The Wedding Challenge

by Candace Camp

  “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 m
an? 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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CALLIE’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 imm
ediately 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.”