CHAPTER EIGHT
TWO DAYS LATER, Lord Bromwell came to call on them. He stayed for less than thirty minutes, which was the appropriate duration for an afternoon call. Francesca remained in the room the entire time, and during the last ten minutes that he was there, Lady Tollingford and her daughter Lady Mary also came to call. So there was no chance for any sort of private conversation between Callie and Lord Bromwell, and the conversation never swerved from socially approved topics, such as the weather, the play they had seen the other night, and the upcoming gala that the Prince was holding in a fortnight for a visiting prince from Gertensberg.
Callie had expected nothing more. A first call was simply the prelude, the opening shot in an extended campaign of courting, and was as much a chance to pass inspection by one’s chaperone, parent or guardian as anything else.
Lord Bromwell, tall and wide-shouldered in his well-cut jacket of dark blue superfine and close-fitting fawn breeches, had easily passed the inspection. He was handsome and polite, and obviously knew the social niceties despite his years of living away from the City. Yet there was no slickness to his manner or speech, no indication that he sought to curry favor or to present a false front.
Callie knew, looking at Francesca, that this afternoon’s call had eased some of her earlier uncertainty. No one understood the ins and outs of the beau monde better than Lady Haughston, and if anyone could spot an adventurer or what Francesca’s brother Dominic would call a “rum ’un,” it would be she. But Callie could see Francesca relaxing a little more with each passing minute that Bromwell spent there, her smile growing easier and more genuine, her words drifting from polite chit-chat into more genuine conversation.
And Callie, when Bromwell threw a quick grin at her, his gray eyes full of wicked charm, could not help but grin back, a heady excitement beginning to bubble in her chest.
The next day Lord Bromwell called on them again, this time to take them for a ride in his curricle through Hyde Park. It was five in the afternoon, the most fashionable hour for Londoners to promenade through the park. Many strolled, others rode horses, and a large number rolled through in their finest equipage, showing off their clothes, their conveyances, their teams and, in many cases, their handling of the reins.
It was a trifle cramped, for Bromwell’s sporting vehicle was small and built more for speed than comfort, usually carrying no more than two people. However, Callie could see that Francesca was not about to let her go off in even an open carriage through Hyde Park alone with Lord Bromwell. Callie wondered again if Francesca did not know more about her brother’s reason for disliking Bromwell than she had let on. It did not seem likely that Sinclair would react so strongly to him just because the man’s sister had an unsavory reputation. It had seemed more personal to Callie than that.
But if Francesca did know something more, why had she not told her? Callie found it hard to believe that Francesca believed anything bad about Lord Bromwell, given that she was still willing to receive him. She must not know anything, Callie reassured herself. Her friend must be behaving in a very circumspect manner simply because she did not want Rochford to take her to task.
Still, Callie could not but wish that Francesca would not take her chaperone’s role quite so seriously. They could scarcely talk, at least in any but the most superficial way, with Francesca sitting between them on the curricle seat.
Over the course of the next week, it seemed that Lord Bromwell turned up everywhere they went. He called on them twice more. Then he was at Lady Battersea’s rout and again at Mrs. Mellenthorpe’s large formal dinner, not to mention the Carrington soiree.
However, to Callie’s frustration, Francesca stayed by her side throughout each evening, so that there was never any occasion to have a moment alone with the man. The closest she got to him was when he bowed over her hand when greeting or leaving her. Francesca was, she thought, carrying things a bit far. What, after all, could happen between them in the midst of a crowded party?
Callie was no longer used to such rigid chaperonage; it had been several years since she was a young girl in her first year, and even her grandmother allowed her almost free rein at a party. Not, of course, that Francesca refused to “allow” her to be by herself; she simply made it a point to always be about if Lord Bromwell was there. Callie suspected that if they should chance to be at a ball together and Bromwell should ask her to dance, Francesca would make a point of being right there when they stepped off the floor. There would be no slipping away to a tête-à-tête in an alcove or on the terrace outside.
Callie supposed she should be grateful. Not even her brother could be upset about her being at the same party as Bromwell when she was under Francesca’s watchful eye the whole time. Still, she found herself chafing under the gently-handled restriction.
On Saturday, she and Francesca attended the Fotheringham rout. Like most such events, it was something of a crush. Callie looked around in vain for Lord Bromwell, and after half an hour she decided, with some disappointment, that he would not be coming. She was standing with Francesca, chatting to Irene and Gideon, who also had decided to remain in London, when she turned her head and saw Bromwell walking through the double doorway into the large reception room.
Callie went still, her fingers clenching around the stem of her fan. At Bromwell’s side, her hand tucked familiarly in the crook of his arm, was a blazingly attractive red-haired woman. Tall and statuesque, with a wealth of auburn ringlets done up a la Meduse, she was dressed in a black satin evening gown, richly decorated around the hem and neckline with black lace and jet beads. The low-cut neckline showed off her elegant white shoulders and chest, her full breasts swelling up over the froth of black lace. Though a somber color, it was a perfect foil for her vivid red hair, pale skin and light blue eyes. Her mouth was perhaps too thin for perfect beauty, but such a small imperfection was scarcely noticeable in the eye-catching picture she presented. There was a soft smile on her lips, and she turned once or twice to look up at the man beside her, smiling at him with clear affection.
Callie felt a coldness growing in her stomach as she watched Bromwell turn his head to smile back down at the woman. As though sensing the change in Callie, Francesca turned and glanced across the floor, following Callie’s gaze. Francesca stiffened, and a soft curse escaped her lips.
Callie glanced at her, as did Irene and Gideon.
“Who is—” Irene began then stopped. “Oh, yes, I remember now. She was at the ball at the Park when we got engaged, wasn’t she? Lady…” She paused, trying to recall the name, and turned toward Gideon.
“Do not ask me,” her husband told her. “I don’t remember the woman.”
It seemed absurd that any man would not remember this woman, but Callie suspected that with Gideon it was true. He was clearly so smitten with Irene that he barely looked at any other women.
“Swithington,” Francesca said in a rather brittle voice. “Lady Daphne Swithington.”
“Oh!” Callie was surprised and a little chagrined at the relief that swept through her. “She is Lord Bromwell’s sister.”
“Yes. Apparently she has come to town for the Season.” Francesca sounded anything but overjoyed at the prospect.
Callie glanced over at her friend. Surely there was something more bothering Francesca than just the fact that Lady Swithington’s reputation had been unsavory. After all, from what Francesca had said, it had been many years since whatever scandalous behavior the woman had engaged in, and she had been out of Society since then. While her entrance had caused a stir around the room, no one was turning away or giving her the cut direct. Even if Lady Swithington were still ostracized, Callie did not think that it would cause Francesca, who was not at all high-in-the-instep, to turn as frosty as she was now. Callie could not help but wonder if perhaps Francesca’s late husband might have been one of the many men with whom Lady Daphne had been reputed to have had an affair.
Though they nodded to one or two people as they passed, Lord Bromwell and his sister did not stop until they reached Callie and her companions. “Lady Haughston, Lady Calandra, pray allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Swithington,” he began.
Francesca’s smile was icy as she replied, “Yes, Lady Swithington and I are old acquaintances.”
“Oh, yes,” the other woman added, her smile much less reserved than Francesca’s. Up close, Callie could see that the woman was older than she had appeared from across the floor. Tiny wrinkles fanned out from the corners of her eyes, and when she was not smiling, there were deep grooves bracketing her mouth. “Lady Haughston and I know each other well, do we not? And Lady Calandra.” She turned her smile on Callie, adding, “I am so happy to meet you at last. I knew your brother, of course, but you were just a wee thing then.” She let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Now I am showing our age, am I not, Francesca? How terrible of me.”
Francesca’s smile had vanished entirely. Ignoring the other woman’s words, she went on, her voice like glass, “I believe you have met Lord and Lady Radbourne.”
“Yes, of course. At your engagement party, was it not?” Lady Swithington smiled brilliantly at the other couple. “I was just out of mourning then, but I felt it was not amiss to attend, given that dear Lady Odelia invited me. She is our father’s cousin through marriage, you see, and has always been so kind to us. Hasn’t she, Brom, dear?” She turned to her brother, smiling affectionately.
“Yes, Lady Odelia is a darling,” Bromwell replied in a sardonic voice, and his sister tapped him playfully with her furled fan.
“Bromwell…you will give everyone the wrong idea.”
Gideon let out a chuckle. “Not likely—we are all related to Lady Odelia, as well.”
“Now that Lady Daphne is here,” Bromwell said, “I hoped that we might make up a party to Richmond Park next week. No doubt our cousin Mr. Tilford will go with us. It would give me great pleasure if all of you would attend, as well.” He looked around at the others. “Lord and Lady Radbourne? Lady Haughston?” His eyes came last to Callie, but it was on her that they stayed. “Lady Calandra?”
“It sounds very nice, if the weather holds,” Callie put in quickly, for she had the suspicion that Francesca might say no. “I have been growing restless, I confess. A long ride sounds just the thing.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?” Francesca agreed with distinctly less enthusiasm. “However, I am afraid that neither Lady Calandra nor I have any mounts stabled in the city. I find it difficult to find much time for riding, so I only ride when I am at Redfields. And as only Lady Calandra came to London to visit me, the Lilles horses are not here, either.”
“No need to worry about that,” Bromwell said. “I was at Tattersall’s this week, and I have not sent the animals I bought to the estate yet. I should welcome the opportunity to see them in action.”
“And we have some of our horses, as well,” Lord Gideon put in. “I am sure that among us we will have enough for everyone.”
“Then of course,” Francesca gave in gracefully. “It sounds delightful.”
Callie felt sure that Francesca did not mean her words, but she was not about to quibble. The prospect of a ride out to and through the wide green spaces of Richmond Park sounded most enjoyable. Nor was it just the fact that such an expedition would offer a much freer social situation than a party. She had been feeling cooped up in the City, for she loved to ride and did so often whenever she was at one of their estates. Even in the City, she was accustomed to taking a sedate ride along Rotten Row a couple of times a week, and she had sorely missed the exercise and the fresh air.
So it was arranged that they would go to the park on the following Tuesday, provided there was no dreary rain to spoil the expedition. Bromwell and his sister stayed to chat for a few more minutes. Francesca was much more silent than was customary for her, but Lady Daphne easily took up the slack, giving a droll account of her trip from her late husband’s far-flung estate to London, which seemed to have been plagued with every delay from having to turn back for a trunk left behind to a broken wheel to being stuck in a west country inn for three days because of a late snowstorm.
After a time, Irene and Gideon excused themselves, and a few moments later Bromwell and Lady Daphne did, as well, Lady Daphne warmly taking Callie’s hand in hers and murmuring that she looked forward to getting to chat with her on the outing. Bromwell bent over Callie’s hand in his usual way, his lips brushing soft as velvet across her skin. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on his, and he looked at her as he straightened, his eyes suddenly hot and intimate.
After they had walked away, Callie leaned closer to Francesca, saying softly, “You need not go to Richmond Park if you do not wish to. Irene and Gideon will be there, and surely that is ample chaperonage for me. It will be perfectly all right. I will say that you fell ill the morning we are to go.”
“And let Daphne revel in the idea that I hadn’t the courage to spend a day in her company?” Francesca retorted. There was a steely glint in her deep blue eyes that Callie had never seen there before. “Nonsense. I will manage perfectly well.” She set her jaw, muttering beneath her breath, “‘Showing our age’ indeed! As if she were not six years older than I if she is a day!”
Callie smothered a smile behind her fan. She could not remember ever before seeing Francesca display the slightest feminine venom. Confident in her own beauty and place in society, she did not flare with jealousy or envy. When other women behaved in such a manner to her, she usually skewered them with deft skill, but without employing bitterness or dislike. It was somehow reassuring to see that Francesca was as capable as the next person of giving way to a spurt of ill-tempered dislike.
Lady Daphne had seemed to Callie to be a pleasant, friendly person, though Callie certainly had no intention of mentioning that to Francesca—any more than she would ask Francesca why she disliked Lady Daphne so much. It was far too rude and personal a question, especially given the fact that Callie suspected the answer probably had to do with Francesca’s husband, who had been rumored to be a libertine. It was too bad, really, for Callie would have liked very much to know exactly what Lady Daphne had done to Francesca to engender such a feeling in her.
However, looking at Francesca’s face, Callie knew that her curiosity was not going to be satisfied. Even the most delicate probing was not going to elicit anything from Francesca tonight. So Callie put her questions aside and let her mind drift to the far more enjoyable topic of spending the following Tuesday in the company of Lord Bromwell.
“WELL, WELL…” Lady Swithington murmured as they strolled away from Calandra and Francesca. “So you have an interest in the duke’s little sister. How fascinating.” She cast a sideways glance up at her brother’s face.
“I should have told you beforehand,” Bromwell told her apologetically. “But when we saw them as soon as we arrived, it seemed such a perfect opportunity. I wanted to see her face when she met you.”
“Why?” Daphne’s mouth tightened. “Surely you did not expect one of the proud Lilles to show any sort of remorse.”
“I just wanted to see if she had any idea what her brother did to you,” he replied. “I felt she did not. It was so many years ago. Still, I was curious.”
“And what did you find out?”
He shook his head. “She knows nothing. I am certain of that.” He turned to look at her. “I could not say the same about Lady Haughston.”
“Pffft.” Daphne made a low dismissive noise, fanning out the sticks of her elegant ivory fan. “Francesca. She was always goose-ish.”
She waved her fan languidly as they made their way through the crowd until they reached the other side of the room. They turned and looked back. Now and then, as the crowd of people moved about, they could see Callie and Francesca still standing in the same spot, talking.
“So…what exactly is your plan regarding little Lady Calandra?” Daphne asked in an arch tone. “I hope you do not expect me to believe that you are seriously courting her.”
“Oh, I am quite serious about it,” her brother responded, a certain grimness in his tone.
“But not for marriage.”
“Surely you know me better than that,” he replied. “I would not offer you such an insult as allying myself with the Lilles.”
“I do know you,” she agreed, smiling a little smugly. “What do you intend, then? It would be only fitting for the duke to have to pay in like measure.”
Bromwell gave her a startled look. “What do you mean? Surely you do not think that I would seduce the girl and cast her aside.”
Daphne shrugged, her face hardening. “It seems an apt enough revenge for what her brother did to me. Not as harsh, surely, as getting her with child and refusing to marry her.”
“No. But I am not a man such as Rochford,” Bromwell replied, frowning. “I am sure you would not really wish such a fate on any other woman.”
Daphne smiled sweetly at him. “I forget, sometimes, how good you are. Of course you are right. I would not wish any other woman to suffer the shame that I did with Rochford. It just seems so unfair that the duke never had to pay in any way.” She watched her brother as he continued to gaze across the floor, his eyes intent on Lady Calandra. She frowned a little as she said, “It would not hurt if one of the proud Lilles were to be taken down a peg.”
He nodded. It was the same sentiment he had expressed to his cousin Archie not long ago. Still, a frown creased his forehead. “But hardly fair to Callie.”
“Callie?” His sister’s brows rose precipitously.
“That is what they call her, Lady Haughston and Lady Odelia. Calandra is far too formal a name for her.”
“Do not tell me that you have conceived an affection for this girl,” Daphne snapped.
“No, of course not.” His frown deepened. He looked at his sister, adding, “She is a pretty chit. But of no consequence to me.”
“I am glad to hear that. It is never wise to trust a Lilles,” Daphne told him bitterly.
“I know.”
After a moment, Daphne went on, “What are your intentions, then, regarding Lady Calandra?”
“To worry the duke a little,” he responded, one side of his mouth quirking up in a smile that held little humor. “I would like to see him dance a bit on that hot griddle, wondering what I intend to do. What I will tell his sister about him. Whether I will turn her against him—even take her from him. Or if I just might do the same as he, engage her affections, then spurn her. A man without honor expects the same behavior from others, I’ve found.”
“He certainly will not like your courting her,” Lady Daphne agreed.
“Indeed, he will not. He has already warned me off.”
“Really?” She looked intrigued. “What did he do? What did he say?”
“He was his usual arrogant self,” her brother replied. “He told me to stay away from his sister. As though he had only to speak and the rest of the world would obey.”
“What did you do?”
“I thought about planting him a facer,” he admitted, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “But I knew Lady Odelia might object, as it was her birthday ball. Gentlemen brawling on one’s terrace are apt to bring down the tone of a party.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I realized that it would be more fun to tease him a bit first. Let him see that the world does not dance to his tune…not even his sister. Eventually, I imagine, once he has heard that I have disobeyed him—that she has disobeyed him—he will come storming back to town, roaring like a baited bear, and then…” His mouth lifted in a smile. “Then he will come to visit me.”
His gray eyes glinted silver with satisfaction.
“You mean he will call you out?” Daphne looked distressed. “But, Brom, no! He is reputed to be an excellent shot. You could be killed!”
“You forget, my dear—I am also an excellent shot.”
“Yes, I know you are,” she said, her voice almost smug. “But still…to risk your life…that is too much.”
“In any case, I doubt very seriously that it will come to that. Rochford has never fought a duel. I doubt that he will start now.”
“But with enough provocation…”
Again he shrugged. “I think it much more likely that we will settle it on the spot, with our fists.” He smiled grimly, and his hand tightened into a fist with anticipation.
“Are you sure?” Daphne asked. “Last time…”
He waved her objection away. “Last time I was seventeen. Calling him out was a schoolboy gesture. I know enough now to realize that it will be much more satisfactory to knock him onto his arrogant backside.”
“Well, of course, dear, if that is what you wish to do,” Daphne conceded in the tone of one giving a little boy a treat. She tucked her hand through his arm happily. “It sounds just the thing.”
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY DAWNED crisp and clear, a pale golden sun shining in the February sky. It was an almost perfect day for riding out of the city to the royal park. Callie, thrilled at the prospect of the expedition actually taking place, chattered through breakfast to Francesca, who was obviously much less excited. Still, Lady Haughston was too kind to depress Callie’s spirits, so she smiled and nodded, agreeing that the day was lovely, the company would be most pleasant, and that it was wonderful, indeed, that riding habits not only showed off one’s figure nicely but were also one of the few articles of attire that did not have to be white.
Callie’s riding habit was of hunter green velvet and never before worn, as she had ordered it from the modiste in her spurt of shopping when she came to stay with Francesca. Unlike the fashion of modern dresses, its jacket was longer and fitted snugly to her waist, frogged in black down the front and at the cuffs. The hat that went with it was also green, trimmed in black, and it sat jauntily on her head, tilting down in the front in a slightly rakish way.
Studying her, Francesca thought that Callie looked utterly charming in it, and she could not help but think it was worth putting up with Lady Daphne for a day so that Callie could present such a fetching picture for Lord Bromwell.
It was a merry party that set off for Richmond Park an hour later. As well as Lord and Lady Radbourne, Lord Bromwell and his sister, and Francesca and Callie, there were Bromwell’s cousin Archie Tilford, Miss Bettina Swanson and her brother Reginald, a smiling young man just down from Oxford. Miss Swanson and her brother rode in the Radbournes’ elegant landau with Lord Radbourne, who had been quick to give up his mount to Francesca to ride.
“I am sure that he will be grateful to have a better rider on his back,” he told Francesca with a smile. Lord Radbourne, because of his unfortunate upbringing, had never become the skilled rider that many of his aristocratic contemporaries were.
“And for you, my lady,” Bromwell told Callie, taking her arm and leading her over to a dainty white mare. “I thought Bellissima would suit.” A smile lit his eyes and then was quickly gone. “The name is certainly appropriate for you. She is biddable, but not docile, and from good bloodlines. I was not sure what sort of rider you were.”
“I can sit a horse,” she told him with an arch smile.
“That must mean that you are veritable centaur, and I will doubtless suffer great shame for putting you on an unworthy mount.”
Callie chuckled, reaching up to stroke the mare’s nose. “I am sure that Bellissima is not at all unworthy. Are you, you lovely creature?” She turned back to Bromwell. “Thank you, my lord, I am sure she is an excellent choice, and I shall thoroughly enjoy her.”
“I hope so.” He paused, then added, “Please, call me Bromwell, or Brom. All my friends do.”
Callie looked at him. His words made her feel a trifle giddy, even breathless. “Surely we do not know each other that well, my lord.”
“Do we not?” She saw in his eyes the shared knowledge of their kisses, the heat that had swarmed through them. Then he broke their locked gaze, saying in a lighter tone, “But I hope that we shall.”
He turned aside, saying, “Here. Let me give you a hand up.” He held his hands out to her and vaulted her up into the saddle, then moved to adjust her stirrups, stripping off his leather riding gloves so that he could work more easily.
Callie felt his arm brush against her leg as he worked at the stirrup, and even through her riding boot and heavy habit, the touch stirred her. She watched his fingers as he adjusted the strap. They were long and supple, moving with a quick sureness, and she found herself wondering how those hands would feel touching her neck, her arm, sliding up to cup her face.
She glanced quickly away and down at her own hands, gripping the reins tightly. She could feel a blush stealing into her cheeks. It was absurd, she told herself, the way her thoughts seemed to run away with her whenever she was around Bromwell. She felt sure that he must sense it; there was a knowing look in his eyes when he gazed at her—or perhaps it was simply that he remembered the way she had reacted the two times he had kissed her. She had kissed him back in a manner that she could only term abandoned.
Could he think that she was other than she was? That she was a woman of experience in such matters? Did her brother dislike Bromwell because he knew his reputation to be that of a roué? A libertine? Could it be that Bromwell was pursuing her because he assumed that she was a woman of loose morals? She knew, guiltily, that she had given him reason to think so—being out by herself in the middle of the night as he had found her that first night. And then letting him kiss her without even a protest—indeed, melting in his arms.
Anxiety curled in her chest into a hard, cold lump. She did not want to believe that was the reason behind his pursuit of her. And, after all, how likely was it that a roué would spend so many afternoons and evenings in tame chaperoned visits and parties? Surely a man interested in nothing but a wanton woman would find the path much easier elsewhere. Yet still he pursued her. She could not help but think that such behavior evinced a deeper interest than any a libertine would feel. On the other hand, she was realistic enough to realize that perhaps that was simply what she wanted to think.
She looked away from Bromwell, over at the others, who were also mounting their horses. Her gaze fell on Lady Swithington, who was studying Callie. In the other woman’s pale blue gaze she saw a look of cold and intense dislike.