The Wedding Challenge

by Candace Camp

  “What did you do?”

  “I thought about planting him a facer,” he admitted, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “But I knew Lady Odelia might object, as it was her birthday ball. Gentlemen brawling on one’s terrace are apt to bring down the tone of a party.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I realized that it would be more fun to tease him a bit first. Let him see that the world does not dance to his tune…not even his sister. Eventually, I imagine, once he has heard that I have disobeyed him—that she has disobeyed him—he will come storming back to town, roaring like a baited bear, and then…” His mouth lifted in a smile. “Then he will come to visit me.”

  His gray eyes glinted silver with satisfaction.

  “You mean he will call you out?” Daphne looked distressed. “But, Brom, no! He is reputed to be an excellent shot. You could be killed!”

  “You forget, my dear—I am also an excellent shot.”

  “Yes, I know you are,” she said, her voice almost smug. “But still…to risk your life…that is too much.”

  “In any case, I doubt very seriously that it will come to that. Rochford has never fought a duel. I doubt that he will start now.”

  “But with enough provocation…”

  Again he shrugged. “I think it much more likely that we will settle it on the spot, with our fists.” He smiled grimly, and his hand tightened into a fist with anticipation.

  “Are you sure?” Daphne asked. “Last time…”

  He waved her objection away. “Last time I was seventeen. Calling him out was a schoolboy gesture. I know enough now to realize that it will be much more satisfactory to knock him onto his arrogant backside.”

  “Well, of course, dear, if that is what you wish to do,” Daphne conceded in the tone of one giving a little boy a treat. She tucked her hand through his arm happily. “It sounds just the thing.”

  THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY DAWNED crisp and clear, a pale golden sun shining in the February sky. It was an almost perfect day for riding out of the city to the royal park. Callie, thrilled at the prospect of the expedition actually taking place, chattered through breakfast to Francesca, who was obviously much less excited. Still, Lady Haughston was too kind to depress Callie’s spirits, so she smiled and nodded, agreeing that the day was lovely, the company would be most pleasant, and that it was wonderful, indeed, that riding habits not only showed off one’s figure nicely but were also one of the few articles of attire that did not have to be white.

  Callie’s riding habit was of hunter green velvet and never before worn, as she had ordered it from the modiste in her spurt of shopping when she came to stay with Francesca. Unlike the fashion of modern dresses, its jacket was longer and fitted snugly to her waist, frogged in black down the front and at the cuffs. The hat that went with it was also green, trimmed in black, and it sat jauntily on her head, tilting down in the front in a slightly rakish way.

  Studying her, Francesca thought that Callie looked utterly charming in it, and she could not help but think it was worth putting up with Lady Daphne for a day so that Callie could present such a fetching picture for Lord Bromwell.

  It was a merry party that set off for Richmond Park an hour later. As well as Lord and Lady Radbourne, Lord Bromwell and his sister, and Francesca and Callie, there were Bromwell’s cousin Archie Tilford, Miss Bettina Swanson and her brother Reginald, a smiling young man just down from Oxford. Miss Swanson and her brother rode in the Radbournes’ elegant landau with Lord Radbourne, who had been quick to give up his mount to Francesca to ride.

  “I am sure that he will be grateful to have a better rider on his back,” he told Francesca with a smile. Lord Radbourne, because of his unfortunate upbringing, had never become the skilled rider that many of his aristocratic contemporaries were.

  “And for you, my lady,” Bromwell told Callie, taking her arm and leading her over to a dainty white mare. “I thought Bellissima would suit.” A smile lit his eyes and then was quickly gone. “The name is certainly appropriate for you. She is biddable, but not docile, and from good bloodlines. I was not sure what sort of rider you were.”

  “I can sit a horse,” she told him with an arch smile.

  “That must mean that you are veritable centaur, and I will doubtless suffer great shame for putting you on an unworthy mount.”

  Callie chuckled, reaching up to stroke the mare’s nose. “I am sure that Bellissima is not at all unworthy. Are you, you lovely creature?” She turned back to Bromwell. “Thank you, my lord, I am sure she is an excellent choice, and I shall thoroughly enjoy her.”

  “I hope so.” He paused, then added, “Please, call me Bromwell, or Brom. All my friends do.”

  Callie looked at him. His words made her feel a trifle giddy, even breathless. “Surely we do not know each other that well, my lord.”

  “Do we not?” She saw in his eyes the shared knowledge of their kisses, the heat that had swarmed through them. Then he broke their locked gaze, saying in a lighter tone, “But I hope that we shall.”

  He turned aside, saying, “Here. Let me give you a hand up.” He held his hands out to her and vaulted her up into the saddle, then moved to adjust her stirrups, stripping off his leather riding gloves so that he could work more easily.

  Callie felt his arm brush against her leg as he worked at the stirrup, and even through her riding boot and heavy habit, the touch stirred her. She watched his fingers as he adjusted the strap. They were long and supple, moving with a quick sureness, and she found herself wondering how those hands would feel touching her neck, her arm, sliding up to cup her face.

  She glanced quickly away and down at her own hands, gripping the reins tightly. She could feel a blush stealing into her cheeks. It was absurd, she told herself, the way her thoughts seemed to run away with her whenever she was around Bromwell. She felt sure that he must sense it; there was a knowing look in his eyes when he gazed at her—or perhaps it was simply that he remembered the way she had reacted the two times he had kissed her. She had kissed him back in a manner that she could only term abandoned.

  Could he think that she was other than she was? That she was a woman of experience in such matters? Did her brother dislike Bromwell because he knew his reputation to be that of a roué? A libertine? Could it be that Bromwell was pursuing her because he assumed that she was a woman of loose morals? She knew, guiltily, that she had given him reason to think so—being out by herself in the middle of the night as he had found her that first night. And then letting him kiss her without even a protest—indeed, melting in his arms.

  Anxiety curled in her chest into a hard, cold lump. She did not want to believe that was the reason behind his pursuit of her. And, after all, how likely was it that a roué would spend so many afternoons and evenings in tame chaperoned visits and parties? Surely a man interested in nothing but a wanton woman would find the path much easier elsewhere. Yet still he pursued her. She could not help but think that such behavior evinced a deeper interest than any a libertine would feel. On the other hand, she was realistic enough to realize that perhaps that was simply what she wanted to think.

  She looked away from Bromwell, over at the others, who were also mounting their horses. Her gaze fell on Lady Swithington, who was studying Callie. In the other woman’s pale blue gaze she saw a look of cold and intense dislike.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CALLIE’S HAND CLENCHED involuntarily on the reins, and her mare shifted nervously beneath her. By the time Callie settled her down and looked back at Bromwell’s sister, Lady Daphne was smiling sweetly at her.

  “What a vision you are on that horse, Lady Calandra,” the older woman said. “That black hair of yours and on a white horse—la, I fear you put the rest of us to shame.”

  “None could eclipse your beauty, Lady Swithington,” Mr. Swanson assured her.

  “Indeed not,” Archie Tilford chimed in. “That is to say, not that Lady Calandra is not exceedingly beautiful, as well. Indeed, none could be lovelier.” He glanced around, his face beginning to redden. “O
f course, Lady Haughston, Lady Radbourne, Miss Swanson, you are no less lovely. I mean, can one really compare Aphrodite and Helen of Troy? Except, of course, that there are five of you, not two, and, uh…”

  Lord Radbourne let out a sharp laugh, hastily turned into a cough, which seemed to cause Lady Radbourne to turn away and clamp her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

  “Leave off, Archie, do,” Lord Bromwell told his cousin bluntly. “We haven’t long enough for you to work your way out of that one. Ladies, suffice it to say that you are all at the absolute pinnacle of beauty, and I daresay there is not a gentleman in London who would not trade places with us right now. And now, I think, we should get on our way.”

  Nodding in agreement, they started off, some in front of the carriage and some behind it. It required concentration to move through the crowded streets of London, and they were spread out, so there was not much conversation at first.

  Callie was glad of the silence, for she was lost in her thoughts. Her mind kept returning to the glimpse of dislike—was it too much to call it hatred?—that she had seen in Lady Swithington’s eyes. Had she really seen it, or had it been merely a trick of the light? She could not imagine how she could have mistaken it. But why would Bromwell’s sister despise her?

  Her thoughts kept her occupied for some time, but conversation increased as they reached the outskirts of the city, and she put the incident aside, determined to enjoy the afternoon before her.

  The party fell into groups of two and three, talking and laughing as they rode into the country. Callie had been concerned about Francesca and Bromwell’s sister being thrown together, but she noticed that from the first Lady Swithington chose to ride beside the carriage, flirting with young Reginald Swanson—and trying her utmost to flirt with Lord Radbourne, as well.

  Callie glanced over at Irene, who after one look at the carriage, simply rolled her eyes and continued to blithely chat with Francesca, riding beside her. Callie could understand her lack of concern; Gideon, rather than flirting back, looked patently bored, and his gaze wandered more to his wife some distance away than to Lady Daphne riding beside him.

  Bromwell positioned himself at Callie’s side, and, somewhat to Callie’s surprise, Francesca was content to let them ride alone together, for she stayed with Irene. Since Mr. Tilford seemed to have appointed himself those two ladies’ guardian, it left Callie alone with Bromwell for most of the ride.

  Though for the past week or more she had been eager to have exactly that opportunity, now she found herself suddenly shy and unsure of what she should say. It was a new position for her, as she had always been a lively girl. Her grandmother’s constant admonition to her before a party had always been not to talk too much and draw attention to herself, though it was not, Callie was the first to admit, an admonition she had endeavored very much to follow.

  She realized that her reticence stemmed from the fact that for perhaps the first time in her life, it mattered very much to her that her companion found her pleasing. Finally, having rejected a comment on the weather as much too commonplace and one on the beauty of the scenery as entirely insipid, she began, “’Tis an excellent mare you purchased.”

  Immediately it occurred to her that what she had said was probably worse than either of the other possibilities, but Bromwell turned to her and smiled, and her inner criticisms vanished in a flood of warmth.

  “Do you like her? I hoped you would,” he replied. “I thought of you when I bought her.”

  He stopped abruptly, an odd look in his eyes, as though what he had said surprised him, then went on quickly, “That is to say, I had thought of a trip to Richmond Park, and I had hoped that you and Lady Haughston would be able to join us. I bought her for the estate, of course, but it occurred to me that you could use her for the ride to the park.”

  “I am very glad that you did,” Callie told him, and reached down to pat the horse’s neck, hiding the rush of pleasure in her face at his words. “She is a smooth goer, but she is very lively, as well.”

  “I was not sure but what she might be too lively,” he confessed. “But she was too good to pass up. And I can see that I needed to have no worries about your ability to handle her.”

  “My father put me up on a pony as soon as I could walk,” Callie said, smiling a little. “He was an avid horseman. Indeed, one of the few things I remember about him was his walking beside me on my pony so that he could steady me if I needed it.”

  Bromwell looked at her, frowning a little. “He died young? I am sorry.”

  Callie nodded. “Yes, he contracted a fever one winter, and within a few weeks he was gone. I did not even see him before he died. My mother was afraid that I might come down with it, too.”

  “I am sorry,” he repeated. “I hate to have brought up painful memories.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you. But they are not painful. In truth, I barely remember my father. I was only five years old when he died, and I have only a few memories of him, some of them quite vague. Sometimes I am not sure whether I remember his face from actually seeing him or from the painting of him that hung in my mother’s room. I envy my brother because he knew him so much longer, you see.”

  “For some of us, ’tis not a joy to know our fathers longer,” Bromwell responded with a wry twist of his mouth.

  Callie glanced at him. “Did you not—I mean…” She stumbled to a halt, aware that her question was probably too personal.

  “No, I did not,” he replied flatly. “I did not care for him while he was alive, and I did not miss him when he died.” He shrugged.

  “I am so sorry!” Callie exclaimed, reaching out toward him, then, remembering the others around them, quickly drawing her hand back.

  “No, I am the one who is sorry. ’Tis considered disloyal, I imagine, not to say that one honors one’s father. But I am not good enough at pretense to say that I did. He was a hard, cold man who cared for little but himself, and I would warrant that one would be hard-pressed to find many who knew him who regretted his passing. However, I should not have introduced such a dismal topic into our conversation.” He smiled at her. “And I shall dismiss it right now. Let us talk about you. How was it that your training on horseback continued after your father’s death? Was your mother an avid horsewoman, as well?”

  “Oh, no.” Callie let out a chuckle. “My mother did not particularly like to ride. But she knew I loved it, and she wanted to do as my father had wanted. That was very important to her. She loved him very much. So the head groom tutored me, as he had done before my father’s death, and so did Sinclair. My brother.” She looked at him. “That is why my brother is so…protective of me. In many ways, he was as much a father to me as a brother. He has become accustomed to watching over me.”

  “I do not fault your brother for his care for his sister,” Bromwell replied. “Indeed, I would do much to protect my sister, as well.”

  At his words, he glanced over at the woman in question, who still rode beside the open carriage. She was laughing at some witticism of Mr. Swanson’s, her lovely head thrown back, her white throat arched becomingly. Her black riding habit was severe, but she needed no ornamentation for her beauty, and, as with the dress she had worn the other night, the somber shade was a perfect foil for her own vibrant coloring.

  As they watched, Lady Daphne reached down and playfully tapped Mr. Swanson on the shoulder. The young man flushed to the roots of his sandy hair. Callie glanced over at his sister, who had a rather sour expression on her face. Gideon, on the other hand, was ignoring all of them, jotting down something in a small book in his hand.

  Callie, who had heard many tales of Lord Radbourne’s flouting of societal rules, smothered a smile. She returned her gaze to Bromwell’s face. He frowned a little.

  “People sometimes misjudge Lady Daphne,” he said. “She is a very warm and vivacious person.”

  “She seemed quite nice,” Callie offered, not sure what to say. “She is very beautiful.”

  Br
omwell cast her a smile. “Yes. And she takes pride in it. But it has cost her dearly in many ways. Women often…are disinclined to befriend her.”

  Callie thought about the little Francesca had told her about Lady Swithington. Could her reputation have been exaggerated? Distorted? Was she merely overly flirtatious? Callie knew how easy it was to bring on the censure of London Society. And a beautiful woman often stirred jealousy in the bosom of those females less fortunate than she.

  On the other hand, it was also possible that Bromwell’s words were simply a loving brother’s defense of his sister. She had seen love render a person blind to another’s faults. And she could not help but remember that flash of hard dislike she had seen in Daphne’s eyes as they set out. What did that mean? It certainly did not match with the friendly, flattering words she uttered or the sweet smile she directed at Callie.

  Still, whatever the truth, Callie could not help but respect Bromwell’s loyalty.

  “You are the only children in your family?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, and our estates are somewhat isolated. So Daphne and I were, I suppose, the only friends each other had, really. My father considered none of the families thereabouts our equals in birth, so we were discouraged from socializing with them—not that any of them were really close enough to see often, anyway. And my sister was several years older than I—” He shot her a twinkling look. “Not that I would let her hear me say that. But I was not much of a companion for her. She had to look after me a great deal. And, of course, by the time I was seven or eight, she was far more interested in clothes and hairstyles than in helping me search out bugs and other wildlife in the gardens. By the time I was eleven, she had gone to London to make her come-out, and then she married.”

  “It sounds as if you must have been alone a lot.”

  He nodded. “A good bit. Fortunately, I was always a solitary sort, anyway.”