Page 27 of The Wedding Challenge

He kept up this sort of light, entertaining chatter through much of dinner; it was, after all, one of the reasons why he never lacked for invitations—he could keep any dinner or party from becoming utterly dull. For Callie, fresh from the very quiet months at Marcastle, it was a welcome and informative reintroduction to London society. Sir Lucien knew the latest gossip about everyone and everything that happened in the beau monde—what gentleman was on the verge of having to flee the country to avoid debtors’ prison, what lady’s newest offspring was said to look remarkably unlike her husband, and which scion of what noble house was rumored to have challenged someone to a duel over a hand of cards.

He did not question Callie’s early return to the city. To Sir Lucien’s way of thinking, any sane person would leap at the chance to trade any bucolic estate, no matter how grand, for a stay in London. But later, when they had settled into their box in the theater, and Callie and Francesca had begun to discuss the possibilities around them in the audience, Sir Lucien became curious.

He leaned forward to look Callie full in the face and said, “My dear girl, unless my ears deceive me, you seem to be—is it possible—vetting the gentlemen here as marriage material?”

Callie blushed a little, but Francesca replied flippantly, “But of course, Lucien—what else do the ladies of London do? Every Season is another market.”

“But Lady Calandra?” He raised a brow. “Can it be that you have decided to break the hearts of half of London and settle down in the married state?”

“I doubt it would be that tragic an event,” Callie countered, smiling a little. “But, yes, I am considering it.”

“Do you have a lucky man in mind? Or is this Season to be an open tournament for your hand?”

“Lucien…” Francesca said warningly. “I do hope you are not planning to cast that news about. We shall have every adventurer in the city on our doorstep.”

“My dear Francesca!” The man placed his hand over his heart, assuming an appalled expression. “How can you say so? Of course I will not say the slightest word, if you and Lady Calandra do not wish it. Besides…” A mischievous grin played about his lips. “It will be far too much fun to watch it all play out.” He turned, raising the lorgnette that hung by a black silk ribbon from his lapel and making a survey of the audience. “Let us see, who are you considering? Bertram Westin? He is a devilishly handsome sort, but I have heard that he is far too fond of the cards.”

“No, I have never really liked the man,” Callie replied, casting a look around. She had been doing so as unobtrusively as possible since they arrived. She hoped it did not appear as if she was looking for someone in particular, though she was honest enough to admit to herself that she would not be displeased to see that Lord Bromwell was attending the play.

Not, of course, that she was considering him as a prospect for marriage. Still, she had not been able to get the man out of her mind for the past few days, and she could not keep from surveying the crowd now and again, just to see if he had entered the theater.

“There are Lord and Lady Farrington,” Francesca said, raising her fan to speak behind it. “The third box from the stage across from us. Their oldest son will inherit a fortune.” She frowned. “Though one rarely sees him about. I wonder why.”

“Shy, I hear,” Sir Lucien supplied the answer. “It is said that he prefers, um, relationships of a more, shall we say, commercial nature? ’Tis easier than facing a line of young ladies, you see.”

“Oh, dear,” Francesca said. “Well, I suppose we shall have to cross him off the list.”

“What about Sir Alastair Surton?” Sir Lucien asked, his glasses stopping on a man in the audience below them.

Callie let out a groan. “He is forever going on about his horses and his dogs. I like riding as much as anyone, but I would like some of my conversation to be about something else.”

“True,” Lucien agreed. “He is rather dull. I fear the selection is small until the Season starts.”

“We are simply making a preliminary survey. A reconnaissance. Is that not what you call it?”

“Not I. Not much of a military sort, myself,” Sir Lucien remarked.

Francesca reached out to give his arm a playful tap with her fan.

“You know, Lady Calandra,” Sir Lucien said dryly. “You need not look far to find the perfect spouse. He is sitting right here in this box.”

“You are putting yourself forth as a candidate?” Francesca asked, raising a brow skeptically. “Everyone knows you are a confirmed bachelor.”

“Perhaps I simply have not had the right incentive,” Sir Lucien protested, the twinkle in his eyes belying his words. “You must admit, ladies, that it would be difficult to find a more agreeable or entertaining man than myself. I am a marvelous dancer.”

“That is true,” Callie admitted, smiling.

“And who is better at talking to all one’s old boring female relatives?”

“No one,” Francesca agreed.

“And,” he added triumphantly, “you would always have someone to advise you on your ball gowns.”

“What more could one ask?” Callie said.

“The only problem is that you would have to get married, Lucien,” Francesca pointed out.

“That is a drawback,” he conceded, then offered Callie a brilliant smile. “But in the case of one as beautiful as Lady Calandra, it would surely be worth the sacrifice.”