The Wedding Challenge (19 page)

The thought of Callie being subjected to the whispers of the gossipmongers twisted his gut, but he knew that it would be much, much worse if he waited. Every day, every nosegay delivered to her house, every dance they shared at a ball, would increase everyone’s certainty that he was on course to propose to her. Therefore, when he stopped seeing her, it would make the gossip all the stronger.

And if it ended with Rochford exploding in anger and rushing to town to confront him, then the scandal would be even graver. It would probably follow Callie all her life.

Bromwell’s scowl deepened. Why had he ever thought that wooing Callie would be such perfect revenge on Rochford? He should have just settled his account with the man with a swift right uppercut to the jaw then and there. After all, none of this had anything to do with Callie. She had done nothing to deserve it, and yet she would be hurt worst of all by it.

He remembered his words to Archie, how he had shrugged off the idea that Callie was an innocent and did not deserve to be hurt. He had gotten angry with Daphne just now for doing something that could hurt Callie’s reputation. Yet he had set out to get his revenge without caring at all how badly she might be hurt by his scheme. He had been a fool, he thought, a shallow, callous fool.

There was no way he could make up for the harm he had already done to her. The only thing he could do was to ensure she was not hurt any more. He would not call upon Callie again. But why did doing the right thing leave him feeling so empty inside?

C
ALLIE WAS SOMEWHAT SURPRISED
and disappointed when Lord Bromwell did not call upon her the following morning. However, she did not think anything of it. She was not feeling very hearty herself. Her head hurt, her stomach was a bit queasy, and the winter light streaming in the windows of Francesca’s morning room made her eyes hurt. It was all due, she knew, to the strong arrack punch that she had drunk the evening before. Callie had never drunk anything more than white wine with dinner or perhaps a glass of ratafia or sherry. Given the way she felt, she thought that she would prefer to stick to that course in the future.

Francesca asked her a few questions about the evening. Even though Callie had planned to tell her nothing about the events at the Gardens, she realized that she must reveal that Lord and Lady Radbourne had not been there, as they were close friends, and the subject was bound to come up when next they saw Lady Irene.

Therefore, after telling her a bit about the beauty of the lights and the fireworks, Callie finally said, “Lord and Lady Radbourne did not come.”

“What?” Francesca, who had been darning a stocking as they talked, dropped the darning egg in her lap and sat up straighter. “They were not there?”

“No.”

“But what—who—oh, dear, I knew I should have gone,” Francesca moaned.

“Do not worry. It was all quite uneventful. Lady Swithington was there, and Lord Bromwell. It was quite a big party. Miss Swanson and her brother and another young lady were there, also.”

“I cannot imagine why Irene would not have notified us if she could not go,” Francesca said, looking worried. “Well, at least you had on a domino and mask. You kept it on all evening, did you not?”

“Oh, yes. No one would have recognized me,” Callie assured her. “I did not even go out to the dance floor,” she lied.

Francesca nodded, looking somewhat relieved, but a frown still married her forehead. “You know, I believe that I shall pay a call on Irene this afternoon.”

“You think perhaps one of them was ill?”

“I am not certain what I think,” Francesca replied thoughtfully. “But I would like to discover why they were absent. Irene is not the flighty sort. Would you care to come with me?”

Callie declined. She did not feel like going out, and she was hopeful that an afternoon nap with a lavender-scented cloth over her forehead might help her headache. Besides, she found that she often preferred to stay at home, given Lord Bromwell’s frequent calls.

As it turned out, he did not come to call in the afternoon, either. But the nap in her darkened room did help restore her, so that when Francesca returned, Callie was feeling much more the thing and greeted her cheerfully.

Francesca, however, looked a good deal less than cheerful. Indeed, her deep blue eyes were snapping, and there was a pugnacious set to her delicate chin.

“That Swithington woman!” she said scathingly when Callie asked her if aught was amiss.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Francesca said, biting off each word, “that Irene told me that Lady Swithington wrote her a note on Sunday saying that she was sorry to tell her that the party to Vauxhall Gardens had been called off, but that she hoped very much that they would plan for it again in a few more weeks.”

“Oh.” Callie was not very surprised, though she had been hoping that the whole thing would turn out to have been an unhappy accident.

Francesca continued to pace the room, talking angrily about Lady Swithington’s deception, but Callie listened to her with only half an ear. Her mind was occupied with thinking about what Lady Daphne had done.

It was clear now that Bromwell’s sister had arranged things the night before to turn out as they had. She had not wanted the restraining influences of Lord and Lady Radbourne—or perhaps it was simply their respectability she wished to avoid. She also clearly had not wanted Callie to know that Gideon and Irene would not be among their party, for she had pretended ignorance at their absence and kept assuring Callie that the pair would doubtless come later. So it was not simply that she had wanted to be free to indulge in her own scandalous behavior, she also wanted Callie to be there and a part of it.

But why? It made no sense to Callie. The only result she could find was that it made her distrust Brom’s sister.

Brom had obviously not known about whatever his sister had planned. He had been shocked and angry when he found her alone in the supper box. He had also expected Irene and Gideon to be there. And, Callie thought, he had given no indication that he could not have been with them earlier. In fact, he had seemed rather surprised at the length of time they had been there, and when Callie had commented that she had been afraid he was not going to come, he had looked surprised and said something like, “Daphne said—” and then stopped. Callie felt rather certain that he had been about to remark that his sister had told him not to come any earlier.

Callie could not escape the conclusion that for some reason Daphne disliked her intensely, despite the sweet way Daphne acted toward her. Could it be that she hoped to somehow influence her brother against Callie?

If Callie had not tossed a bottle at that fellow last night, might he have climbed over the ledge of the box and tried to take advantage of her? And what might Brom have thought if he had arrived at the supper box to find Callie all alone in the arms of another man?

Callie gave a little shiver. If that had been Daphne’s reason for the way she acted last night, she must be a very cold and uncaring person, to sacrifice another woman that way. It also seemed a most uncertain sort of outcome. Things were just as likely, surely, to turn out as they had, with Bromwell arriving and being annoyed with his sister for leaving Callie alone.

She was glad that they had no social engagements for this evening. She did not feel like going out, especially if there was any possibility of running into Lady Swithington. It was rather nice, really, to spend a quiet evening at home, and she managed to get letters written to both her grandmother and her brother. However, she had to admit, at least to herself, that she did miss Lord Bromwell. She tried to remember when was the last time that an entire day had gone by without her seeing him.

Callie awaited his call the following day with anticipation, but, surprisingly, he did not come by. Late in the afternoon, Francesca asked, “Where is your friend Lord Bromwell? I must say, I have become rather accustomed to seeing him.”

Callie shook her head, aware of an odd little pain in her chest. “I do not know.”

Francesca frowned a little, but said lightly, “How odd. Well, we must take him to task for his neglect next time we see him.”

But they did not see him—not that evening when they attended Mrs. Cutternan’s soiree, nor the next afternoon when they received callers. Callie determinedly kept a polite smile on her face as they chatted with their visitors, doing her best not to appear as though she was waiting each moment for Lord Bromwell to appear. But she could scarcely attend to what was being said. All she could think of was Lord Bromwell and whether he would call on her later in the afternoon, and if not, why not.

Had she said something wrong? Done something wrong? Had he thought she acted imprudently the other night, that she should have left Vauxhall as soon as the party turned boisterous? Or that she should not even have gone there without Irene and Gideon in attendance?

But surely he could not be so unfair as to blame her for going there with his own sister as chaperone. If Lady Swithington had not been acting with such abandon, if she had exercised more control over the party, it would not have degenerated into such a romp. Would he actually blame Callie when it was obviously his sister who should have been more responsible?

On the other hand, she reasoned, perhaps it was not that at all. Perhaps it was her behavior after they left the supper box. She had not wanted to go straight home but had asked him to linger. Had he thought her too bold? Had she not appeared shaken enough by her experience? Had she seemed too worldly? Too experienced?

Or was it that Bromwell thought she had behaved like a wanton? The memory of the kisses they had shared by the fountain were enough to bring blushes to her cheeks. She could not help but wonder if he had found her too brazen, too bold. It was unfair, of course, for certainly he had participated in their kisses and caresses fully as much as she. But she knew full well that men were often unfair in their moral judgments of women. A young man could have relations with a woman and no one thought anything of it. A young woman, however, would be ruined if she lay down with a man. A man might want to sleep with a woman, but if she gave in, then he would not want to marry her. It was a tale she had been told ever since she came out.

She could feel Francesca casting worried glances her way from time to time. When their last visitor left, Francesca turned to her and said quietly, “Perhaps Lord Bromwell has been called away from town for some reason. There might have been an emergency at his estate, and he did not have time to leave a message.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Callie answered, summoning up a smile. “Or perhaps he is simply the fickle sort. I have heard that some men are.”

“He did not seem so,” Francesca replied, her frown deepening. “I had come to think—oh, well, there is no use in talking of it now, is there? We must wait and see if he writes and tells you what happened. Or perhaps he will simply arrive tomorrow with a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

Callie was not sure what an adequate explanation would be, as it seemed to her that whatever had happened, he could have sent round a note by now to explain his absence. However, she was eager to end the conversation, for it was growing more difficult with each second to keep her worry and fears from showing. She was afraid that if Francesca continued talking about the matter much longer, she might start to cry.

Fortunately, Francesca seemed as happy as she to drop the subject and began to chat about what they should wear to the opera that night. Callie joined in, grateful that Francesca was able to bear more than her share of the conversational burden.

They went to the opera with Irene and Gideon, occupying Lord Radbourne’s luxurious box. Callie paid especial attention to her attire and hair, unable to suppress the hope that she might see Bromwell tonight. If he was there, it was vitally important that she look her best—and that she appear lighthearted and carefree.

He was not there, however, and Callie was not sure whether to be unhappy or relieved. For if he was at the opera, it would mean that he had not been called away or been ill or any other such thing; it would mean that he simply had not wanted to call on her.

The next afternoon, she decided to make a round of calls. She had been staying home all too much recently, waiting for Lord Bromwell to visit, and she did not want to spend another afternoon that way. There was a little niggling worry inside her that he would come by and she would be gone, but she refused to give way to it. If he did call, it would serve him right that she was not there. He would see that she was not sitting about pining for him.

Still, when she returned, she could not keep from sifting through the calling cards that had been left her in absence, just to see if Bromwell’s was among them. It was not.

Francesca had tactfully not mentioned Lord Bromwell since their brief discussion of the subject the afternoon before. Callie could only admire the woman’s ability to find so many other things to talk about other than the one that was so glaringly obvious.

The next evening was Lady Smythe-Furling’s ball. She was not known for the excellence of her parties, but it was the only social entertainment that evening, and Callie was now determined to go out at every opportunity. She wanted desperately to keep herself occupied, to dance or chat or do something, anything, to chase away the depressing thoughts and doubts.

Almost as soon as they entered, however, Callie wished that they had not come. As she made her polite curtsey to Lady Smythe-Furling and her two daughters, she glanced across the room. And there, standing at the edge of the dance floor, talking to Lord Westfield, was Bromwell.

Her heart skittered in her chest, and she struggled to keep control of her expression. He was here! Hope surged within her, no matter how she struggled to keep it down. He would see her, she thought; he would turn and smile, and then he would walk over to her, and everything would be all right again. She could stop her incessant worrying.

But he did not turn or look at her. She strolled away, careful not to stray toward the part of the room where he stood. She refused to seek him out. If he wanted to talk to her, he would come to her.

He did not.

She danced with her host, and with the husband of Lady Smythe-Furling’s oldest daughter. She danced with Francesca’s good friend Sir Lucien—and was very grateful for his presence at her side for much of the evening. She felt certain that Francesca had put a word in his ear, but it was, Callie thought, kind of him to oblige her and devote his evening to easing her discomfort.

She was also grateful that her dance card was full and she was able to appear, at least, to be enjoying the party. She chatted, she laughed, and she even managed to flirt a bit—it was easy with Sir Lucien, who was able to carry on a flirtation almost entirely by himself, truth be known.

Inside, however, she ached. Bromwell was here—the man who had kissed her passionately only a few nights before, the man who had devoted himself to her over the past few weeks—and he had not even come over to say hello to her. It was just as well that he had not, she thought, for she was not sure how she would have maintained her composure. It had been difficult enough to do so without having to face him.