The Wedding Challenge

by Candace Camp

  But surely he could not be so unfair as to blame her for going there with his own sister as chaperone. If Lady Swithington had not been acting with such abandon, if she had exercised more control over the party, it would not have degenerated into such a romp. Would he actually blame Callie when it was obviously his sister who should have been more responsible?

  On the other hand, she reasoned, perhaps it was not that at all. Perhaps it was her behavior after they left the supper box. She had not wanted to go straight home but had asked him to linger. Had he thought her too bold? Had she not appeared shaken enough by her experience? Had she seemed too worldly? Too experienced?

  Or was it that Bromwell thought she had behaved like a wanton? The memory of the kisses they had shared by the fountain were enough to bring blushes to her cheeks. She could not help but wonder if he had found her too brazen, too bold. It was unfair, of course, for certainly he had participated in their kisses and caresses fully as much as she. But she knew full well that men were often unfair in their moral judgments of women. A young man could have relations with a woman and no one thought anything of it. A young woman, however, would be ruined if she lay down with a man. A man might want to sleep with a woman, but if she gave in, then he would not want to marry her. It was a tale she had been told ever since she came out.

  She could feel Francesca casting worried glances her way from time to time. When their last visitor left, Francesca turned to her and said quietly, “Perhaps Lord Bromwell has been called away from town for some reason. There might have been an emergency at his estate, and he did not have time to leave a message.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Callie answered, summoning up a smile. “Or perhaps he is simply the fickle sort. I have heard that some men are.”

  “He did not seem so,” Francesca replied, her frown deepening. “I had come to think—oh, well, there is no use in talking of it now, is there? We must wait and see if he writes and tells you what happened. Or perhaps he will simply arrive tomorrow with a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  Callie was not sure what an adequate explanation would be, as it seemed to her that whatever had happened, he could have sent round a note by now to explain his absence. However, she was eager to end the conversation, for it was growing more difficult with each second to keep her worry and fears from showing. She was afraid that if Francesca continued talking about the matter much longer, she might start to cry.

  Fortunately, Francesca seemed as happy as she to drop the subject and began to chat about what they should wear to the opera that night. Callie joined in, grateful that Francesca was able to bear more than her share of the conversational burden.

  They went to the opera with Irene and Gideon, occupying Lord Radbourne’s luxurious box. Callie paid especial attention to her attire and hair, unable to suppress the hope that she might see Bromwell tonight. If he was there, it was vitally important that she look her best—and that she appear lighthearted and carefree.

  He was not there, however, and Callie was not sure whether to be unhappy or relieved. For if he was at the opera, it would mean that he had not been called away or been ill or any other such thing; it would mean that he simply had not wanted to call on her.

  The next afternoon, she decided to make a round of calls. She had been staying home all too much recently, waiting for Lord Bromwell to visit, and she did not want to spend another afternoon that way. There was a little niggling worry inside her that he would come by and she would be gone, but she refused to give way to it. If he did call, it would serve him right that she was not there. He would see that she was not sitting about pining for him.

  Still, when she returned, she could not keep from sifting through the calling cards that had been left her in absence, just to see if Bromwell’s was among them. It was not.

  Francesca had tactfully not mentioned Lord Bromwell since their brief discussion of the subject the afternoon before. Callie could only admire the woman’s ability to find so many other things to talk about other than the one that was so glaringly obvious.

  The next evening was Lady Smythe-Furling’s ball. She was not known for the excellence of her parties, but it was the only social entertainment that evening, and Callie was now determined to go out at every opportunity. She wanted desperately to keep herself occupied, to dance or chat or do something, anything, to chase away the depressing thoughts and doubts.

  Almost as soon as they entered, however, Callie wished that they had not come. As she made her polite curtsey to Lady Smythe-Furling and her two daughters, she glanced across the room. And there, standing at the edge of the dance floor, talking to Lord Westfield, was Bromwell.

  Her heart skittered in her chest, and she struggled to keep control of her expression. He was here! Hope surged within her, no matter how she struggled to keep it down. He would see her, she thought; he would turn and smile, and then he would walk over to her, and everything would be all right again. She could stop her incessant worrying.

  But he did not turn or look at her. She strolled away, careful not to stray toward the part of the room where he stood. She refused to seek him out. If he wanted to talk to her, he would come to her.

  He did not.

  She danced with her host, and with the husband of Lady Smythe-Furling’s oldest daughter. She danced with Francesca’s good friend Sir Lucien—and was very grateful for his presence at her side for much of the evening. She felt certain that Francesca had put a word in his ear, but it was, Callie thought, kind of him to oblige her and devote his evening to easing her discomfort.

  She was also grateful that her dance card was full and she was able to appear, at least, to be enjoying the party. She chatted, she laughed, and she even managed to flirt a bit—it was easy with Sir Lucien, who was able to carry on a flirtation almost entirely by himself, truth be known.

  Inside, however, she ached. Bromwell was here—the man who had kissed her passionately only a few nights before, the man who had devoted himself to her over the past few weeks—and he had not even come over to say hello to her. It was just as well that he had not, she thought, for she was not sure how she would have maintained her composure. It had been difficult enough to do so without having to face him.

  The hours moved with excruciating slowness. All Callie wanted was to go home and throw herself upon her bed and cry, but she would not allow herself to leave early. She would not give anyone the opportunity to whisper about how upset she had been.

  She knew that there were already whispers. Lord Bromwell had been so assiduous in his attentions to her recently that it was obvious to everyone there that he was not speaking to her tonight. She had felt the glances that were directed her way; she had seen the conversations stop in midsentence when she had looked toward someone. It made her pain much worse to bear—and at the same time, it made it all the more imperative that she not reveal that pain.

  Francesca, she noticed, began to act tired long before she normally did, now and then covering a yawn with her fan, then apologizing prettily to those around her for her sleepiness. Callie suspected that she was doing it for Callie’s benefit, so that they could slip away from the party early.

  It did not surprise her when Francesca announced that she simply could not remain any longer, and so they made their goodbyes. Callie let out a sigh of relief as she sat down in the carriage and leaned back against the soft leather seat.

  “Thank you,” she said softly to Francesca.

  “It was a dull party, anyway,” Francesca replied airily. She reached over and put her hand on Callie’s arm. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Callie nodded. “Yes, of course. A little puzzled, I admit, but…” She finished her statement with a shrug.

  Francesca nodded. Callie felt sure that she was not convinced by that answer, but Francesca was too well-bred to pry. Instead she merely said, “I suppose one should never underestimate the vagaries of men. However, I am convinced that Lord Bromwell’s behavior must have been influenced in some way by his odious
sister.”

  Callie could not keep from chuckling. “Dear Francesca. Trust you to make me laugh.”

  “Yes. My mother once told me that I am able to make even the most serious matter trivial.” She paused and added drolly, “I do not believe she meant it as a compliment.”

  Francesca, with her accustomed sensitivity, did not say anything on the rest of the drive home, and when they reached her house, she simply bid Callie good-night and went into her morning room to “see to a few matters,” leaving Callie alone.

  Callie hurried up the stairs, the long-suppressed tears welling up in her. Her maid was waiting for her there, but Callie dismissed her with a few brief words, ignoring the girl’s puzzled expression.

  Then, at last, for the first time tonight, she was alone. She stood there for a moment, letting down the barriers that she had kept raised all evening. She had refused to let herself feel, to even think about her pain, determined to present a cool and undisturbed face to the world. But now, at last, she let it sink in: Lord Bromwell’s ardor had cooled. For whatever reason, he was no longer interested in her. And she was going to have to live without him.

  A deep, primitive sound came up out of her throat—part moan, part sob—and she threw herself across her bed and gave way to tears.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Callie was listless and red-eyed, but she refused Francesca’s offer to decline all callers.

  “No, I must see them sometime, and I refuse to let anyone pity me. They will gossip, I know, about the fact that Lord Bromwell has grown tired of my company, but at least I do not have to give them further food for gossip by going into a decline.”

  “You are a very brave girl,” Francesca said. “Unfortunately, I suspect that we will be inundated with callers.”

  As it turned out, the number was not quite as large as Francesca had feared, but their afternoon was filled, and Callie was kept busy pretending that she had scarcely noticed Lord Bromwell’s absence, and that she cared about it even less.

  It was a great relief, however, when it grew too late for calls and they were able to settle down to tea. Callie did not feel like eating, really, but no one would be allowed to disturb them, at least, at this hour.

  Francesca had just begun to pour their tea, however, when the house echoed with the sound of a loud knock at the front door. Francesca and Callie glanced at each other, surprised, but continued with their tea. It was more surprising when Francesca’s butler appeared at the door a moment later, looking torn.

  “Ah…” He hesitated, then continued in a rush, “His Grace, the Duke of Rochford, is here to see you, my lady.” Clearly, the duke was someone whom even Fenton did not dare turn down.

  Francesca and Callie looked at each other, alarm dawning on their faces. It was, Callie thought, a dreadful end to a perfectly dreadful day. Sinclair must have gotten wind of Bromwell’s visits and had come to take her to task for it.

  “Yes, Fenton, show him in, of course,” Francesca said, suppressing a sigh, and rose to her feet. Beside her, Callie did the same.

  A moment later the duke strode into the room. He was dressed for riding, and it was apparent from the less-than-pristine condition of his boots that he had come straight to Francesca’s home without stopping at Lilles House to change. His dark hair was disheveled, his face grim, and there was a light in his eyes that did not bode well for either of the occupants in the room.

  “What the devil has been going on here since I left?” he demanded curtly. “I received a letter from Grandmother saying you have been seen everywhere about town with the Earl of Bromwell. She said several of her correspondents have even hinted that we must be expecting an ‘important announcement’ soon.”

  “I am sorry if Grandmother’s letters annoyed you, Sinclair,” Callie replied coolly. “But I really do not believe it was necessary for you to come in person to inform me of that fact.”

  “Blast it, Callie!” he exclaimed. “Don’t adopt that innocent guise with me. I told you not to see that man again! And you—” He rounded on Francesca. “My God, how could you have been so lax, so irresponsible, as to allow that man to dance attendance upon my sister?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Francesca’s voice iced over. “You have the impertinence to upbraid me over whom I permit to call on me at my home?”

  “Could you not see what he was about?” Rochford growled. “Didn’t you know better than to allow a man who hated me to try to fix his attention with my sister?”

  “If you disapprove so of whom I receive at my house, then no doubt you will wish to remove Callie from my care,” Francesca shot back. “If I am so lax in my standards, so uncaring of who I see or speak to, I can only be surprised that you allowed Callie to visit me at all.”

  The duke looked startled; then his brows drew together in a rush, but before he could speak, Callie stepped forward, saying crisply, “No one is ‘removing’ me from anywhere. I am a grown woman, and I will stay where I choose.” She turned toward Francesca. “Unless, of course, you no longer wish me to remain with you because of my brother’s rude behavior.”

  Francesca unbent enough to smile at Callie. “You are always welcome here, Callie. You know that.” Her quick sideways glance at the duke did not extend a similar invitation to him. She turned back to Callie. “Now I think it would be best if I left you and the duke alone to discuss the matter.”

  “No, Francesca, truly, you need not leave—” Callie began.

  Francesca stopped her with a shake of her head. “I do not believe that your brother feels the same say. Clearly the Earl of Bromwell and his family are a personal matter for the duke.”

  She turned, sweeping Rochford a cool glance, and left the room, closing the door discreetly behind her. The duke watched her go, his jaw tightening even more. He swung back to face his sister, but Callie jumped in before he could speak.

  “How could you have spoken to Francesca that way?” she asked, her eyes snapping. “You were absolutely abominable, acting as though you had some right to tell her what to do! Who she could see or not see! Really, Sinclair!”

  “I am perfectly aware that I exercise no control over Lady Haughston,” her brother retorted stiffly. “However, I would have thought that she had better sense than to allow any man to hang about you so much that it is the talk of the City. Especially Bromwell, of all people!”

  “Francesca was not to blame. She was very careful to provide me with chaperonage the entire time I have been here. No one would dare intimate that I have done anything scandalous.”

  “No, of course not,” Rochford retorted impatiently.

  “And how was Francesca to know that you would take it so amiss if an eligible gentleman paid court to me? She did not even know Lord Bromwell until I came here.”

  “I thought it was enough that I explicitly told you not to see him,” Rochford retorted. “Obviously you paid no attention whatsoever to me.”

  “I am not a child to be told what to do and whom to see, without any reason given for your orders! If there was something wrong with Bromwell, you should have told me what it was.”

  Rochford shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable.

  “What? What is so wrong with Lord Bromwell?” Callie pursued. “Why do you despise the man?”

  “I do not despise him,” Rochford replied stiffly. “I have no feeling toward the man, bad or good. It is he who despises me. He has done so for years. I feared that he would try to attach himself to you in order to harm you…just to hurt me in some way.”

  “Why?” Callie asked. “He has never said anything to me about hating you. I do not think he has ever spoken about you at all. Why would he dislike you so much that he would pursue me just to wound you?”

  “It is not the sort of thing one discusses with a lady,” her brother began stiffly.

  Callie’s dark eyes sparked with fire. “Then I fear that you and I have nothing else to say.”

  She started toward the door.

  “Blast it, Callie! I am trying to protect
you.”

  “I am sure that is very noble. But if protecting me means treating me as something less than an adult, than a person, then I do not want your protection.”

  Rochford’s lips tightened. Callie sighed and, unexpectedly, tears sprang into her eyes. She started once again toward the door.

  “Wait.” He turned, reaching out for her. “Callie, stop. Do not go. I will tell you.”

  She turned and looked at him, waiting.

  “Fifteen years ago, Bromwell challenged me to a duel.” He paused, then added, “For dishonoring his sister.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CALLIE STARED. “What? How could he think that?”

  A faint smile touched the duke’s lips. “You do not ask me if the accusation was true?”

  “Of course not. Really, Sinclair…what kind of a ninny do you take me for?” Callie replied astringently. “I know that you would not dishonor any woman, much less a lady. I am not naïve enough that I do not realize that you have had…relationships with women. But I am certain that they were perfectly aboveboard and…well, professional.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “Why did I ever think you would be overset by such news?”

  “I do not know. But I do wonder why Bromwell would have believed such a thing of you. He is not a stupid man.”

  Rochford shrugged. “He was very young at the time, and he was badly misinformed. He did not know me. He did not know that I was not the sort to force myself upon a woman—or to seduce a woman of virtue. And it would not have been hard for him to believe that I had…formed an attachment to Lady Daphne. Half the men of the ton were…fascinated by her.”

  “And were you?”

  “No.” Her brother shook his head. “Indeed, at the time, I was interested in quite a different lady, but…Lady Daphne was interested in me. She was a young widow and was clearly intent on marrying more money than she had the first time. She was always a grasping sort, and she believed that no man was immune to her beauty. She seized on me as her next victim. But I had no interest in marrying her—or having anything else to do with her. When I made it clear to her that her hopes were in vain, she was furious with me.” He shrugged. “She was not used to being turned down. In retaliation, I suppose, she convinced her brother that I had played fast and loose with her affections. From what he said to me, I believe that she may have told him she was carrying my child.”