CHAPTER NINE
CALLIE’S HAND CLENCHED involuntarily on the reins, and her mare shifted nervously beneath her. By the time Callie settled her down and looked back at Bromwell’s sister, Lady Daphne was smiling sweetly at her.
“What a vision you are on that horse, Lady Calandra,” the older woman said. “That black hair of yours and on a white horse—la, I fear you put the rest of us to shame.”
“None could eclipse your beauty, Lady Swithington,” Mr. Swanson assured her.
“Indeed not,” Archie Tilford chimed in. “That is to say, not that Lady Calandra is not exceedingly beautiful, as well. Indeed, none could be lovelier.” He glanced around, his face beginning to redden. “Of course, Lady Haughston, Lady Radbourne, Miss Swanson, you are no less lovely. I mean, can one really compare Aphrodite and Helen of Troy? Except, of course, that there are five of you, not two, and, uh…”
Lord Radbourne let out a sharp laugh, hastily turned into a cough, which seemed to cause Lady Radbourne to turn away and clamp her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
“Leave off, Archie, do,” Lord Bromwell told his cousin bluntly. “We haven’t long enough for you to work your way out of that one. Ladies, suffice it to say that you are all at the absolute pinnacle of beauty, and I daresay there is not a gentleman in London who would not trade places with us right now. And now, I think, we should get on our way.”
Nodding in agreement, they started off, some in front of the carriage and some behind it. It required concentration to move through the crowded streets of London, and they were spread out, so there was not much conversation at first.
Callie was glad of the silence, for she was lost in her thoughts. Her mind kept returning to the glimpse of dislike—was it too much to call it hatred?—that she had seen in Lady Swithington’s eyes. Had she really seen it, or had it been merely a trick of the light? She could not imagine how she could have mistaken it. But why would Bromwell’s sister despise her?
Her thoughts kept her occupied for some time, but conversation increased as they reached the outskirts of the city, and she put the incident aside, determined to enjoy the afternoon before her.
The party fell into groups of two and three, talking and laughing as they rode into the country. Callie had been concerned about Francesca and Bromwell’s sister being thrown together, but she noticed that from the first Lady Swithington chose to ride beside the carriage, flirting with young Reginald Swanson—and trying her utmost to flirt with Lord Radbourne, as well.
Callie glanced over at Irene, who after one look at the carriage, simply rolled her eyes and continued to blithely chat with Francesca, riding beside her. Callie could understand her lack of concern; Gideon, rather than flirting back, looked patently bored, and his gaze wandered more to his wife some distance away than to Lady Daphne riding beside him.
Bromwell positioned himself at Callie’s side, and, somewhat to Callie’s surprise, Francesca was content to let them ride alone together, for she stayed with Irene. Since Mr. Tilford seemed to have appointed himself those two ladies’ guardian, it left Callie alone with Bromwell for most of the ride.
Though for the past week or more she had been eager to have exactly that opportunity, now she found herself suddenly shy and unsure of what she should say. It was a new position for her, as she had always been a lively girl. Her grandmother’s constant admonition to her before a party had always been not to talk too much and draw attention to herself, though it was not, Callie was the first to admit, an admonition she had endeavored very much to follow.
She realized that her reticence stemmed from the fact that for perhaps the first time in her life, it mattered very much to her that her companion found her pleasing. Finally, having rejected a comment on the weather as much too commonplace and one on the beauty of the scenery as entirely insipid, she began, “’Tis an excellent mare you purchased.”
Immediately it occurred to her that what she had said was probably worse than either of the other possibilities, but Bromwell turned to her and smiled, and her inner criticisms vanished in a flood of warmth.
“Do you like her? I hoped you would,” he replied. “I thought of you when I bought her.”
He stopped abruptly, an odd look in his eyes, as though what he had said surprised him, then went on quickly, “That is to say, I had thought of a trip to Richmond Park, and I had hoped that you and Lady Haughston would be able to join us. I bought her for the estate, of course, but it occurred to me that you could use her for the ride to the park.”
“I am very glad that you did,” Callie told him, and reached down to pat the horse’s neck, hiding the rush of pleasure in her face at his words. “She is a smooth goer, but she is very lively, as well.”
“I was not sure but what she might be too lively,” he confessed. “But she was too good to pass up. And I can see that I needed to have no worries about your ability to handle her.”
“My father put me up on a pony as soon as I could walk,” Callie said, smiling a little. “He was an avid horseman. Indeed, one of the few things I remember about him was his walking beside me on my pony so that he could steady me if I needed it.”
Bromwell looked at her, frowning a little. “He died young? I am sorry.”
Callie nodded. “Yes, he contracted a fever one winter, and within a few weeks he was gone. I did not even see him before he died. My mother was afraid that I might come down with it, too.”
“I am sorry,” he repeated. “I hate to have brought up painful memories.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you. But they are not painful. In truth, I barely remember my father. I was only five years old when he died, and I have only a few memories of him, some of them quite vague. Sometimes I am not sure whether I remember his face from actually seeing him or from the painting of him that hung in my mother’s room. I envy my brother because he knew him so much longer, you see.”
“For some of us, ’tis not a joy to know our fathers longer,” Bromwell responded with a wry twist of his mouth.
Callie glanced at him. “Did you not—I mean…” She stumbled to a halt, aware that her question was probably too personal.
“No, I did not,” he replied flatly. “I did not care for him while he was alive, and I did not miss him when he died.” He shrugged.
“I am so sorry!” Callie exclaimed, reaching out toward him, then, remembering the others around them, quickly drawing her hand back.
“No, I am the one who is sorry. ’Tis considered disloyal, I imagine, not to say that one honors one’s father. But I am not good enough at pretense to say that I did. He was a hard, cold man who cared for little but himself, and I would warrant that one would be hard-pressed to find many who knew him who regretted his passing. However, I should not have introduced such a dismal topic into our conversation.” He smiled at her. “And I shall dismiss it right now. Let us talk about you. How was it that your training on horseback continued after your father’s death? Was your mother an avid horsewoman, as well?”
“Oh, no.” Callie let out a chuckle. “My mother did not particularly like to ride. But she knew I loved it, and she wanted to do as my father had wanted. That was very important to her. She loved him very much. So the head groom tutored me, as he had done before my father’s death, and so did Sinclair. My brother.” She looked at him. “That is why my brother is so…protective of me. In many ways, he was as much a father to me as a brother. He has become accustomed to watching over me.”
“I do not fault your brother for his care for his sister,” Bromwell replied. “Indeed, I would do much to protect my sister, as well.”
At his words, he glanced over at the woman in question, who still rode beside the open carriage. She was laughing at some witticism of Mr. Swanson’s, her lovely head thrown back, her white throat arched becomingly. Her black riding habit was severe, but she needed no ornamentation for her beauty, and, as with the dress she had worn the other night, the somber shade was a perfect foil for her own vibrant coloring.
As they watched, Lady Daphne reached down and playfully tapped Mr. Swanson on the shoulder. The young man flushed to the roots of his sandy hair. Callie glanced over at his sister, who had a rather sour expression on her face. Gideon, on the other hand, was ignoring all of them, jotting down something in a small book in his hand.
Callie, who had heard many tales of Lord Radbourne’s flouting of societal rules, smothered a smile. She returned her gaze to Bromwell’s face. He frowned a little.
“People sometimes misjudge Lady Daphne,” he said. “She is a very warm and vivacious person.”
“She seemed quite nice,” Callie offered, not sure what to say. “She is very beautiful.”
Bromwell cast her a smile. “Yes. And she takes pride in it. But it has cost her dearly in many ways. Women often…are disinclined to befriend her.”
Callie thought about the little Francesca had told her about Lady Swithington. Could her reputation have been exaggerated? Distorted? Was she merely overly flirtatious? Callie knew how easy it was to bring on the censure of London Society. And a beautiful woman often stirred jealousy in the bosom of those females less fortunate than she.
On the other hand, it was also possible that Bromwell’s words were simply a loving brother’s defense of his sister. She had seen love render a person blind to another’s faults. And she could not help but remember that flash of hard dislike she had seen in Daphne’s eyes as they set out. What did that mean? It certainly did not match with the friendly, flattering words she uttered or the sweet smile she directed at Callie.
Still, whatever the truth, Callie could not help but respect Bromwell’s loyalty.
“You are the only children in your family?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, and our estates are somewhat isolated. So Daphne and I were, I suppose, the only friends each other had, really. My father considered none of the families thereabouts our equals in birth, so we were discouraged from socializing with them—not that any of them were really close enough to see often, anyway. And my sister was several years older than I—” He shot her a twinkling look. “Not that I would let her hear me say that. But I was not much of a companion for her. She had to look after me a great deal. And, of course, by the time I was seven or eight, she was far more interested in clothes and hairstyles than in helping me search out bugs and other wildlife in the gardens. By the time I was eleven, she had gone to London to make her come-out, and then she married.”
“It sounds as if you must have been alone a lot.”
He nodded. “A good bit. Fortunately, I was always a solitary sort, anyway.”
“I was not,” Callie responded. “I did not have any children my age about, either—I spent most of my time with the servants. My nurse, Cook, the upstairs maids. It scandalized my grandmother.”
“Your mother, too, I imagine,” Bromwell commented.
Callie shrugged. “My mother did not…involve herself too closely with my upbringing.”
He looked at her, surprised. “She was unloving?” He paused, then said, “I am sorry. I should not have pried.”
“No, it is all right. I don’t mind talking about her. I cannot do so, really, with my family. It makes Sinclair feel sad, I think. You see, as with our father, he knew her much longer than I did. He remembers her the way she was before our father died. She was a very warm and loving person, and when my father was alive, she often popped into the nursery to see us. I can remember going for walks in the garden with her. She used to point out all the plants and flowers to me, and tell me their names. She loved the garden. She would cut flowers in the summer, then let me help her arrange them in vases.”
“She sounds like a wonderful mother,” Bromwell protested.
“She was. And I know that she loved me. But after my father died, she changed. She loved him a great deal, and after his death, sorrow sapped her of all life and joy. It was almost as if she had died with him, except that her body was still there among us. She still loved me, but she was not…terribly interested in anything. She stopped her gardening. She never cut flowers and arranged them anymore. And though she walked enough, she rarely took me—or anyone else—with her. She wandered along the paths all alone, and stopped to sit on the benches and just…sit there and stare, not really looking at anything.”
Callie turned to him. “You must think me terribly selfish, complaining because she was not attentive enough to me when she had suffered a great tragedy.”
“No, I do not think you are selfish,” he assured her quietly. “You suffered a tragedy, too. You lost your father—and with him, you lost much of your mother, as well.”
“Yes.” Callie was surprised, and a little embarrassed, to feel tears spring into her eyes. It had been many years since her father’s death, even since her mother’s passing, and she had not been moved to tears over them in a long time, but somehow this man’s quiet understanding of the pain she had felt awakened a feeling of such mingled sorrow, gratitude and tenderness within her that tears welled up in her eyes.
She blinked the tears away, glancing out across the fields as she steadied her emotions. “You understand, then.”
“Well enough. My mother died soon after I was born. My nurse was like my mother—though, of course, when I grew old enough for a governess, she was no longer my nurse. But still, I slipped down to see her whenever I could. She was the sister of one of our tenant farmers, a widow whose child had died shortly after my mother. We were well-suited in that way. Her brother had a son about my age, Henry. He was the only friend I had aside from Daphne. So, yes, I understand.”
“Do you ever see Henry now?”
“Oh, yes.” He grinned. “Scandalously, he is still probably my only friend. He is my steward. His older brother holds their farm, but Henry was always quick. He learned numbers and reading from me when we were young, and I sneaked books to him. When I came into the title, I hired him as my steward. My father’s man had been steadily robbing him over the years, my father, of course, being too much the gentleman to stoop to checking over the accounts. The farms had suffered, and he, as well as my father, had earned the dislike of most of the tenants.” He stopped. “Sorry, I did not mean to run on about such boring matters. No doubt you will rue the day you agreed to come on this trip.”
“Not at all,” Callie replied honestly. “I have heard my brother talk a good bit about his business affairs—at least the estate management. I do confess that his dealings on the ’Change do not interest me much. But the farms are altogether different. They aren’t just numbers, which I do not like much. They are people, you see, with faces and histories and all sorts of connections. And that I like very much. I have long stood up with Sinclair on the estate days, and greeted everyone and welcomed them at Boxing Day. You have to remember that I spent much of my time with the servants and, when I got older, riding about the estates with a groom. I know all the farmers and their families, at least at Marcastle and Dancy Park. I confess that I am not as familiar with his other holdings. I never spent as much time at them.”
“Good Lord, how many residences does the man have?”
“Well, aside from the cottage in Scotland, which has not much land with it—he goes there only by himself, for fishing and, I think, to get away from being so much the duke, you see—he has the manor house in the Cotswolds, which was part of my mother’s dowry. That, he says, will be part of my dowry, but he manages it for me. And then there is the estate in Cornwall, which hasn’t much of a house, just a grim-looking old keep that Sinclair says is scarcely worth keeping up, but there are tin mines on the land, so he has to go there to oversee them. And another manor house in Sussex. That is all, I think. Well, except for Lilles House in London, but that isn’t an estate.”
“All?” Bromwell let out a crack of laughter, tilting his head back. “You have put me in my place. Here I have congratulated myself on pulling my Yorkshire estate out of its debts and purchasing a house in London.”
Callie’s cheeks flooded with red. “Oh! Oh, no, truly I did not mean to boast. Whatever will you think of me? It is only because of his being a duke, you know. Well, I mean, he is quite handy, apparently, at managing all those things. But there are so many estates only because of some past duke marrying some heiress or other and her lands coming into Rochford control, and of course, we started out as barons, and then every time one of my ancestors got another title, there would be another estate….” She ran down, looking abashed. “I am making it sound even worse, am I not? But they are my brother’s, you see, and not mine.”
“Except for the manor house in the Cotswolds,” he put in, his eyes twinkling.
Callie let out a low groan. “I am sorry. Truly, it is not—” She stopped, not sure exactly what she could deny.
The earl laughed. “No, do not apologize. I do not take it as boasting. ’Tis only the truth. You are a woman of very high estate.”
Callie rolled her eyes. “I hate to be thought of that way. It makes me sound so…so priggish.”
“You? I do not think anyone could think of you as priggish. You are, dear lady, delightful.”
“No, I fear I am a rattle. My tongue is always running away with me. My grandmother would tell you that it is one of my worst faults.”
“Your grandmother sounds most disagreeable.”
Callie laughed. “I am unfair to the woman. She is simply proud of the family into which she married, and one cannot fault that. She has always done her duty, even when it entailed raising an unruly young girl when she was long past the age of having to deal with children, and she expects everyone else to do their duty, as well. It is only that what they want or what they enjoy has nothing to do with the matter.”
“And what do you want?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Not to have to marry some stuffy sort because he is a duke, then have the requisite number of children to please his family. All because I am the sister of a duke.” She let out a sigh. “Sometimes I wish…I don’t know…that I could be plain Miss Somebody, possessing no fortune at all.”
“I think you would find possessing no fortune vastly uncomfortable.”
“I know. I must sound like an ungrateful child. I am sure that I would not be at all happy having to pinch pennies or…or trim hats or sew clothes or something just to make enough money to live. It is only that I feel sometimes as if all anyone sees when they look at me is Rochford’s sister, not a person in her own right. Not me.”
“I can promise you,” he said, turning to look into her face, “when I look at you, I see you and only you.”
Callie, gazing back at him, felt suddenly as if everything else in the world around them had fallen away. There might have been no road, no companions, no wintry countryside. All she could see were his eyes, silver in the sunlight and edged with thick dark lashes, and all she could feel was this breathless, burgeoning…something inside her, spiraling up in her until she thought it must explode.
In his eyes, she saw a myriad of emotions flash through him with the same force and rapidity as her own. He turned his face away abruptly, taking a quick breath. Callie, too, glanced away, struggling to control her visage, to hide from the world what she feared must shine out from within her like a flame.
“Ah, there’s the Park,” Bromwell said suddenly, relief tingeing his voice.
Callie nodded. They turned off onto the path into the park. The land rolled gently into the distance, no buildings in sight, just a wide expanse of land framed with trees on either side and beyond, past where the land dipped down. It was not the verdant field that it would be later in the spring, and the trees were still leafless, apart from the evergreen yews and larches, but it was still a scene of sylvan beauty, lit by the pale winter sun. As if to complete the peaceful rural scene, a band of red deer at the edge of the trees raised their heads to look at them with interest, then lithely bounded off.
With a laughing glance at Bromwell, Callie dug in her heels and gave her horse its head. The mare bounded forward, clearly eager to run. Behind her, Bromwell let out a shout and came pounding after her. They tore along the path, leaving the rest of their party far behind.
Callie delighted in the rush of air against her cheeks and the surge of the horse beneath her. Their speed matched the rush of emotions inside her, sending her spirits soaring. The wind caught at the charming little hat, tugging it from her head and sending it tumbling backward, but she only laughed, too caught up in the moment to care.
Bromwell pulled even with her, and though she urged her mare to the utmost, he flashed a grin at her and passed her. After that he began to pull up, and so did she, slowing to a walk. They had outstripped the others, now hidden from them by a fold of land. It was, Callie thought, a good thing that they were shielded, for Bromwell turned his horse’s head toward her, coming close, his face taut and bright with purpose. His arm went out as he reached her, looping around her waist, and he pulled her off her horse and onto his, setting her in front of him.
His other arm wrapped around her back, supporting her, and his hand went up to her cheek, then slid back into her hair. His heat enveloped her; his chest rose and fell rapidly. He said nothing, but his intent was clear on his face, his eyes glinting with it.
Callie turned up her face to his, as breathless as he. They were perfectly still for an instant, their eyes locked on each other. Then his mouth came down to cover hers.
Fire flowed through her, searing her skin and settling deep within her. She trembled in his embrace, aching and eager, as his mouth both filled and fueled her hunger. Her hand went up and curled around his neck, urging him closer. He groaned, his lips digging into hers. He kissed her until she thought she must burst from the heat and desire spiraling up in her.
“Callie…Callie,” he murmured, pulling his mouth away to trail his lips across her skin and down over the curve of her jaw. His hand left her hair to slide down her neck and onto the fabric of her riding habit. “I have been wanting to do that all day. Sweet heaven, I have been wanting to do it for a fortnight.”
Callie chuckled, turning her face into his shoulder, and whispered, “I have, too.”
Her response brought a low groan from him, and she felt his body flare with an added heat as he pressed her closer to him. He kissed her again, his hand sliding down the front of her bodice.
Finally he raised his head. “We cannot. They will be in sight soon.”
He hesitated, gazing down into her face. His eyes darkened, and for an instant Callie thought that he meant to ignore his own words, but then he turned his head away with a soft curse. He kissed her again, once, brief and hard, then slid her off his lap and down to the ground. He dismounted quickly and turned to her.
“We should look for your hat.”
“Mmm,” Callie agreed distractedly. She found it difficult to think of anything but the soft, swollen tingling of her lips or the heavy achy feel of her breasts…or the insistent throbbing deep within her loins.
She looked up at him, and Bromwell’s breath caught in his throat. Her face was flushed, her lips rosy and moist, her dark brown eyes wide and lambent. A strand of her hair had come loose when her hat was torn from her head, and it straggled down beside her face, clinging to her cheek. She was the very picture of a woman interrupted during lovemaking, and it made desire claw at his gut like a wild animal.
For a moment he could not speak. His fingers curled up into fists, and at last he said, somewhat shakily, “Callie, do not look at me so, or I shall lose what honor I have.”
She blinked, forcibly pulling herself back from her sensual daydream. Her eyes sharpened with awareness as she curved her lips up into a deliciously provocative smile. Then she turned away, smoothing down her habit, and walked over to pick up the white mare’s reins.
They walked back the way they had come, saying nothing. Each was too aware of what had just happened, and of the hot juices still flowing through them, to be able to speak casually. Callie fumbled with her hair, trying to pin the loose strands back into place, and Bromwell reached over to take the mare’s reins from her, so that her hands were free. His fingers brushed against her hand, and where their flesh touched, even that briefly, heat sparked through them.
When they crested the small rise, they saw their group in the distance, gathered in a sheltered spot at the edge of the trees. The coachman and the groom were unloading the picnic basket from the back of the carriage, and the others were scattered around nearby.
Callie breathed a sigh of relief to find that she still had a few minutes to regroup before she had to face the sharp gazes of the other women in the party. She spotted her wayward hat a moment later, and Bromwell picked it up, presenting it to her with a flourish.
“Is my hair all right?” she asked anxiously as she found the hatpin, which had fortunately remained stuck in the hat as it was pulled off, and affixed the saucy bit of material and net to her head.
“You look lovely,” he told her, smiling down into her face.
“Do not look at me like that,” she chastised him, though she could not keep from smiling back at him. “As it is, everyone is no doubt wondering madly about what we were doing when we were out of sight.”
“I imagine they might have their suspicions. But we were not gone long enough to have done much. And I can assure you that neither my sister’s nor my cousin’s tongue will wag.”
“Nor will Lord and Lady Radbourne or Francesca speak of it,” Callie agreed. “And with luck Mr. Swanson is too enamored of your sister to have noticed anything.”
He chuckled. “I imagine that is true. Which leaves only Miss Swanson, who is, I think, very young and unsophisticated.”
They continued walking in silence for a moment; then Bromwell said, “I hope you will not think that I meant any disrespect to you. I am not usually given to seizing young women and hauling them off their horses.”
“Indeed? Are you not?” she murmured, casting a sideways glance at him. “Yet you seemed most expert at it.”
His mouth twitched. “You are a saucy girl. I am trying to make an apology to you.”
“You need not. I, um, rather participated in what happened.” Callie could not bring herself to look directly into his face as she said the words; her cheeks were flaming as it was.
He glanced at her, surprised, and she looked up. His sharp cheekbones were edged with color, and she thought at first that what she had said had embarrassed him, but then she noted the light in his eyes, and she realized that her words had once again stirred his desire.
“My dear Lady Calandra…” he murmured. “You will make a spectacle of me yet.”
“I?” she asked. “And how would I do that?”
“When I am around you, I find myself at every turn on the verge of—” He stopped abruptly.
“The verge of what?” Callie asked, confused.
“The verge of committing an act such as I just did, for one thing,” he replied. “Of showing to the world just how ungentlemanly are the feelings I have for you, for another.”
She stared at him, then caught the meaning of his words and blushed vividly. “Lord Bromwell!”
“You see? I lose even the art of making genteel conversation with you.”
“I see. So you are saying that if you are ‘ungentlemanly,’ it is my fault?” Callie raised her brows at him.
“I can see no other explanation for my mad behavior other than that you drive me to it,” he agreed lightly, a faint smile playing about his lips. “But surely you must know that. I think you must be in the habit of driving men mad.”
“Nay, I do believe that you are the first,” she retorted dryly.
“I cannot imagine that. It seems to me that everything about you is designed to do just that.” He looked at her, his steps slowing as he went on, “Your hair. Your eyes. The way your lips curve when you smile, so that all I can think of is touching those lips with mine.”
Callie’s color heightened, her breath coming more rapidly. “Brom…”
He stopped, and so did she, turning toward him. For a moment the very air between them seemed to vibrate with heat and hunger. Then, with an effort of will, Callie turned away.
“I fear you are not helping us—” she told him somewhat shakily, “—in our attempt to appear normal when we rejoin our friends.”
“You are right.” He took a breath and released it in a sigh. He started walking forward again, saying lightly, “So…Lady Calandra…’tis a lovely winter day for a ride, is it not?”
She let out a little laugh and fell into step beside him. So, talking of nothing, they walked back to the others, and by the time they reached their party, outwardly they seemed as always, only a little windblown from their ride.
Inside, however, was an entirely different matter. Inside, Callie did not think she would ever be quite the same.