by Candace Camp
“Indeed, no,” Callie replied. “I think it is only wise to pay attention to one’s estate. How else are you to insure that your land is being used properly? Or that your tenants are treated fairly?”
“You are an uncommon lady, then. I am usually told that I am lacking in gentility.”
“I can see by your grin that such an evaluation does not bother you overmuch.”
“I generally am not concerned with other people’s opinions of me,” he admitted. “Another reason I do not fit well into the ton.”
“Not everyone is so narrow-minded,” Callie protested.
He smiled. “I am very glad that you are not.”
She glanced down, slightly flustered by the way his smile made her feel inside. It was not the sort of reaction she was accustomed to feeling toward any man. She was not a girl fresh out of the schoolroom; she had spent five years in Society. She was well used to flirtations and meaningful glances and beckoning smiles. Long ago she had learned to put little stock in compliments, and she had never been one to turn breathless because a man looked at her.
But with this man, everything was different. He had only to look at her to make her heart race in her chest, and when he smiled at her, her insides fluttered. Callie wondered if he had any idea that he played such havoc with her senses.
Bromwell cast a glance over at his cousin, then turned back to Callie. “I must take my leave now. I can see that I am making poor Archie nervous. He worries that I will embarrass him by staying too long. He fears that I have lost my town bronze in the years out of London…if, indeed, I ever had any.”
“I feel sure that you exaggerate, my lord.”
He shrugged. “I have never been well-versed in the art of polite conversation. I am too prone to voicing my honest opinion.”
“That would be a drawback in social settings,” Callie agreed lightly. “But it seemed to me that you did well enough at talking the other night. As I remember, you were quite artful in your flattery.”
“Ah, but with you, you see, ’tis easy enough to pay pretty compliments, for one need only speak the truth.”
“You see?” Callie quirked a brow. “Artful.”
He smiled. “Now that we have been formally introduced, dare I hope that you will allow me to call upon you?”
She smiled and glanced down, a gesture that was more coy than she was accustomed to being, but she needed to buy herself a little time.
She could not deny the happy upsurge of her spirits at his words. It was gratifying to know that he wished to see her again, and she knew that she wanted to see him again, as well. But she also was very aware of the little fingers of doubt that tapped at her. Sinclair had told her not to see Bromwell again. If she allowed the earl to call on her, she would be going directly against Sinclair’s wishes, something she had never done before, at least in any serious way.
If only she knew the reason for Sinclair’s adamant dislike of the man. Was there something hidden beneath his handsome exterior, some inner weakness or sickness of the soul that made Sinclair react so strongly to her being alone with him? She knew that it was possible for a man to be quite other than he seemed. Over her years in the ton, Callie believed that she had become a good judge of character, but there were some men who could fool even the most cynical and suspicious of people. Moreover, she had long ago learned that the façade that gentlemen presented to ladies was often quite a different picture than what other gentlemen saw. It would be safer to do as her brother had ordered her.
And yet…His smile did something to her insides that no other smile ever had. And when she remembered the way he had kissed her, her loins were flooded again with heat. Her whole body had yearned toward him; she had wanted to press herself into him, to feel his hard muscle and bone sinking into her softer flesh. It was enough to make her blush, just thinking of it. She wanted to see him again. Quite frankly, she wanted to feel his lips on hers once more. Perhaps it was immoral of her, she thought. No doubt it was undutiful and disobedient. But right now, she did not care. For once in her life, she was going to do what she was not supposed to do.
She lifted her face. “I would like to see you again, my lord,” she told him boldly. “However, I think you forget—I am staying with Lady Haughston. ’Tis she you must receive permission to call on.”
A faint smile played about his lips, and there was a light in his eyes that warmed Callie’s blood. “Indeed, I did not forget. But it was your feeling on the subject that I wanted to determine.”
With that, he bowed to her, then turned and made his way to the door, where Francesca stood, chatting politely with Mr. Tilford and one of the newer arrivals. As Callie watched, the earl spoke to Francesca, clearly making his goodbyes with a bow. Francesca smiled at him, and when he said something else to her, she glanced quickly over at Callie. Then she turned back to the earl, a smile on her face, and said a few more words. Callie felt certain she had given the man permission to call on them.
The rest of the evening dragged. The play could not hold Callie’s interest, and she had to resist the temptation to turn and look over at the earl’s box when the intermission came after the second act. There were more visitors to their box at that point, and she chatted with them in a superficial way, but her mind was elsewhere.
She was happy when the play ended and they were able to return home. Callie was quiet on the ride, and she noticed that Francesca was, as well. When Sir Lucien teased them about their unusual silence, Francesca smiled faintly at him and admitted that their day of shopping had left her somewhat tired.
“Then I shall not keep you ladies up any longer,” Sir Lucien promised.
True to his word, when they arrived at Francesca’s house, he escorted them inside, then promptly took his adieu. However, when they had climbed the stairs to their rooms, Francesca made a gesture toward her bedroom, saying, “Why don’t you come into my room for a moment? We can talk.”
“All right,” Callie agreed, and walked past into Francesca’s bedchamber.
A little anxiously, she wondered what Francesca’s purpose was. Had Sinclair specifically told her not to allow Callie to see the earl? Was Francesca regretting her decision to allow Callie to stay with her?
“Is aught amiss?”
“No. Oh, no.” Francesca smiled. “I hope you did not think I meant to lecture.”
Callie shook her head, returning the smile. “I know you would not lecture me. But I thought perhaps you had misgivings about my staying with you.”
“No, of course not!” Francesca exclaimed. “I am delighted to have you here. I was just wondering…” She hesitated, a delicate frown creasing her forehead. “That is to say, I am not sure whether Rochford would quite like the Earl of Bromwell calling on us.”
“Do you know aught against him?” Callie asked, coming closer. “Did you dislike the man?”
“No, on the contrary, I found him quite pleasant. He was well-spoken and polite. Very handsome, as I suspect you noticed.” She cast a teasing glance at Callie.
Callie could not keep from blushing, but she said only, “I was aware of it.”
“I know almost nothing about him—only what Lucien told us,” Francesca went on. “I had never met the earl until this evening.”
Callie knew that she should tell Francesca that Sinclair had told her not to see the earl. She should reveal that her brother had warned the man away from her. It was not fair to Francesca to let her unwittingly go against the duke’s wishes.
But Callie could not bring herself to do so.
“If you do not know him,” she began carefully, “why do you think I should not see him?”
Francesca shook her head. “It is not that I think you should not. It is just that I am…uncertain.” She paused, then asked bluntly, “Is the earl the man over whom you argued with Rochford?”
“Yes,” Callie admitted. She could not lie to her friend. “Sinclair was looking for me, and he found us out on the terrace. But there was nothing wrong with it. We di
d not go out there together. I had been foolish enough to allow another man to maneuver me outside, and then, when I wanted to go back in, he grew quite obnoxious, and he seized me by the arms.”
“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?
CHAPTER EIGHT
TWO 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.
