Page 33 of The Wedding Challenge

“He regretted getting angry, I think,” Callie told her. She paused, then added, “Still, I cannot lie to you. Sinclair did tell me not to see Lord Bromwell again.”

“I see. But you intend to?” Francesca asked.

Callie straightened, lifting her chin a little. “I—I want to decide for myself about the man. It is not Sinclair’s place to order my life. I love my brother, but I will not live a certain way just because he tells me to. However, I can certainly understand it if you do not want to cross Sinclair.”

Francesca’s chin came up in a way that mirrored Callie’s. “I am not afraid of the Duke of Rochford.”

“But if you do not wish to allow Lord Bromwell to call here, I will not be angry with you.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Francesca replied. Her voice was calm, but her eyes sparked with temper. “But I would be angry with myself if I allowed the duke’s, or anyone’s, opinion to dictate who I allow in my house. I told Lord Bromwell that he is welcome to call here, and he is. And if your brother does not like it—well, he will just have to deal with the fact you and I are not under his command.”

“Thank you, Francesca.” Callie beamed at the other woman. She rushed impulsively across the room to hug her. “I am so glad I came here.”

“I am, too,” Francesca replied, patting her on the back.

With another hug, Callie bade her friend good-night and went to her room. Francesca turned and walked across to the window. She was tired, and yet she still felt restless. She pushed aside the edge of the heavy drapery and gazed out into the dark night.

She wondered if she had done the right thing. It would be wrong of her to do anything that would open Callie up to being hurt. She could not help but worry that Lord Bromwell might turn out to be the same sort as his sister. And how much of her own decision not to bow to Rochford’s commands stemmed from her belief that Callie had the right to do as she pleased and how much from a long-simmering resentment?

Francesca told herself that she would chaperone Callie and Bromwell closely. She would watch for any sign that Bromwell was a roue, a blackguard. Nothing, she promised, would harm Callie while she was under her roof.

Still, she worried that she should let Rochford know about Lord Bromwell and about Callie’s feelings. But she could not betray Callie in that way—any more than she could write or speak to Rochford about that time fifteen years ago. And it was no wonder, she thought, remembering that time, that Rochford had avoided telling her why he and Callie had argued.

That left her with only one other option—to tell Callie what she knew. But how could she tell Callie that Rochford doubtless wanted her to stay away from the earl because he did not want his sister involved with the man whose sister had once been Rochford’s own mistress?

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.