by Candace Camp
It did not take them long to reach the elegant house in which Francesca lived, and Callie’s heart sank a little as they approached it. She forced a smile as she stopped at the foot of the steps before Francesca’s door.
“We are here,” she told him and extended her hand politely. “Thank you for escorting me. I hope I have not taken you too far out of your way.”
“It was a pleasure,” he assured her, taking her hand. But instead of bowing over it, he simply stood, holding it and looking down into her face. “But you must promise me not to do anything so dangerous again. You must send me a note if you plan any more midnight rambles. I promise I will come with you. To keep you safe.”
“I assure you, I will be quite careful in the future. I will not need you.”
“Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly; then, with a swiftness that surprised her, he wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her to him, bending his head to kiss her.
Bromwell’s kiss was everything she remembered, and more. His teeth were hard against her mouth, his tongue soft as it insinuated itself between her lips. He tasted a little of port and more of dark, beckoning hunger. Callie felt her knees sag, and she flung her arm around his neck, holding on, as she kissed him back.
His hand let go of hers and went to her back, sliding down along her cloak to the soft curve of her buttocks. His palm glided over the fleshy mound, fingertips digging in a little and lifting her up and into him. She felt the hard ridge of his desire against her softer flesh, and she was both startled and intrigued—even more so when she felt the wet heat of her own response blossoming between her legs.
She made a soft, eager noise, and heard the groan of his response. He lifted his head and stared down at her for a long moment, his eyes bright, a faint surprise mingling with desire on his face.
“No,” he murmured. “I think I have it wrong—’tis you who are dangerous.” He took a breath and released it, letting her go as he stepped back. “I will bid you adieu, my lady.” He removed himself another step, then flashed a grin at her as he said, “We will meet again. I promise it.”
With that he turned and walked away, though Callie noticed that he paused in the shadow of a tree two doors down and turned back to watch her. It warmed her to realize that he was waiting to see that she got safely inside, while at the same time protecting her reputation by not appearing with her. Hiding a smile, she trotted up the few steps to Francesca’s door. Taking a breath to calm her racing heart, she reached up and knocked.
Silence followed her knock, and for the first time it occurred to her that Francesca might not be at home. She could, indeed, still be at Aunt Odelia’s party. After all, clearly Lord Bromwell had just been walking home. Or, of course, everyone in the house could already be asleep.
She reminded herself that eventually someone would hear the knock and answer the door, even if the household was abed. Francesca’s butler would recognize her and let her in, however odd he might find her appearance on their doorstep at this hour.
Still, she was relieved when the door opened after a moment to reveal a slightly disheveled footman. At first he opened the door only a few inches; at the sight of only a young woman on the doorstep, his eyebrows flew up and he pulled the door wider.
“Miss?” he asked, looking bewildered.
“Lady Calandra Lilles,” Callie told him, putting on her most dignified face.
He appeared a trifle dubious, but at that moment Francesca’s butler appeared behind him, nightcap on and wrapped in a dressing gown. “My lady!” he exclaimed, then said sharply to the footman, “Step back, Cooper, and let her ladyship in.”
“I am sorry to appear at such a late hour, Fenton,” Callie told the butler as she stepped inside.
“Oh, my lady, do not even think such a thing,” Fenton replied. “You are always welcome in this house. Cooper will show you to the yellow sitting room while I inform Lady Haughston that you are here.”
With a bow for her and a sharp nod to the footman, the butler bustled off up the stairs. Callie followed the footman into the small sitting room down the hall. It was not the grandest of the receiving rooms, but she knew that the small room was Francesca’s favorite, its windows facing the tiny side garden and open to the morning sunlight. Also, because of its size, it was still rather warm from the banked coals of the evening fire.
Callie went to the fireplace to take advantage of its lingering warmth. Only a few moments passed before Francesca hurried into the room, tying the sash of her brocade dressing gown as she came. Her long blond hair tumbled down her back, and her pretty porcelain face was marred with a worried frown.
“Callie? What happened?” she asked, striding forward, hands outstretched. “Is something the matter?”
“Oh! No!” Callie answered, abashed. “I am so sorry—I did not think. I did not mean to alarm you. There is nothing wrong.”
Relief washed over Francesca’s face. “Thank heaven! I thought—well, I am not sure what I thought.” Her face pinkened a little, and she let out a deprecatory chuckle. “I am sorry. You must think me foolish.”
“Oh, no,” Callie hastened to reassure her. “Indeed, it is I who is foolish. I should not have come here at this hour. ’Tis only natural to assume that there is something wrong. I apologize for alarming you.”
Francesca airily waved her apology away. “Come, sit down. Would you like some tea?”
“No, I have already put your household in enough of a stir,” Callie answered. “I am fine.”
She sat down on the edge of a chair, and Francesca took the end of the love seat at right angles to her, looking at her with a concerned air.
“Are you really?” Francesca asked astutely. “I take it there is not an emergency, but…” She looked around speakingly. “Did you come here alone?”
Callie nodded. “Yes. I know it was not the safest thing to do, but I just—I could not stay in that house a moment longer!”
Francesca looked startled. “Lilles House?”
Callie nodded. “I am sorry to burst in on you at this hour. You must wish me at the devil, but I did not know where else to turn.”
“But of course you can come to me,” Francesca told her, reaching out to take her hand. “And do not worry about the hour. I had not retired, anyway. I was just brushing out my hair. And there is nothing Fenton loves like a little excitement. I shouldn’t wonder if he will come in here in a few minutes with tea and cakes.”
“You are very kind.” Callie smiled, then added, a little shyly, “You know, I have always thought of you as, well, almost a sister.”
Francesca’s face softened, and she squeezed the younger woman’s hand. “Why, thank you, dear. I am touched. I have often felt the same way about you.”
“Once,” Callie told her somewhat ruefully, “I actually thought that you were going to become my sister. I cannot remember why, precisely, but I thought so for some weeks—until Sinclair set me straight, of course. I was very young.”
A silence fell on them. Callie knew that Francesca was puzzled but politely waiting for her to explain her appearance after midnight.
Callie sighed. “I am sorry. Now that I am here, I’m not sure what to say.” She paused, then went on, “The fact is, Sinclair and I had a terrific row this evening.”
Francesca’s eyes opened wide. “You and Rochford? Why, what happened? I thought that the two of you got along so well.”
“We do, generally,” Callie allowed. “But tonight…” She stopped, reluctant to air her family disagreements, even to someone she had known all her life.
“You need not tell me if you don’t want to,” Francesca assured her kindly. “We can just talk about—oh, Lady Odelia’s party, for instance. It was quite a success, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, it was.” Callie grinned at the other woman. “And you are the consummate hostess. But I need to tell you. I must tell someone, and I—I think that perhaps you could help me, if you are willing to.”
“Why, of
course,” Francesca replied, her curiosity fully aroused now. “Just tell me, then. Do not worry about dressing it up nicely. I have known your brother even longer than I have known you, and I dare swear nothing you tell me will shock me.”
“Oh, it is not shocking,” Callie hastened to tell her. “It is all quite ordinary, really. It is just that I have never known Sinclair to be so, well, so high-handed.”
“Ah.”
“Well, at least, not with me,” Callie went on. “He was excessively rude to a gentleman with whom I danced, a man whom even Grandmother said was a perfectly acceptable suitor. And he treated me—he treated me as if I were a child!” Heat rose in Callie’s cheeks at the memory, and her voice roughened with the remembered shame and anger. “I know I should not have been out on the terrace with him, but it was not the earl’s fault. Indeed, he helped me with a man who was being importunate. But Rochford would not even let me explain. He just told me to leave, as if I were a five-year-old being sent to her room without supper. I was humiliated.”
“I am sure you were,” Francesca sympathized. “No doubt Rochford will realize, when he has had a chance to calm down—”
“Oh, pray, do not take his part, too!” Callie cried.
“No, dear, of course not. I am sure he acted abominably. Men frequently do, I have found. But surely, when he reflects on it, he will be sorry he was so hasty.”
“I sincerely doubt it,” Callie responded with some bitterness. “I tried to talk to him about it when we got home. But he still refused to give me any sort of explanation. All he would say is that he acted in my best interests—and I am supposed to be content with that!”
“Mmm. Most annoying,” Francesca agreed.
“Then my grandmother joined in, telling me how he was right, and that I have to do as he says. She went on about how I am under his control until I marry. And, of course, it goes without saying that I am under her control, as well.”
Francesca, who was well-acquainted with the dowager duchess, nodded sympathetically. “It is no wonder that you were upset.”
Callie let out a gusty sigh of relief. “I knew that you would understand!”
“I do. It is very hard having your relatives tell you what to do.”
Now that she had unburdened herself and had met with Francesca’s ready sympathy and understanding, perversely, Callie thought perhaps she did sound a bit childish. She gave the other woman a sheepish grin and said, “I am sorry. There is no reason to inflict all this upon you. It is just…I am so tired of the rules and restrictions. Grandmother has been living with us the whole winter, talking about how old I am and still unmarried. Even Aunt Odelia tonight told me I was on the verge of becoming an ape-leader!”
Francesca made a face. “You must not let Lady Pencully bully you into anything. I know that is easier said than done, for, frankly, Lady Odelia scares me silly. I find ’tis best simply to avoid her as much as possible.”
“Yes, but she is not your great-aunt. Anyway, I don’t mind her so much. At least she does not go on and on about one’s duty and being responsible and not letting the family down. Not doing anything that might reflect badly on the duke or on the family.”
“Families can be a terrible burden,” Francesca said in a heartfelt voice. “My mother pushed me to make a good match my first year out.”
“What did you do?” Callie asked curiously.
Francesca shrugged. “I disappointed her. But it was neither the first time nor the last, I assure you.”
“I get so tired of trying to please other people.”
“Perhaps you have been trying to please too many other people too much of the time,” Francesca suggested. “Perhaps you need to think about yourself, instead.”
“That is exactly why I came to you!” Callie cried. “I knew you were the person to help me.”
“I don’t understand,” Francesca said, puzzled. “I will certainly help you if I can, but I am afraid my opinion counts for little with either Rochford or the duchess.”
“Oh, no, I do not want you to talk to them. I want you to help me find a husband.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FRANCESCA STARED at her visitor blankly. “Pardon me?”
“I have decided to marry, and everyone assures me that you are the person to turn to when one is looking for a husband.”
“But, Callie…” Francesca looked dubious. “I thought that you were upset because your grandmother and Lady Odelia were pushing you to marry. It sounds to me as if you are simply trying to please them again.”
“No. Truly, I am not,” Callie told her earnestly. “You see, it is not that I am against marriage. I am not a bluestocking who would rather spend my life quietly reading than marry. And I am not independent like Irene, or wary of tying my life to a man’s. I want to marry. I want to have a husband and children and a home of my own. Don’t you see? I do not want to spend the rest of my life as Rochford’s sister or the duchess’s granddaughter. I want my own life. And the only way I can have that is to marry.”
“But, surely, if you wanted to be on your own…you are over twenty-one and in possession of an ample fortune.”
“Are you suggesting that I set up my own household?” Callie asked wryly. “And have the entire beau monde asking what has happened to set Rochford and me at odds with each other? Or listen to my grandmother lecturing me on my ingratitude, and my duty to my brother and to her? I have no wish to break with my family. I only want to have a life apart from them. To be free from the restrictions. But I would still have them all even if I had my own household. I would have to hire an older companion, preferably a widow, to live with me, and I would still be a young unmarried woman, unable to go anywhere or do anything on my own. You know what it is like, Francesca. It is not until you are married that you have the slightest freedom at all. I would so love to have a green ball gown. Or one of deep royal blue. Or any color other than this everlasting white!”
Francesca began to chuckle. “I remember that feeling. But you can hardly want to marry just to be able to wear royal blue.”
“Sometimes I think I might,” Callie retorted, then sighed. “But of course it is not just that. I want to be married. I feel sometimes as if I am bobbing along going nowhere, simply keeping pace, waiting for my life to begin. I want to start my life.”
Francesca leaned forward earnestly. “But, surely, my dear, you must have an ample amount of suitors. I would think you would only have to beckon and a dozen men would be on your doorstep, asking Rochford for your hand.”
“Oh, I have had no lack of suitors,” Callie admitted with a sigh. “But all too often they have been fortune hunters. There are other men, I think, who are actually reluctant to even approach me because of who I am. They do not want to be seen as opportunists, or they think that I would never consider them because they haven’t the proper amount of wealth or a noble-enough name. People assume, without even meeting me, that I am very high in the instep. And I am not, you know.”
“No, you are not.”
“And others are frightened off by Rochford. It is all very well when the suitor is a fortune hunter or someone I cannot bear, but Sinclair is so intimidating that he scares off perfectly nice young men, as well.”
“The duke can be a trifle daunting,” Francesca admitted dryly.
“Humph. That is putting it mildly. If I take him to task about it, he just puts on his ‘duke’ face—” Callie drew her pretty features into a haughty mask “—and tells me that he has my best interests at heart.”
Francesca could not help but laugh. “Yes, I know that face well. He uses it whenever he does not want to be questioned.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you…perhaps…have some particular man in mind for a suitor?” Francesca asked delicately.
“Oh, no,” Callie responded quickly, though her mind leapt unbidden to Lord Bromwell. Could he be someone whom she would want to marry?
There was something compelling about him, something more than his good
looks or warm smile. When she was with him, she felt different—brighter, happier, as if she glowed. But, of course, she knew that it was foolish to even think of him and marriage in the same thought. Why, she barely knew the man, and, anyway, her brother clearly disliked him.
Callie shook her head for emphasis.
Francesca cast her a shrewd look, but said nothing. When Callie did not continue, Francesca began carefully, “Do you not think that you might want to wait a while? You are not, after all, past the age of marrying. Why, Irene and Constance both married after twenty-five, and you have not yet passed three-and-twenty. You need not jump into anything. The right man for you may well appear.”
Callie smiled impishly as she asked, “You mean that I might yet fall in love? Be swept off my feet by a handsome stranger?” Again her thoughts slid involuntarily to the stranger she had met tonight, but she quickly pulled them back. This was not, she reminded herself, about him. Not at all.
She shook her head, saying, “I used to think that such a thing would happen to me. When I was seventeen or eighteen, looking at my first Season.” She shrugged. “But it did not take me long, being in the ton, to realize how unlikely that was. I have met many eligible men, and there have been none who have stirred my heart. Oh, I have fancied one or two, at least for a little while. I flirted a little, and danced with them, listened to their flatteries, and for a week or two I would think ‘perhaps this man will be the one.’ But he never was. After a time, I began to see this thing that was wrong about him, or notice a trait that grated on me. Before long, I began to wonder what I had ever seen in him.”
Her face turned a trifle sad as she went on, “I think perhaps the people in my family simply are not the sort to fall in love. Look at Rochford—he has been the object of every matchmaking mama in the city, and he has never fallen prey to love.”
“No, I suppose he has not, has he?” Francesca murmured.
