The Wedding Challenge

by Candace Camp

  Callie stared at him, torn between hope and despair. “But if that is how you feel, then why did you stop coming to call on me? Why—”

  “Because there can be no future for me and the sister of the Duke of Rochford!” he exclaimed, shoving his hands up into his hair and pressing against his head as if to keep it from exploding. He swung away, crossing to the wall and turning back. “Your brother destroyed my sister! He led her on. He seduced her and got her with child, and then he refused to marry her.”

  “Sinclair would never have done something like that!” Callie cried. “He is a man of honor. He would never hurt a woman that way. I know it. He told me. He never touched your sister.”

  Bromwell’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “Of course you would believe that.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “No. My sister told me the truth. I know what happened.”

  “She lied to you,” Callie said bluntly.

  His eyes flared with anger. “No.”

  “Are you saying that she has never lied? She lied to me. She told me that Lord and Lady Radbourne would be with us that night at Vauxhall, but they were not. When we asked Lady Radbourne about it, she said that your sister told them that the party had been canceled. She tricked me into being there without any sort of chaperone, and then she left me there alone. She tried to—”

  “I know! I know. She was trying to help me. She thought that she would please me. She knew how I wanted you, and she wanted to help me. It is different. She would not have lied to me about…about that.”

  “And my brother would not lie to me.”

  He looked at her, regret and sorrow in his eyes. “Then you see how it is. You are as loyal to your brother as I am to my sister. There is nothing for us.”

  Callie caught her breath in pain as Bromwell walked away. He opened the door, then paused and turned back to look at her. “I am sorry, Callie, for hurting you. I—” He shook his head and went out the door, closing it behind him.

  Callie raised her fist to her mouth to stifle the whimper that rose from her. She drifted to a chair and sank down in it, fighting the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.

  She could not stay here. She no longer cared whether people gossiped about her reaction to Lord Bromwell. She had to get away to grieve in private.

  Swallowing hard, she left the library. In the foyer, she found a footman and sent him to tell Francesca that she was leaving. By the time the other footman had located Callie’s cloak and helped her into it, Francesca came hurrying out of the music room, looking worried.

  “Callie, dear, are you sick? We shall go at once.”

  Callie nodded, murmuring, “You need not leave.”

  “Nonsense,” Francesca replied quickly, already motioning to the footman for her cloak. “I could not stay here, worrying about you. I told Lady Manwaring that you had fallen sick. She will make our apologies to Lady Whittington.”

  Callie nodded and pulled up the hood of her cloak, grateful for the concealment it offered. Francesca whisked her out to their carriage and climbed in after her.

  “What happened?” she asked as she settled into the seat beside Callie, reaching out to take her hand. “I saw Lord Bromwell leave the room after you did. Did he speak to you? Is that why—”

  “Yes—oh, yes!” Callie burst out, no longer able to hold in her emotions. Tears began to stream from her eyes. “It is impossible! It was foolish of me to even retain the hope that—” She broke off, a sob escaping her. “Oh, Francesca! He will never be disloyal to his sister any more than I would break from Sinclair! It does not matter what I feel, or even what he feels for me. It is utterly hopeless.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Tears of sympathy glimmered in Francesca’s eyes, and she put her arms around Callie as Callie collapsed against her in a storm of tears.

  LORD BROMWELL STOOD UP as his sister entered the drawing room. He had left the musicale and walked straight to Daphne’s home, his emotions storming within him.

  “Brom!” Lady Daphne exclaimed, coming forward with both her hands extended to take his, smiling at him with such delight that he felt a stab of guilt.

  He had not been here often recently. He had not wanted to see anyone, including his sister, and he had spent most of his time at his club, drinking, or at his house, drinking, punctuated by bouts of pugilistic exercise at Jackson’s. Pounding on something, or someone, seemed to be the only thing that brought him any relief.

  “I was afraid that you were still miffed with me about that little fiasco at Vauxhall Gardens,” Daphne went on, squeezing his hands. “Come, sit down with me.”

  “I know that you did what you thought best,” he equivocated.

  “Yes, I did.” She smiled radiantly at him, taking his answer for approval. “You know that you are all I care about.”

  He managed a smile. “Well, I believe that I rank somewhere in the vicinity of clothes and jewels.”

  “Oh, you!” Daphne gave him a playful push on the arm. “Shall we do something together tonight? Have you plans? I have heard of a very nice gambling club. Of course I would never think of going there by myself, but with an escort, it would be quite another matter.”

  He shook his head. “I am not in a gaming mood, I fear. Save that for one of your battalion of beaux. I have come to tell you that I am leaving London.”

  Daphne stared at him. “Leaving London? Whatever do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “Back to the estate,” he answered. “I am better there.”

  “But what about Rochford? What about Lady Calandra?”

  “I have ended that,” he said, standing up and crossing the room to the fireplace. He picked up the poker and pushed the logs about a bit, staring broodingly into the flames.

  “I had heard that you were no longer pursuing his sister,” Daphne said. “But I did not think that was the end of the matter.”

  He stuck the poker back in its place and turned to face her. “The duke did not come to confront me, and I saw no point in continuing.”

  “No point!” Daphne burst out, rising to her feet. “I thought you were going to avenge what he did to me!”

  “What would you have me do, Daphne?” he asked.

  “Something more than cause that girl a little public ridicule!” she shot back.

  “Isn’t that enough to do to an innocent woman?” he retorted.

  “No!” Daphne cried fiercely. “It’s not! It is not enough to pay for what her brother did to me!”

  “I cannot change what happened to you,” Bromwell told her earnestly. “I wish to God that I could. I would do anything to take that pain from you, to erase it from your mind and heart. But I cannot. And hurting Callie further cannot make you happy.”

  “I want you to ruin her!” Daphne seethed, her lovely face contorting with rage.

  Bromwell stared at his sister, shocked by her words. “Daphne! You cannot mean that. Your hurt and bitterness over what the duke did to you are keeping you from thinking clearly. You would not really wish me to inflict damage on an innocent young woman’s reputation. I thought when we talked the other night that you realized as much yourself. That you would not want me to be the sort of man who would do such a thing.”

  Daphne drew a long breath, then smiled at her brother a little shakily. “No, of course, you are right. I would not want any harm to come to the girl. Not really. I just—I could see that you wanted her, and…” She turned away from him, reaching down to reposition a pillow on the sofa.

  “Still,” she went on, picking up another pillow and fluffing it, playing with the fringe along its edges. “I hate that you are leaving. I have seen you so little the last few years. I had looked forward to our having this Season in London together.”

  “I know. But I have duties at the estate that need seeing to. And there is little for me to do here beyond corresponding with my steward and my business agent.”

  “Oh, such dull stuff. You need to have fun. Not work so much. You are a gentleman.” />
  “I am a gentleman who needs something to do,” he responded.

  “I know!” Daphne brightened. “Why don’t you go to Lord Swithington’s hunting lodge? You can rest there for a few days before you return to the estate.”

  He smiled, glad to see that she had gotten over her disappointment. He hated to see the way the past had embittered her, her desire for vengeance eating away at her once-happy nature. “But, Daphne,” he pointed out, “it is not even hunting season. There is nothing to do there.”

  “But that is entirely the point, is it not?” she responded brightly. “You can tramp about the countryside. Read by the fire in the evenings.”

  “I can do all those things at home.”

  “Yes, but that is so far away. At the cottage you will not be so far from London. I could drive up there in a few days and join you. As soon as the Wentwhistle ball is over. I must be here for that. I promised Mrs. Wentwhistle only yesterday that I would not fail her. But that is only a few days away. The day after the ball, I will drive up there, and we can spend some time together. Wouldn’t that be fun? Just the two of us, like when we were children. We can talk and talk…about everything. Since we have been here, I have been thinking how much I have missed you all these years.”

  He chuckled. “Daphne, we visited one another two or three times a year ever since you married Lord Swithington.”

  “Yes, I know, and no doubt you think it silly of me,” she told him, pursing her lips in a little moue. “But it has been so nice the past few weeks, living close to you. And I do not want it to end just yet. Please, do say you will, or I shall be certain that you are still displeased with me about our trip to Vauxhall.”

  He smiled at her. “All right. I know that you are accustomed to having your way. I will only end up saying yes eventually.”

  “Of course you will,” she agreed with a charming laugh, coming forward to tuck her hand in his arm. “It will be such fun. You’ll see. Now, I shall just write a note and tell the caretaker to expect you the day after tomorrow. How is that?”

  “Fine,” he answered. “It will be fine. It will take a day to get my affairs in order, anyway.”

  “Wonderful,” Daphne purred. “You will see. You shan’t be sorry.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Francesca announced that Callie had done quite enough maintaining face for the present.

  “I think that you should stay home for a while,” she told her as they sat at the breakfast table.

  Callie, who had eaten little, mostly pushing her food about on her plate, looked at Francesca with an eagerness she could not disguise. “Do you think so? Truly? There will be talk.”

  “There is always talk,” Francesca retorted. “But you have shown everyone that you are not hurt, that you scarcely notice or care that one of your admirers has fallen out. It has been two weeks now that you have carried on, and I should think that is adequate to set most of the tongues to rest.”

  “But I know that people must be gossiping about how I behaved last night,” Callie said, grimacing. “I wish that I had been better able to control myself.”

  “Pray do not worry about that. What happened last night will only add verisimilitude to our story. You were suddenly struck ill. That is why you left the party. For that to be believable, you must continue to be ill for at least a week, I should think. Perhaps even two. Who knows? Perhaps your illness will require a return to the country to recuperate.”

  Callie smiled faintly. “That sounds very nice, I must say. But I am not sure I wish to be at death’s door.”

  “Well, perhaps not. Everyone will plague you with questions about it. Elaborate lies can be so difficult to maintain. Perhaps just a week or so, then, and after that you may venture out a little. But I shall insist, of course, on your taking care. You must not exhaust yourself and cause a relapse.” Francesca smiled, her cheek dimpling in that way she had that made it almost impossible not to return her smile.

  “Very well,” Callie gave in. “You have convinced me. I will not deny that seeing no one will be a vast relief.”

  “Then it is done,” Francesca decided with a nod. “I shall fulfill our social obligations alone for the next few days—though I feel that I should reduce them, of course. After all, I must devote myself to taking care of you, or else what sort of friend would I be?”

  So that afternoon Callie retired to her bedroom with a book, leaving Francesca downstairs to entertain whoever happened to call. She was, as she had told Francesca, greatly relieved not to have to pretend a calm and good cheer that she most certainly did not feel. Indeed, she was not certain that she would have been able to maintain such a front.

  Her eyes were still swollen and red-rimmed from her bout of crying last night, followed by a long night with little sleep, broken more than once by a fresh outpouring of tears. It was a wonder, she had thought this morning, that she had any tears left in her body, yet she had found herself blinking away the moisture in her eyes as she looked at the dress that Belinda had laid out for her—it had been the one she wore the first time Bromwell had come to call on her.

  She had missed his presence for the past two weeks, but the exchange between them the night before had left her desolate. She knew now, beyond any doubt, that he would never be part of her life again. She had come so close to love. It made the loss that much keener.

  Or perhaps, she thought, it was too late. She was beginning to wonder if perhaps she had, at last, finally fallen in love…with a man who would never marry her.

  FRANCESCA WAS SITTING at her desk early the next afternoon, wondering how it was that paying her bills had gone so smoothly for the past month, especially when they had eaten so well and had not scrimped on coal or candles, either. She suspected strongly that it had something to do with the duke’s agent having come to discuss Lady Calandra’s expenses with her butler. She could not decide whether Fenton had managed to squeeze a good deal more money out of the duke’s agent than was deserved or the duke had instructed his man to pay more than was necessary, which left her uncertain with whom she should be cross. Of course, she knew that she would never get the truth out of Fenton, who was the most closemouthed creature ever.

  When the butler entered the room, she thought for a fleeting second that her thoughts had conjured him up, but then he announced that Lady Pencully had come to call and was awaiting her in the formal drawing room. This news was enough to drive all thoughts of numbers straight out of Francesca’s head.

  No matter how old Francesca was or how long she had been managing her own affairs, Lady Odelia never failed to make her feel as if she were a schoolgirl again. Somehow, when Lady Odelia raised her lorgnette to gaze at her, Francesca was always sure that the woman spotted everything that could possibly be wrong with her.

  She wished, in a quite cowardly way, that she had not decided to pretend that Callie was feeling ill. For all her youth, Callie never seemed to feel intimidated by her great-aunt.

  Francesca took a peek in the small mirror beside the door to make sure that her hair was in place and there was no errant ink smudge on her face before she left the room, smoothing down her skirts as she went. Lady Odelia was always impossibly early in her calls, Francesca thought, so she could not even hope that other callers might interrupt the visit.

  “Lady Odelia,” she said, smiling brightly and offering the older woman a polite curtsey as she entered the drawing room. “How very nice to see you. I am surprised that you have not yet left the city. Do you intend to stay for the Season?”

  “Hallo, Francesca.” The older woman gestured toward the seat beside her, as if she were the hostess here rather than Francesca. She was dressed, as usual, in garments at least ten or fifteen years out of date, her graying hair dressed up in a high sweeping hairdo decorated by feathers. “Sit down, girl, don’t make me crane my neck to look at you.”

  As Francesca sat down, Lady Odelia continued, “I haven’t decided yet, actually. I was not planning to, but I have felt quite invigorated since m
y party. Nothing like turning eighty-five to make one wonder if one really should be rotting away in boredom in Sussex.”

  “Many people enjoy a visit to Bath, especially in the summer,” Francesca offered.

  “Yes, well, I haven’t come here to discuss travel plans,” Lady Odelia said briskly.

  “No, of course not,” Francesca agreed, wondering if the old lady had come up with some other scheme for which she sought Francesca’s help. Her last one had involved marrying off one of her great-nephews, Lord Radbourne. Of course, that had turned out well all around, but still, Francesca could not help but feel a little leery; Lady Odelia was quite adept at putting other people to work for her.

  “Your man Fenton tells me that my great-niece is ill,” Odelia went on.

  “Yes, she is.” Francesca hoped that Lady Odelia could not see that she was lying, another of the things that Francesca was always sure Lady Odelia could do. “She came down ill the day before yesterday at Lady Whittington’s musicale.”

  “Ill—or just missing that rapscallion Bromwell?” Lady Odelia asked shrewdly.

  “Lady Calandra had no expectations of Lord Bromwell,” Francesca replied smoothly. “Why, she barely knows the man. I believe she first met him at your birthday ball.”

  “Yes, well, time isn’t always what matters,” Lady Odelia pronounced. “Damn the boy. I don’t know what got into him. I understand he has gone back to his estates. I had hopes for him and Callie. Ah, well…” The old lady shrugged. “She won’t be wanting for suitors long.”

  “No, I am sure not.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” Lady Odelia asked abruptly.

  Francesca froze. “Um…I am not sure,” she murmured, stalling for time. She did not know why it was that her mind, usually so agile in concocting polite social lies, always seemed to jolt to a stop around Lady Pencully. “What time tomorrow?”