CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CALLIE HURRIED down the hallway, paying little attention to where she went. A door stood open to a small library, and she slipped inside, closing the door after her. Letting out a sigh of relief, she sank down into a wingback chair. Her legs, she noticed, were trembling.
She wished she had not fled. Had anyone noticed? She suspected that someone must have. She only hoped she had not looked as distressed as she had felt.
It was so much harder to maintain her air of indifference when Bromwell was there. When he had first stopped calling on her, she had half expected to see him every time she walked into a party. She had been prepared, braced to run into him…as well as still hopeful that when she saw him, somehow everything would return to the way it had been.
But now she had become accustomed to his not being around. She had let her guard down, and the sight of him had been a shock. Moreover, now that she knew why Brom had pursued her and then rejected her, there was no hope in her heart, only pain at the sight of him.
She would have to go back, she knew. She could not hide in here for the entire musicale—or even for more than a few minutes. People would notice her absence, and there would be talk. If she let on how much Lord Bromwell had hurt her, then all of her careful work for the last two weeks would be for naught. Callie closed her eyes and tried to school herself for the ordeal ahead.
The door opened suddenly, and Callie jumped at the sound, her eyes flying open. Lord Bromwell stood framed in the doorway.
She stared at him for a moment, every nerve in her body tingling. Then she rose to her feet, her hands curling into tight fists at her side as though ready to literally fight.
“Lord Bromwell,” she said, relieved that her voice came out much steadier than she felt.
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, but did not come any closer. “I thought—are you all right?”
“I am fine,” Callie replied coldly. “If you hoped to find me brokenhearted over you, I fear you are doomed to disappointment.”
“Of course I did not hope to break your heart!” he flared up, his eyes flashing silver. “I—” He broke off, his face stamped with frustration, and began to pace the room. “Blast it! I never thought about you. I only thought to tweak the duke’s nose a bit.”
Callie stiffened. “I am well aware that your only interest in me was to hurt my brother. However, I do not think that a few whispers about my losing a suitor will do much to damage Rochford. No doubt you regret the fact that you were not able to besmirch my name,” she added in a voice that dripped sarcasm. “It would have been a much greater scandal.”
Bromwell stopped in his pacing and whirled around to face her. “I never intended to do that! Is that what you think of me? That I am the kind of man who would shame a lady, just to get revenge on her brother?”
“What else am I to think?” Callie shot back, taut with fury. Her muscles trembled as the anger and hurt, long tamped down, came welling up in her. All the pain, all the tears, all the worry and doubt, swept through her, filling her with such rage that she could no longer keep it from flooding out. “Why else did you pursue me? That is what my brother believes. It is why he warned me not to have anything to do with you. You wanted to put a blot on our good name, and what easier way to do so than that?”
“Oh, really?” Bromwell took a long stride closer to her. “And if that was my purpose, how do you explain the fact that I did not ‘besmirch’ you?”
“Rotten luck on your part, I suppose,” Callie snapped.
His hand lashed out, grasping her upper arm, his fingers digging in. “Rotten luck?” he repeated incredulously. “Is that what you believe? In what way did I have bad luck? It certainly was not in lack of opportunity—and you were certainly not unwilling.” He jerked her to him, his eyes blazing down into hers. “I’ll warrant you still are not unwilling.”
He bent and kissed her, his mouth laying claim to hers with a savage intensity that she knew should have frightened and repelled her. But it did not, she realized with dismay. Instead, the harsh, possessive, ravening kiss ignited a fire inside her. It geysered up, shooting throughout her body, turning her skin to flame, and settled in a hot, aching mass deep in her abdomen.
His arms went around her, pressing her into him. She wrapped her own arms around his neck, and they strained against each other, their mouths clinging, devouring. His hands moved over her body hungrily. Growing frustrated at the cloth that thwarted his desire to touch her, he bunched the dress in his hand, pulling it up and up until at last his fingers were able to slip beneath her skirts.
He spread his hand across the soft flesh of her thigh, separated from him only by the sheer cotton of her undergarment. His hand slid upward, seeking the moist heat of her center, and the path of his fingers sent shivers of passion through her. As his mouth possessed her, he caressed and stroked her leg, sliding back to curve over the soft mound of her buttock, then around to the front, easing between their bodies.
Callie gasped and moved involuntarily in surprise as his hand boldly slid across her abdomen and delved down between her legs. Never had she imagined being touched in such a way, but she found that it excited her almost beyond measure. She moved, wanting more…needing more.
Brom made a noise deep in his throat, hunger tearing at him as he found the damp, heated cleft between her legs. His fingers stroked and flexed, aching to touch her skin without the thin cloth between them.
Breaking the seal of their mouths, he kissed his way down her throat and onto the supremely soft flesh of her breast, which rose above the neckline of her dress. He tasted her skin with lips and tongue, tracing hot wet patterns across the smooth flesh and gently grazing it with his teeth.
Callie trembled, sure that she would go mad beneath the touch of his fingers and mouth. The pleasure was stunning, sending the heat within her skyrocketing. She ached to feel him all over her, to take him inside her. She was aware of a deep, primitive longing to circle her hips against him, to open her legs to his hard masculine force.
With his other hand, he reached up to tug at the neck of her gown, working down the dress and the chemise beneath it until at last her breast was free. He grew still, gazing down for a long moment at the soft white orb and the pinkish-brown circle of her nipple.
Then he bent and circled the center with his tongue, causing it to grow even harder. Softly he blew on the nipple where his tongue had touched, and it tightened even more, plucking a cord that ran straight down into her abdomen and flooded her with desire.
Slowly, thoroughly, he loved her with his mouth, using teeth and tongue and lips to arouse the tight bud of her nipple. Finally he settled down to suckle at her nipple, pulling with strong, deep strokes even as his fingers moved in the same rhythm between her legs.
Desire clawed at his loins like a wild beast, and he wanted to pull her to the floor and take her, to rip the clothes from her and sink into her, surging to his completion. He felt her skin flame beneath him, felt her move and gasp and softly moan at the pleasure he was evoking in her, and it filled him with such heat and hunger that he thought he would explode.
Callie’s breasts were full and aching, her loins throbbing with an incessant beat. She arched up against him, wordlessly seeking more. Something was building inside her, intense and demanding.
With a low, soft curse, he broke from her and turned away. She swayed where she stood, staring after him, stunned and bereft. She wanted to follow him, to throw herself at him and beg him to take her, to give her the satisfaction her body so craved. Only some last small vestige of pride enabled her to remain where she was, silent.
Brom leaned over the library table, his hands braced, his chest rising and falling with deep fast breaths. Callie stared at his back. She was trembling all over, her mind benumbed, and she felt incredibly soft and aching, vulnerable, like a creature outside its shell.
Slowly she came to herself enough to pull up the neck of her dress and smooth down her skirts into some semblance of modesty. She moved away shakily, saying, “Well…you must be happy now that you have humiliated me.”
“Humiliated you?” he answered through gritted teeth. “I am the one who cannot walk out of this room.”
Her body was still hot and aching, still yearning for satisfaction, but she was not about to argue with him about which of them suffered most from desire. “This is to no purpose,” she said tightly, bringing her hands up to cool her burning cheeks.
She could feel the sorrow rising in her, pushing its way through the heat of her desire. “I will not let you use me against my brother,” she told him, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Whatever mad feeling you may be able to call up in me, it will not be enough to make me ruin my good name and his. I will make certain that we are never alone together again.”
“I did not mean to do that,” he gritted out. “And you need not fear me. Or what I want from you.” He swung around to look at her, his face stark and etched with pain. “I did not consider what would happen to you when I started this, and for that I apologize. I wanted only to tease the duke, to make him worry that I might do to you what he did to my sister. I had some hope that it might even bring him to confront me personally—to finish what started fifteen years ago.
“But I never set out to hurt you,” he went on. “And, God knows, I never intended to—to wind up wanting you so much it’s driven me near mad. I did not expect to spend every day counting the minutes until I could be with you again. Or to become the sort of fool who would attend a dull thing like Lady Whittington’s musicale just on the chance that I might get to see you again.”
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 my 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?”
“The whole day. I have been meaning to visit the Duchess of Chudleigh. Your mother’s godmother,” she added, as if Francesca would not know whom she meant.
“Oh,” Francesca replied, with a sinking sensation in her stomach.
“Thought it might be a good idea for you to come along. She lives in Sevenoaks, you know, only a short ride. She would quite like to see you, I imagine, and you will be able to write your mother and tell her how the duchess is doing. She was in rather ill health this winter, you know.”
“I believe Mother mentioned it,” Francesca agreed weakly. The prospect of spending the day either enclosed in a carriage with Lady Odelia or sitting with the two ancient women as they shouted back and forth to each other—for the duchess was quite deaf, but refused to use an ear trumpet because she claimed it made her appear old—had no appeal for her.
However, as Lady Odelia had made sure to hint at, visiting the old lady would be what her mother would expect of her. It was her duty, and, like Callie, Francesca had been raised to do her duty. She knew that she could not look Lady Odelia in the eye and tell her that she was not going to visit her mother’s aged godmother, no matter how much she would like to. Even if she could bring herself to do it, Francesca knew that Lady Odelia would soon wear her down with argument and wrest an agreement from her. She might as well give in gracefully.
“Well, I suppose that Callie will be all right by herself for a day,” Francesca began reluctantly.
“Of course she will,” Odelia told her stoutly. “She has a whole houseful of servants to look after her. She will be fine.”
“Very well,” Francesca capitulated, suppressing a sigh. “I will go with you tomorrow.”
“Excellent!” Lady Odelia beamed at her. “I shall be here to pick you up at nine o’clock.”
“Nine?” Francesca repeated hollowly. “In the morning?”
“Yes, of course, in the morning.” Lady Odelia sent her an odd look. “It will take the whole day—best to get an early start.”
“Naturally.”
Her mission accomplished, Lady Pencully did not remain long. She soon took her leave—no doubt, Francesca thought sourly, going off to bully some other poor person into doing something for her.
Francesca went upstairs to tell Callie, who immediately chuckled.
“Well, I am glad that my misfortune pleases you,” Francesca told her with mock indignation. In truth, she was pleased to see Callie laugh for the first time in days.
“I am sorry, truly,” Callie told her, her eyes twinkling. “I know it will be a misery for you. But I am so happy that you decided I should be sick.”
“You should be,” Francesca retorted, unable to keep from smiling. “Else I would have dragged you into going with us.”
Callie gave an exaggerated shudder.
“Are you sure you do not want to go anyway?” Francesca teased. “We could say you had a miraculous recovery. ’Twill be very boring for you here alone, after all.”
“Better lonely than riding half the day in a carriage with Lady Odelia,” Callie retorted heartlessly. “Do you think she will bring that horrid snuffling dog of hers?”
“That ancient pug!” Francesca looked horrified. “Do not even think it.”
Callie dissolved into giggles at her expression, grateful for the opportunity to laugh. She was not someone who enjoyed dwelling on her sorrow.
Tomorrow, she thought, she would have to find some task to do, something to put her mind on other than her own problems.
So the next day, after she awoke and had a quiet breakfast alone downstairs, Callie rang for her maid and spent the next few hours going through her closet, choosing what dress or slippers she might refurbish with a bit of ribbon or some flowers, and what she should give away or just assign to the ragbag.
Unfortunately the job did not take long, as she had only the clothes she had brought with her from home or had only recently bought, so there was little to repair or toss out. By noon she was finished. If she had been at home, she could have gone through the attic, cleaning out old unusable things and getting pleasantly distracted by this or that old dress or well-worn toy. But she could scarcely do so in Francesca’s house.
After that, her mind began to turn in its too-well-traveled path of thinking about Brom. She was not going to do that, she told herself, and went to Francesca’s morning room to look for a novel to read. Perhaps a lurid tale from Mrs. Radcliffe’s pen would occupy her mind.
She was searching through the shelves when Fenton came into the room, his anxious face most unlike his usual unruffled expression. “My lady…”
“Yes, Fenton, what is it?”
“There is a man here. He says that he has an urgent message for you. He says, my lady, that…His Grace the Duke has been injured.”