwell who raised me to royalty.”

“It was immediately apparent to me that that was where you belonged,” he replied.

There was another tap on the door, and two more young men entered, which rendered the box full to capacity, especially when Sir Lucien came in a moment later, carrying glasses for Francesca and Callie.

It seemed natural for Bromwell to move to the side, allowing the others more room, and his movement brought him closer to Callie, so that he stood between her and the outer ledge of the box.

“I had heard that the duke had left London,” he commented casually. “I was surprised to find you here tonight.”

“I am visiting Lady Haughston,” Callie replied. “She kindly invited me to stay with her until the Season begins, when my family will return.”

Now that he was this close, she had to tilt her head back a little to look up at him. His eyes, she noticed, were a dark gray in the low lights of the theater, the color of storm clouds. He was studying her, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. Had he thought of her the past few days? Had his surprise upon seeing her been mixed with pleasure?

He had come with his cousin to visit their box, even though it was clear that Mr. Tilford had only a slight acquaintance with Francesca. Surely that indicated an interest on the earl’s part. And while Callie knew quite well that it could have been Francesca’s blond beauty that drew the men, she did not think it was vain of her to suppose that Bromwell had come to see her. After all, he had not stayed near Francesca but had maneuvered his way closer to her.

Callie glanced away to hide the spurt of pleasure that the thought aroused in her.

“I am very grateful to Lady Haughston,” the earl told her. “I had feared that I might not see you before I had to return to the north.”

“Is that where your estates are?” Callie asked, as though she had not received an accounting of the man and his holdings from Sir Lucien an hour earlier.

“In Yorkshire. I know that I am an oddity among the
ton.
I will be leaving London when everyone else is starting to arrive for the Season. But I find the spring and summer too important a time to leave the estate.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Now you will look shocked and say surely I do not mean that I oversee the lands myself.”

“Indeed, no,” Callie replied. “I think it is only wise to pay attention to one’s estate. How else are you to insure that your land is being used properly? Or that your tenants are treated fairly?”

“You are an uncommon lady, then. I am usually told that I am lacking in gentility.”

“I can see by your grin that such an evaluation does not bother you overmuch.”

“I generally am not concerned with other people’s opinions of me,” he admitted. “Another reason I do not fit well into the
ton.
”

“Not everyone is so narrow-minded,” Callie protested.

He smiled. “I am very glad that you are not.”

She glanced down, slightly flustered by the way his smile made her feel inside. It was not the sort of reaction she was accustomed to feeling toward any man. She was not a girl fresh out of the schoolroom; she had spent five years in Society. She was well used to flirtations and meaningful glances and beckoning smiles. Long ago she had learned to put little stock in compliments, and she had never been one to turn breathless because a man looked at her.

But with this man, everything was different. He had only to look at her to make her heart race in her chest, and when he smiled at her, her insides fluttered. Callie wondered if he had any idea that he played such havoc with her senses.

Bromwell cast a glance over at his cousin, then turned back to Callie. “I must take my leave now. I can see that I am making poor Archie nervous. He worries that I will embarrass him by staying too long. He fears that I have lost my town bronze in the years out of London…if, indeed, I ever had any.”

“I feel sure that you exaggerate, my lord.”

He shrugged. “I have never been well-versed in the art of polite conversation. I am too prone to voicing my honest opinion.”

“That
would
be a drawback in social settings,” Callie agreed lightly. “But it seemed to me that you did well enough at talking the other night. As I remember, you were quite artful in your flattery.”

“Ah, but with you, you see, ’tis easy enough to pay pretty compliments, for one need only speak the truth.”

“You see?” Callie quirked a brow. “Artful.”

He smiled. “Now that we have been formally introduced, dare I hope that you will allow me to call upon you?”

She smiled and glanced down, a gesture that was more coy than she was accustomed to being, but she needed to buy herself a little time.

She could not deny the happy upsurge of her spirits at his words. It was gratifying to know that he wished to see her again, and she knew that she wanted to see him again, as well. But she also was very aware of the little fingers of doubt that tapped at her. Sinclair had told her not to see Bromwell again. If she allowed the earl to call on her, she would be going directly against Sinclair’s wishes, something she had never done before, at least in any serious way.

If only she knew the reason for Sinclair’s adamant dislike of the man. Was there something hidden beneath his handsome exterior, some inner weakness or sickness of the soul that made Sinclair react so strongly to her being alone with him? She knew that it was possible for a man to be quite other than he seemed. Over her years in the
ton,
Callie believed that she had become a good judge of character, but there were some men who could fool even the most cynical and suspicious of people. Moreover, she had long ago learned that the façade that gentlemen presented to ladies was often quite a different picture than what other gentlemen saw. It would be safer to do as her brother had ordered her.

And yet…His smile did something to her insides that no other smile ever had. And when she remembered the way he had kissed her, her loins were flooded again with heat. Her whole body had yearned toward him; she had wanted to press herself into him, to feel his hard muscle and bone sinking into her softer flesh. It was enough to make her blush, just thinking of it. She wanted to see him again. Quite frankly, she wanted to feel his lips on hers once more. Perhaps it was immoral of her, she thought. No doubt it was undutiful and disobedient. But right now, she did not care. For once in her life, she was going to do what she was not supposed to do.

She lifted her face. “I would like to see you again, my lord,” she told him boldly. “However, I think you forget—I am staying with Lady Haughston. ’Tis she you must receive permission to call on.”

A faint smile played about his lips, and there was a light in his eyes that warmed Callie’s blood. “Indeed, I did not forget. But it was
your
feeling on the subject that I wanted to determine.”

With that, he bowed to her, then turned and made his way to the door, where Francesca stood, chatting politely with Mr. Tilford and one of the newer arrivals. As Callie watched, the earl spoke to Francesca, clearly making his goodbyes with a bow. Francesca smiled at him, and when he said something else to her, she glanced quickly over at Callie. Then she turned back to the earl, a smile on her face, and said a few more words. Callie felt certain she had given the man permission to call on them.

The rest of the evening dragged. The play could not hold Callie’s interest, and she had to resist the temptation to turn and look over at the earl’s box when the intermission came after the second act. There were more visitors to their box at that point, and she chatted with them in a superficial way, but her mind was elsewhere.

She was happy when the play ended and they were able to return home. Callie was quiet on the ride, and she noticed that Francesca was, as well. When Sir Lucien teased them about their unusual silence, Francesca smiled faintly at him and admitted that their day of shopping had left her somewhat tired.

“Then I shall not keep you ladies up any longer,” Sir Lucien promised.

True to his word, when they arrived at Francesca’s house, he escorted them inside, then promptly took his adieu. However, when they had climbed the stairs to their rooms, Francesca made a gesture toward her bedroom, saying, “Why don’t you come into my room for a moment? We can talk.”

“All right,” Callie agreed, and walked past into Francesca’s bedchamber.

A little anxiously, she wondered what Francesca’s purpose was. Had Sinclair specifically told her not to allow Callie to see the earl? Was Francesca regretting her decision to allow Callie to stay with her?

“Is aught amiss?”

“No. Oh, no.” Francesca smiled. “I hope you did not think I meant to lecture.”

Callie shook her head, returning the smile. “I know you would not lecture me. But I thought perhaps you had misgivings about my staying with you.”

“No, of course not!” Francesca exclaimed. “I am delighted to have you here. I was just wondering…” She hesitated, a delicate frown creasing her forehead. “That is to say, I am not sure whether Rochford would quite like the Earl of Bromwell calling on us.”

“Do you know aught against him?” Callie asked, coming closer. “Did you dislike the man?”

“No, on the contrary, I found him quite pleasant. He was well-spoken and polite. Very handsome, as I suspect you noticed.” She cast a teasing glance at Callie.

Callie could not keep from blushing, but she said only, “I was aware of it.”

“I know almost nothing about him—only what Lucien told us,” Francesca went on. “I had never met the earl until this evening.”

Callie knew that she should tell Francesca that Sinclair had told her not to see the earl. She should reveal that her brother had warned the man away from her. It was not fair to Francesca to let her unwittingly go against the duke’s wishes.

But Callie could not bring herself to do so.

“If you do not know him,” she began carefully, “why do you think I should not see him?”

Francesca shook her head. “It is not that I think you should not. It is just that I am…uncertain.” She paused, then asked bluntly, “Is the earl the man over whom you argued with Rochford?”

“Yes,” Callie admitted. She could not lie to her friend. “Sinclair was looking for me, and he found us out on the terrace. But there was nothing wrong with it. We did not go out there together. I had been foolish enough to allow another man to maneuver me outside, and then, when I wanted to go back in, he grew quite obnoxious, and he seized me by the arms.”