Page 36 of The Wedding Challenge

“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.