by Candace Camp
He took her hands in his and smiled down into her face. “Your grandmother does not even know about it. The footman brought me the note from Lady Haughston as soon as he received it, so I knew you were here and safe. I told the footman to inform your maid not to awaken you this morning, and I went to your room and retrieved your note. Then I left this morning before the duchess came down to breakfast. She will doubtless be somewhat surprised to find that you decided to accompany me on such an early call, but…” He shrugged and looked down at the dress that Francesca had lent her the evening before. “So unless you think that Grandmother will recognize that this dress is not yours, there should be no problem.”
“One muslin morning dress is much like any other,” Callie replied. “If she should notice, I will simply tell her that I had forgotten and left it at Lilles House last Season, and that is why she has not seen it on me recently.”
“Clever minx.” The duke grinned down at her fondly. “I suppose your ease in fabricating tales should make me nervous. But I think I will choose to ignore it. Now, Lady Francesca tells me that she has been good enough to invite you to stay with her until the Season starts. I told her I felt sure that you would enjoy that.”
“Yes, I should, very much,” Callie replied, smiling broadly. “I like Marcastle, but…”
“I know, I know, country life is beginning to pall. It is certainly all right with me if you stay here, though I must warn Lady Francesca that you will drag her through every shop on Bruton Street.”
“Indeed, you wrong me!” Callie objected, but she was laughing.
“Well, you had best get on your cloak and bonnet so that we can go home and you can set to packing for your visit. No doubt you will also have a list for the housekeeper of things that she must send in addition.”
“Oh, no,” Callie retorted. “I shall simply purchase new things.”
With another sparkling grin, she turned and left the room, hurrying on light feet back upstairs. Rochford turned to Francesca.
“Do not say I did not warn you.”
“I think that I will be able to hold my own when it comes to shopping,” Francesca responded, smiling.
“Callie has her own allowance, and she can draw on her monies for clothes and such,” he told her. “But, of course, I will direct my man of business to provide an adequate amount for her household expenses.”
Francesca stiffened. She could feel a flush rising in her cheeks. Was it possible that Rochford suspected her financial straits? Had he guessed how perilously close to destitution Lord Haughston had left her when he died five years ago? How closely she still skated to the edge of poverty, eking out a living from the “gifts” given her by grateful parents for guiding their daughters through the dangerous shoals of the Season?
“Nonsense,” she told him coolly. “I would not allow a guest to pay for her upkeep. Whatever can you mean?”
Rochford drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable, and looked down at her with an expression of frozen hauteur—so exactly the “duke face” that Callie had described last night that Francesca almost giggled despite her embarrassment.
“My dear Lady Haughston,” he said, as if he had not known her since she was a child in leading strings. “Do you honestly believe that I am so rag-mannered as to foist my sister upon you—and you need not protest, because I know quite well that it was Callie who asked to stay with you, not the other way around—and then expect you to house and feed her, all at your own expense?”
“Of course I do not—” Francesca began, then stopped. “I mean…” How was it that Rochford could always make one feel as if one were in the wrong, no matter how certain one was that she was right? His steady, haughty gaze made her want to twist and squirm, and she could not help but wonder if she had indeed offended the man.
“Very well, then,” the duke said, giving her a nod. “It is all settled.”
“But—”
“I will have my man of business make the appropriate arrangements with your butler,” he concluded. “Now, I must bid you farewell.”
He spent the short period until Callie came back downstairs thanking Francesca again for taking in his sister, apologizing for the early hour of his call, and in general keeping up a steady stream of social niceties. Then, with a graceful bow, he left the house with his sister, leaving Francesca to wonder exactly which of them had managed to outsmart the other.
CHAPTER SIX
HER RETURN TO Lilles House was not as bad as Callie had expected. Her brother did not speak again of the incident that had set this whole thing in motion, and she, too, was happy to talk about other things. And since Sinclair had kindly and cleverly hidden from the duchess that she had not slept in her room the night before, she did not have to endure a long lecture from her grandmother.
The duchess was somewhat surprised to hear that they had called upon Lady Haughston so early, and even more so when she was told of Francesca’s invitation to Callie to stay with her. She protested that she could not imagine why Callie would prefer to stay in London in the dull months before the Season began rather than return to Marcastle. But her argument was merely perfunctory, and Callie was sure that she had seen a glimpse of relief in the duchess’s face. By the end of the day, her grandmother was musing about going on to Bath to visit her friends for the next few months, instead of returning to Marcastle with Rochford.
It was easy enough to supervise the packing, as Callie would take essentially what she had brought, along with the addition of some clothes that were here at their town house. There were a few things that she decided to have shipped from home, as her brother had predicted, so she had to write out a list for him to give the housekeeper at Marcastle. But it took only a little time and effort, and she was able to take leave of her grandmother and brother that evening and go to Francesca’s.
Sinclair accompanied her, as she had known he would, but he did not stay long, merely greeting Francesca, bidding Callie farewell, and taking Francesca’s butler aside for a brief talk that seemed to leave both of them well-satisfied.
Callie and Francesca spent the rest of the evening ensconced in Francesca’s comfortable little sitting room, discussing their plans for the upcoming visit. The first order of business, they agreed, was to shop for clothes. After all, one could scarcely begin the Season in frocks from last year, and if one was starting the Season early, then it only stood to reason that one must have one’s clothes early.
Thus, they set out the very first morning of Callie’s stay for Bruton and Conduit Streets, home to the finest milliners and modistes, not returning until late that afternoon, both of them tired and chilled by the damp cold of the day, but thoroughly satisfied.
“I think we have visited every milliner in this city,” Callie commented with a sigh, gratefully taking the cup of tea that Francesca’s efficient butler had brought within moments after their return.
“If we have not, we soon will,” Francesca promised. “I still have not found exactly what I want for summer afternoons. But I thought we did very nicely with the dresses.”
“Yes, though I do wish I could wear something besides white,” Callie grumbled. “I would so love a green ball gown—or even one of palest pink.”
Francesca laughed. “Just be glad that white looks fetching on you, with that glorious black hair and strawberries-and-cream skin. Think of how awful it is for us blondes. We look positively insipid.”
Callie smiled at the other woman. “I am quite sure that you never faded away in any dress. Everyone knows that you have been the reigning beauty of London since your presentation.”
“Thank you, my dear, that is lovely to hear, although I am sure it is not true. Anyway, I thought that the blue accents on the satin ball gown quite made up for its being white.”
“You are right.” Callie thought of the sketch she had chosen for the gleaming white satin—an overskirt looped up over a froth of white tulle ruffles, each high point of the drapery anchored with a baby blue rosette
, with a blue satin sash around the high waist, and blue ribbons bordering the cap sleeves of the bodice. “And the lace and seed pearls on the other ball gown are lovely, too. Besides, I should never complain about anything when I am shopping with you. It is ever so much nicer than going with my grandmother. She always insists on raising the necklines.”
“Oh, dear.” Francesca made a moue of distress. “Will I be in trouble with the duchess now? I did not think any of the gowns were immodestly low.”
“They were not,” Callie assured her. “Everyone, even the youngest girl making her first Season, shows more of their bosom than Grandmother allows me. I cannot imagine why. In her time, they wore much more daring necklines. But even she will not dare to say anything about a dress that you approved. She has always told me that you have the best sense of style of anyone in the ton.”
“That is a compliment to treasure. Everyone knows the Duchess of Rochford is the epitome of elegance.”
The two women spent a few more minutes happily going over their fashion coups, enjoying the bargains in ribbons, buttons, trims and shawls from Grafton’s almost as much as the pelisses and dresses from the finest modistes. Fenton had brought in a tray of small cakes and sandwiches along with the tea, and they hungrily downed them as they talked, washing everything down with sweet milky tea.
Finally, reaching the end of the repast as well as of their recounting of their purchases, Francesca set her teacup down and said, “Now, if you are tired and do not wish to, you must tell me, but I had thought that we might begin our little project this evening by going to the theater.”
“Oh, no, I am quite revived,” Callie assured her, her dark eyes brightening with interest. “That sounds delightful.”
“Good. I shall send a note round to Sir Lucien. One can always count on him as an escort,” Francesca said, getting up and suiting her action to her words by sitting down at the small desk beside the window and beginning to scribble a note to her friend. “I thought it would give us a chance to do a spot of reconnoitering. See just what bachelors out there are worth meeting. And, of course, we need to decide exactly what requirements we are looking for in a husband for you.”
“I am not choosy, really,” Callie told her. “He does not have to be wealthy or come from the highest of families. My grandmother is always telling me that I am distressingly egalitarian.” She sighed. “Though I suppose a certain amount of wealth and name are necessary to make sure he is not marrying me for my money and family.”
“And looks?”
“Are not that important, either, although it would be nice if he were not terrible to look at. He need not be handsome—but I like a strong face. And intelligent eyes.” The image of gray eyes under straight dark brows came unbidden to her mind. She had never realized, Callie thought, until she met him, but the Earl of Bromwell’s face was precisely the sort of masculine visage that drew her. But, of course, she reminded herself, she was not foolish enough to choose a spouse on the basis of looks.
“He must be easy to talk to,” Callie told Francesca firmly. “And have a sense of humor. I could not abide a husband who was always serious. Nor do I want a scholar. So many of Rochford’s friends bore me to tears, the way they go on and on about history and such.” She cast the other woman a sheepish glance and chuckled. “I must sound quite shallow.”
“Not at all. I am sure Rochford’s scholarly friends would have the same effect on me.” Francesca blew on the note to hasten the drying of the ink, then folded and sealed it.
“But I don’t want a dullard, either,” Callie pointed out. “I mean, Rochford is not boring until he gets around one of those men with whom he corresponds. Scientists and historians and such. But I would not want someone who did not know how to make a clever rejoinder or could not understand what Sinclair is talking about, either.” She paused. “Oh, dear, I am beginning to think that I have a great many more requirements than I thought.”
“And well you should. You are, dear girl, a prize in the marriage mart. It should require a special man to win you. Besides, it makes it far easier to winnow through the prospects. Why, simply refusing dullards will cross out a large number of the men of the ton.”
“You are wicked,” Callie told her, laughing.
“Merely truthful,” Francesca responded as she rose from her desk and went to pull the bell cord to summon a servant. “There, I have invited Sir Lucien to dine with us before the theater.”
Even though Sir Lucien was her dear friend and most faithful escort, Francesca knew that it was always best to insure his company with a supper invitation. A confirmed bachelor and a man of impeccable style and taste, Sir Lucien’s pockets were usually to let—due partly to the small size of his income and even more to the fact that he spent the major portion of that income on his clothes and the small but fashionably located rooms he let. Therefore, he was accustomed to dining out frequently, using his primary assets of good looks and good taste to maintain a steady supply of invitations from a number of hostesses.
The invitation sent, the two women went upstairs to prepare for the evening ahead. After all, the purpose of an evening at the theater was not the play, but the opportunity to see and be seen, and one needed to look one’s best just as much as one would at a party.
A short nap with a cool lavender-soaked rag across her eyes was enough to refresh Callie and return her to her usual looks. She followed it with a bath, then dressed with the help of her maid, Belinda, choosing her favorite white evening dress, piped around the bottom of the overskirt and along the neckline with white braid. She wished that she could wear the dark green morocco slippers she had ordered just this afternoon, but, of course, they would not be finished for another few days, so she had to settle for a pair of brocade slippers. Her only jewelry was a single short strand of pearls with matching earrings. An elegant fan and long gloves would complete the outfit.
She sat down in front of her vanity, and her maid swept her hair up in a knot at the crown of her head, letting it fall down from the knot in several long curls, carefully formed with Callie’s brush. In the front, around Callie’s face, she allowed the shorter hair to frame her features in natural soft curls. Belinda had, Callie knew, been inspired to make her best effort on the hairdo because of the presence of Francesca’s maid, Maisie, who was reputed to be an artist with hair. Callie thanked her, smiling, then went downstairs to join Francesca.
She found Sir Lucien sitting with her hostess, talking while they enjoyed a glass of sherry before supper. Sir Lucien sprang to his feet when Callie entered the room and executed a graceful bow.
“Lady Calandra! You can imagine my pleasure at being allowed to escort two such lovely ladies to the theater. The gods have indeed smiled upon me.”
“Sir Lucien.” Callie smiled at the man fondly.
Sir Lucien was urbane, witty and handsome, the perfect escort—and, Callie suspected, more interested in one’s frock than in the woman inside it. Of course, no one would speak of such things before a young unmarried girl, but it had not taken Callie long to sense that Sir Lucien’s flirtation and flatteries were more an enjoyable game to him than anything that contained real feeling. While he had a great appreciation of beauty in any form, whether it was a face or figure or the cut of one’s dress, she had never witnessed in him the flash of heat that flared in some men’s eyes when they looked at her. Lord Bromwell, for instance—there had been an intensity to his gaze, a palpable warmth that emanated from his body when he drew her close to kiss her.
“I am so glad you came,” Callie told Sir Lucien, firmly putting aside her wayward thoughts of Lord Bromwell. “Although I fear our gain must be some other poor hostess’s loss.”
Sir Lucien gave a graceful shrug. “I was planning to attend Mrs. Doddington’s musicale this evening, and I can only thank you for saving me from that. The woman always has excellent refreshments—poor Lethingham’s been trying to steal her cook from under her nose for years. But her taste in music is execrable. And she alway
s insists on her daughters contributing a set, which is more than one should have to bear, really.”
He kept up this sort of light, entertaining chatter through much of dinner; it was, after all, one of the reasons why he never lacked for invitations—he could keep any dinner or party from becoming utterly dull. For Callie, fresh from the very quiet months at Marcastle, it was a welcome and informative reintroduction to London society. Sir Lucien knew the latest gossip about everyone and everything that happened in the beau monde—what gentleman was on the verge of having to flee the country to avoid debtors’ prison, what lady’s newest offspring was said to look remarkably unlike her husband, and which scion of what noble house was rumored to have challenged someone to a duel over a hand of cards.
He did not question Callie’s early return to the city. To Sir Lucien’s way of thinking, any sane person would leap at the chance to trade any bucolic estate, no matter how grand, for a stay in London. But later, when they had settled into their box in the theater, and Callie and Francesca had begun to discuss the possibilities around them in the audience, Sir Lucien became curious.
He leaned forward to look Callie full in the face and said, “My dear girl, unless my ears deceive me, you seem to be—is it possible—vetting the gentlemen here as marriage material?”
Callie blushed a little, but Francesca replied flippantly, “But of course, Lucien—what else do the ladies of London do? Every Season is another market.”
“But Lady Calandra?” He raised a brow. “Can it be that you have decided to break the hearts of half of London and settle down in the married state?”
“I doubt it would be that tragic an event,” Callie countered, smiling a little. “But, yes, I am considering it.”
“Do you have a lucky man in mind? Or is this Season to be an open tournament for your hand?”
