CHAPTER FOUR
CALLIE WALKED QUICKLY, her footsteps echoing in the empty street. When she had conceived of her plan, she had not really thought about how dark and empty the night would be. It had seemed relevant only in that there would be no one about to see that she was walking out boldly without a maid or other companion. But now, as she hurried past the dark hulking shapes of the other houses, it occurred to her that a companion, even one as slight as her maid, would be reassuring.
She was not in general someone who frightened easily, but as she walked, the anger that had sent her hurrying out into the night began to ebb away, replaced by the realization that night was the time when thieves and other evildoers were afoot, going about their business. This was, of course, the best area of London and therefore should be much safer than any other place, but she could not help but remember the stories she had heard of gentlemen being followed home from taverns and attacked in their inebriated state. And surely, if someone was going to rob a wealthy household, now would be the time when the thief would be breaking in.
Moreover, even if there were no such robbers around, she knew that gentlemen, especially those in their cups, could be dangerous enough—and likely to assume that a woman alone on the street at night was not a decent woman at all, but in all likelihood one who sold her virtue on a routine basis. Callie had no desire to be mistaken for a barque of frailty plying her trade.
The sound of a carriage behind her made her start, but she did not look around, merely walked with as confident a stride as she could muster. Perhaps the occupant of the carriage would assume she was a man in a long cloak, not noticing the hem of her dress beneath it. Or perhaps he would not look out at all.
She let out a breath of relief as the carriage passed her, rattling over the bricks down the next block and disappearing around the corner. Callie hurried across the next intersection and on down the sidewalk. The few blocks to Lady Haughston’s home, so short a distance in ordinary circumstances, seemed frighteningly long now. Callie thought about turning back, but she told herself not to be a goose and forged on ahead.
In front of her, at the end of the block, a figure came around the corner, heading toward her. Callie hesitated, her heart leaping into her throat, and then she walked on slowly. If she were to turn and run now, she thought, it might cause the stranger to pursue her, if only because it would stir his curiosity.
Besides, there was something very puzzling about the man, something that made her go forward, squinting to see him better in the dim light. The man walking toward her did not wear a greatcoat or cloak or—how strange—even a hat. And though clearly he was a man, there was something odd about his manner of dress. His jacket was puffed at the sleeves, and his trousers were rather wide above his cuffed boots. He was not wearing the usual evening attire of a gentleman—or, indeed, the clothes of any sort of man she could identify. And he seemed to have stuck his cane through the side of his belt.
Her first thought was that he must be several sheets to the wind, and her second was that…but no, that was impossible!
Callie came to a dead stop.
The man continued toward her at the same steady pace, and with each stride she became more and more certain that her eyes were not playing tricks on her.
“Lord Bromwell!” she exclaimed.
In the next moment she wished that she had not let out the words. She should, she thought, have turned around and headed straight back for her house. He would think she was a lunatic. No, worse than that, he might assume that she was a woman of loose morals. No sister of a duke would be suspected of selling herself, of course, but she knew that the likeliest reason for her to be out at this time of night was for some sort of romantic rendezvous. In a married woman, such behavior would be scandalous, but for a girl not yet married, it would be disastrous.
Her stomach sank at the realization that this man would probably now look upon her with contempt. And if he told anyone that he had seen her in these circumstances, her reputation would be ruined, her brother and family shadowed by the disgrace. Someone who knew her well would, she hoped, not assume that she was engaged in something reprehensible, and even if he thought poorly of her, many a gentleman would keep the story to himself in order to spare her family the shame.
But this man scarcely knew her. And, worse, Sinclair had treated the earl in an unfriendly manner; indeed, Callie would characterize her brother’s attitude toward him as angry, even contemptuous. She hated to think how Sinclair had spoken to him after she left. Bromwell would have little reason to shield her or her brother; worse, he might gleefully seize this opportunity to get back at the duke.
And why had her brother acted that way? Sinclair’s meddling and his cool assumption that he could tell her what to do had irritated her so much that she had not really stopped to wonder what reason he had had for being so upset that she’d been alone with this particular man. Was it Bromwell’s reputation that alarmed her brother? Had the duke warned him off because he knew that the man had a history of seducing young females?
Her mind leapfrogged from one thought to another, each more disastrous than the last, in the instant that she stood there frozen. Her last thought, one that was purely wishful thinking, she knew, was that perhaps he had not recognized her voice and could not see her face inside the deep hood of her cloak. She could still turn and flee.
But in the next instant such hope vanished, for he started toward her, his face registering shock. “Lady Calandra? Is that you?”
Callie swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. She had to face this, whatever came; she must do what she could to keep the family name from being tainted by her impulsive behavior.
“Lord Bromwell. ’Tis no wonder that you are surprised.” Her mind raced, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for being there.
“Indeed, at first I thought my eyes were deceiving me.” He stopped a foot away from her. “This cannot be right. You should not be out at this hour. Where is your family?”
Callie gestured back down the street. “They are in their beds. I—I could not sleep.”
“So you came out for a stroll?” he asked, his raised eyebrows revealing the disbelief that his polite tone did not.
“I know you will think me very foolish,” she said.
“Oh, no.” He smiled. “I have a sister, and I am aware of how confining the restrictions of Society are, how the rules weigh upon a young woman of spirit.”
Callie could not help but smile back at him. Her fears had been foolish, she told herself. He seemed not at all disapproving of her actions; indeed, his smile, his face, his voice…all seemed both kind and understanding. Nor was there anything about him that bespoke the roué—no leer, no suggestive tone or improper suggestion.
“Then you will not…tell anyone…?”
“About coming upon you walking?” he finished. “Of course not. There is little to remark on in meeting a young lady who is taking a stroll, is there?”
“No, there is not,” Callie agreed, swept with relief.
“But, please, allow me to escort you back to your home.” He politely offered her his arm.
“I am not going there. I am bound for Lady Haughston’s house.”
He looked a bit puzzled, but to Callie’s relief he did not pursue the oddity of her deciding to take a stroll to Francesca’s house at this time of night, but merely said, “Then I shall be happy to escort you to Lady Haughston’s, if you will but show me the way. I am not, you may have guessed, well acquainted with London.”
“I did not think that I had seen you before,” Callie admitted, taking his arm and starting once more down the street.
“I have spent nearly all my time at my estate since coming into the title,” he told her. “I am sorry to say that it was in a rather sorry state of affairs. I have not had a great deal of time for…” He shrugged.
“Frivolities?” she suggested.
He smiled, glancing at her. “I do not mean to imply that a life spent here is frivolous.”
Callie grinned. “I take no offense, I assure you. Indeed, I know that a great deal of it is frivolous.”
“There is nothing wrong with a little frivolity.”
There was something quite exhilarating about walking along this way with this man—even their rather ordinary words seemed tinged with a feeling of daring and excitement. It was extremely rare for her to be alone with a man other than her brother for any length of time. And to be alone with any man at this time of night on a dark street was simply unheard of. Callie had never before done anything that would so shock everyone she knew. Yet she could not find it in herself to regret it. She did not, she realized with a little bit of surprise, even feel guilty or wrong. What she felt was free and fizzing with excitement.
Because she was a candid woman, she also knew that the way she felt inside did not come entirely from the adventure of being in this time and place. Indeed, most of the exhilaration bubbling up inside her had to do with this particular man.
She stole a sideways glance at him, taking in the hard straight line of his jaw, the upward swoop of his cheekbone, the faint shadow of beard that colored his cheek this late at night. There was something hard and powerful about him, not just in the obvious physical strength of his wide shoulders and tall frame, but in the air of confidence and competence he exuded. She sensed that, even as he smiled and talked to her, he was alert and watchful, his gray eyes always searching, his muscles tensed and ready. He was, she thought, the sort of man to whom people naturally turned in a crisis. But, conversely, she suspected that he was also not a man whom it was advisable to cross.
It occurred to her, with a little jolt, that in that way he was rather like her brother. Not as urbane as the duke and with a more roguish sort of charm. Still, she sensed that there was in him that same hard core that lay in Sinclair, a dark and immutable center that belied the aristocratic trappings and British gentility.
As if he sensed her eyes on him, he glanced over at her, his own eyes shadowed and dark. He did not smile or say anything, just looked at her, but Callie felt a sizzle of intense attraction snake down through her.
She looked away, afraid that her eyes would betray the sheer physicality of what she felt. Lord Bromwell unsettled her; she responded to him in a way she could not remember with any man. But the uncertainty, oddly, seemed to draw her rather than repel her. She wished that she knew what Sinclair disliked about this man, why he had reacted so sharply to seeing him with her.
“I must apologize for the way my brother acted,” she began, again looking over at him.
He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “It is only natural for a brother to worry about his sister. To want to protect her. I understand, having a sister, also.”
“I hope that you are not so heavy-handed about protecting her,” Callie replied with a smile.
He chuckled. “Indeed not. I fear she would have my hide if I tried to tell her what to do. She is a little older than I, though she would not like to hear me tell anyone so, and she is more accustomed to telling me what to do than the other way ’round.” The twinkle left his eyes, and there was steel in his voice, however, as he went on. “Still…I would despise any man who tried to harm her.”
“I love my brother and my grandmother, but sometimes they can be a bit smothering,” Callie admitted.
“Is their smothering why you are walking to Lady Haughston’s by yourself so late at night?”
Callie hesitated, then answered noncommittally, “I am going to Lady Haughston’s to ask her for a favor.”
She was relieved when he did not point out that she had not actually answered his question…or that it was rather an odd time to be asking for a favor. She was all too aware of that fact herself. It had been foolish of her to strike out on her own as impulsively as she had. It had been only her good fortune that it was Lord Bromwell she met and not some ruffian.
“You must think me young and silly,” she said, flushing a little. “Clearly I acted in the heat of anger.”
“No.” He smiled down into her face. “I find you young and very beautiful.” He paused, then added, the mischievous sparkle once more in his gaze, “And perhaps something of a trial to your overprotective relatives.”
Callie laughed. “No doubt I am.”
She looked up and found it was terribly hard to look away. It took a conscious effort to pull her gaze from his, and she knew that she had stared at him far too long for politeness. Her throat was dry, and her mind seemed astonishingly blank. She cast about for something to say, telling herself that she was acting like a schoolgirl at her first dance.
“I see you are not wearing your hat,” she said at last, groaning a little inwardly at the inanity of her comment.
“No, I left it behind. I found I could not bring myself to look quite that foolish on the street.”
“Foolish! No!” she bantered. “I thought your hat was quite dashing.”
She realized, with a little skip of her pulse, that she was flirting with him again, as she had earlier this evening. He responded in the same way, his voice light, yet laced with an underlying warmth and meaning, his eyes bright as he looked at her.
“You have not changed out of your attire, either.” He reached out with his forefinger and pushed her hood back a little, exposing the downward dip of her Tudor cap in the front. “I am glad. ’Tis a fetching hat.”
Callie realized that they had drifted to a halt, standing quite close together. His fingers still lingered at the edge of her hood.
“But I am glad you took off the mask,” he continued, his voice turning husky. “Your face is far too lovely to hide even a part of it.”
His fingertips brushed down her cheek, and Callie’s breath caught in her throat. She thought that he was going to kiss her again, and her heart began to pound in her chest. She thought of the heat that had flared between them, the pressure of his lips on hers, velvet smooth and enticing, yet demanding, as well.
But then his hand fell away, and he turned, starting to walk again. Callie fell in beside him. Her pulse was racing, and her knees were a little wobbly. She wondered what he had felt, if desire had raced through him just then, or if it had been only on her side.
It did not take them long to reach the elegant house in which Francesca lived, and Callie’s heart sank a little as they approached it. She forced a smile as she stopped at the foot of the steps before Francesca’s door.
“We are here,” she told him and extended her hand politely. “Thank you for escorting me. I hope I have not taken you too far out of your way.”
“It was a pleasure,” he assured her, taking her hand. But instead of bowing over it, he simply stood, holding it and looking down into her face. “But you must promise me not to do anything so dangerous again. You must send me a note if you plan any more midnight rambles. I promise I will come with you. To keep you safe.”
“I assure you, I will be quite careful in the future. I will not need you.”
“Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly; then, with a swiftness that surprised her, he wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her to him, bending his head to kiss her.
Bromwell’s kiss was everything she remembered, and more. His teeth were hard against her mouth, his tongue soft as it insinuated itself between her lips. He tasted a little of port and more of dark, beckoning hunger. Callie felt her knees sag, and she flung her arm around his neck, holding on, as she kissed him back.
His hand let go of hers and went to her back, sliding down along her cloak to the soft curve of her buttocks. His palm glided over the fleshy mound, fingertips digging in a little and lifting her up and into him. She felt the hard ridge of his desire against her softer flesh, and she was both startled and intrigued—even more so when she felt the wet heat of her own response blossoming between her legs.
She made a soft, eager noise, and heard the groan of his response. He lifted his head and stared down at her for a long moment, his eyes bright, a faint surprise mingling with desire on his face.
“No,” he murmured. “I think I have it wrong—’tis you who are dangerous.” He took a breath and released it, letting her go as he stepped back. “I will bid you adieu, my lady.” He removed himself another step, then flashed a grin at her as he said, “We will meet again. I promise it.”
With that he turned and walked away, though Callie noticed that he paused in the shadow of a tree two doors down and turned back to watch her. It warmed her to realize that he was waiting to see that she got safely inside, while at the same time protecting her reputation by not appearing with her. Hiding a smile, she trotted up the few steps to Francesca’s door. Taking a breath to calm her racing heart, she reached up and knocked.
Silence followed her knock, and for the first time it occurred to her that Francesca might not be at home. She could, indeed, still be at Aunt Odelia’s party. After all, clearly Lord Bromwell had just been walking home. Or, of course, everyone in the house could already be asleep.
She reminded herself that eventually someone would hear the knock and answer the door, even if the household was abed. Francesca’s butler would recognize her and let her in, however odd he might find her appearance on their doorstep at this hour.
Still, she was relieved when the door opened after a moment to reveal a slightly disheveled footman. At first he opened the door only a few inches; at the sight of only a young woman on the doorstep, his eyebrows flew up and he pulled the door wider.
“Miss?” he asked, looking bewildered.
“Lady Calandra Lilles,” Callie told him, putting on her most dignified face.
He appeared a trifle dubious, but at that moment Francesca’s butler appeared behind him, nightcap on and wrapped in a dressing gown. “My lady!” he exclaimed, then said sharply to the footman, “Step back, Cooper, and let her ladyship in.”
“I am sorry to appear at such a late hour, Fenton,” Callie told the butler as she stepped inside.
“Oh, my lady, do not even think such a thing,” Fenton replied. “You are always welcome in this house. Cooper will show you to the yellow sitting room while I inform Lady Haughston that you are here.”
With a bow for her and a sharp nod to the footman, the butler bustled off up the stairs. Callie followed the footman into the small sitting room down the hall. It was not the grandest of the receiving rooms, but she knew that the small room was Francesca’s favorite, its windows facing the tiny side garden and open to the morning sunlight. Also, because of its size, it was still rather warm from the banked coals of the evening fire.
Callie went to the fireplace to take advantage of its lingering warmth. Only a few moments passed before Francesca hurried into the room, tying the sash of her brocade dressing gown as she came. Her long blond hair tumbled down her back, and her pretty porcelain face was marred with a worried frown.
“Callie? What happened?” she asked, striding forward, hands outstretched. “Is something the matter?”
“Oh! No!” Callie answered, abashed. “I am so sorry—I did not think. I did not mean to alarm you. There is nothing wrong.”
Relief washed over Francesca’s face. “Thank heaven! I thought—well, I am not sure what I thought.” Her face pinkened a little, and she let out a deprecatory chuckle. “I am sorry. You must think me foolish.”
“Oh, no,” Callie hastened to reassure her. “Indeed, it is I who is foolish. I should not have come here at this hour. ’Tis only natural to assume that there is something wrong. I apologize for alarming you.”
Francesca airily waved her apology away. “Come, sit down. Would you like some tea?”
“No, I have already put your household in enough of a stir,” Callie answered. “I am fine.”
She sat down on the edge of a chair, and Francesca took the end of the love seat at right angles to her, looking at her with a concerned air.
“Are you really?” Francesca asked astutely. “I take it there is not an emergency, but…” She looked around speakingly. “Did you come here alone?”
Callie nodded. “Yes. I know it was not the safest thing to do, but I just—I could not stay in that house a moment longer!”
Francesca looked startled. “Lilles House?”
Callie nodded. “I am sorry to burst in on you at this hour. You must wish me at the devil, but I did not know where else to turn.”
“But of course you can come to me,” Francesca told her, reaching out to take her hand. “And do not worry about the hour. I had not retired, anyway. I was just brushing out my hair. And there is nothing Fenton loves like a little excitement. I shouldn’t wonder if he will come in here in a few minutes with tea and cakes.”
“You are very kind.” Callie smiled, then added, a little shyly, “You know, I have always thought of you as, well, almost a sister.”
Francesca’s face softened, and she squeezed the younger woman’s hand. “Why, thank you, dear. I am touched. I have often felt the same way about you.”
“Once,” Callie told her somewhat ruefully, “I actually thought that you were going to become my sister. I cannot remember why, precisely, but I thought so for some weeks—until Sinclair set me straight, of course. I was very young.”
A silence fell on them. Callie knew that Francesca was puzzled but politely waiting for her to explain her appearance after midnight.
Callie sighed. “I am sorry. Now that I am here, I’m not sure what to say.” She paused, then went on, “The fact is, Sinclair and I had a terrific row this evening.”
Francesca’s eyes opened wide. “You and Rochford? Why, what happened? I thought that the two of you got along so well.”
“We do, generally,” Callie allowed. “But tonight…” She stopped, reluctant to air her family disagreements, even to someone she had known all her life.
“You need not tell me if you don’t want to,” Francesca assured her kindly. “We can just talk about—oh, Lady Odelia’s party, for instance. It was quite a success, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, it was.” Callie grinned at the other woman. “And you are the consummate hostess. But I need to tell you. I must tell someone, and I—I think that perhaps you could help me, if you are willing to.”
“Why, of course,” Francesca replied, her curiosity fully aroused now. “Just tell me, then. Do not worry about dressing it up nicely. I have known your brother even longer than I have known you, and I dare swear nothing you tell me will shock me.”
“Oh, it is not shocking,” Callie hastened to tell her. “It is all quite ordinary, really. It is just that I have never known Sinclair to be so, well, so high-handed.”
“Ah.”
“Well, at least, not with me,” Callie went on. “He was excessively rude to a gentleman with whom I danced, a man whom even Grandmother said was a perfectly acceptable suitor. And he treated me—he treated me as if I were a child!” Heat rose in Callie’s cheeks at the memory, and her voice roughened with the remembered shame and anger. “I know I should not have been out on the terrace with him, but it was not the earl’s fault. Indeed, he helped me with a man who was being importunate. But Rochford would not even let me explain. He just told me to leave, as if I were a five-year-old being sent to her room without supper. I was humiliated.”
“I am sure you were,” Francesca sympathized. “No doubt Rochford will realize, when he has had a chance to calm down—”
“Oh, pray, do not take his part, too!” Callie cried.
“No, dear, of course not. I am sure he acted abominably. Men frequently do, I have found. But surely, when he reflects on it, he will be sorry he was so hasty.”
“I sincerely doubt it,” Callie responded with some bitterness. “I tried to talk to him about it when we got home. But he still refused to give me any sort of explanation. All he would say is that he acted in my best interests—and I am supposed to be content with that!”
“Mmm. Most annoying,” Francesca agreed.
“Then my grandmother joined in, telling me how he was right, and that I have to do as he says. She went on about how I am under his control until I marry. And, of course, it goes without saying that I am under her control, as well.”
Francesca, who was well-acquainted with the dowager duchess, nodded sympathetically. “It is no wonder that you were upset.”
Callie let out a gusty sigh of relief. “I knew that you would understand!”
“I do. It is very hard having your relatives tell you what to do.”
Now that she had unburdened herself and had met with Francesca’s ready sympathy and understanding, perversely, Callie thought perhaps she did sound a bit childish. She gave the other woman a sheepish grin and said, “I am sorry. There is no reason to inflict all this upon you. It is just…I am so tired of the rules and restrictions. Grandmother has been living with us the whole winter, talking about how old I am and still unmarried. Even Aunt Odelia tonight told me I was on the verge of becoming an ape-leader!”
Francesca made a face. “You must not let Lady Pencully bully you into anything. I know that is easier said than done, for, frankly, Lady Odelia scares me silly. I find ’tis best simply to avoid her as much as possible.”
“Yes, but she is not your great-aunt. Anyway, I don’t mind her so much. At least she does not go on and on about one’s duty and being responsible and not letting the family down. Not doing anything that might reflect badly on the duke or on the family.”
“Families can be a terrible burden,” Francesca said in a heartfelt voice. “My mother pushed me to make a good match my first year out.”
“What did you do?” Callie asked curiously.
Francesca shrugged. “I disappointed her. But it was neither the first time nor the last, I assure you.”
“I get so tired of trying to please other people.”
“Perhaps you have been trying to please too many other people too much of the time,” Francesca suggested. “Perhaps you need to think about yourself, instead.”
“That is exactly why I came to you!” Callie cried. “I knew you were the person to help me.”
“I don’t understand,” Francesca said, puzzled. “I will certainly help you if I can, but I am afraid my opinion counts for little with either Rochford or the duchess.”
“Oh, no, I do not want you to talk to them. I want you to help me find a husband.”