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.”
“No!” Callie gasped. “So he challenged you?”
Rochford nodded. “To pistols at dawn. He would not listen to me.”
“Did you meet him?”
“Of course not.” The duke grimaced. “Bromwell was nothing but a lad. Seventeen or eighteen, just a student at Oxford. I could scarcely let him throw away his life like that. And certainly I had no intention of deloping, when I had done nothing wrong.”
“You were not exactly aged yourself,” Callie pointed out. “Fifteen years ago? You were only twenty-three.”
“That may be, but I had had to grow up quickly because I came into my inheritance young. I had been running my estates for five years by then. I felt worlds older than that young hothead. But…” He sighed, shaking his head. “I did not handle the situation well. I was angry at Daphne for her lies and angry at…well, everyone, I suppose. I was short with the boy. I spoke to him sarcastically, contemptuously. I made it clear that I thought him a young puppy, not worthy of meeting on the dueling field. In short, I embarrassed him. And it was at my club, in front of a number of others. The young are very full of pride. He hated me, not only for what he perceived as my wrong to his sister, but also for humiliating him in the eyes of the ton. He went back to Oxford, but he held on to his anger, nursing it.”
Callie went to her brother and put her hand on his arm. “Sinclair, I am so sorry. I wish that you had told me.”
“It is not the sort of story one wants to tell one’s sister. It was not something in which I showed to advantage.”
“Lord Bromwell has hated you ever since?” Callie asked. She understood everything now—why Brom had pursued her, why he had stopped so abruptly. His only purpose in all of it had been to hurt her in order to get back at her brother. “Did he never learn the truth?”
Rochford shrugged. “I have heard from others now and then that he still despises me. Lady Daphne found someone else to marry her. I believe she never had a child, but that is easy enough to put down to an accident, another bit of tragedy befalling her. She was always a skillful liar. Her brother was not the only one whom she fooled.”
His face was grim, and Callie squeezed his arm sympathetically. “I am sorry. No one who knows you would believe you would play fast and loose with a woman, surely.”
“Perhaps they did not believe I acted dishonorably toward her. But there were those who believed that I was involved with her.”
“The woman in whom you were interested?” Callie asked him tentatively.
He gave her a faint smile. “She fell in love with another, I am afraid. I cannot blame all of that on Daphne. One cannot help where one loves, I have found.”
Callie frowned, swept with sadness. She had never thought about the possibility that her brother might have been in love once, or that he might have lost that love. It had, frankly, never occurred to her that any woman would not have leapt at the chance to marry him. She felt a little guilty, as well, that she had simply assumed Rochford was too cool and aloof for love, and that that was why he had remained single.
Rochford, as though sensing the thoughts stirring in her mind, spoke, returning to the subject of the earl. “In any case, I suspect that Bromwell may never have learned what his sister is really like. Love can blind one to all sorts of things. And neither of them has really lived much in the ton. I believe that he went abroad after he finished at Oxford, and then several years ago, when he inherited, he chose to live on his estates. Daphne’s second husband was wise enough to keep her close. She has not been much in society for several years. And I doubt that anyone is too likely to discuss his sister’s morals in front of the man. Perhaps he is still able to believe her an innocent victim.”
“He does, I think,” Callie said. “He did not tell me anything of what happened, but he has spoken very highly of his sister. Indeed, I met her. She was…very pleasant.”
“Oh, Daphne excels at subterfuge. There are those who like her—Great-Aunt Odelia, for one. I cannot blame Bromwell. I would despise any man whom I thought had hurt you in any way. As I feared he would hurt you.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know. I realize that now. I am too accustomed to regarding you as my baby sister. I forget that you are a woman—a very wonderful and intelligent woman.”
“Perhaps not so intelligent,” Callie replied, with a wry smile. “I did not see through Lord Bromwell’s deception. I believed that he was genuinely courting me. But now I understand why he was so assiduous in his attentions. But you need not worry. He has ceased calling upon me. I think that he must have sought his revenge on you in that way. He was very attentive, in order to make everyone take notice, and then, when he abruptly stopped, everyone was able to witness my embarrassment. I was the object of gossip. It was, in a much smaller way, the sort of thing that had happened to his sister.”
“I am so sorry, Callie.” The duke wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. “I would have given anything for you to avoid that hurt.”
Callie leaned her head against his chest for a moment, letting herself rely, just for a bit, on his strength, soaking up the feeling, as she had when she was a child, that Sinclair would somehow make everything better.
But then she pulled back and smiled up at him. “Do not worry. Clearly I would have been wiser to do as you said. I cannot escape the realization that I was hurt through my own rashness. Anyway, I am not so very hurt. I am chagrined, most of all, at my own foolishness. It is nothing more than a little social loss of face. Embarrassing, but nothing more. My good name is unsoiled. I can put up with a bit of gossip about me. It will all blow over in a few weeks. There will be some on-dit or other that will take precedence over my problem.”
“I feared that he had much worse intentions when I heard that he was courting you.” Sinclair smiled. “I should have realized that you would have the good sense not to let yourself be maneuvered into a compromising position.”
Callie, thinking of the kisses and caresses that she had shared with Bromwell, could not quite meet her brother’s eyes. “I do not know that he ever intended to do any more than make me a bit of a laughingstock.”
“I am glad to learn that he was not wicked enough to force his attentions upon you. Despite his dislike of me, I did have a certain respect for the man for his loyalty to his sister, however misguided he might have been.”
A silence fell on them. Rochford was clearly uncomfortable talking about such things with his sister, and Callie, rather guiltily aware of just how much freedom she had allowed Bromwell, had no desire to speak for fear the guilt would show in her voice.
Callie shifted a little. Rochford cleared his throat.
“I—um, I need to return to Marcastle. I left rather abruptly, and there are still several things that must be done. I also have some matters that require my attention at Dancy Park. So I shan’t be staying.” He looked at her, a faint smile quirking up his lips. “Do not worry. I will not try to compel you to return with me. I can see that you are well, and that you are quite able to take care of yourself. It was foolish of me to come tearing up to London.”
“A little,” Callie agreed with a smile. “Still, I am glad that you care about me enough to do so.”
“Of course. Your well-being is what matters. I did not come here because of ‘family duty’ or the ‘honor of the name’ or any of that.”
“I know.”
“But…if you would like to, um, get away from the city for a while, you are welcome to come home with me.” He cast a concerned glance at her.
“You mean until the talk about me dies down?” Callie asked. She shook her head. “No, I think not. I do not like being the object of whispers or amused glances—or pitying ones, either. But I refuse to run and hide just because of a little embarrassment. It would only give the matter more importance, anyway. It will be better, ultimately, if I stay and face it down.”
Pride was evident in his smile. “I suspected you would say that.”
“Francesca is quite helpful in that regard. It is much easier than it would be if I were alone—or with Grandmother.” She looked at him sternly. “You must apologize to Francesca for those things you said, however. It was not her fault. She did try to warn me a little—in a delicate way—by pointing out that his sister’s reputation was not the best. She said that she thought you might not like it—which of course I already knew. Now I understand why she was, perhaps, a little reluctant to explain further.”
“Yes, I imagine that she was.”
“She was meticulous about chaperoning me, even though I am sure that often it was a dreadful bore to her.”
“I realize that my words were uncalled-for. I had not told her that you were not to see him. And, in any case, I am aware that she has no control over you. I spoke out of fury. I will, of course, apologize to her. However, I fear that Lady Haughston’s opinion of me has been set for some years now.”
They found Francesca in the formal drawing room at the front of the house, sitting at the piano, not playing anything, but staring sightlessly across the top of it, her hands unmoving in her lap. They stopped in the doorway. Then the duke started forward into the room.
“Lady Haughston.”
Francesca turned at the sound of his voice and rose to her feet, wearing an air of cool civility like a cloak. “Your Grace.”
The corner of his mouth twitched with annoyance, but he said only, “You are right to be upset with me. I must apologize for the way I acted earlier. I had no right to reprimand you, as you pointed out. Naturally you and my sister are free to see whom you wish. In my defense, I can only plead my desire to protect Calandra. I hope you will forgive me.”
Francesca’s nod was regal as she replied, “Of course. You need not worry. I have never taken your criticisms to heart.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” he told her dryly. “I am returning to the country now. Callie would like to remain here with you, if that is acceptable.”
“Certainly. Callie is always welcome here.” A stranger might not have noticed the slight emphasis Francesca put on Callie’s name.
“Thank you.” He bowed. “Then I will take my leave of you.”
Callie walked her brother out. When they reached the front door, he cast a glance back toward the drawing room where Francesca stood.
“Do not worry,” Callie told him with some amusement. “I shall do my best to soften Francesca toward you. Anyway, I have never known her to hold a grudge long. She is a most forgiving person.”
“Is she?” He smiled faintly. “Do not trouble yourself over it, Callie. Lady Haughston and I are…accustomed to each other.”
He took his leave of her, and Callie watched him go, her forehead creased in a small frown. For the first time, she wondered exactly what lay between her brother and Francesca. She had always just accepted that Francesca was a part of her life, a friend of the family. She would have said that Sinclair and Francesca were friends, but now that she thought about it, she realized that there was something different in their manner toward each other.
There was not the easy, jesting affection that Francesca shared with Sir Lucien or with her brother Dominic. Nor did Francesca display the lightly flirtatious manner she often adopted with other men of the ton. There was, Callie reflected, even in the midst of a pleasant conversation, a sort of brittle quality between the two of them.
She recalled now the surprised expression on Francesca’s face when Callie had told her that she was one of the few people to whom Sinclair would have entrusted his sister. And just now her brother had sardonically referred to Francesca’s opinion of him as being “set” long ago, and he had not, she thought, implied that her opinion of him was a good one.
Callie might have termed them friends, but now she was not sure that either of them would have said the same thing. On the other hand, she was positive that they did not dislike each other. Until tonight, Francesca had never made a genuinely slighting comment toward or about Sinclair that Callie could remember, and she was certain that whenever Francesca’s name came up in conversation, her brother always listened with interest. At nearly any ball that they both attended, Sinclair would always dance a waltz with Francesca. With another man, that might not have indicated anything, but Callie knew that her brother was not much given to dancing.
But what did any of this mean?
Still puzzling over the matter, Callie walked back inside and down the hallway to the smaller sitting room, where she suspected her friend would have returned. Her instincts were right, for Francesca was seated upon the couch. Unusually for her, she held a needlepoint frame in her lap.
As Callie entered, Francesca glanced up at her and smiled, then returned her attention to her needlework. “You and the duke have resolved the problem?” she asked lightly.
“Yes.” Callie paused, then asked, “Why did you not tell me that Lord Bromwell disliked my brother so?”
Pink tinged the other woman’s cheeks, and Francesca glanced at Callie, then away. “I didn’t—I was not sure that Lord Bromwell disliked Rochford, or how much he disliked him. I thought that certainly he might…because of…of the duke and, um…” She trailed off uncertainly.
“And Lady Daphne?” Callie supplied.
Francesca’s astonished gaze flew to Callie’s face. “He told you?”
Callie shrugged. “There was little way around it. He knew I would not let him slide out of explaining to me why he was so strongly opposed to my seeing Lord Bromwell. Why he was so frightened of what Lord Bromwell might intend regarding me. And once he told me about Bromwell’s issuing him a challenge—”
“What!” Francesca’s needlepoint dropped, unnoticed, from her hand and slid onto the floor. “He challenged Sinclair to a duel?”
“Yes. Did you not know?”
Francesca shook her head so hard that her golden ringlets bounced about wildly. “No! He must have been mad! Everyone knows what a dead shot Rochford is.”
“He was too angry to think, I suspect,” Callie replied. “Sinclair said he was only seventeen or eighteen, and he thought…well, he believed that Sinclair had played the cad with his sister, seducing and abandoning her. That is what he accused him of, though of course Sinclair did not put it quite so bluntly.”
Francesca let out a short, wordless sound of disbelief. “As if anyone would have to seduce Lady Daphne!”
“Bromwell loves his sister very much. I have heard him talk of her. I feel sure he did not realize the sort of person that his sister was. He was young and away at school.”
“Of course. And no doubt Daphne told him that she had been wronged. She was hoping to force your brother’s hand, I am sure. She wanted very much to be the Duchess of Rochford.”
“Clearly she did not know Sinclair well enough,” Callie commented.
A brief smile touched Francesca’s lips. “No. I suppose she did not, after all. Rochford does not respond well to being pressed.” She shook her head. “What happened? Did Rochford tell you? Surely he did not fight the boy.”
“No, of course not. But he said that he regrets the way he handled it. He was scornful, apparently. He thinks he hurt Lord Bromwell’s pride. Brom—that is, Bromwell—must have nursed a grudge against him all these years. And when he had the chance to inflict a little revenge upon Sinclair, he seized it.” Callie shrugged. “He wooed the duke’s sister, then unceremoniously left her, exposing her to the ton’s gossip.”
“Oh, Callie, I am so sorry.” Francesca reached out to take her friend’s hand, and Callie saw that her blue eyes were swimming with tears. “I had no idea that he carried such a grudge against the duke. I never heard about the challenge. I was…busy with my first Season, and Lord Haughston had just asked me to marry him. I was so wrapped up in my own concerns that I suppose I did not listen to all the gossip.” Francesca saw no need to add that she had, at that time, been doing her best to avoid any mention of anything to do with the Duke of Rochford.
“I was a little suspicious of Lord Bromwell at first,” Francesca went on. “But mostly because he was Lady Swithington’s brother, and I thought he might be like her. Greedy, ambitious, licentious. I was suspicious of his reasons for courting you because I thought he might harbor some resentment against Rochford, but I did not feel I could speak to you about your brother and Bromwell’s sister. It did not seem appropriate. And I had no idea of the strength of Bromwell’s feelings. Or that he would seek vengeance upon the duke through you. I am terribly sorry. I should not have let him come to call here. I should have kept a closer eye on him.”
Callie smiled and squeezed her friend’s hand comfortingly. “You are very sweet, but I do not think there was anything you could have done. I knew that Sinclair did not like him, did not want me to be around him. If anyone is at fault, it is I—for being headstrong and obstinate, refusing to take my brother’s advice. I was foolish—and too ready to believe that Lord Bromwell cared for me.”
“He is despicable,” Francesca declared. “To set out to break your heart! I promise you—I will plot some quite devious and painful social downfall for him.”
Callie laughed, as she knew Francesca had meant her to. “No, indeed, ’tis not so awful. He did not break my heart. I told you when I first came here that I am not a romantic. I did not fall dreadfully in love with him. As I told Sinclair, the worst I have suffered is a little trifling embarrassment. Why, it is not even the full Season yet. Half the people I know are not even here, and in a few weeks there will be something much more interesting to gossip about than me and my little fall from pride.”
Francesca still looked troubled, but she let the matter drop. Callie was grateful. She knew that her words were not entirely truthful, and it was hard to keep up a pretense of good cheer.
She did believe that the gossip about her would die down quickly enough, and though she did not like the fact that people were talking about her, she could bear it without much difficulty. But she had lied about the heartache that she felt. The truth was that her heart had been sore without Brom. It had not been only her pride that had been hurt.
She had not fallen in love with him. She reminded herself of that fact frequently. But she could not deny that her days were far duller without him in them. She missed talking to him and seeing his face. She missed his smile, his laugh, the way his presence filled a room. The other night, when she had seen him across the room, her heart had leapt in her chest. The problem was, she thought, she was lonely without him, and unhappy. Every morning when she woke up she would feel again for a moment as she used to, and then she would remember that Brom was missing from her life, and a quiet sadness would settle upon her.
However, she was determined that the world, at least, should not see that she was unhappy. Gritting her teeth, she went about her usual social routine. A Lilles, after all, had to keep up appearances.
Therefore, as the days wore on she paid calls or received visitors every afternoon, and she accompanied Francesca to parties, smiling and chatting with friends and acquaintances as if she did not have a care in the world. And if there were nights when she cried herself to sleep, or mornings when she wished that she did not have to get out of bed, she did not let on.
One evening, at the theater, Sally Pemberton, a rather sharp-faced blond girl, came in with her mother to visit them in their box, and once the requisite amount of small talk had passed, she said archly, “’Tis odd, is it not, how rarely one sees Lord Bromwell these days.”
“Really?” Callie glanced at her. “I am afraid I had not noticed.”
“Not noticed! But, my dear, the man was practically in your pocket, was he not? Every party, every dinner. Why, the way he danced attendance on you, I vow I quite expected to hear a happy announcement very soon. And now…” She shrugged. “Well, one cannot help but wonder what has happened.”
“I have learned that it is a fool’s game to take a young gentleman seriously—either in what he says or in what he does. It is precisely because of a young man’s fickleness that a woman is always wise to keep a firm grip upon her heart.” Callie smiled serenely at Miss Pemberton.
And if she had to curl her hand into a fist in her lap, fingernails digging into her palm, to keep any emotion from showing in her face, or if she cried into her pillow again that night…well, at least the Miss Pembertons of the world did not know it.
Francesca, she felt sure, suspected that Callie’s nights were restless; she could hardly have missed the mornings when Callie came down to breakfast with eyelids still swollen from tears or smudged with faint blue beneath them from lack of sleep. But, tactfully, Francesca refrained from comment.
Callie knew, too, that Francesca turned down a number of invitations, choosing only enough to make it clear that Callie was not sitting home nursing a broken heart. Her friend also, Callie noticed, remained by her side through most of any party, quick to steer the conversation in a new direction if it entered troubling waters, or to skewer with a few well-chosen words any person with the audacity to repeat whatever gossip still circulated about Callie and Lord Bromwell. For that, if for no other reason, Callie thought, Francesca would always have a special place in her heart.
She did not see Bromwell at any of the parties she attended. She thought he might have left London. He had only been visiting, after all; he obviously preferred living on his estate. But she heard his name now and then at parties, and Sir Lucien told Francesca that Bromwell had been seen frequently at Cribb’s Parlour, a drinking establishment favored by the “fancy,” as gentlemen with a keen interest in the sport of pugilism were known. He had also, according to Francesca’s friend, spent several afternoons at Jackson’s Saloon, where he had been given the honor of stripping to the waist and sparring with Gentleman Jackson himself.
Callie could not help but wonder if Bromwell was staying in London so that he could see for himself what sort of damage he had inflicted on Rochford’s sister. This thought served to stiffen her spine and send her to one or two parties that she had been reluctant to attend for fear she might run into him.
More and more members of the ton were arriving in London almost daily, it seemed, and Callie knew that it would not be many more weeks before the Season was well under way. The number of invitations they received each day was rapidly growing, and they were spending more and more evenings at one party or another.
She thought of the months ahead and the exhausting whirl of parties and calls, and she quailed inside. She was not sure she could stand living through this spring and into June, going to a constant round of social engagements, when all the while she felt somehow both leaden and empty inside. As for her original plan of using the Season to find a husband—well, that idea carried no importance for her any longer. Looking back on it, she wondered why she had ever thought that she wanted to marry, much less spend the time and effort it would require to actively seek out a likely prospect for the endeavor.
She thought with longing of going to Marcastle to stay with Sinclair—or, even better, to Dancy Park. She could spend her days riding about the estate or taking long tramps through the countryside. There were friends to visit there—Dominic and Constance. Everything would be quiet and calm, and there would be no prying eyes searching her face for signs of sorrow or embarrassment. She would not have to worry about what she would do if she saw Lord Bromwell walk into a party.
But she knew that she could not leave yet. It was too soon, and gossiping tongues would stir. No one left at the height of the Season except with good reason, and everyone would be certain that her reason was a broken heart. She would have to stay at least another two months now, until May, she decided, and she almost wept at the thought.
“I thought we would attend Lady Whittington’s musicale tonight,” Francesca announced one afternoon.
Callie barely suppressed a groan.
“Yes, I know,” Francesca commiserated. “They are dead bores, usually.”
“Usually?”
“Well, always. However, they have one distinct advantage. They do not last past ten o’clock, ever, and one also does not have to converse most of the time. You can pretend to be listening to the wretched music.”
“If one is adept at acting,” Callie agreed. “But you are right. Having to be out only two hours is a very welcome thing.”
So with somewhat less reluctance than she usually felt, Callie dressed for the evening, letting her maid spend a few extra minutes taming and arranging her curls, and she and Francesca went to the musicale. Francesca, as usual, arranged it so that they swept in later than most of the crowd; such behavior was always marked down as simply the way Lady Haughston was, but Callie was well aware of the fact that it greatly reduced the time that she would have to spend keeping up her pose of cheerful indifference to Lord Bromwell’s absence.
They met Lady Manwaring and her sister, Mrs. Beltenham, just inside the foyer, and they strolled into the music room together, pausing to look about for seats. Callie’s gaze went to the west wall of the room, opposite the windows, and her heart skittered in her chest.
Standing there, his elbow resting negligently upon a marble pedestal and looking straight at her, was Lord Bromwell.
Callie felt as if she suddenly could not breathe. It had been over a week since she had last seen him and two since she had spent any time with him, and she was struck all over again by his hard, spare handsomeness. He straightened as their gazes locked, and Callie thought, feeling a little panicky, that he was about to walk over to her.
She could not bear that. Not here, in front of all these people. She turned quickly away, touching Francesca’s arm. “I—I am feeling a bit of a headache. If you will excuse me…”
“Oh, dear. Do you want to leave?” Francesca asked quickly. “Perhaps you are coming down with something. I hear that there is a fever going about.”
“No, no, I think it is just a…um, a trifle warm in here. Pray do not worry. Just sit and enjoy the music. I shall return shortly.”
Callie turned, not daring to glance back at Bromwell, and fled from the room.