The Wedding Challenge (28 page)

Callie bent and kissed his forehead lightly, brushing her lips against his skin. She made her way down his face, kissing the tender skin of his closed eyelids, the sharp cheekbones that fascinated her, the strong masculine jaw and chin, settling finally on his mouth. She kissed him deeply and long. She could feel his muscles bunch and gather beneath her, and she knew that he was twitching and burning as she had done earlier.

She raised her head and slid off his body. He made a noise of protest and reached for her, but she pushed his hand away and began to kiss her way down his chest as her hand slid farther down his body. Her fingers glided light as air over his chest and stomach, then down onto the sharp outcropping of his hipbone and onto his thigh, furred with curling hair. He stirred, his legs moving restlessly, and made a low noise.

Her fingers teased back up the inside of his thigh, until her fingertips found the heavy sac between his legs. She hesitated a little timidly, then gently moved her fingertips across it. He sucked in his breath and moved his hips involuntarily.

“Do you like that?” she whispered, pressing her lips against his throat.

His answer was a low, urgent noise.

“I shall take that as agreement,” she said, and cupped him in her palm.

He shivered beneath her gentle movements, and she grew bolder, sliding her fingers up the underside of his manhood and curving her fingers around it. She moved slowly, exploring the satin-smooth skin that overlay the hard member, which was throbbing now with desire.

Then, with a low growl, he put his hands on her arms, and in one swift motion, she was on her back and he was over her, between her legs and smoothly sliding into her. Callie let out a soft sob, so sweet was the feeling of his filling her again. She wrapped herself around him, holding on tightly as he rode hard and fast to his completion, taking her with him into the dazzling explosion of their desire.

T
HEY LAY FOR A LONG TIME
in a blissful state, floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Callie was curled on her side, her head on Brom’s arm, and his arm draped over her. She felt deliciously spent and lazy, and her mind drifted in a pleasant haze.

Finally, however, with a sigh, Bromwell moved his arm away, saying, “I must go into town and hire a post chaise.”

“Later,” Callie murmured, snuggling back against him.

He chuckled and stroked his hand down the side of her body. “Vixen. You cannot tempt me from my purpose.”

She turned her head, casting a sparkling glance his way. “Is that a challenge?”

He laughed and planted a kiss upon the point of her bare shoulder. “No, for I know I should not win that one.”

He kissed her mouth then, more slowly, but pulled away after a moment, saying, “No. I must go. We must get you back to London before anyone knows you are gone.”

She nodded, realizing the truth of his words, though she was reluctant to give up this moment. Once she left Blackfriars Cope, everything would change.

Bromwell did not bother to scoop up his clothing, only grabbing his boots as he left the room to return to his bedchamber and dress. With a sigh, Callie, too, arose. It was chilly in the room, so she wrapped herself in the same light blanket that Brom had given her the night before when he brought her in from the rain.

She picked up her bag and pulled out the change of clothes that her maid had packed. Fortunately she had had the foresight to pack a simple morning dress that buttoned up the front, so that it was easy enough to put on without help. It was rather wrinkled, but there would be no one to see, and it would soon enough be wrinkled from traveling, anyway.

Brom came in a few minutes later, once again dressed, bringing with him a pitcher of water for the washstand, and told her that he was going down to see if the housekeeper had shown up for work this morning.

Callie quickly washed and dressed, brushing out her tangled hair with some difficulty and pinning it up into a simple knot at the crown of her head. Then she hurried down the stairs and made her way toward the back of the house, following the sounds of crockery and metal pots.

She found Brom in the kitchen alone, setting down plates and eating utensils at a large wooden table. He looked up at her and grinned a little sheepishly. “Mrs. Farmington is not here. But I have made tea, and found butter and jelly, and I’ve managed to slice off a few pieces of bread for toast.”

“That sounds perfect,” Callie said, beaming.

The toast was a trifle burned on one side and soft on the other, and the tea was terribly strong, but it was, Callie thought, the best breakfast she had ever eaten. He described his culinary efforts, sending her into giggles, and as they talked and ate, he kept reaching out to caress her hand or smooth a piece of hair back from her cheek, as if he could not go too long without touching her.

They had just finished eating and were reluctantly rising from the table when Callie heard a sound in the yard outside. She turned her head, listening. “Is that a horse I hear?”

Callie glanced out the window, but she could see nothing but the side yard and the stables.

Brom went still. “Yes. Someone riding fast.”

They started out of the kitchen and were halfway down the hall when there was a thunderous knock at the door. Callie and Brom glanced at each other. She felt suddenly uneasy.

The pounding continued, and Brom strode to the door and yanked it open. The Duke of Rochford stood framed in the doorway.

T
HE DUKE WAS DRESSED FOR RIDING
. His clothes were travel-stained, his boots splattered with mud. He carried his hat and a riding crop in one hand. And his face was stamped with a cold fury.

“Then it
is
true!” he snarled.

Stepping forward, he smashed his fist into Bromwell’s jaw. Bromwell staggered backward and fell through the wide double doorway into the drawing room.

“Sinclair!” Callie shrieked. “No!”

She ran to Bromwell to help him up, but he shrugged off her hand as he rose lithely to his feet. His eyes glittered silver as he looked at Rochford, and he reached up to wipe away a trickle of blood from his cheekbone, where Rochford’s knuckles had smashed into him.

“You want to fight?” Bromwell asked in a dangerously soft voice, and a corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Brom, no!” Callie cried.

“I want to kill you,” Rochford replied shortly, tossing his hat and crop onto the bench in the foyer.

“Sinclair!” She whirled toward her brother in exasperation.

Neither man paid her the slightest attention as they began in unison to pull off their jackets and toss them aside, then roll up their sleeves.

“Would you two stop for just a minute?” Callie asked. “Please? Would you listen to me? Sinclair, I am all right. There is no need—”

“There is every need,” her brother told her shortly, not even looking at her.

“Callie, stay out of this,” Bromwell told her at the same moment.

“Stay out of it!” Callie stared at him. “How can I stay out of it? You are going to fight my brother? How can I possibly stay out of it?”

But it was clear to her that they were going to continue to ignore her no matter what she said. She glanced around the room, searching for inspiration as the two men moved closer together, warily circling each other, their hands up and curled into fists.

Then, like lightning, Bromwell jabbed with his left hand, but Rochford as quickly moved aside so that the blow fell on his shoulder rather than his face. Bromwell followed with an overhand right that landed flush on Rochford’s jaw and sent him backward into a tall cabinet. There was a crash, and a porcelain figurine toppled out and smashed on the floor behind him.

Bromwell came rushing after him, but Rochford neatly twisted away and, grabbing Bromwell’s arm, threw him against the cabinet in turn. Bromwell charged back, punching, and the two men came up hard against the sofa and tumbled over its back onto the seat and then down to the floor, still grappling and punching, the fine rules of pugilism discarded.

Callie screamed at them to stop, but to no avail. She ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker, then turned back to the men. They were rolling across the floor, knocking into the tables and chairs, and she ran to them, poker raised. But she could not bring herself to hit either of them with it.

She was standing there indecisively, the poker still held up in her hand, when a cool female voice behind her said, “Really, Rochford…brawling in the drawing room? Before breakfast? How terribly primitive.”

Callie swung toward the direction of the voice and stared, her jaw dropping. There stood Francesca at the foot of the staircase, looking calm and unruffled in a pale blue frock.

Callie could think of nothing to say, so stunned was she by the unexpected vision. Apparently Francesca’s appearance had been enough to halt the men in the midst of their fight, for they, too, had stopped and were staring in equal astonishment at Francesca.

“Really, Rochford, do get up. You look exceedingly foolish there on the floor. As do you, Lord Bromwell. I must say, I would think you men could find something better to do than break up the furniture. I am sure whoever owns this charming house will be most upset at the damage you have caused.”

When no one answered her, Francesca strolled forward, stopping in the doorway and looking down at the men.

“Both members of the ‘Fancy,’ I presume?” she went on as the two men got to their feet, looking bewildered. “It does seem to me that you could have pursued your interest outside. You made such a dreadful amount of noise that you woke me up. Now I shall have great dark circles under my eyes, I am sure, especially after the late night that Callie and I had, driving here through the dark.”

Francesca paused, then added magnanimously, “I am glad, however, to find you all in one piece, Rochford. I did not think you would like having a broken leg and ribs overmuch.”

The duke at last found his voice. “What the devil are you prattling about, Francesca?”

“Why, your injuries, of course,” she replied sweetly. “We came as soon as we received the letter saying how badly you had been injured. You can imagine our surprise when we arrived, and you were nowhere to be found.”

“You—you mean you were here with Callie?” Rochford asked, astonished.

“Yes, of course, we came posthaste as soon as she received the note from—what was the name, Callie?”

“Mrs. Farmington,” Callie supplied, struggling to suppress the smile that wanted to spring to her lips.

“Yes, Farmington, of course. Well, I could hardly allow Callie to make the trip all by herself. We were most puzzled, of course, not to find you here, but Lord Bromwell was kind enough to allow us to put up here for the night. It was excessively late, you know, and I rather think the inn was not the sort of place where I would feel comfortable.”

“I don’t understand. What note are you talking about? Why are you here? And why is
he?
” He scowled over at Bromwell.

“I live here,” Lord Bromwell offered. “Or, at least, I am staying here for a week or so.”

“And Callie and I were brought here by the note. I just told you this, Rochford. Do you still have it, Callie?” Francesca asked. “Why don’t you run up to our room and fetch it, dear, so you can show it to your brother? Mayhap it will make more sense to him.”

Callie nodded and hastened to up to her bedchamber. In her absence, Rochford looked suspiciously from Francesca to Lord Bromwell, who crossed his arms and stared back at him arrogantly. Francesca simply regarded him with the same cool, faintly derisive gaze.

When Callie returned a moment later, she handed the note to her brother, and he read through it quickly, frowning. When he was done, he looked up at her and then at Francesca.

“But what does this mean? Who sent this to you?” He swung toward Bromwell, scowling. “Was this a trick of yours?”

“No!” Callie exclaimed quickly. “He knew nothing about it. He was quite as astonished as I was. Or Francesca,” she added quickly.

“We were quite tired, so we decided to go on to bed and try to clear the whole matter up this morning. But then you came in howling like a madman.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Francesca was here?” Rochford turned to Callie.

“I tried to!” Callie exclaimed, crossing her arms combatively. “If you will remember, you refused to listen to anything I said.”

“Oh.” The duke looked somewhat abashed.

“Now it is your turn, Rochford,” Francesca said. “What are you doing here?”

“I received a letter also,” he replied. “It said that my sister was here with Lord Bromwell. That they had eloped.”

“I see.” Francesca’s normally warm blue eyes turned to chips of ice.

“Yes, I think we all do,” Lord Bromwell said heavily. He turned away and busied himself with picking up an overturned chair and table, and setting them aright.

Francesca’s gaze was locked with Rochford’s for a long moment. Then she turned to Callie. “Come, my dear, shall we get our things? Perhaps Rochford will escort us back to London.”

“That reminds me,” Rochford said, his voice once again suspicious. “Where is your carriage? I did not see it when I rode up.”

“Why, in the stable, of course,” Francesca replied, looking at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “Where else would it be?”

In the silence after her words, they heard the sound of horses outside. The four of them glanced at each other in surprise, and Bromwell started toward the door.

At that moment there was a sound of feminine voices and laughter, and Brom stopped abruptly. The door swung open, and Lady Swithington stepped inside, accompanied by another woman. She was talking gaily to her friend, but she stopped in midsentence when she saw her brother standing before her, his face like stone.

“Why, Brom!” she exclaimed, looking surprised. “I did not expect you to be up yet. And Lady Calandra…what an unexpected pleasure.” Her eyes went on to Callie and the duke standing beyond him. “And Rochford. Whatever are you doing here?” Her voice was as rich and smooth as cream, obviously pleased despite her attempt to look surprised.

“Hello, Daphne,” Francesca said.

Daphne’s gaze snapped over to Francesca, and her eyes widened in a much more natural expression of shock. “Francesca! What the—well, this is indeed a surprise.” She stood for a moment, seemingly nonplussed, then turned to the woman with her. “I am sorry. Please allow me to introduce my friend, Mrs. Cathcart. Do you know Mrs. Cathcart, Lady Calandra? Lady Haughston?”

“Yes, I believe we have met,” Callie answered, forcing herself to smile in greeting. “How do you do, Mrs. Cathcart?”

The sharp-faced blond woman was one of the worst gossips of the
ton.
Clearly, Brom’s sister had staged this scene so that the scandal she had arranged would be witnessed by someone who was sure to spread it all over London.

Lady Swithington continued with the introductions. The duke had recovered enough to roll down his sleeves and offer Mrs. Cathcart an elegant bow.

“It is a pleasure to speak with you,” he told her, smiling in his gracious way that was at once winning without letting the recipient forget that he or she was in the presence of a duke. “I do hope you will forgive the way I appear, Mrs. Cathcart. I fear I was not expecting visitors.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Mrs. Cathcart said, smiling and blushing, clearly flattered at actually being in conversation with the Duke of Rochford.

“You
are
rather…mussed, Rochford,” Lady Daphne agreed. “And is that blood on your cheek, Brom? Whatever have you two been up to?”

The two men glanced at each other, and Francesca rushed to fill the silence. “They have been working at righting our carriage. It is no wonder that they are rather disheveled and battered. A wheel went into a ditch, and we overturned. Such a distressing thing!”

Mrs. Cathcart made appropriate noises of shock and dismay, but Lady Daphne looked at Francesca with narrowed eyes and said flatly, “How dreadful. I am surprised that you were not hurt.”

“It was most jarring, I can assure you,” Francesca went on blithely. “Was it not, Lady Calandra?”

“Yes, indeed,” Callie said, joining into the spirit of the story. “I have a horrid bruise on my back. But luckily there were no broken bones.” She gazed steadily into Lady Daphne’s eyes, making sure that her meaning was clear.

After a long moment of silence, Daphne said, “My. You must have had a very trying day—and it is not yet noon. How fortunate that your carriage broke down here, where my brother could help you.”

“Yes, was it not?” Francesca put in sweetly. “Lord Bromwell has been most kind to us. We have all appreciated his help. Haven’t we, Rochford?” She turned to the duke, and only those who knew her well would have caught the iron undertone in her voice.

A muscle jumped in Rochford’s jaw, but he said somewhat stiffly, “Yes. I appreciate his assistance.”

“It was my pleasure,” Bromwell added. “I am sorry that your journey was interrupted.”

“You will understand, then, that we should be on our way,” Rochford put in smoothly. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Mrs. Cathcart, but I fear you must excuse us.”

“Wherever were you going?” Lady Daphne asked. “I had thought that you were in London.”

Rochford turned his most aristocratic gaze upon her, the sort he used to stop impertinent questions, but Daphne did not look in the least intimidated. “We were going to visit friends before traveling on to Marcastle.”

“Oh, really? Who were you going to visit? Perhaps I know them,” Daphne went on.

The duke’s eyebrows rose at this, and he said shortly, “I doubt it.”

“No more questions, Daphne,” Lord Bromwell put in, and there was a harshness in his voice that his sister had never heard. “Our guests must leave now. We do not want to delay them.”

“Of course not,” Daphne agreed, casting a brilliant smile at everyone.

“I shall go out to the stables and tell the driver to bring the carriage round,” Rochford said, his gaze going to Francesca as he said it.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” she told him, her smile cool and composed.

Rochford made a perfunctory bow to everyone and strode out of the room.

“If you ladies will excuse us, Callie and I would like to freshen up a bit before we leave,” Francesca said, going over to loop her arm through Callie’s.

The two of them smiled at the other women and left the room. Callie carefully avoided looking at Bromwell, afraid that something of what had happened between them would show in her face. She and Francesca went up the staircase, Francesca’s arm keeping Callie to a slower pace.