by Candace Camp
“I will send a footman to find Rochford and tell him we wish to leave,” the duchess told Callie, turning and gesturing imperiously to one of the servants.
“No! I mean…can we not just go?” Callie asked. “My head is throbbing. And I am sure that Rochford will be well able to find his way home on his own.”
“Why, yes, I suppose.” The duchess looked concerned and came around the table to peer into Callie’s face. “You do look a bit flushed. Perhaps you are coming down with a fever.”
“I am sure Lady Odelia is right. It is simply too much excitement,” Callie replied. “All the dancing and the noise…”
“Come along, then,” the duchess said, nodding in farewell to her companions and starting for the hall. She glanced down at Callie’s hand. “Whatever are you carrying, child?”
“What? Oh. This.” Callie glanced down at the folded cape in her hand, and her fingers clenched more tightly upon it. “It’s nothing. I was holding it for someone. It doesn’t matter.”
Her grandmother looked at her oddly but said nothing more as they continued toward the cloakroom. As they passed the wide double doorway into the main ballroom, they heard Rochford’s voice. “Grandmother, wait.”
The duchess turned, smiling. “Rochford, how fortunate that we met you.”
“Yes,” he replied shortly. He no longer looked quite so thunderous, Callie noted, but his face was set and devoid of expression. He glanced toward her, and she looked away from him without speaking. “It is time to go.”
“So now we are to leave just because you say so?” Callie flared up.
The duchess gave her granddaughter a curious look and said, “But, Callie, dear, you just told me that you wished to go home.”
“I should certainly think so,” Rochford put in with a sharp glance at his sister.
Callie would have liked to protest his tone, as well as his peremptory order that they leave the ball, but she could scarcely do either without looking foolish, she knew, so she merely inclined her head and turned away without another word.
“I am sorry, Sinclair,” her grandmother apologized for her. “I fear she is not feeling herself.”
“Clearly,” the duke replied in a sardonic tone.
A footman brought them their cloaks, and they went down to their carriage. On the way home, the duchess and Rochford exchanged a few remarks about the party, but Callie did not join in the conversation. Her grandmother cast her a puzzled look now and then. Her brother, on the other hand, looked at her as little as she looked at him.
Callie knew that she was behaving childishly, refusing to speak to Rochford or meet his eyes, but she could not bring herself to act as if everything were all right. And she was not sure she could say anything to him about the feelings that roiled inside her chest without bursting into tears of anger—and she refused to do that. Far better, she thought, to seem childish or foolish than to let him think that she was crying because he had hurt her.
When they reached the house, Rochford sprang lithely down from the carriage and reached up to help the duchess, then Callie, who ignored his hand and walked past him into the house. She heard her brother sigh behind her, then turn and follow her up the steps into the foyer. He paused to hand his hat and gloves to the footman as Callie headed for the wide staircase leading up to the next floor, her grandmother moving more slowly behind her.
Rochford started down the hall in the direction of the study, then stopped and turned. “Callie.”
She did not turn around, merely took the first step up the stairs.
“Callie, stop!” His voice rang out more sharply, echoing a little in the vast empty space of the large entryway. As if the sound of his own voice had startled even him a little, he continued in a more modulated tone, “Calandra, please. This is ridiculous. I want to talk to you.”
She turned and looked down at him from her place on the stairs. “I am going up to bed,” she told him coldly.
“Not until we have talked,” he replied. “Come back here. We shall go to my study.”
Callie’s dark eyes, so like her brother’s, flashed with the temper she had been keeping tamped down for the past half hour or more. “What? Now I cannot even go to my bedchamber without your permission? We must obey you in every detail of our lives?”
“Damn it, Callie, you know that is not the case!” Rochford burst out, scowling.
“No? That is all you have done for the last hour—order me about.”
“Callie!” The duchess looked from one to the other, astonished. “Rochford! What is this about? What has happened?”
“It is nothing to be concerned about,” Rochford told her shortly.
“No, nothing except that my brother has suddenly become a tyrant,” Callie lashed out.
Rochford sighed and ran his hand back through his dark hair. “The devil take it, Callie, you know I am not a tyrant. When have I ever been?”
“Never until now,” she retorted, blinking away the tears that filled her eyes.
It was, indeed, Rochford’s past history of kindness and laxity that made his present actions so much harder to bear. He had always been the most loving and easygoing of brothers, and she had treasured their relationship all the more whenever she heard other girls talk about their brothers or fathers, who issued orders and expected obedience.
“I am sorry, Callie, if I offended you tonight,” he said stiffly, with an expression of patience and reasonableness that only served to grate on his sister’s nerves. “I apologize if I was too abrupt.”
“Abrupt?” She let out a short, unamused laugh. “Is that what you call your behavior this evening? Abrupt? I would have called it high-handed. Or perhaps dictatorial.”
The duke grimaced. “I can see that you have taken it amiss, but I must remind you that I am here to protect you. I am your brother. It is my responsibility to take care of you.”
“I am not a child anymore!” Callie exclaimed. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Not that I can see,” he snapped back. “Given that I found you alone in the garden with a strange man.”
The duchess sucked in a shocked breath. “No! Callie!”
Callie flushed. “I was not in the garden. We were on the terrace, and there was nothing wrong. Bromwell was a perfect gentleman. Indeed, he helped me. He sent another fellow on his way who had not been a gentleman at all.”
“Oh!” Callie’s grandmother raised a hand to her heart, her mouth dropping open in astonishment. “Callie! You were alone with two different men in the garden?”
“It wasn’t the garden!”
“That makes little difference,” Rochford replied.
“I may faint,” the duchess said weakly, but, of course, she did not. Instead, she marched forward a few steps so that she stood right below Callie, between her and her brother.
“I cannot believe what I have heard,” she told Callie. “How could you have done something so scandalous? Have you no care for me? For your family? Sinclair is right. Of course he has responsibility for you. He is your brother and the head of this family. He has every right to tell you what you should do, and you should do as he says. What possessed you to go out onto the terrace with a man tonight? What if someone had seen you? You should be grateful that your brother was there to rescue you. I shudder to think what might have happened if he had not been.”
“Nothing would have happened. I told you, I was perfectly all right. I did not create a scandal,” Callie replied, color flaming on her cheeks.
“Until you are married and have a home of your own, you are under your brother’s control,” the duchess said flatly.
“And then I will be under my husband’s control!” Callie tossed back hotly.
“Now you sound like Irene Wyngate.”
“There is nothing wrong with Irene,” Callie replied. “I would be glad to be like Irene. At least she has a spine, unlike most of the women I know.”
“Grandmother, please…” Rochford said, knowing f
ull well that the duchess was not helping his case with Callie.
“At any rate, it does not matter, as I will never be married as long as my brother treats my suitors like criminals,” Callie went on angrily.
Rochford let out a humorless bark of laughter. “Bromwell will never be your suitor.”
“I am sure not,” Callie responded, “now that you have humiliated me in front of him.”
“Bromwell?” The duchess asked, looking startled. “The Earl of Bromwell?”
“Yes.”
Their grandmother’s eyes lit with interest, but before she could speak, Callie went on, “What is wrong with Lord Bromwell? Why is it so terrible that I was with him?”
“You should not be on the terrace alone with any man,” Rochford answered.
“But why did you say that he would never be my suitor?” Callie pursued. “Why did you say, ‘You!’ the way you did when you saw him? Why is he so particularly unsuitable?”
Rochford said nothing for a long moment, then shrugged. “The man is not a friend to me.”
“What?” Callie’s brows sailed upward. “He is not your friend? I cannot marry someone unless he is your friend? Who would you have me marry? One of your stuffy old scholarly friends? Mr. Strethwick, perhaps? Or maybe Sir Oliver?”
“Blast it, Callie, you know that is not what I meant,” Rochford ground out. “You do not have to marry one of my friends. You know that.”
“No, I don’t know!” she shot back. “Right now, I feel as if I hardly know you at all. I would never have thought you could be so domineering, so careless of my wishes or feelings.”
“Careless?” he repeated in an astounded voice. “It is precisely because I do care for you.”
“Why? What makes the man unsuitable?” Callie asked. “Is his family not good enough? His rank not high enough?”
“No, of course not. He is an earl.”
“Then is he a fortune hunter? Is he after my money?”
“No. He is quite wealthy, as far as I have heard.” Rochford’s mouth tightened in irritation.
“The Earl of Bromwell is considered quite a catch,” the duchess put in. “Of course, he is not a duke, but there are so few of them, after all. And one could not want you to marry one of the royals. An earl would do quite well for you, really, and the family is an old and distinguished one.” She turned toward her grandson. “Are they not related to Lady Odelia somehow?”
“Yes, distantly,” Rochford agreed. “The problem is not his pedigree.”
“Then what is the problem?” Callie persisted.
The duke looked from his sister to his grandmother. Finally he said, “It is an old matter. And that is not the point.” He set his jaw. “I was acting in your best interests, Callie, when I warned him off.”
“You actually warned him off?” Callie asked in a horrified tone.
He nodded shortly.
“How could you?” she demanded. She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. “I cannot believe that you would humiliate me in that way! To tell him that I could not see him, as if I were a child or—or deficient in understanding. As if I had no will of my own or any ability to make judgments.”
“I did not say that!” he exclaimed.
“You did not have to,” Callie retorted. “It is implicit in saying who I can or cannot associate with.” Tears sprang into her eyes again, and she angrily blinked them away.
“I did what was best for you!”
“And I, of course, had nothing to say in the matter!” Callie was rigid with anger, her fists clenched at her sides. She was so furious, so hurt, that she could scarcely trust herself to speak.
She whirled and stalked up the stairs.
“Callie!” Rochford shouted and started after her, then stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking after her in frustration. He turned toward the duchess as though seeking an answer.
His grandmother crossed her arms in front of her and stared back at him stonily. “It is your fault that she acts this way. It is because you raised her so laxly. You have always indulged her and let her do exactly as she pleased. You have spoiled her terribly, and this is the result of it.”
The duke let out a low noise of frustration, then swung away from the staircase and started toward his study. He stopped and turned back to his grandmother. “I will finish my business in London quickly. Please get everything ready, so that we can return to the country the day after tomorrow.”
CALLIE STALKED INTO HER ROOM, fuming. Her maid Belinda was waiting for her there to help her undress, but Callie sent the girl to bed. She was too irate to stand still while Belinda unfastened her buttons. Anyway, she certainly could not lie down meekly and go to sleep.
The maid gave her an uncertain look, then slipped out the door. Callie strode up and down her room, stewing in her own anger. As she paced, she heard her grandmother’s slow steps go past her door, but she did not hear her brother’s heavier tread. No doubt he had retired to his favorite room, his study. He was probably peacefully reading some book or letter, or going over a set of numbers in preparation for visiting his business agent tomorrow. He would not be grinding his teeth or boiling with injustice and rage. After all, as far as he was concerned, the matter was over.
Callie grimaced at the thought and flung herself down in the chair beside her bed. She would not allow herself to be put in this position. She had thought herself a young lady who lived her life on her own terms, at least within the general limits of society’s rules. Had anyone asked, she would have said that she was free to do as she liked, that she directed her own life. She gave in to her grandmother a great deal, of course, in order to keep peace in the household, but that, she knew, was a decision she made. It was not something she had to do.
She went where she liked, received whom she wanted, attended or did not attend plays or routs or soirees as she chose. The household staff came to her for instructions. She bought what she pleased, using her own money, and if it was the agent who actually paid the bills for her, well, that was simply the way things were done. Sinclair’s bills were usually paid the same way. And even though Sinclair invested her money for her, he explained everything to her and asked her what she wanted to do. If she always went along with what he suggested, it was only because it was the sensible course. Sinclair had been running his own affairs for years and did so extremely well.
But now she could see that her vision of her own freedom was merely an illusion. She had simply never before crossed her brother. Who she saw, where she went, what she bought, the decisions she had made, had not been anything he disputed. But what she had presumed was freedom was not; she had simply been living in so large a cage that she had not touched the bars.
Until now.
Callie jumped to her feet. She could not allow this to stand. She was an adult, as old as many women who had married and had children. She was five years older than Sinclair had been when he came into his title. She would not give in meekly to his orders. To do so would be tantamount to granting him authority over her. She would not just go to bed and get up tomorrow morning as if nothing had happened.
She stood for a moment, thinking, then turned and went over to the small desk that stood against the wall. Quickly she dashed off a note and signed it, then folded and sealed it, writing the duke’s name across the front before leaving it propped against her pillow.
She grabbed up her cloak from the chair where she had tossed it, and once more wrapped it around her shoulders and tied it. Easing open her door, she stuck her head out and looked up and down the hall. Then, moving silently, she hurried down the hall to the servants’ staircase and slipped down the stairs. All was quiet in the kitchen, the scullery lad curled up in his blanket beside the warm hearth. He did not stir as she tiptoed past him nor even when she opened the kitchen door and stepped outside.
Callie closed the door carefully behind her and crept along the narrow path that ran down the side of the house to the street. She looked up and down the wide,
dark thoroughfare. Then, pulling up the hood of her cloak so that it concealed her head, she started off boldly down the street.
ACROSS THE STREET and a few doors down from the ducal mansion sat a carriage. It had been there for several minutes, and the driver, huddled in his greatcoat, had begun to doze. Inside, two men sat. One, Mr. Archibald Tilford, sat back against his seat, a bored expression on his face as he turned his gold-knobbed cane around and around in his fingers. Across from him, staring out the open window of the carriage at Lilles House, sat Archibald’s cousin, the Earl of Bromwell.
“Really, Brom, how long are we going to sit here?” Tilford asked somewhat peevishly. “I’ve a bottle of port and some very lucky cards waiting for me at Seaton’s right now. And the brick the driver put in here is growing cold. My feet will be like ice in ten more minutes.”
The earl flashed him a cool look. “Really, Archie, do try to bear up. We have scarce been here a quarter of an hour.”
“Well, I cannot imagine what you are doing, watching a dark house,” his cousin went on. “What the devil do you expect to see at this time of night?”
“I’m not sure,” Bromwell replied, not taking his eyes from the house.
“It is clear no one will be coming or going so late,” Archie pointed out. “I cannot imagine why you took it into your head to see Rochford’s house right now. Good Gad, it’s been fifteen years, hasn’t it? I thought you had finally forgotten about the duke.”
Bromwell gave the other man a long look. “I never forget.”
Tilford shrugged, ignoring through long experience the fierce gaze that would have quelled most other men. “’Tis long over, and Daphne got married anyway.” Bromwell did not reply, and after a moment, Tilford went on. “What are you about?”
Bromwell countered his cousin’s question with one of his own. “What do you know about Rochford’s sister?”
Archie sucked in a sharp breath. “Lady Calandra?” He hesitated, then said carefully, “You’re not thinking of…some sort of game involving the duke’s sister, are you? Everyone knows the man is devilishly protective of her—as you would know, too, if you had not spent the last ten years of your life buried up on your estate making money.”
