CHAPTER THREE
CALLIE GAPED at her brother, amazed at his uncustomary rudeness. “Sinclair!” She went forward, reaching out a hand to her brother in a calming gesture. “Please, no. You misunderstand the situation.”
“I understand it perfectly well,” Rochford retorted, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face.
“No, you do not,” Callie retorted sharply. “This man did nothing to harm me. He helped me.”
She turned back to her companion, who was gazing at the duke with an expression as stony as Rochford’s. Suppressing a sigh at such masculine behavior, Callie said, “Sir, allow me to introduce you to my brother, the Duke of Rochford.”
“Yes,” the Cavalier said coldly. “I know the duke.”
“Oh.” Callie looked from one man to the other, realizing that some other, stronger, undercurrent of feeling lay here, something unrelated to her being on the terrace with a man.
“Lord Bromwell,” Sinclair responded, his manner, if possible, even stiffer than before. Without looking at Callie, he said, “Calandra, go inside.”
“No,” Callie answered. “Sinclair, be reasonable. Let me explain.”
“Callie!” Sinclair’s voice lashed out, sharp as a whip. “You heard me. Go back inside.”
Callie flushed, stung by his peremptory tone. He had spoken to her as if she were a child being sent off to bed.
“Sinclair!” she shot back. “Don’t speak to me that—”
He swung to face her. “I told you—go back inside. Now.”
Callie drew a breath, hurt and anger piercing her with equal sharpness. She started to protest, to take her brother to task for treating her this way, but she realized even as the thought came to her that she simply could not create a scene at Aunt Odelia’s party. Someone might step out of the door at any moment; there could even be someone in the garden now, listening. She had no desire to be caught in a blazing argument with her brother. She was embarrassed enough as it was, having been taken to task in front of this man, whom she barely knew.
Her eyes flashed, but she swallowed her words. She gave a short nod to Lord Bromwell, then whirled and stalked past her brother without a word.
The duke stood, watching the other man in silence, until Calandra had disappeared inside the ballroom. Then he said in a quiet voice as hard as iron, “Leave my sister alone.”
Bromwell looked amused as he crossed his arms and considered the man before him. “How deliciously ironic…to hear the Duke of Rochford so concerned over the honor of a young woman. But, then, I suppose, it is different when the young woman is the duke’s sister, is it not?”
With a sardonic look at Rochford, he started to walk around him, but the duke reached out and caught his arm. Bromwell went still, his gray eyes icing over. He looked down at the other man’s hand on his arm, then up at the duke’s face.
“Have a care, Rochford,” he said softly. “I am not the boy I was fifteen years ago.”
“Indeed?” Rochford asked, letting his hand fall to his side. “You were a fool then, but you’re ten times a fool now if you think I will allow you to harm my sister in any way.”
“I believe Lady Calandra is a woman grown, Rochford. And you are the fool if you think that you can keep her heart from going where it chooses.”
An unholy fire lit the duke’s dark eyes. “Damn it, Bromwell. I am telling you—stay away from my sister.”
Lord Bromwell gazed back at him, his expression unyielding, then turned without a word and walked away.
CALLIE WAS FURIOUS. She could not remember when she had been so angry with her brother—indeed, so angry with anyone—as she was now. How dare he speak to her as if he were her father? And in front of another person! A stranger!
Her throat was tight, and tears pricked at her eyelids. But she refused to cry. She would not let him see, would not let anyone see, how Sinclair’s words had affected her.
She walked through the ballroom, looking neither left nor right, not even sure what she intended to do, only walking as fast as she could away from what had happened on the terrace. Through the red haze of her anger, she noticed that the ballroom was virtually empty and that the musicians were absent from their positions on the small stage at one end of the room.
Supper. The guests were all at the casual midnight buffet in the small ballroom across the hall. Callie started toward it, remembering at the last second that she still wore Lord Bromwell’s Cavalier cloak around her shoulders. She reached up and untied it, hastily folding it into a compact pad of material as she entered the small ballroom and looked around.
She saw her grandmother at last, sitting at a small table with Aunt Odelia and another elderly woman, their plates of delicacies still on the table before them. Lady Odelia, of course, was holding forth. The duchess listened politely, spine as straight as ever, not touching the back of her chair, and her eyes blank with boredom.
Callie walked over to the table, and her grandmother turned, seeing her. “Calandra! There you are. Where have you been? I could not find you anywhere. I sent Rochford to look for you.”
“Yes, he found me,” Callie answered shortly. She glanced at the other two women with the duchess. “Grandmother, I would like to leave now, if you don’t mind.”
“Why, of course.” The duchess looked, frankly, relieved, and immediately started to rise. “Are you all right?”
“I—I have a headache, I’m afraid.” Callie turned to her great-aunt, forcing a smile. “I am sorry, Aunt Odelia. It is a wonderful party, but I am not, I’m afraid, feeling at all the thing.”
“Well, of course. All the excitement, no doubt,” the old lady responded, a trifle smugly. She turned toward her companion, giving a decided nod that caused her orange wig to slip a bit. “Girls these days just don’t have the stamina we did, I find.” She swung her attention back to Callie. “Run along, then, child.”
“I will send a footman to find Rochford and tell him we wish to leave,” the duchess told Callie, turning and gesturing imperiously to one of the servants.
“No! I mean…can we not just go?” Callie asked. “My head is throbbing. And I am sure that Rochford will be well able to find his way home on his own.”
“Why, yes, I suppose.” The duchess looked concerned and came around the table to peer into Callie’s face. “You do look a bit flushed. Perhaps you are coming down with a fever.”
“I am sure Lady Odelia is right. It is simply too much excitement,” Callie replied. “All the dancing and the noise…”
“Come along, then,” the duchess said, nodding in farewell to her companions and starting for the hall. She glanced down at Callie’s hand. “Whatever are you carrying, child?”
“What? Oh. This.” Callie glanced down at the folded cape in her hand, and her fingers clenched more tightly upon it. “It’s nothing. I was holding it for someone. It doesn’t matter.”
Her grandmother looked at her oddly but said nothing more as they continued toward the cloakroom. As they passed the wide double doorway into the main ballroom, they heard Rochford’s voice. “Grandmother, wait.”
The duchess turned, smiling. “Rochford, how fortunate that we met you.”
“Yes,” he replied shortly. He no longer looked quite so thunderous, Callie noted, but his face was set and devoid of expression. He glanced toward her, and she looked away from him without speaking. “It is time to go.”
“So now we are to leave just because you say so?” Callie flared up.
The duchess gave her granddaughter a curious look and said, “But, Callie, dear, you just told me that you wished to go home.”
“I should certainly think so,” Rochford put in with a sharp glance at his sister.
Callie would have liked to protest his tone, as well as his peremptory order that they leave the ball, but she could scarcely do either without looking foolish, she knew, so she merely inclined her head and turned away without another word.
“I am sorry, Sinclair,” her grandmother apologized for her. “I fear she is not feeling herself.”
“Clearly,” the duke replied in a sardonic tone.
A footman brought them their cloaks, and they went down to their carriage. On the way home, the duchess and Rochford exchanged a few remarks about the party, but Callie did not join in the conversation. Her grandmother cast her a puzzled look now and then. Her brother, on the other hand, looked at her as little as she looked at him.
Callie knew that she was behaving childishly, refusing to speak to Rochford or meet his eyes, but she could not bring herself to act as if everything were all right. And she was not sure she could say anything to him about the feelings that roiled inside her chest without bursting into tears of anger—and she refused to do that. Far better, she thought, to seem childish or foolish than to let him think that she was crying because he had hurt her.
When they reached the house, Rochford sprang lithely down from the carriage and reached up to help the duchess, then Callie, who ignored his hand and walked past him into the house. She heard her brother sigh behind her, then turn and follow her up the steps into the foyer. He paused to hand his hat and gloves to the footman as Callie headed for the wide staircase leading up to the next floor, her grandmother moving more slowly behind her.
Rochford started down the hall in the direction of the study, then stopped and turned. “Callie.”
She did not turn around, merely took the first step up the stairs.
“Callie, stop!” His voice rang out more sharply, echoing a little in the vast empty space of the large entryway. As if the sound of his own voice had startled even him a little, he continued in a more modulated tone, “Calandra, please. This is ridiculous. I want to talk to you.”
She turned and looked down at him from her place on the stairs. “I am going up to bed,” she told him coldly.
“Not until we have talked,” he replied. “Come back here. We shall go to my study.”
Callie’s dark eyes, so like her brother’s, flashed with the temper she had been keeping tamped down for the past half hour or more. “What? Now I cannot even go to my bedchamber without your permission? We must obey you in every detail of our lives?”
“Damn it, Callie, you know that is not the case!” Rochford burst out, scowling.
“No? That is all you have done for the last hour—order me about.”
“Callie!” The duchess looked from one to the other, astonished. “Rochford! What is this about? What has happened?”
“It is nothing to be concerned about,” Rochford told her shortly.
“No, nothing except that my brother has suddenly become a tyrant,” Callie lashed out.
Rochford sighed and ran his hand back through his dark hair. “The devil take it, Callie, you know I am not a tyrant. When have I ever been?”
“Never until now,” she retorted, blinking away the tears that filled her eyes.
It was, indeed, Rochford’s past history of kindness and laxity that made his present actions so much harder to bear. He had always been the most loving and easygoing of brothers, and she had treasured their relationship all the more whenever she heard other girls talk about their brothers or fathers, who issued orders and expected obedience.
“I am sorry, Callie, if I offended you tonight,” he said stiffly, with an expression of patience and reasonableness that only served to grate on his sister’s nerves. “I apologize if I was too abrupt.”
“Abrupt?” She let out a short, unamused laugh. “Is that what you call your behavior this evening? Abrupt? I would have called it high-handed. Or perhaps dictatorial.”
The duke grimaced. “I can see that you have taken it amiss, but I must remind you that I am here to protect you. I am your brother. It is my responsibility to take care of you.”
“I am not a child anymore!” Callie exclaimed. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Not that I can see,” he snapped back. “Given that I found you alone in the garden with a strange man.”
The duchess sucked in a shocked breath. “No! Callie!”
Callie flushed. “I was not in the garden. We were on the terrace, and there was nothing wrong. Bromwell was a perfect gentleman. Indeed, he helped me. He sent another fellow on his way who had not been a gentleman at all.”
“Oh!” Callie’s grandmother raised a hand to her heart, her mouth dropping open in astonishment. “Callie! You were alone with two different men in the garden?”
“It wasn’t the garden!”
“That makes little difference,” Rochford replied.
“I may faint,” the duchess said weakly, but, of course, she did not. Instead, she marched forward a few steps so that she stood right below Callie, between her and her brother.
“I cannot believe what I have heard,” she told Callie. “How could you have done something so scandalous? Have you no care for me? For your family? Sinclair is right. Of course he has responsibility for you. He is your brother and the head of this family. He has every right to tell you what you should do, and you should do as he says. What possessed you to go out onto the terrace with a man tonight? What if someone had seen you? You should be grateful that your brother was there to rescue you. I shudder to think what might have happened if he had not been.”
“Nothing would have happened. I told you, I was perfectly all right. I did not create a scandal,” Callie replied, color flaming on her cheeks.
“Until you are married and have a home of your own, you are under your brother’s control,” the duchess said flatly.
“And then I will be under my husband’s control!” Callie tossed back hotly.
“Now you sound like Irene Wyngate.”
“There is nothing wrong with Irene,” Callie replied. “I would be glad to be like Irene. At least she has a spine, unlike most of the women I know.”
“Grandmother, please…” Rochford said, knowing full well that the duchess was not helping his case with Callie.
“At any rate, it does not matter, as I will never be married as long as my brother treats my suitors like criminals,” Callie went on angrily.
Rochford let out a humorless bark of laughter. “Bromwell will never be your suitor.”
“I am sure not,” Callie responded, “now that you have humiliated me in front of him.”
“Bromwell?” The duchess asked, looking startled. “The Earl of Bromwell?”
“Yes.”
Their grandmother’s eyes lit with interest, but before she could speak, Callie went on, “What is wrong with Lord Bromwell? Why is it so terrible that I was with him?”
“You should not be on the terrace alone with any man,” Rochford answered.
“But why did you say that he would never be my suitor?” Callie pursued. “Why did you say, ‘You!’ the way you did when you saw him? Why is he so particularly unsuitable?”
Rochford said nothing for a long moment, then shrugged. “The man is not a friend to me.”
“What?” Callie’s brows sailed upward. “He is not your friend? I cannot marry someone unless he is your friend? Who would you have me marry? One of your stuffy old scholarly friends? Mr. Strethwick, perhaps? Or maybe Sir Oliver?”
“Blast it, Callie, you know that is not what I meant,” Rochford ground out. “You do not have to marry one of my friends. You know that.”
“No, I don’t know!” she shot back. “Right now, I feel as if I hardly know you at all. I would never have thought you could be so domineering, so careless of my wishes or feelings.”
“Careless?” he repeated in an astounded voice. “It is precisely because I do care for you.”
“Why? What makes the man unsuitable?” Callie asked. “Is his family not good enough? His rank not high enough?”
“No, of course not. He is an earl.”
“Then is he a fortune hunter? Is he after my money?”
“No. He is quite wealthy, as far as I have heard.” Rochford’s mouth tightened in irritation.
“The Earl of Bromwell is considered quite a catch,” the duchess put in. “Of course, he is not a duke, but there are so few of them, after all. And one could not want you to marry one of the royals. An earl would do quite well for you, really, and the family is an old and distinguished one.” She turned toward her grandson. “Are they not related to Lady Odelia somehow?”
“Yes, distantly,” Rochford agreed. “The problem is not his pedigree.”
“Then what is the problem?” Callie persisted.
The duke looked from his sister to his grandmother. Finally he said, “It is an old matter. And that is not the point.” He set his jaw. “I was acting in your best interests, Callie, when I warned him off.”
“You actually warned him off?” Callie asked in a horrified tone.
He nodded shortly.
“How could you?” she demanded. She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. “I cannot believe that you would humiliate me in that way! To tell him that I could not see him, as if I were a child or—or deficient in understanding. As if I had no will of my own or any ability to make judgments.”
“I did not say that!” he exclaimed.
“You did not have to,” Callie retorted. “It is implicit in saying who I can or cannot associate with.” Tears sprang into her eyes again, and she angrily blinked them away.
“I did what was best for you!”
“And I, of course, had nothing to say in the matter!” Callie was rigid with anger, her fists clenched at her sides. She was so furious, so hurt, that she could scarcely trust herself to speak.
She whirled and stalked up the stairs.
“Callie!” Rochford shouted and started after her, then stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking after her in frustration. He turned toward the duchess as though seeking an answer.
His grandmother crossed her arms in front of her and stared back at him stonily. “It is your fault that she acts this way. It is because you raised her so laxly. You have always indulged her and let her do exactly as she pleased. You have spoiled her terribly, and this is the result of it.”
The duke let out a low noise of frustration, then swung away from the staircase and started toward his study. He stopped and turned back to his grandmother. “I will finish my business in London quickly. Please get everything ready, so that we can return to the country the day after tomorrow.”
CALLIE STALKED INTO HER ROOM, fuming. Her maid Belinda was waiting for her there to help her undress, but Callie sent the girl to bed. She was too irate to stand still while Belinda unfastened her buttons. Anyway, she certainly could not lie down meekly and go to sleep.
The maid gave her an uncertain look, then slipped out the door. Callie strode up and down her room, stewing in her own anger. As she paced, she heard her grandmother’s slow steps go past her door, but she did not hear her brother’s heavier tread. No doubt he had retired to his favorite room, his study. He was probably peacefully reading some book or letter, or going over a set of numbers in preparation for visiting his business agent tomorrow. He would not be grinding his teeth or boiling with injustice and rage. After all, as far as he was concerned, the matter was over.
Callie grimaced at the thought and flung herself down in the chair beside her bed. She would not allow herself to be put in this position. She had thought herself a young lady who lived her life on her own terms, at least within the general limits of society’s rules. Had anyone asked, she would have said that she was free to do as she liked, that she directed her own life. She gave in to her grandmother a great deal, of course, in order to keep peace in the household, but that, she knew, was a decision she made. It was not something she had to do.
She went where she liked, received whom she wanted, attended or did not attend plays or routs or soirees as she chose. The household staff came to her for instructions. She bought what she pleased, using her own money, and if it was the agent who actually paid the bills for her, well, that was simply the way things were done. Sinclair’s bills were usually paid the same way. And even though Sinclair invested her money for her, he explained everything to her and asked her what she wanted to do. If she always went along with what he suggested, it was only because it was the sensible course. Sinclair had been running his own affairs for years and did so extremely well.
But now she could see that her vision of her own freedom was merely an illusion. She had simply never before crossed her brother. Who she saw, where she went, what she bought, the decisions she had made, had not been anything he disputed. But what she had presumed was freedom was not; she had simply been living in so large a cage that she had not touched the bars.
Until now.
Callie jumped to her feet. She could not allow this to stand. She was an adult, as old as many women who had married and had children. She was five years older than Sinclair had been when he came into his title. She would not give in meekly to his orders. To do so would be tantamount to granting him authority over her. She would not just go to bed and get up tomorrow morning as if nothing had happened.
She stood for a moment, thinking, then turned and went over to the small desk that stood against the wall. Quickly she dashed off a note and signed it, then folded and sealed it, writing the duke’s name across the front before leaving it propped against her pillow.
She grabbed up her cloak from the chair where she had tossed it, and once more wrapped it around her shoulders and tied it. Easing open her door, she stuck her head out and looked up and down the hall. Then, moving silently, she hurried down the hall to the servants’ staircase and slipped down the stairs. All was quiet in the kitchen, the scullery lad curled up in his blanket beside the warm hearth. He did not stir as she tiptoed past him nor even when she opened the kitchen door and stepped outside.
Callie closed the door carefully behind her and crept along the narrow path that ran down the side of the house to the street. She looked up and down the wide, dark thoroughfare. Then, pulling up the hood of her cloak so that it concealed her head, she started off boldly down the street.
ACROSS THE STREET and a few doors down from the ducal mansion sat a carriage. It had been there for several minutes, and the driver, huddled in his greatcoat, had begun to doze. Inside, two men sat. One, Mr. Archibald Tilford, sat back against his seat, a bored expression on his face as he turned his gold-knobbed cane around and around in his fingers. Across from him, staring out the open window of the carriage at Lilles House, sat Archibald’s cousin, the Earl of Bromwell.
“Really, Brom, how long are we going to sit here?” Tilford asked somewhat peevishly. “I’ve a bottle of port and some very lucky cards waiting for me at Seaton’s right now. And the brick the driver put in here is growing cold. My feet will be like ice in ten more minutes.”
The earl flashed him a cool look. “Really, Archie, do try to bear up. We have scarce been here a quarter of an hour.”
“Well, I cannot imagine what you are doing, watching a dark house,” his cousin went on. “What the devil do you expect to see at this time of night?”
“I’m not sure,” Bromwell replied, not taking his eyes from the house.
“It is clear no one will be coming or going so late,” Archie pointed out. “I cannot imagine why you took it into your head to see Rochford’s house right now. Good Gad, it’s been fifteen years, hasn’t it? I thought you had finally forgotten about the duke.”
Bromwell gave the other man a long look. “I never forget.”
Tilford shrugged, ignoring through long experience the fierce gaze that would have quelled most other men. “’Tis long over, and Daphne got married anyway.” Bromwell did not reply, and after a moment, Tilford went on. “What are you about?”
Bromwell countered his cousin’s question with one of his own. “What do you know about Rochford’s sister?”
Archie sucked in a sharp breath. “Lady Calandra?” He hesitated, then said carefully, “You’re not thinking of…some sort of game involving the duke’s sister, are you? Everyone knows the man is devilishly protective of her—as you would know, too, if you had not spent the last ten years of your life buried up on your estate making money.”
Bromwell grimaced. “I’ve never known you to complain about the money that I have made for the family.”
“Heaven forbid,” Archibald responded mildly. “But you have made an ample amount, surely. You can enjoy some of it now. Live a normal life for a change. Isn’t that why you came to London—to enjoy yourself for a while?”
Bromwell shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Well, a normal life does not include sitting about in cold coaches, spying on dark houses.”
“You were going to tell me about Lady Calandra.”
Archie sighed. “Very well. The lady is young and beautiful and wealthy.”
“Suitors?”
“Of course. But she has rejected them all—at least all the ones who were not too scared of the duke to even try to court her. Rumor has it that she will never marry. They say that the Lilles are simply a cold family.”
The corner of the other man’s mouth quirked up a trifle, and he murmured, “I saw nothing cold about the lady.”
Archibald shifted uneasily in his seat. “I say, Brom, what exactly are you thinking?”
A half smile played on Bromwell’s lips. “I was thinking how nervous it made the duke tonight to see me with Lady Calandra. It was most amusing.”
His words did not appear to reassure his cousin, who looked even more alarmed. “The duke will have your liver and lights if you harm Lady Calandra.”
Bromwell sent the other man a sideways glance. “Do you really think that I am afraid of anything the duke might do to me?”
“No, the devil take it. I am sure you are not. But, frankly, I am scared enough of him for both of us.”
The earl smiled. “Do not fret yourself, Archie. I do not intend to harm the girl. Indeed…” His lips curved up in a smile that was anything but reassuring. “I plan to be quite charming to her.”
Tilford let out a low groan. “I knew it. You are planning something. This is bound to end badly. I am sure of it. Please, Brom, can we not just drive on and forget all this?”
“Very well,” Bromwell replied absently. “I have seen all I wanted to, in any case.”
He started to drop the curtain that covered the window, but then he leaned forward, peering out, and held up a hand to his cousin. “No, wait. There is someone coming out. A woman.”
“A servant? At this hour?” Even Archibald sounded interested and turned to lift the other side of the window curtain. “An assignation, do you think, with some footman or—”
“The devil!” Bromwell’s exclamation was low but forceful. “It is the lady herself.”
He watched as the woman pulled up the hood of her cloak, concealing her head and face, then set off down the street. Taking Archie’s cane from his cousin’s relaxed hand, he raised it to open the small square window beside the driver’s head and give him a terse set of instructions.
Then he leaned back against the seat, pulling the concealing curtain into place, as the carriage rolled forward, following the woman.
“You think that is Lady Calandra?” Archie asked disbelievingly. “What would she be doing out? Alone? And at this time of night?”
“What indeed?” his cousin repeated, tapping his forefinger against his lips thoughtfully.
Archie pushed aside a sliver of curtain and looked out. “We’ve passed her.”
“I know.”
At the next street their carriage turned right and rolled slowly to a stop. Bromwell opened the door and stepped out of the carriage.
“Brom! What do you think you are doing?” Archie asked.
The earl replied lightly, “Well, I can scarcely let a lady walk alone at this hour, can I?”
With a smile and a tip of his hat, Bromwell closed the door and walked off.