The Wedding Challenge (12 page)

“Callie!” Francesca exclaimed. “Did he—”

“He tried to kiss me!” Callie told her, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment and anger at the memory. “I was furious. But then Lord Bromwell came up and sent the man packing. He—we—well, I took a moment to regain my calm. And that is when Sinclair came looking for me and found me with the earl.”

“Did you explain to Rochford?” Francesca asked.

“I tried,” Callie recalled indignantly. “He would not listen to me. He would not give either of us a chance to explain. Nor would he give me any reason for doing so—and now you say you think he would not like it, but
you
will not say why, either.”

Francesca pressed her lips together and turned aside. Callie felt a strong suspicion that Francesca wanted to say more but would not allow herself to.

“What do you know?” she asked Francesca quickly. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know why Rochford reacted that way. And it is not my place to say.” Francesca looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Perhaps you do not know, but you suspect something,” Callie persisted. “Surely I have a right to know. I am the one who is affected.”

“Yes, of course, but…” Francesca grimaced. “This should lie between you and Rochford.”

“But he will not tell me anything.”

Francesca sighed and finally said, “I would guess that it is the earl’s sister who concerns your brother more than the earl himself. If Rochford holds something specific against Bromwell, then I have no idea what it is.”

“He objects to—what did you say her name was? Lady Smittington?”

“Swithington,” Francesca said, and once again Callie detected a certain bite to her tone when she spoke of the woman. “Lady Swithington. Daphne.”

“Then you know her?”

Francesca nodded. “Yes, she was in London when I made my come-out. She was a widow at the time. Her first husband was quite a bit older than she, and he had died a year or so before. There was…a great deal of talk about her. She was scandalous in her behavior. Everyone whispered about her. I am not sure how much of it was actual truth. As you know, young unmarried girls, especially those fresh to London, are not privy to all the rumors, especially the more licentious ones. But her reputation was that of a woman of loose morals. Even before her husband’s death.”

“She had affairs?” Callie asked.

Francesca nodded. “Yes. So it was rumored.”

“But surely Sinclair cannot blame her brother for her behavior!” Callie declared indignantly.

“No, I am sure he does not. But perhaps he feels that the earl is cut from the same cloth,” Francesca suggested.

“But that is simply speculation. He doesn’t
know.
”

Francesca shrugged. “I have no idea what Sinclair knows about the man. I can only say that I have heard nothing about him,” Francesca pointed out. “But you know how fragile a young woman’s reputation is. Perhaps Rochford does not like the idea that anyone might connect your name with someone who is not of the highest morals. Or perhaps he feels that he would not want you to marry the man because of the scandal that has been attached to Lady Swithington’s name. And if you cannot marry him, then it would be best that you have nothing to do with him.”

“But that is so unfair!” Callie exclaimed, throwing her arms wide in a gesture of frustration. She began to pace up and down the room, saying, “It is wrong to color Lord Bromwell with the same stain, just because he is her brother.” She turned and stared searchingly at Francesca. “Is that what you think of Lord Bromwell? That he is wicked?”

Francesca looked at her, pained, and finally shrugged. “No—I do not know what he is. I barely know the man. He seems a fine person, but I know that what he appears to be is not necessarily what he is. He is Lady Daphne’s brother, so it seems possible that he may be of the same ilk as she. On the other hand, I am quite certain that not all members of a family are alike. I have two brothers. One is a wonderful man. The other was wicked.” Francesca’s lovely face hardened. “And I would hate to think that anyone assumed that I was like Terence simply because we were related.”

“There! You see?” Callie said triumphantly. “It is wrong to assume that Lord Bromwell is wicked, too.”

Francesca seemed to struggle with her answer, finally saying, “Yes, it would be wrong, if that is what your brother is doing. But we cannot know his reasons, really, and if he is so opposed to your seeing this man…”

“But what about
me?
” Callie cried out. “What about what
I
want? Why should my brother be allowed to make decisions for me? I am a grown woman. Why should I not be the one who decides whom I shall see? With whom I will spend time?”

“Yes, of course, you should be,” Francesca agreed.

“I am not going to do something foolish,” Callie pointed out. “I am quite capable of realizing that a man is trying to take advantage of me. Do you not agree?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“So it seems to me that it is not Sinclair’s view on this man that matters, it is mine.”

“I am sure that Rochford is trying to protect you,” Francesca put in.

“No doubt he is,” Callie retorted. “But I am growing very tired of people who are trying to protect me telling me what I can and cannot do.”

“Of course you are.”

“And I should like to be allowed to make my own decisions.”

Again Francesca nodded. “I know, my dear. I know.”

“Then are you going to allow me to do so?” Callie asked. “Or are you going to tell me that he cannot call here?”

Francesca’s brows flew up in surprise. “Oh, my dear—I was not saying that. I thought I should warn you. I was not certain if you were aware of how Rochford would feel about it.”

“I am not certain, either,” Callie told her. “Sinclair was angry that night, but it was so unlike him…. Looking back on it, I have wondered if it was not simply that he was worried because he could not find me. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the earl himself. Perhaps he would have reacted the same way about any other man—or, at least, a man he did not know well.”

Francesca shrugged. “That could be true.”

“He regretted getting angry, I think,” Callie told her. She paused, then added, “Still, I cannot lie to you. Sinclair did tell me not to see Lord Bromwell again.”

“I see. But you intend to?” Francesca asked.

Callie straightened, lifting her chin a little. “I—I want to decide for myself about the man. It is not Sinclair’s place to order my life. I love my brother, but I will not live a certain way just because he tells me to. However, I can certainly understand it if you do not want to cross Sinclair.”

Francesca’s chin came up in a way that mirrored Callie’s. “I am not afraid of the Duke of Rochford.”

“But if you do not wish to allow Lord Bromwell to call here, I will not be angry with you.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Francesca replied. Her voice was calm, but her eyes sparked with temper. “But I would be angry with myself if I allowed the duke’s, or anyone’s, opinion to dictate who
I
allow in
my
house. I told Lord Bromwell that he is welcome to call here, and he is. And if your brother does not like it—well, he will just have to deal with the fact you and I are not under his command.”

“Thank you, Francesca.” Callie beamed at the other woman. She rushed impulsively across the room to hug her. “I am so glad I came here.”

“I am, too,” Francesca replied, patting her on the back.

With another hug, Callie bade her friend good-night and went to her room. Francesca turned and walked across to the window. She was tired, and yet she still felt restless. She pushed aside the edge of the heavy drapery and gazed out into the dark night.

She wondered if she had done the right thing. It would be wrong of her to do anything that would open Callie up to being hurt. She could not help but worry that Lord Bromwell might turn out to be the same sort as his sister. And how much of her own decision not to bow to Rochford’s commands stemmed from her belief that Callie had the right to do as she pleased and how much from a long-simmering resentment?

Francesca told herself that she would chaperone Callie and Bromwell closely. She would watch for any sign that Bromwell was a roue, a blackguard. Nothing, she promised, would harm Callie while she was under her roof.

Still, she worried that she should let Rochford know about Lord Bromwell and about Callie’s feelings. But she could not betray Callie in that way—any more than she could write or speak to Rochford about that time fifteen years ago. And it was no wonder, she thought, remembering that time, that Rochford had avoided telling her why he and Callie had argued.

That left her with only one other option—to tell Callie what she knew. But how could she tell Callie that Rochford doubtless wanted her to stay away from the earl because he did not want his sister involved with the man whose sister had once been Rochford’s
own
mistress?

T
WO DAYS LATER
, Lord Bromwell came to call on them. He stayed for less than thirty minutes, which was the appropriate duration for an afternoon call. Francesca remained in the room the entire time, and during the last ten minutes that he was there, Lady Tollingford and her daughter Lady Mary also came to call. So there was no chance for any sort of private conversation between Callie and Lord Bromwell, and the conversation never swerved from socially approved topics, such as the weather, the play they had seen the other night, and the upcoming gala that the Prince was holding in a fortnight for a visiting prince from Gertensberg.

Callie had expected nothing more. A first call was simply the prelude, the opening shot in an extended campaign of courting, and was as much a chance to pass inspection by one’s chaperone, parent or guardian as anything else.

Lord Bromwell, tall and wide-shouldered in his well-cut jacket of dark blue superfine and close-fitting fawn breeches, had easily passed the inspection. He was handsome and polite, and obviously knew the social niceties despite his years of living away from the City. Yet there was no slickness to his manner or speech, no indication that he sought to curry favor or to present a false front.

Callie knew, looking at Francesca, that this afternoon’s call had eased some of her earlier uncertainty. No one understood the ins and outs of the
beau monde
better than Lady Haughston, and if anyone could spot an adventurer or what Francesca’s brother Dominic would call a “rum ’un,” it would be she. But Callie could see Francesca relaxing a little more with each passing minute that Bromwell spent there, her smile growing easier and more genuine, her words drifting from polite chit-chat into more genuine conversation.

And Callie, when Bromwell threw a quick grin at her, his gray eyes full of wicked charm, could not help but grin back, a heady excitement beginning to bubble in her chest.

The next day Lord Bromwell called on them again, this time to take them for a ride in his curricle through Hyde Park. It was five in the afternoon, the most fashionable hour for Londoners to promenade through the park. Many strolled, others rode horses, and a large number rolled through in their finest equipage, showing off their clothes, their conveyances, their teams and, in many cases, their handling of the reins.

It was a trifle cramped, for Bromwell’s sporting vehicle was small and built more for speed than comfort, usually carrying no more than two people. However, Callie could see that Francesca was not about to let her go off in even an open carriage through Hyde Park alone with Lord Bromwell. Callie wondered again if Francesca did not know more about her brother’s reason for disliking Bromwell than she had let on. It did not seem likely that Sinclair would react so strongly to him just because the man’s sister had an unsavory reputation. It had seemed more personal to Callie than that.

But if Francesca did know something more, why had she not told her? Callie found it hard to believe that Francesca believed anything bad about Lord Bromwell, given that she was still willing to receive him. She must not know anything, Callie reassured herself. Her friend must be behaving in a very circumspect manner simply because she did not want Rochford to take her to task.

Still, Callie could not but wish that Francesca would not take her chaperone’s role quite so seriously. They could scarcely talk, at least in any but the most superficial way, with Francesca sitting between them on the curricle seat.

Over the course of the next week, it seemed that Lord Bromwell turned up everywhere they went. He called on them twice more. Then he was at Lady Battersea’s rout and again at Mrs. Mellenthorpe’s large formal dinner, not to mention the Carrington soiree.

However, to Callie’s frustration, Francesca stayed by her side throughout each evening, so that there was never any occasion to have a moment alone with the man. The closest she got to him was when he bowed over her hand when greeting or leaving her. Francesca was, she thought, carrying things a bit far. What, after all, could happen between them in the midst of a crowded party?

Callie was no longer used to such rigid chaperonage; it had been several years since she was a young girl in her first year, and even her grandmother allowed her almost free rein at a party. Not, of course, that Francesca refused to “allow” her to be by herself; she simply made it a point to always be about if Lord Bromwell was there. Callie suspected that if they should chance to be at a ball together and Bromwell should ask her to dance, Francesca would make a point of being right there when they stepped off the floor. There would be no slipping away to a tête-à-tête in an alcove or on the terrace outside.

Callie supposed she should be grateful. Not even her brother could be upset about her being at the same party as Bromwell when she was under Francesca’s watchful eye the whole time. Still, she found herself chafing under the gently-handled restriction.

On Saturday, she and Francesca attended the Fotheringham rout. Like most such events, it was something of a crush. Callie looked around in vain for Lord Bromwell, and after half an hour she decided, with some disappointment, that he would not be coming. She was standing with Francesca, chatting to Irene and Gideon, who also had decided to remain in London, when she turned her head and saw Bromwell walking through the double doorway into the large reception room.

Callie went still, her fingers clenching around the stem of her fan. At Bromwell’s side, her hand tucked familiarly in the crook of his arm, was a blazingly attractive red-haired woman. Tall and statuesque, with a wealth of auburn ringlets done up
a la Meduse,
she was dressed in a black satin evening gown, richly decorated around the hem and neckline with black lace and jet beads. The low-cut neckline showed off her elegant white shoulders and chest, her full breasts swelling up over the froth of black lace. Though a somber color, it was a perfect foil for her vivid red hair, pale skin and light blue eyes. Her mouth was perhaps too thin for perfect beauty, but such a small imperfection was scarcely noticeable in the eye-catching picture she presented. There was a soft smile on her lips, and she turned once or twice to look up at the man beside her, smiling at him with clear affection.

Callie felt a coldness growing in her stomach as she watched Bromwell turn his head to smile back down at the woman. As though sensing the change in Callie, Francesca turned and glanced across the floor, following Callie’s gaze. Francesca stiffened, and a soft curse escaped her lips.

Callie glanced at her, as did Irene and Gideon.

“Who is—” Irene began then stopped. “Oh, yes, I remember now. She was at the ball at the Park when we got engaged, wasn’t she? Lady…” She paused, trying to recall the name, and turned toward Gideon.

“Do not ask me,” her husband told her. “I don’t remember the woman.”

It seemed absurd that any man would not remember this woman, but Callie suspected that with Gideon it was true. He was clearly so smitten with Irene that he barely looked at any other women.

“Swithington,” Francesca said in a rather brittle voice. “Lady Daphne Swithington.”

“Oh!” Callie was surprised and a little chagrined at the relief that swept through her. “She is Lord Bromwell’s sister.”

“Yes. Apparently she has come to town for the Season.” Francesca sounded anything but overjoyed at the prospect.

Callie glanced over at her friend. Surely there was something more bothering Francesca than just the fact that Lady Swithington’s reputation had been unsavory. After all, from what Francesca had said, it had been many years since whatever scandalous behavior the woman had engaged in, and she had been out of Society since then. While her entrance had caused a stir around the room, no one was turning away or giving her the cut direct. Even if Lady Swithington were still ostracized, Callie did not think that it would cause Francesca, who was not at all high-in-the-instep, to turn as frosty as she was now. Callie could not help but wonder if perhaps Francesca’s late husband might have been one of the many men with whom Lady Daphne had been reputed to have had an affair.

Though they nodded to one or two people as they passed, Lord Bromwell and his sister did not stop until they reached Callie and her companions. “Lady Haughston, Lady Calandra, pray allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Swithington,” he began.

Francesca’s smile was icy as she replied, “Yes, Lady Swithington and I are old acquaintances.”

“Oh, yes,” the other woman added, her smile much less reserved than Francesca’s. Up close, Callie could see that the woman was older than she had appeared from across the floor. Tiny wrinkles fanned out from the corners of her eyes, and when she was not smiling, there were deep grooves bracketing her mouth. “Lady Haughston and I know each other well, do we not? And Lady Calandra.” She turned her smile on Callie, adding, “I am so happy to meet you at last. I knew your brother, of course, but you were just a wee thing then.” She let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Now I am showing our age, am I not, Francesca? How terrible of me.”

Francesca’s smile had vanished entirely. Ignoring the other woman’s words, she went on, her voice like glass, “I believe you have met Lord and Lady Radbourne.”

“Yes, of course. At your engagement party, was it not?” Lady Swithington smiled brilliantly at the other couple. “I was just out of mourning then, but I felt it was not amiss to attend, given that dear Lady Odelia invited me. She is our father’s cousin through marriage, you see, and has always been so kind to us. Hasn’t she, Brom, dear?” She turned to her brother, smiling affectionately.

“Yes, Lady Odelia is a darling,” Bromwell replied in a sardonic voice, and his sister tapped him playfully with her furled fan.

“Bromwell…you will give everyone the wrong idea.”

Gideon let out a chuckle. “Not likely—we are all related to Lady Odelia, as well.”

“Now that Lady Daphne is here,” Bromwell said, “I hoped that we might make up a party to Richmond Park next week. No doubt our cousin Mr. Tilford will go with us. It would give me great pleasure if all of you would attend, as well.” He looked around at the others. “Lord and Lady Radbourne? Lady Haughston?” His eyes came last to Callie, but it was on her that they stayed. “Lady Calandra?”

“It sounds very nice, if the weather holds,” Callie put in quickly, for she had the suspicion that Francesca might say no. “I have been growing restless, I confess. A long ride sounds just the thing.”

“Yes, doesn’t it?” Francesca agreed with distinctly less enthusiasm. “However, I am afraid that neither Lady Calandra nor I have any mounts stabled in the city. I find it difficult to find much time for riding, so I only ride when I am at Redfields. And as only Lady Calandra came to London to visit me, the Lilles horses are not here, either.”

“No need to worry about that,” Bromwell said. “I was at Tattersall’s this week, and I have not sent the animals I bought to the estate yet. I should welcome the opportunity to see them in action.”

“And we have some of our horses, as well,” Lord Gideon put in. “I am sure that among us we will have enough for everyone.”

“Then of course,” Francesca gave in gracefully. “It sounds delightful.”

Callie felt sure that Francesca did not mean her words, but she was not about to quibble. The prospect of a ride out to and through the wide green spaces of Richmond Park sounded most enjoyable. Nor was it just the fact that such an expedition would offer a much freer social situation than a party. She had been feeling cooped up in the City, for she loved to ride and did so often whenever she was at one of their estates. Even in the City, she was accustomed to taking a sedate ride along Rotten Row a couple of times a week, and she had sorely missed the exercise and the fresh air.

So it was arranged that they would go to the park on the following Tuesday, provided there was no dreary rain to spoil the expedition. Bromwell and his sister stayed to chat for a few more minutes. Francesca was much more silent than was customary for her, but Lady Daphne easily took up the slack, giving a droll account of her trip from her late husband’s far-flung estate to London, which seemed to have been plagued with every delay from having to turn back for a trunk left behind to a broken wheel to being stuck in a west country inn for three days because of a late snowstorm.

After a time, Irene and Gideon excused themselves, and a few moments later Bromwell and Lady Daphne did, as well, Lady Daphne warmly taking Callie’s hand in hers and murmuring that she looked forward to getting to chat with her on the outing. Bromwell bent over Callie’s hand in his usual way, his lips brushing soft as velvet across her skin. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on his, and he looked at her as he straightened, his eyes suddenly hot and intimate.

After they had walked away, Callie leaned closer to Francesca, saying softly, “You need not go to Richmond Park if you do not wish to. Irene and Gideon will be there, and surely that is ample chaperonage for me. It will be perfectly all right. I will say that you fell ill the morning we are to go.”

“And let Daphne revel in the idea that I hadn’t the courage to spend a day in her company?” Francesca retorted. There was a steely glint in her deep blue eyes that Callie had never seen there before. “Nonsense. I will manage perfectly well.” She set her jaw, muttering beneath her breath, “‘Showing our age’ indeed! As if she were not six years older than I if she is a day!”

Callie smothered a smile behind her fan. She could not remember ever before seeing Francesca display the slightest feminine venom. Confident in her own beauty and place in society, she did not flare with jealousy or envy. When other women behaved in such a manner to her, she usually skewered them with deft skill, but without employing bitterness or dislike. It was somehow reassuring to see that Francesca was as capable as the next person of giving way to a spurt of ill-tempered dislike.