Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author

CANDACE CAMP

“Lively and energetic secondaries round out the formidable leads, and…the mystery surrounding Gideon’s parentage continues to unravel until the very last pages, assuring readers a surprise ending well worth waiting for.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Bridal Quest

“Camp delivers another beautifully written charmer, sure to please fans of historicals, with enough modern appeal to pull in some contemporary romance readers.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Marriage Wager

“A clever mystery adds intrigue to this lively and gently humorous tale, which simmers with well-handled sexual tension.”

—Library Journal on A Dangerous Man

“The talented Camp has deftly mixed romance and intrigue to create another highly enjoyable

Regency romance.”

—Booklist on An Independent Woman

“[An] entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”

—The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

Also available from

CANDACECAMP

The Bridal Quest

The Marriage Wager

Promise Me Tomorrow

No Other Love

A Stolen Heart

A Dangerous Man

An Independent Woman

An Unexpected Pleasure

So Wild a Heart

The Hidden Heart

Swept Away

Winterset

Beyond Compare

Mesmerized

Impetuous

Indiscreet

Impulse

Scandalous

Suddenly

Watch for the next installment of

Candace Camp’s Matchmakers series

The Courtship Dance

Coming February 2009

CANDACE CAMP
THE Wedding CHALLENGE

Dear Reader,

The Wedding Challenge is the third book in the MATCHMAKER series and was probably the most fun to write. (And, yes, there are books that, no matter how much I love them, are not fun while I’m writing them.)

However, this book was like telling a story about old friends, since I’ve written about Callie and her brother and Francesca in the first two books. Callie is a little younger than most of my heroines, and I enjoyed presenting her youthful enthusiasm and joie de vivre. And even though it’s set long ago and far away, with customs and manners that are years removed from us, I think that the challenges Callie faces will be something that most of us women can relate to.

So choose your favorite reading place and settle down for a few hours with some good friends. Happy reading!

Best wishes,

Candace Camp

For Leslie Wainger, editor extraordinaire,

for her wisdom and her talent for sharing it.

THE Wedding CHALLENGE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

LADY ODELIA PENCULLY’S BIRTHDAY BALL was the event of the Season—even though the Season had not yet begun. Not to have been invited was a cause for deep social embarrassment. To have been invited and not attend was unthinkable.

Either by blood or by birth, Lady Pencully was related to half the most powerful and wealthy families in England. The daughter of a duke and a countess by marriage, she was a pillar of Society, and it was rare that anyone dared cross her. During her heyday, she had ruled over the ton as she did her family, with an acid tongue and an iron will, and even though she had, with age, remained more and more at her country estate, rarely coming to London even for the Season, she was still a force to be reckoned with. A prodigious correspondent, she kept up to date with the latest scandals and news, and was never averse to dashing off a note to anyone whom she felt needed the benefit of her advice.

So this year, when she announced that she would celebrate her eighty-fifth year of life with a grand ball, it immediately became the one event that no one of any social standing or pretenses thereof could risk missing, even if it was in London in January, the most unfashionable and difficult time of the year. Neither snow nor cold nor the difficulties of opening up a town house for a brief visit could hold back the ladies of the ton, who comforted themselves with the fact that at least it would not be true, as it usually was in January, that no one would be in town, since everyone who mattered would be coming to Lady Odelia’s party.

Among those who drove into London from their country estates was the Duke of Rochford, along with his sister, Lady Calandra, and their grandmother, the dowager Duchess of Rochford. The duke, one of the rare few who would have dared to refuse Lady Odelia, had been disinclined to do so. He was, after all, her great-nephew, and he was a man who believed in carrying out his family responsibilities. Besides, there was business he needed to attend to in London.

The dowager duchess had come because, while she had never really liked her late husband’s older sister, Lady Pencully was one of the few people left of their generation—though, the duchess was careful to point out, Lady Pencully was a number of years older than she—and was, moreover, one of the even fewer number of women whom the duchess considered of equal standing. Lady Odelia was, quite simply, one of the duchess’s set, despite Odelia’s sometimes rather shocking lack of manners.

Of the three in the carriage waiting in the long line of carriages creeping along Cavendish Crescent toward Lady Pencully’s door, only the youngest, Lady Calandra, was looking forward with eagerness to the evening.

At twenty-three years of age, Callie, as she was known to those close to her, had been out for five years, so a London ball, especially one given by an octogenarian relative, would not normally have been cause for excitement. However, she had just spent several long months at the Lilles family country estate, Marcastle, months made even longer and drearier by an inordinate number of drab rainy days and the constant presence of her grandmother.

In the usual way of things, her grandmother was accustomed to residing a good part of the year in her home in Bath, happily reigning over the slow and genteel social scene of that community, and only occasionally, particularly during the Season, coming up to London to make sure that her granddaughter was conducting herself properly.

However, at the end of the last Season, the dowager duchess had decided that it was well past time for Lady Calandra to be married, and she had taken it as her primary occupation to get the girl engaged—to the proper sort of gentleman, of course. To that end, she had sacrificed her usual winter course in Bath for the cold drafts of the historic family estate in Norfolk.

Callie, therefore, had spent the last few months cooped up by the inclement weather, listening to the old lady’s strictures on her behavior, admonitions of her duty to marry, and opinions regarding the suitability of the various peers of the realm.

As a result, the prospect of a real ball, with dancing, friends, gossip and music, set her stomach fluttering in anticipation. To make it even more interesting in Callie’s opinion, Lady Odelia’s party was a masquerade ball. This fact had not only allowed Callie the added fun of devising a costume, it also provided the evening with an intriguing air of mystery.

She had, after much careful consideration and consultation with her seamstress, settled on the guise of a woman of the reign of Henry VIII. Not only did the close-fitting Tudor cap look quite fetching on her, but the deep crimson color of the gown was a perfect foil for her black curls and fair skin—and a welcome change from the usual white to which an unmarried young woman such as herself was limited.

Callie glanced across the carriage at her brother. Rochford, naturally, had eschewed any disguise, wearing his usual elegant black evening suit and white shirt, with a crisp, perfectly tied white cravat, his only concession to the evening a black half mask worn across his eyes. With his dark good looks, of course, he still looked sufficiently romantic and faintly sinister enough to have most of the ladies at the ball gazing in his direction and sighing.

He caught Callie’s glance and smiled affectionately at her. “Happy at the thought of dancing again, Callie?”

She smiled back at him. Others might find her older brother a trifle distant and cool, even forbidding, but she knew that he was not at all cold. He was merely reserved and rather slow to warm to people. Callie understood his manner; she, too, had learned that when one was a duke, or even a duke’s sister, any number of people wanted to ingratiate themselves with one not for friendship, but for the social and monetary benefits they hoped to receive. She suspected that Sinclair had had even more bitter experience with this phenomenon than she, for he had come into his title and wealth at a young age, and had not had the protection and guidance of an older brother.

Their father had died when Callie was only five, and their mother, a sweet woman with a perpetual air of sadness, had gone to her grave nine years later, still mourning their father. Her brother was Callie’s only real family, except, of course, for her grandmother. Sinclair, fifteen years older than Callie, had assumed the role of guardian as well as brother, and as a result, he had been more like a young, indulgent father to her than a brother. She suspected that one of the reasons he had been willing to come to London for their great-aunt’s party had been because he knew how much she herself would enjoy it.

“Indeed, I am looking forward to it,” she answered him now. “I don’t believe that I have danced since Irene and Gideon’s wedding.”

It was well known among Lady Calandra’s family and friends that she was an active sort, preferring a ride or a brisk walk through the country to sitting with her needlework beside the fire, and even by the end of the Season, she never tired of dancing.

“There was Christmas,” the duke pointed out, a twinkle in his eye.

Callie rolled her eyes. “Dancing with one’s brother while Grandmother’s companion plays the piano does not count.”

“It has been a dull winter,” Rochford admitted. “We shall go to Dancy Park soon, I promise.”

Callie smiled. “It will be wonderful to see Constance and Dominic again. Her letters have been brimming over with happiness, now that she is in the family way.”

“Really, Calandra, that is hardly the sort of thing one mentions to a gentleman,” the duchess commented.

“It’s only Sinclair,” Callie pointed out mildly, suppressing a sigh. She was well-used to her grandmother’s strict views of appropriate behavior, and she did her best not to offend the woman, but after three months of the duchess’s lectures, Callie’s nerves were beginning to wear thin.

“Yes,” Rochford agreed with a grin for his sister. “It is only I, and I am well aware of Callie’s scapegrace ways.”

“It is all very well for you to laugh,” his grandmother retorted. “But a lady of Callie’s station must always act with the greatest discretion. Especially one who is not yet married. A gentleman does not choose a bride who does not conduct herself appropriately.”

Rochford’s face assumed that expression of cool hauteur that Callie referred to as his “duke’s face” as he said, “There is a gentleman who would dare to presume to call Calandra indiscreet?”

“Of course not,” the duchess replied quickly. “But when one is seeking a husband, one must be especially careful about everything one says or does.”

“Are you seeking a husband, Callie?” Rochford asked now, turning to his sister with a quizzical glance. “I was not aware.”

“No, I am not,” Callie told him flatly.

“Of course you are,” her grandmother contradicted. “An unmarried woman is always seeking a husband, whether she admits to it or not. You are no longer a young girl in her first Season, my dear. You are twenty-three, and nearly every girl who made her come-out the same season as you has gotten engaged—even that moon-faced daughter of Lord Thripp’s.”

“To an ‘Irish earl with more horses than prospects’?” Callie asked. “That is what you called him last week.”

“Of course I would expect a far better husband than that for you,” her grandmother retorted. “But it is vexing beyond belief that that chit should have become engaged before you.”

“Callie has plenty of time for finding a husband,” Rochford told his grandmother carelessly. “And I can assure you that there are any number of men who would ask me for her hand if they had the slightest encouragement.”

“Which, I might point out, you never give anyone,” the duchess put in tartly.

The duke’s eyebrows sailed upward. “Surely, Grandmother, you would not have me allow roués and fortune hunters to court Calandra.”

“Of course not. Pray do not act obtuse.” The dowager countess was one of the few who did not stand in awe of Rochford, and she rarely hesitated to give him her opinion. “I am merely saying that everyone knows that should they show an interest in your sister, they are likely to receive a visit from you. And very few men are eager to confront you.”

“I had not realized that I was so fearsome,” Rochford said mildly. “However that may be, I fail to see why Callie would be interested in any man who was not willing to face an interview with me in order to pay suit to her.” He turned to Callie. “Are you interested in any particular gentleman?”

Callie shook her head. “No. I am quite happy as I am.”

“You will not always remain the most sought-after young woman in London,” her grandmother warned.

“Then she should enjoy it now,” Rochford stated, effectively ending the conversation.

Grateful for her brother’s intervention, Callie turned her attention to the window, peeking past the curtain at the carriages disgorging passengers before them. It was not, however, quite as easy to ignore her grandmother’s words.

Callie had spoken the truth: she was largely content just as she was. She enjoyed the social whirl of London during the spring and summer months—the dancing, the plays, the opera—and during the rest of the year she could also keep herself well-occupied. She had friends she could visit. She had grown especially close, over the last few months, to Constance, the new wife of the Viscount Leighton, and when the duke was at Dancy Park, Callie spent a great deal of time with her, for Redfields, Dominic and Constance’s home, was only a few miles from Dancy Park. The duke had a number of other residences which he periodically visited, and Callie often went with him. She was rarely bored, for she enjoyed riding and long walks in the country, and she did not disdain the company of the local folk or the servants. She had been almost entirely in charge of the duke’s household since she was fifteen, so there were always things to do.

Still, she knew that her grandmother was right. The time was approaching when she would need to marry. In two more years she would be twenty-five, and most girls were wed by then. If she remained single after that, she would soon be regarded as a spinster, which was not, she knew, a particularly pleasant position to occupy.

It was not that Callie had anything against marriage. She was not like her friend Irene, who had always declared that she would never wed—a conviction that she had recently given up when she met Lord Radbourne. No, Callie expected to marry. She wanted a husband and children and a house of her own.

The problem was, she had never found anyone whom she wanted to marry. Oh, there had been a time or two when she had fallen into an infatuation, when a man’s smile had made her heart flutter, or a set of broad shoulders in a Hussar’s uniform had increased her pulse. But those had always been fleeting things, soon over, and she had yet to meet a man whom she thought she could be happy to see over the breakfast table every morning—let alone give herself up to in the vague, darkly fascinating and slightly frightening rites of the marital bed.

Callie had listened to other young women enthusing over this gentleman or that, and she had wondered what it must be like to tumble with such seeming ease into the deep chasm of love. She wondered if those girls had any idea of the opposite side of such love—the tears she had seen her mother shed, even years after her husband’s death, the soft sad ghost her mother had become long before she actually died. She wondered if it was because she was aware of the sorrows love could bring that she found it more difficult to fall in love…or was it simply something lacking within herself?

She pushed aside such gloomy thoughts as the ducal carriage pulled up to the front steps of the brightly lit house and a footman sprang forward to open their door. She was not about to allow anything, either her grandmother’s criticisms or her own doubts, to spoil her first evening out in London.

Reaching up, she made sure her dainty half mask was in place over her eyes; then she took the hand her brother offered and climbed down from the vehicle.

They were greeted inside the ballroom by Lady Francesca Haughston, easily recognizable despite the narrow blue satin mask she wore. Lady Francesca, a vision in cream and gold and blue, was masquerading as a shepherdess—not the actual sort, of course, but the romantic ideal. Her blond curls were caught up by blue ribbons that matched the wide ribbon wrapped around her white shepherd’s staff, just below its crook. She wore a blue satin overskirt, draped to reveal a froth of white flounces on the skirt beneath, each draping point pinned by a rosette. Her feet were shod in golden slippers.

“Bo Peep, I presume,” Rochford drawled, bowing over Lady Francesca’s hand, and she curtseyed to him.

“You, I can see, did not bother to don fancy dress,” she retorted. “I should have known. Well, you shall have to answer to Lady Odelia. She was quite set on the idea of a masquerade, you know.”

She gestured toward the woman who sat across the room. On a raised dais, Lady Odelia sat enthroned—there was no other word for it—in a high-backed chair padded in blue velvet. On top of her hair she wore an orange wig, and her face was painted white. A circle of gold was thrust into the mass of bright curls, and a high starched ruff rose up from her dress behind her head. Ropes of pearls hung from her neck down over her brocade stomacher and skirts, and rings bedecked her fingers.

“Ah, Good Queen Bess,” Rochford remarked, following Francesca’s gaze. “The aging one, I presume.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Francesca replied. “She cannot stand for long to receive guests, so she decided to hold court instead. Rather appropriate, I think.”

Francesca turned toward Callie, holding out her hands and smiling with affection. “Callie, my dear. At least I can count on you. How lovely you look.”

Callie greeted the other woman with a smile. She had known Lady Haughston all her life, for Francesca was Viscount Leighton’s sister and had grown up at Redfields, not far from the duke’s own Dancy Park. Francesca was several years older than Callie, and Callie had regarded her with awe and affection when she was a child. Francesca had married Lord Haughston and moved from Redfields, but Callie had continued to see her now and again when Francesca came to visit her parents. Later, when Callie had had her own coming out, they had associated frequently, for Lady Francesca, a widow for the past five years, was one of the leading ladies of the ton. Her sense of style was impeccable, and even though she was now in her early thirties, she was still one of the most beautiful women in London.

“I am completely in your shadow, I assure you,” Callie told Francesca. “You look absolutely beautiful. But how did Aunt Odelia manage to trap you into receiving guests?”

“Oh, my dear, she did much more than that. She did not feel that she could put on a ball in her own honor, so that fell to her sister Lady Radbourne and, of course, the new Countess of Radbourne—you know Irene—” Francesca swiveled to include the woman standing beside her.

“Of course,” Callie answered. The ton was not a large group, and she had known Lady Irene superficially for some years. A few months earlier she had come to know her better when she had married Gideon, Lord Radbourne, who was in some collateral way related to Lady Calandra and the duke.

Irene smiled in her frank way and greeted her, “Hello, Callie. Good to see you. Is Francesca telling you how I imposed on her good nature?”

“Hardly an imposition,” Francesca demurred.

Irene laughed. She was a tall woman, with thick, curling blond hair, and she looked stunning dressed in the white drapery of an ancient Greek. Her odd golden eyes were lit with laughter. Marriage, Callie thought, agreed with Irene. She was more beautiful than ever.

“What Francesca means is that it was worse than that,” Irene explained, glancing at Francesca with affection. “You know how hopeless I am at parties. The entire thing fell to Francesca, so you must compliment her for the fact that it has come off so well. Or at all, frankly.”

Francesca smiled amiably and turned to greet the next partygoer as Callie moved down the receiving line to Irene and her husband, Lord Radbourne. Gideon, Lord Radbourne, had come to the party tonight dressed as a pirate, and it was, Callie reflected, a guise that suited his rather unconventional looks. With his dark, slightly shaggy hair and powerful build, he looked more like someone who might stop one’s ship and rob it than like a gentleman, and he did not seem at all uncomfortable to have a cutlass thrust through his wide sash.

“Lady Calandra,” Gideon greeted her, executing a brief but serviceable bow. “Thank you for coming.” A smile warmed his hard features for an instant. “It is good to see a familiar face.”

Callie smiled. It was common knowledge that Gideon was not at ease in the company of his peers—bizarre events in his childhood had caused him to be raised from childhood in poverty in London, and he had survived and even prospered solely by using his wits. When he was returned to his proper station as an adult, he had fit in poorly with the other members of the ton. He was not much given to talking, and he had so far managed to avoid most social occasions. But he had found a proper fit with Irene, whose blunt speech and disregard of other’s opinions were equal to his own. On the occasions when Callie had been around him, she had found him quite interesting.

“It is a pleasure to be here,” Callie assured him. “I fear that winter at Marcastle has grown quite monotonous. And, in any case, one could hardly not attend Aunt Odelia’s birthday ball.”

“That seems to be the case with half of England,” Gideon opined with a glance at the crowded ballroom.

“Let me take you over to visit the guest of honor,” Irene suggested, linking her arm through Callie’s.

“Traitor,” her husband said in a low voice, though the warmth of his smile as he looked at his wife belied his caustic word. “You are simply seizing the opportunity to get out of this damnable receiving line.”

Irene let out a laugh and cast a teasing smile at Lord Radbourne. “You are quite welcome to join us if you wish. I am sure that Francesca will be well able to handle the new arrivals.”

“Hmm.” Lord Radbourne adopted a considering pose. “Greeting guests or facing Aunt Odelia—a difficult choice indeed. Is there not a third, more attractive, alternative—perhaps dashing into a burning building?”

Gideon smiled at his wife in a way that was almost a caress and went on, “I had best stay here, else Aunt Odelia will no doubt take me to task again because I did not come as Sir Francis Drake as she suggested, a globe under my arm.”

“A globe?” Callie repeated sotto voce as she and Irene strolled away.

“Yes. For sailing all over the world, you see—though I’m not entirely sure that Sir Francis Drake actually circumnavigated the globe. But that would scarcely matter to Aunt Odelia.”

“Little wonder that Radbourne did not care to come in that costume.”

“No, but it was not the globe that put him off so much as those puffed short pants.”

Callie laughed. “I am surprised you were able to get him to come in costume at all. Sinclair would not consider it, beyond a mask.”

“Doubtless the duke has more dignity to lose,” Irene replied lightly. “Besides, I have found ’tis quite amazing the persuasive power a wife can exert on her husband.” Her eyes glittered behind her gold mask, and there was a soft, provocative curve to her mouth.

Callie could feel a faint blush rising in her cheeks at the implication of the other woman’s words, and she felt a not unfamiliar twinge of curiosity. Women were usually quick to cease any discussion of the marriage bed if an unmarried girl was around, so Callie had heard very little about what happened in the privacy of a couple’s bedchamber, although, as was usually the case in a girl who had been raised in the country, she had some degree of knowledge of the basics of the act, at least among horses and dogs.

Still, Callie could not help but wonder about the feelings—the emotions and the physical sensations—that were involved in that very private human act. To ask a direct question was, of course, unthinkable, so she had had to glean what she could from conversations she overheard and, sometimes, an inadvertent slip of the tongue. Irene’s comment tonight was, she thought, different from most that she had heard from married women. Though lightly humorous, there was a pleased tone to her voice—no, more than that, there was the almost purring sound of someone who thoroughly enjoyed participating in that wifely “persuasion” about which she spoke.

Callie cast a sideways glance at Irene. If there was anyone who would talk about such a thing to her, she thought, it would be Irene. She cast about for some way to keep the conversation going in the direction Irene had taken, but before she could think of anything to say, she glanced across the room, and every thought left her head.

A man stood leaning against one of the pillars that marched along either side of the room. He looked negligently at ease, his arms crossed, one shoulder to the pillar. He was dressed in the style of a Cavalier, his wide-brimmed hat pinned up on one side and with a sweeping plume on the other. Soft leather gloves with wide, long gauntlets encased his hands and lower arms. His fawn breeches were tucked into soft boots that were elegantly cuffed just below the knees, and slender golden spurs hung at the heels. Above his trousers he wore a matching slashed doublet, bare of any ornamentation, and over that was a short round cape, tied casually at the neck and caught on one side behind the elegant thin sword hanging at his waist.

He could have stepped from a painting of the nobles who had fought and died for their doomed king, Charles I—elegant, and whipcord lean and tough. The dark half mask that hid the upper portion of his face only added to the air of romance and mystery that hung about him. He was glancing about the room, his expression arrogant and faintly bored. Then his eyes met Callie’s and stopped.

He did not move nor change expression, yet somehow Callie knew that he had become instantly, intently alert. She gazed back at him, her steps faltering. A slow smile spread across the lower half of his face, and, sweeping off his hat, he bowed extravagantly.

Callie realized that she was staring, and, with a blush, she took two quick steps to catch up with Irene. “Do you know that man?” she asked in a hushed voice. “The Cavalier?”

Irene glanced around. “Where—oh. No, I don’t believe I do. Who is he?” She turned back to Callie.

“I do not think I have ever seen him before,” Callie replied. “He looks…intriguing.”

“No doubt it is the costume,” Irene told her cynically. “The most impossibly dull sort would look dashing in the clothes of a Royalist.”

“Perhaps,” Callie agreed, unconvinced. She was tempted to turn and look back at the man, but she resisted the urge.

“Calandra! There you are!” Lady Odelia exclaimed in her booming voice as they approached the dais upon which the old lady sat.

Callie smiled as she stepped up to greet her great-aunt. “May I offer you my felicitations, Aunt Odelia?”

Lady Odelia, a formidable-looking woman even when she was not dressed up in the manner of Queen Elizabeth, allowed a regal nod and gestured Callie forward with a gesture worthy of that monarch. “Come here, girl, and give me a kiss. Let me look at you.”

Callie obediently bent and kissed her great-aunt’s cheek. Aunt Odelia took both Callie’s hands in hers and stared up at her intently.

“Pretty as ever,” she announced in a satisfied voice. “Prettiest of the lot, I’ve always said. Of the Lilles, I mean,” she offered in an aside to Irene.

Irene nodded her understanding, smiling. She was one of the few women in the ton who held no fear of Lady Pencully; indeed, she rather enjoyed the old woman and her blunt ways. She had, in fact, engaged in a few lively discussions with Odelia that had sent everyone else scurrying out of the room and left the two women flushed, eyes snapping, and quite pleased with themselves and each other.

“Can’t imagine what is wrong with young men today,” Lady Odelia went on. “In my day a girl like you would have been snapped up her first year.”

“Perhaps Lady Calandra does not wish to be ‘snapped up,’” Irene offered.

“Now, don’t go putting your radical ideas into her head,” Lady Odelia warned. “Callie has no desire to be an ape-leader, do you, my dear?”

Callie suppressed a sigh. “No, Aunt.” Was she never to get away from this topic today?

“Of course not! What intelligent young girl would? ’Tis time you put your mind to it, Calandra. Ask that chit Francesca to help you. Always thought the girl had more hair than wit, but she managed to get this one to the altar.” Lady Odelia gestured toward Irene, who rolled her eyes comically at Callie. “I would not have taken odds on that happening.”

“Indeed, Aunt,” Irene put in. “To hear you and Lady Radbourne speak of it, one would assume that your grandson and I had nothing to do with the matter, only Lady Francesca.”

“Hah! If I had left it up to you two, we would still be waiting,” Lady Odelia tossed back, the twinkle in her eyes counteracting the bite of her words.

The two of them continued to bicker in a playful fashion, and Callie realized with a rush of gratitude that Irene had skillfully led the obstreperous old woman away from the subject of Calandra’s own unmarried state. She cast her friend a look of gratitude, and Irene responded with a smile.

Callie stood, idly listening as her companions strayed into an apparently endless and comfortably familiar list of items about which Irene and her husband’s great-aunt enjoyed crossing swords. She glanced up at Irene just as her words suddenly came to halt and saw that Irene was looking over Callie’s shoulder. Just as Callie started to turn around to see what had caused the sudden interest on Irene’s face, a masculine voice sounded behind her.

“Pardon me, Your Highness, but I come seeking the favor of this fair maiden’s hand for the next dance.”

Callie swung around, and her eyes widened as she found herself staring up into the masked visage of the Cavalier.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MAN WAS, Callie realized, even more intriguing up close than he had been at a distance. The black half mask concealed the upper portion of his face, but it also emphasized the strong, chiseled jaw and well-cut, sensual mouth that lay below it. The eyes that looked out through the mask were fixed on her with a gaze that was decidedly warmer than was polite. He was tall, with wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, and he exuded a powerful masculinity that owed only part of its aura to the dashing costume he wore.

She should have given him a setdown, Callie knew, for she was certain that she did not know the man, which made it quite forward of him to ask her to dance. However, she found she had no desire to snub him. Indeed, what she desired was to put her hand in his and let him lead her out onto the floor.

However, Callie was certain that she would not be able to dance with him, for Lady Odelia would doubtless blister his ears for his impudence. Callie waited, with an inner sigh of regret, for that lady’s words.

“Of course,” Lady Odelia said—nay, almost purred, Callie thought, as she glanced at the old lady in surprise.

Irene’s face registered a similar sense of shock as she, too, turned toward Lady Odelia. But Lady Odelia was smiling with what could only be called pleasure at the Cavalier, and when Callie did not move, she waved her hand in a shooing motion toward her.

“There, girl, do not stand rooted on the spot. Get to the floor before the orchestra starts again.”

Callie did not need to be told twice to do what she wanted. If Lady Odelia had given her blessing to dancing with this man, it would satisfy the requirements of propriety—and prevent any upbraiding from her grandmother. But there was nevertheless a whiff of something illicit about dancing with a perfect stranger that she found enticing.

She quickly placed her hand on the arm the stranger held out to her, and they went down the step of the dais and onto the dance floor. Callie was very aware of the man’s arm beneath her hand, the muscle hard under the soft material.

“I should not dance with you, you know,” she told him, a little surprised at the flirtatious tone that bubbled up in her words.

“Indeed? And why is that?” He looked down at her, his eyes twinkling.

“I do not know you, sir.”

“How can you be sure?” he countered. “We are masked, after all.”

“Still, I am certain that we are strangers.”

“But is that not the point of a masquerade? That you do not know who anyone is? And so, surely, it is only to be expected that one would dance with a stranger. The usual rules do not apply,” he told her, and his gaze slid down her face in a way that made Callie feel suddenly warm.

“None of them?” she asked lightly. “Indeed, sir, that sounds dangerous.”

“Ah, but that is what makes it exciting.”

“I see. And it is excitement you seek?”

His smile was slow. “’Tis pleasure I seek, my lady.”

“Indeed?” Callie arched one brow, thinking that she should probably nip this conversation in the bud. It was growing altogether too familiar—and yet she could not resist the tingle that ran through her at his words, his smile.

“Indeed, yes—the pleasure of dancing with you,” he went on, the light in his eyes telling her that he was aware of exactly where her mind had strayed.

The lilting strains of a waltz began, and he held out his hands to her. Callie moved into his arms, her heart beating a trifle faster. It was even more daring to waltz with a stranger than it would have been to take to the floor for a country dance. She had to stand so close to him during a waltz, her hand in his, his arm almost encircling her. It was a much more intimate dance. It was often not even allowed at the more conservative assemblies in the countryside, and even here in London society, she had rarely shared a waltz with a man with whom she had not at least danced before. Certainly she had never done so with a man whose name she did not even know.

But Callie could not deny that despite the strangeness of it, she liked the way she felt in his arms, and she knew that the flush moving up her throat was due only in part to the exertion of the dance.

At first they did not speak. Callie concentrated on matching her steps to his; she felt almost as she had when she had first made her debut—anxious that she might make a misstep or appear awkward. She quickly found, however, that her new partner was an excellent dancer, his hand on her waist steady and firm, his steps in perfect rhythm to the music. She relaxed and settled down to enjoy herself, glancing up at him for the first time.

Callie found the Cavalier looking down at her, and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were gray, the color of a stormy sky in this low light, and so steady upon her that she felt herself lost in his gaze. She was near enough to him that she could see the lashes that ringed his eyes, thick and black, shadowing his expression. Who could he be? He seemed completely unfamiliar; surely no costume could disguise someone she knew so well. Yet how could it be that she had not met him sometime in the past five years?

Was he an interloper, someone who had seized the opportunity a masked ball offered to intrude upon a party to which he had not been invited? But Lady Odelia had apparently recognized him, so surely that was not the case. She supposed he could be a recluse, someone who disliked Society and usually shunned it. However, in that case, why was he here at an enormous party? Certainly his manner was scarcely that of one who was shy or solitary.

Could it be that he had been abroad for the past few years? A soldier or naval officer, perhaps? Maybe a member of the foreign office. Or simply a dedicated traveler.

She smiled a little to herself at her fanciful thoughts. No doubt the explanation was something perfectly ordinary. After all, she did not know everyone in the ton.

“I like to see that,” her companion said.

“What?” Callie asked, puzzled.

“The smile upon your face. You have been frowning at me so steadily that I was afraid I must have fallen headlong into your bad graces without even knowing you.”

“I am sor—” Callie began, then realized the man’s admission. “Then you agree that we are strangers.”

“Yes. I admit it. I do not know you. I am certain that I would recognize a woman who looks as you do…even in a costume. You cannot hide your beauty.”

Callie felt her cheeks go warm and was surprised at herself. She was not a schoolgirl to be so easily cast into confusion by a gallant compliment. “And you, sir, cannot hide that you are a terrible flirt.”

“You wound me. I had thought I was rather skilled at it.”

Callie chuckled in spite of herself and shook her head.

“The fact that we are strangers is easily enough remedied,” he went on after a moment. “Simply tell me who you are, and I will tell you who I am.”

Callie shook her head again. Curious as she was about this man, she found it enjoyable to dance and flirt with him, knowing that he did not know who she was. She did not need to worry about his motives or his intentions. She did not have to weigh each statement for the truth of it or wonder if he was flirting with her—or with an heiress. Even those men who did not need her fortune or pursue her for the sake of it were still aware of it. Her lineage and her fortune were as much a part of her to them as her laughter or her smile. She could never know how any of them might have felt about her if she had been merely a gentleman’s daughter rather than the sister of a duke. It was quite pleasant, she realized, to know that when this man flirted with her, he saw only her, was attracted only to her.

“Oh, no,” she told him. “We cannot tell each other our names. That would end all the mystery. Did you not just tell me that that was the whole point of a masquerade—the mystery and excitement of not knowing?”

He laughed. “Ah, fair lady, you have pierced me with my own words. Is it fair, do you think, for one of your beauty to possess so quick a wit, as well?”

“You, I take it, are accustomed to winning your arguments,” Callie countered.

“There are times when I do not mind losing. But this is not one of them. I should regret it very much if I lost you.”

“Lost me, sir? How can you lose what you do not have?”

“I will lose the chance to see you again,” he replied. “How shall I find you again, not knowing your name?”

Callie cast him a teasing glance. “Have you so little faith in yourself? I suspect that you would find a way.”

He grinned back at her. “My lady, your faith in me is most gratifying. But, surely, you will give me a hint, will you not?”

“Not the slightest,” Callie retorted cheerfully. There was, she was finding, a wonderful freedom in not being herself, in not having to consider whether what she said would reflect badly on her brother or her family name. It was quite nice, actually, for a few moments to be simply a young woman flirting with a handsome gentleman.

“I can see I must abandon hope in that regard,” he said. “Will you at least tell me who you are dressed to be?”

“Can you not tell?” Callie asked with mock indignation. “Indeed, sir, you crush me. I had thought my costume obvious.”

“A Tudor lady, certainly,” he mused. “But not the time of our Lady Pencully’s queen. Her father’s reign, I would guess.”

Callie inclined her head. “You are quite correct.”

“And you could not be aught but a queen,” he continued.

She gave him the same regal nod.

“Surely, then, you must be the temptress Anne Boleyn.”

Callie let out a little laugh. “Oh, no, I fear that you have picked the wrong queen. I am not one who would lose my head over any man.”

“Catherine Parr. Of course. I should have guessed. Beautiful enough to win a king. Intelligent enough to keep him.”

“And what of you? Are you a particular Cavalier, or simply one of the king’s men?”

“Merely a Royalist.” He wrinkled his nose. “It was my sister’s idea—I have the uneasy feeling she may have been jesting when she suggested it.”

“But you need the hair, as well,” Callie pointed out. “A long curling black wig, perhaps.”

He laughed. “No. I balked at the wig. She tried to talk me into it, but on that I was firm.”

“Is your sister here tonight?” Callie asked and glanced out across the ballroom. Perhaps she knew his sister.

“No. I visited her on my way to London. She will not be here until the Season begins.” He studied her, his eyes alight with humor. “Are you trying to guess who I am?”

Callie chuckled. “You have caught me, sir.”

“I must tell you that you can easily extract the information from me. My name—”

“Oh, no, ’twould not be fair. Besides, I will find it out once you have discovered who I am and come to call.”

“Indeed?” His brows went up, and his eyes glowed suddenly with a light that was not laughter. “I have your permission to call on you?”

Callie tilted her head to the side, making a show of considering. In truth, she was a little surprised at what she had said. She had not thought about it before the words had popped out of her mouth. It was rather audacious to give someone she had just met permission to call—especially before he even asked. It was, well, forward on her part. Her grandmother, a stickler for rules, would be horrified. She probably should tell him no.

But Callie found she had not the slightest desire to take back her words. “Why, yes,” she replied with a smile. “I believe you do.”

The dance ended soon after, and Callie was aware of a pang of regret as her companion led her off the floor. He left her with a bow, raising her hand to briefly brush his lips against it. And even though she could not feel his lips through the cloth of her glove, heat rushed up in her anyway. She watched him walk away, quite the most dashing figure in the room, and she wondered again who he was.

Would he call on her? she wondered. Had he felt that same surge of attraction that she had? Would he go to the trouble of finding out who she was? Or was he merely a flirt, passing the time with flattering banter? Callie knew that it would take only a few judicious questions to the right people to discover his name, but, oddly enough, she found that she liked not knowing. It added to the anticipation, the little thrill of excitement, wondering if he would indeed come to call.

She did not have long to think about the Cavalier, however, for her dances were soon all spoken for, and she spent most of the next hour on the dance floor. She was taking a much-needed rest, sipping a glass of punch and chatting with Francesca, when she saw her grandmother making her way toward her, gripping the arm of a solemn sandy-haired man.

Callie groaned under her breath.

Francesca glanced at her. “Is something the matter?”

“Just my grandmother. She is bringing over another prospect, I warrant.”

Lady Haughston spotted the dowager duchess. “Ah. I see.”

“She has become obsessed with the idea that I must marry soon. I think she fears that if I do not become engaged this next Season, I will spend the rest of my life as a spinster.”

Francesca glanced again at the pair walking toward them. “And she thinks Alfred Carberry would suit you?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“She thinks Alfred Carberry would suit her,” Callie replied. “He is in line to inherit an earldom, though given the fact that his grandfather is still alive and hale, not to mention his father, I shouldn’t think it will be until he is in his sixties.”

“But he is such a dreadfully dull sort,” Francesca pointed out. “All the Carberrys are. I do not suppose they can help it, living all together up there in Northumberland. But I should not think you would enjoy being married to him.”

“Yes, but, you see, he is so respectable.”

“Mmm, that is one of the things that makes him so dull.”

“But that suits my grandmother.”

“And he’s nearly forty.”

“Ah, but men my age are apt to be flighty. They might go haring off and do something that isn’t respectable. No, Grandmother prefers them stodgy and dull—and from a good family, of course. Wealth would be nice, but she is not utterly wedded to that.”

Francesca chuckled. “I fear your grandmother is doomed to disappointment.”

“Yes, but I am doomed to her lecturing me. She has been doing so all winter.”

“Oh dear,” Francesca said sympathetically. “Perhaps you should come visit me. My butler has instructions to turn away all dull and stodgy men—or women, for that matter.”

Callie laughed, opening her fan to hide her mouth as she murmured, “Do not let Grandmother hear that, or she will forbid me to call on you.”

“Calandra, dear, there you are. Not dancing? And Lady Haughston. How lovely you look, as always.”

“Thank you, Duchess,” Francesca replied, curtseying. “I must return the compliment, for you are in excellent looks tonight.”

It was true, of course, for Callie’s grandmother, with her upsweep of snow-white hair and slim, ramrod-straight body, was still an arresting-looking woman. She had been, Callie knew, quite a beauty in her day, and Callie counted herself fortunate that at least the duchess had excellent taste in clothes and had never quibbled about Callie’s choice of wardrobe—aside from a time or two in Callie’s first Season when her grandmother had put her foot down firmly against a ball gown that was other than white.

“Thank you, my dear.” The duchess smiled in a regal way, taking the compliment as her due. “You know the Honorable Alfred Carberry, do you not?” She turned toward the man at her side, unobtrusively maneuvering things so that the duchess stood facing Francesca and Mr. Carberry was closer to Callie.

The duchess went on, introducing the women to Carberry. “Lady Haughston. My granddaughter, Lady Calandra. Tell me, Lady Haughston, how is your mother? We must have a nice coze together, for I dare swear I have not seen you since Lord Leighton’s wedding.”

She laid a hand on Francesca’s arm and glanced over at Callie and Mr. Carberry, effectively separating the two couples. Smiling indulgently, she said, “No doubt you young people would rather not listen to us gossip. Why don’t you ask Lady Calandra to dance, Mr. Carberry, while Lady Haughston and I catch up with each other?”

Francesca’s brows lifted slightly at being put in a group with the duchess while the honorable Alfred, at least seven or eight years older than she, was termed a young person. However, she knew when she had been outmaneuvered, and she could not help but admire the duchess’s expertise, so, casting a single sparkling glance at Callie, she let the duchess steer her aside.

Callie, smiling somewhat stiffly, said, “Pray do not feel you must dance with me, sir, just because my grandmother—”

“Nonsense, my girl,” Mr. Carberry said in the hearty jocular voice that he commonly adopted with his younger relatives. “’Twould be my honor to take a twirl about the floor with you. Enjoying yourself, eh?”

Callie resigned herself to a dance with the man, reasoning that it would be easier to avoid conversation with him while they were dancing. She was pleased to find, when they took to the floor, that it was a sprightly country dance, which allowed little breath or time for talking, though it was unfortunately a good deal longer than a waltz. She found herself glancing around the floor as they went through the steps, looking for the curving plume of a Cavalier hat.

Then she had time to do no more than smile and listen to his thanks for the dance before her hand was claimed by her next partner, Mr. Waters. She knew Mr. Waters only slightly, having met him once before, and she had the faint suspicion that the man was probably angling for a wealthy wife, but at least he was a witty conversationalist and a smooth dancer.

When their dance ended, Mr. Waters suggested a stroll around the room, and Callie agreed. It was almost ten o’clock, which meant that the dancing would shortly cease and soon the guests would start making their way to the supper that would be laid out in the smaller ballroom across the hall. Callie feared that her grandmother would approach her with some “appropriate” escort to lead her in to supper, so she would just as soon stay out of the duchess’s sight for the next few moments.

They started around the periphery of the room, with her escort making polite conversation about the grandness of the ball, the liveliness of the music and the warmth of the room after the dancing. He paused at one of the doors, open to the terrace to let in some of the refreshingly cold evening air.

“Ah, that is much better, is it not?” he said. “One can grow quite heated dancing.”

Callie nodded absently, thinking that perhaps Mr. Waters was not so interesting a conversationalist as she had thought. She glanced around the room and finally spotted her grandmother. The old lady was engaged in conversation with Lord Pomerance, and Callie stifled a groan. Surely her grandmother would not inflict that insufferable windbag upon her! He was younger than Mr. Carberry and less stodgy, but his sense of self-importance was overreaching, and he was certain that everyone around him was deeply interested in all the minute details of his existence.

“Those two have the right idea,” Mr. Waters continued.

“What?” Callie’s gaze was fixed on her grandmother.

Her companion nodded toward the terrace beyond them. “Stepping outside for a bit of fresh air.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

The duchess turned her head, searching the room, and Callie knew that she was looking for her.

Callie whipped around so that her back was to her grandmother. “Yes,” she said quickly. “You are right—a breath of fresh air.”

She slipped out the door. Her surprised escort hesitated for a fraction of a second, then grinned and hurried out after her.

Callie walked swiftly away from the ballroom toward the darker reaches of the terrace. The winter air was chilly against her bare arms and neck, but, warmed as she was from dancing in the stuffy room, it was at the moment quite welcome. She stopped when they reached the railing that marked the end of the upper terrace, well beyond where her grandmother might see if she looked out the door from the ballroom.

“I am sorry,” she told her companion with a quick smile. “You must think me quite mad, rushing out here this way.”

“Not mad. Impetuous, perhaps,” Waters replied with a smile and reached out to take her hand in both his. “I can only assume that you were as eager as I to be alone.”

As Callie watched in stunned amazement, he raised her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it, then said, “I had not realized—I had hoped, but I did not dream that you might return my affection.”

“What?” Callie tried to tug her hand from his, but Waters was holding on to it too tightly.

She saw now the mistake she had made in her impulsive rush to escape her grandmother’s manipulations. With some other gentleman, one whom she knew better, it would have been all right. He would have laughed about her predicament with the duchess and promised to come to her aid. Mr. Waters, obviously, had jumped to the wrong conclusion…or perhaps he had simply seen a golden opportunity to advance his suit with her. Callie could not forget her suspicions that the man was an opportunist.

She took a step back, but he followed her, still holding her hand and gazing down fervently into her face as he said, “You must know the depth of my feeling for you, the love that burns in my heart….”

“No! Mr. Waters, I fear that you have misunderstood,” Callie replied firmly. “Pray, let go of my hand.”

“Not until you have answered me. Lady Calandra, I beseech you, make my dreams come—”

“Mr. Waters, stop!” With a heave, Callie tore her hand from his grasp. “I am sorry that I inadvertently gave you the wrong impression, but, please, let us put an end to this conversation.”

She started to walk past him, but Waters grabbed her arms, holding her in place.

“No, hear me out,” he said. “I love you, Calandra. My heart, my soul, burns for you. I beg you, say that you care for me, too, that there is in your heart a spark that—”

“Stop this at once,” Callie commanded. “Let us go back inside, and we shall forget that this ever happened.”

“I do not want to forget,” he told her. “Every moment with you is precious to me.”

Callie gritted her teeth. His flowery words grated on her, and with each passing moment she was more convinced of his insincerity. This man did not care for her, only for her large dowry, and she no longer had any concern over hurting his feelings.

“I would wager that you would like to forget this moment if I tell my brother about it!” she snapped, and tried to jerk away from him.

His fingers dug into her arms, keeping her from leaving. He grinned, the loving mask dropping from his face as easily as it had come. “Your brother?” he asked derisively. “You intend to tell the duke that you have been dallying with a man on the terrace? Go ahead. Tell him. I imagine he will insist on an engagement immediately.”

“You are a fool if you think that,” Callie shot back. “I have not been dallying with you, and when I tell him what has happened, you will be lucky if he does not hand your head to you.”

“Really?” His eyes brightened with a dangerous light. “And will he be so ready to dismiss me with your reputation compromised beyond repair?”

He jerked her to him and bent to kiss her.

“Oh!” Callie let out a low cry of anger and frustration, and brought her hands up, pushing at him as she twisted and squirmed, turning her face away from him. She kicked out, landing a shot square on his shin.

Waters cursed as he struggled to control her, dragging her across the terrace to pin her against the wall. Callie felt the rough stone through the thin material of her dress, and she dug her fingers into the man’s shirt, gripping whatever flesh she could and twisting. He let out a gratifying yelp.

Then, in the next instant, he was jerked away from her, suddenly gasping for air, as a large hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed, pulling him back against the broad chest of the Cavalier.

“What?” the Cavalier asked in a dangerously soft voice, tightening his grasp. Waters’ eyes bulged as he flailed ineffectually backward. “Nothing to say? No brave words when it’s someone other than a woman you are attacking?”

“No, pray, do not choke him,” Callie said a little shakily, moving away from the wall.

“Are you sure?” Her rescuer looked over at her. “I think the world would not miss this one.”

“Lady Odelia might object to a dead man on her terrace at her birthday ball,” Callie responded dryly.

He grinned, and his hold on the other man loosened. “All right. If you wish it, I shall let him go.”

Waters sucked in a gulp of air. “You’ll be sorry,” he began.

The Cavalier’s hand tightened on his throat again, cutting off his words. “I am already sorry,” he said flatly.

He let go of Waters’ throat and grasped him by the shoulders, whipping him around and shoving him back against the railing. Digging his hand into the neck of Waters’ shirt, he bent him backward.

“Perhaps you are not familiar enough with Lady Pencully’s house to know that there is a twenty-foot drop from here to the garden below, but I am. I would consider that, if I were you, before I decided to threaten either me or this young lady again. Lady Pencully would dislike having someone take a nasty fall from her terrace on the night of her birthday ball. However, I assure you that she would quickly get over it, and no one would question an inebriated guest tumbling over the railing to the stone walkway below. And there would be no one to dispute my version of the events, since you, alas, would be dead. Have I made myself clear?”

Waters, his eyes huge in the darkness, nodded mutely.

“Good. Then we understand each other.” The Cavalier stepped back a little, allowing Waters to stand again, but he did not release him just yet. Looking the other man straight in the eye, the Cavalier went on. “If ever I hear a word about this incident or the slightest whisper of a scandalous rumor concerning this young lady, I will know where it came from. And I will come deal with you. So I would suggest that you keep your lips tightly sealed. In fact, I think it would be a good idea if you left London immediately. A long stay in the country would definitely be in your best interests. Am I clear?”

Waters nodded quickly, not daring to look at the man or at Callie.

“All right, then. Now go.”

The Cavalier let him go and stepped back, and Waters scurried off, never glancing behind him. Callie’s rescuer turned back to her.

“Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

Callie nodded and shivered, realizing suddenly how very cold she was. “Yes, I am fine. Thank you. I—” Her breath caught raggedly.

“Here. You are cold.” He untied the cape that hung behind him and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She clutched it to her and looked up at him.

Her eyes were luminous in the faint light, swimming with unshed tears. He sucked in a quick breath.

“You are beautiful. ’Tis no wonder that a cad such as he would try to take advantage of you. You should not let that sort inveigle you outside.”

“I know. I was foolish.” Callie gave him a watery little smile. “I am not so naive as to step outside with a man I hardly know. I was—I was just trying to evade my grandmother, and I acted on impulse.”

“Evade your grandmother?” he asked, his eyes lighting mischievously. “Is she a wicked grandmother?”

“No, just a matchmaking one.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “I understand. Almost as bad as a matchmaking mother.”

Callie smiled. “I am very lucky you came along when you did. I am forever in your debt. Thank you for coming to my rescue.” She held out her hand solemnly to shake his.

He took her hand, his long fingers wrapping warmly around hers, and he raised it to his lips, pressing them softly against the back of her hand. “I am pleased that I was able to help you. But it was not luck. I saw him lead you out the door, and I did not like the look of him.”

“You were watching me?” Callie asked, warmed a little by the thought that he had looked for her just as she had looked for him.

“I had started across the room to ask you for another dance,” he told her. “But then the music stopped, and I realized that it was time for supper. Then he whisked you away.”

“Still, it was good of you to come after us.”

“Any man would have done the same.”

“No,” she demurred with a smile. “Not all.” She glanced down at their joined hands. “You still have my hand, sir.”

“Yes, I know. Do you wish me to give it back?” His voice deepened sensually.

Callie looked up, and her insides quivered at the look in his eyes. “I—no, not really.”

“Good, for neither do I.” Softly his thumb stroked the back of her hand, and though it was only a small movement, Callie felt its effect all through her.

“And now that I have sent that blackguard packing…I think it must be worth a small favor, don’t you?”

“What favor?” Callie asked a little breathlessly. He seemed very near her; she could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint scent of masculine cologne. Her heart hammered in her chest, but it was not from fear as it had been moments earlier. It was anticipation that welled up in her now.

“Your name, my lady.”

“Calandra,” she answered softly.

“Calandra,” he repeated softly, lingering over the syllables. “’Tis a magical name.”

“Not so magical,” she said. “And those who are close to me call me Callie.”

“Callie.” He lifted his other hand and slid his thumb along her jawline. “It suits you.”

“But now we are unequal, for I do not know your name.”

“Bromwell. Those who are close to me call me Brom.”

“Brom,” she breathed. Her flesh tingled where his thumb touched it, sending delicious tendrils of sensation spiraling through her.

“It sounds much lovelier on your lips.” He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip, and warmth blossomed deep in Callie’s abdomen. His eyes followed the movement of his thumb, and the light in them sparked higher, his own lips softening.

He leaned closer, and Callie was certain that he intended to kiss her. But she did not hesitate or pull away. Instead, boldly, she stretched up to meet him.

His lips closed on hers, and heat seemed to explode within her. She trembled, every nerve in her body suddenly alive and attuned to the slow, delicious movement of his mouth on hers. She had never felt anything like this before. Though one or two men had dared to steal a kiss from her, none of those kisses had felt like this—so soft and hot, her lips so sensitive to the velvet pressure of his. And none of those men had ever moved his mouth against her, opening her lips to his questing tongue, startling her and sending a wave of intense pleasure through her.

She made a low noise of surprise and eagerness, and her hands slid up instinctively around his neck, holding on to him as his arms wrapped fiercely around her, squeezing her against his long, hard body. The elegant plume of his hat brushed against her cheek, and that touch, too, aroused the sensitive nerves of her skin. He made a noise of hunger and frustration, reaching up to jerk the hat from his head and toss it aside as his lips pressed harder against hers.

Callie’s fingers dug into the rich material of his doublet. She felt as if she were falling, tumbling into some wild maelstrom of hunger and desire, and she was all at once eager and frightened and more vibratingly alive than she had ever been before. She could feel his body surge with heat through the material of his clothes, enveloping her with his warmth.

Suddenly he lifted his head, sucking in a deep breath and staring down at her. Reaching down, he took her half mask between his fingers and pushed it up, revealing her face.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed. Then he reached up and took off his own mask, holding it dangling in his hand.

Callie gazed up at him, realizing with some surprise that his face was even more arresting without the dramatic mask. Sharp, high cheekbones balanced the strong jaw, and the straight dark slashes of his brows accented his wide gray eyes. It was the face of an angel, she thought with a poeticism uncommon to her—not an angel of harps and fluffy clouds, but the fierce sort, standing guard at the gates of heaven with a fiery sword.

“So are you,” she answered him candidly, then blushed at the naive candor of her words.

Something flared in his eyes, and he let out a shaky little chuckle. “My dear Calandra…it is much too dangerous for you to be out here alone with me.”

“Do you think I cannot trust you?” she asked, the tone of her voice making clear her own belief.

“I think ’tis dangerous to trust any man when you look as you look…and feel as you feel.” His voice turned husky on his last words, and he ran his palm down her arm slowly, reluctantly, and pulled his hand away, taking a step backward. “We should go inside.”

He returned her mask, and Callie took it. She hated to turn away from him, away from this moment and the new feelings that were surging through her. Yet at the same time, his urging her to do so only strengthened what she felt for him. She smiled at him.

“Perhaps you would like the rest of my name.”

“’Twould make it easier,” he admitted, grinning. “But, believe me, I will find you anyway.”

“Then you should come to—” Callie broke off, turning, as her brother’s voice sounded from the terrace behind them.

“Callie? Calandra!”

She whirled and looked back up the long terrace. The duke stood just outside the door, looking around. He started forward, scowling, once again calling her name.

“The devil take it!” Callie said under her breath, and her companion’s brows shot up at the unladylike curse.

He smothered a laugh. “Not whom you wanted to see?”

“My brother,” Callie said. “He is sure to fuss. Ah, well, there is no use in waiting. We might as well get it over with.” She started forward with the confidence of one who had never received anything stronger than a scolding.

Her companion shrugged and strode after her, catching up to Callie as she called out, “Here! It is all right, Sinclair. Pray do not bellow.”

Rochford hurried toward them, his face relaxing in relief. “What the devil are you doing out here? Are you all right?”

Beside Callie, as they came forward into the light, she heard her companion suck in a sharp breath and stop dead still. She half turned toward him questioningly, then glanced back at her brother, realizing that he, too, had come to a sudden halt.

Rochford stared at the man standing beside Callie, a black scowl drawing up his features. “You!” he snarled at the Cavalier. “Get away from my sister!”

CHAPTER THREE

CALLIE GAPED at her brother, amazed at his uncustomary rudeness. “Sinclair!” She went forward, reaching out a hand to her brother in a calming gesture. “Please, no. You misunderstand the situation.”

“I understand it perfectly well,” Rochford retorted, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face.

“No, you do not,” Callie retorted sharply. “This man did nothing to harm me. He helped me.”

She turned back to her companion, who was gazing at the duke with an expression as stony as Rochford’s. Suppressing a sigh at such masculine behavior, Callie said, “Sir, allow me to introduce you to my brother, the Duke of Rochford.”

“Yes,” the Cavalier said coldly. “I know the duke.”

“Oh.” Callie looked from one man to the other, realizing that some other, stronger, undercurrent of feeling lay here, something unrelated to her being on the terrace with a man.

“Lord Bromwell,” Sinclair responded, his manner, if possible, even stiffer than before. Without looking at Callie, he said, “Calandra, go inside.”

“No,” Callie answered. “Sinclair, be reasonable. Let me explain.”

“Callie!” Sinclair’s voice lashed out, sharp as a whip. “You heard me. Go back inside.”

Callie flushed, stung by his peremptory tone. He had spoken to her as if she were a child being sent off to bed.

“Sinclair!” she shot back. “Don’t speak to me that—”

He swung to face her. “I told you—go back inside. Now.”

Callie drew a breath, hurt and anger piercing her with equal sharpness. She started to protest, to take her brother to task for treating her this way, but she realized even as the thought came to her that she simply could not create a scene at Aunt Odelia’s party. Someone might step out of the door at any moment; there could even be someone in the garden now, listening. She had no desire to be caught in a blazing argument with her brother. She was embarrassed enough as it was, having been taken to task in front of this man, whom she barely knew.

Her eyes flashed, but she swallowed her words. She gave a short nod to Lord Bromwell, then whirled and stalked past her brother without a word.

The duke stood, watching the other man in silence, until Calandra had disappeared inside the ballroom. Then he said in a quiet voice as hard as iron, “Leave my sister alone.”

Bromwell looked amused as he crossed his arms and considered the man before him. “How deliciously ironic…to hear the Duke of Rochford so concerned over the honor of a young woman. But, then, I suppose, it is different when the young woman is the duke’s sister, is it not?”

With a sardonic look at Rochford, he started to walk around him, but the duke reached out and caught his arm. Bromwell went still, his gray eyes icing over. He looked down at the other man’s hand on his arm, then up at the duke’s face.

“Have a care, Rochford,” he said softly. “I am not the boy I was fifteen years ago.”

“Indeed?” Rochford asked, letting his hand fall to his side. “You were a fool then, but you’re ten times a fool now if you think I will allow you to harm my sister in any way.”

“I believe Lady Calandra is a woman grown, Rochford. And you are the fool if you think that you can keep her heart from going where it chooses.”

An unholy fire lit the duke’s dark eyes. “Damn it, Bromwell. I am telling you—stay away from my sister.”

Lord Bromwell gazed back at him, his expression unyielding, then turned without a word and walked away.

CALLIE WAS FURIOUS. She could not remember when she had been so angry with her brother—indeed, so angry with anyone—as she was now. How dare he speak to her as if he were her father? And in front of another person! A stranger!

Her throat was tight, and tears pricked at her eyelids. But she refused to cry. She would not let him see, would not let anyone see, how Sinclair’s words had affected her.

She walked through the ballroom, looking neither left nor right, not even sure what she intended to do, only walking as fast as she could away from what had happened on the terrace. Through the red haze of her anger, she noticed that the ballroom was virtually empty and that the musicians were absent from their positions on the small stage at one end of the room.

Supper. The guests were all at the casual midnight buffet in the small ballroom across the hall. Callie started toward it, remembering at the last second that she still wore Lord Bromwell’s Cavalier cloak around her shoulders. She reached up and untied it, hastily folding it into a compact pad of material as she entered the small ballroom and looked around.

She saw her grandmother at last, sitting at a small table with Aunt Odelia and another elderly woman, their plates of delicacies still on the table before them. Lady Odelia, of course, was holding forth. The duchess listened politely, spine as straight as ever, not touching the back of her chair, and her eyes blank with boredom.

Callie walked over to the table, and her grandmother turned, seeing her. “Calandra! There you are. Where have you been? I could not find you anywhere. I sent Rochford to look for you.”

“Yes, he found me,” Callie answered shortly. She glanced at the other two women with the duchess. “Grandmother, I would like to leave now, if you don’t mind.”

“Why, of course.” The duchess looked, frankly, relieved, and immediately started to rise. “Are you all right?”

“I—I have a headache, I’m afraid.” Callie turned to her great-aunt, forcing a smile. “I am sorry, Aunt Odelia. It is a wonderful party, but I am not, I’m afraid, feeling at all the thing.”

“Well, of course. All the excitement, no doubt,” the old lady responded, a trifle smugly. She turned toward her companion, giving a decided nod that caused her orange wig to slip a bit. “Girls these days just don’t have the stamina we did, I find.” She swung her attention back to Callie. “Run along, then, child.”

“I will send a footman to find Rochford and tell him we wish to leave,” the duchess told Callie, turning and gesturing imperiously to one of the servants.

“No! I mean…can we not just go?” Callie asked. “My head is throbbing. And I am sure that Rochford will be well able to find his way home on his own.”

“Why, yes, I suppose.” The duchess looked concerned and came around the table to peer into Callie’s face. “You do look a bit flushed. Perhaps you are coming down with a fever.”

“I am sure Lady Odelia is right. It is simply too much excitement,” Callie replied. “All the dancing and the noise…”

“Come along, then,” the duchess said, nodding in farewell to her companions and starting for the hall. She glanced down at Callie’s hand. “Whatever are you carrying, child?”

“What? Oh. This.” Callie glanced down at the folded cape in her hand, and her fingers clenched more tightly upon it. “It’s nothing. I was holding it for someone. It doesn’t matter.”

Her grandmother looked at her oddly but said nothing more as they continued toward the cloakroom. As they passed the wide double doorway into the main ballroom, they heard Rochford’s voice. “Grandmother, wait.”

The duchess turned, smiling. “Rochford, how fortunate that we met you.”

“Yes,” he replied shortly. He no longer looked quite so thunderous, Callie noted, but his face was set and devoid of expression. He glanced toward her, and she looked away from him without speaking. “It is time to go.”

“So now we are to leave just because you say so?” Callie flared up.

The duchess gave her granddaughter a curious look and said, “But, Callie, dear, you just told me that you wished to go home.”

“I should certainly think so,” Rochford put in with a sharp glance at his sister.

Callie would have liked to protest his tone, as well as his peremptory order that they leave the ball, but she could scarcely do either without looking foolish, she knew, so she merely inclined her head and turned away without another word.

“I am sorry, Sinclair,” her grandmother apologized for her. “I fear she is not feeling herself.”

“Clearly,” the duke replied in a sardonic tone.

A footman brought them their cloaks, and they went down to their carriage. On the way home, the duchess and Rochford exchanged a few remarks about the party, but Callie did not join in the conversation. Her grandmother cast her a puzzled look now and then. Her brother, on the other hand, looked at her as little as she looked at him.

Callie knew that she was behaving childishly, refusing to speak to Rochford or meet his eyes, but she could not bring herself to act as if everything were all right. And she was not sure she could say anything to him about the feelings that roiled inside her chest without bursting into tears of anger—and she refused to do that. Far better, she thought, to seem childish or foolish than to let him think that she was crying because he had hurt her.

When they reached the house, Rochford sprang lithely down from the carriage and reached up to help the duchess, then Callie, who ignored his hand and walked past him into the house. She heard her brother sigh behind her, then turn and follow her up the steps into the foyer. He paused to hand his hat and gloves to the footman as Callie headed for the wide staircase leading up to the next floor, her grandmother moving more slowly behind her.

Rochford started down the hall in the direction of the study, then stopped and turned. “Callie.”

She did not turn around, merely took the first step up the stairs.

“Callie, stop!” His voice rang out more sharply, echoing a little in the vast empty space of the large entryway. As if the sound of his own voice had startled even him a little, he continued in a more modulated tone, “Calandra, please. This is ridiculous. I want to talk to you.”

She turned and looked down at him from her place on the stairs. “I am going up to bed,” she told him coldly.

“Not until we have talked,” he replied. “Come back here. We shall go to my study.”

Callie’s dark eyes, so like her brother’s, flashed with the temper she had been keeping tamped down for the past half hour or more. “What? Now I cannot even go to my bedchamber without your permission? We must obey you in every detail of our lives?”

“Damn it, Callie, you know that is not the case!” Rochford burst out, scowling.

“No? That is all you have done for the last hour—order me about.”

“Callie!” The duchess looked from one to the other, astonished. “Rochford! What is this about? What has happened?”

“It is nothing to be concerned about,” Rochford told her shortly.

“No, nothing except that my brother has suddenly become a tyrant,” Callie lashed out.

Rochford sighed and ran his hand back through his dark hair. “The devil take it, Callie, you know I am not a tyrant. When have I ever been?”

“Never until now,” she retorted, blinking away the tears that filled her eyes.

It was, indeed, Rochford’s past history of kindness and laxity that made his present actions so much harder to bear. He had always been the most loving and easygoing of brothers, and she had treasured their relationship all the more whenever she heard other girls talk about their brothers or fathers, who issued orders and expected obedience.

“I am sorry, Callie, if I offended you tonight,” he said stiffly, with an expression of patience and reasonableness that only served to grate on his sister’s nerves. “I apologize if I was too abrupt.”

“Abrupt?” She let out a short, unamused laugh. “Is that what you call your behavior this evening? Abrupt? I would have called it high-handed. Or perhaps dictatorial.”

The duke grimaced. “I can see that you have taken it amiss, but I must remind you that I am here to protect you. I am your brother. It is my responsibility to take care of you.”

“I am not a child anymore!” Callie exclaimed. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“Not that I can see,” he snapped back. “Given that I found you alone in the garden with a strange man.”

The duchess sucked in a shocked breath. “No! Callie!”

Callie flushed. “I was not in the garden. We were on the terrace, and there was nothing wrong. Bromwell was a perfect gentleman. Indeed, he helped me. He sent another fellow on his way who had not been a gentleman at all.”

“Oh!” Callie’s grandmother raised a hand to her heart, her mouth dropping open in astonishment. “Callie! You were alone with two different men in the garden?”

“It wasn’t the garden!”

“That makes little difference,” Rochford replied.

“I may faint,” the duchess said weakly, but, of course, she did not. Instead, she marched forward a few steps so that she stood right below Callie, between her and her brother.

“I cannot believe what I have heard,” she told Callie. “How could you have done something so scandalous? Have you no care for me? For your family? Sinclair is right. Of course he has responsibility for you. He is your brother and the head of this family. He has every right to tell you what you should do, and you should do as he says. What possessed you to go out onto the terrace with a man tonight? What if someone had seen you? You should be grateful that your brother was there to rescue you. I shudder to think what might have happened if he had not been.”

“Nothing would have happened. I told you, I was perfectly all right. I did not create a scandal,” Callie replied, color flaming on her cheeks.

“Until you are married and have a home of your own, you are under your brother’s control,” the duchess said flatly.

“And then I will be under my husband’s control!” Callie tossed back hotly.

“Now you sound like Irene Wyngate.”

“There is nothing wrong with Irene,” Callie replied. “I would be glad to be like Irene. At least she has a spine, unlike most of the women I know.”

“Grandmother, please…” Rochford said, knowing full well that the duchess was not helping his case with Callie.

“At any rate, it does not matter, as I will never be married as long as my brother treats my suitors like criminals,” Callie went on angrily.

Rochford let out a humorless bark of laughter. “Bromwell will never be your suitor.”

“I am sure not,” Callie responded, “now that you have humiliated me in front of him.”

“Bromwell?” The duchess asked, looking startled. “The Earl of Bromwell?”

“Yes.”

Their grandmother’s eyes lit with interest, but before she could speak, Callie went on, “What is wrong with Lord Bromwell? Why is it so terrible that I was with him?”

“You should not be on the terrace alone with any man,” Rochford answered.

“But why did you say that he would never be my suitor?” Callie pursued. “Why did you say, ‘You!’ the way you did when you saw him? Why is he so particularly unsuitable?”

Rochford said nothing for a long moment, then shrugged. “The man is not a friend to me.”

“What?” Callie’s brows sailed upward. “He is not your friend? I cannot marry someone unless he is your friend? Who would you have me marry? One of your stuffy old scholarly friends? Mr. Strethwick, perhaps? Or maybe Sir Oliver?”

“Blast it, Callie, you know that is not what I meant,” Rochford ground out. “You do not have to marry one of my friends. You know that.”

“No, I don’t know!” she shot back. “Right now, I feel as if I hardly know you at all. I would never have thought you could be so domineering, so careless of my wishes or feelings.”

“Careless?” he repeated in an astounded voice. “It is precisely because I do care for you.”

“Why? What makes the man unsuitable?” Callie asked. “Is his family not good enough? His rank not high enough?”

“No, of course not. He is an earl.”

“Then is he a fortune hunter? Is he after my money?”

“No. He is quite wealthy, as far as I have heard.” Rochford’s mouth tightened in irritation.

“The Earl of Bromwell is considered quite a catch,” the duchess put in. “Of course, he is not a duke, but there are so few of them, after all. And one could not want you to marry one of the royals. An earl would do quite well for you, really, and the family is an old and distinguished one.” She turned toward her grandson. “Are they not related to Lady Odelia somehow?”

“Yes, distantly,” Rochford agreed. “The problem is not his pedigree.”

“Then what is the problem?” Callie persisted.

The duke looked from his sister to his grandmother. Finally he said, “It is an old matter. And that is not the point.” He set his jaw. “I was acting in your best interests, Callie, when I warned him off.”

“You actually warned him off?” Callie asked in a horrified tone.

He nodded shortly.

“How could you?” she demanded. She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. “I cannot believe that you would humiliate me in that way! To tell him that I could not see him, as if I were a child or—or deficient in understanding. As if I had no will of my own or any ability to make judgments.”

“I did not say that!” he exclaimed.

“You did not have to,” Callie retorted. “It is implicit in saying who I can or cannot associate with.” Tears sprang into her eyes again, and she angrily blinked them away.

“I did what was best for you!”

“And I, of course, had nothing to say in the matter!” Callie was rigid with anger, her fists clenched at her sides. She was so furious, so hurt, that she could scarcely trust herself to speak.

She whirled and stalked up the stairs.

“Callie!” Rochford shouted and started after her, then stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking after her in frustration. He turned toward the duchess as though seeking an answer.

His grandmother crossed her arms in front of her and stared back at him stonily. “It is your fault that she acts this way. It is because you raised her so laxly. You have always indulged her and let her do exactly as she pleased. You have spoiled her terribly, and this is the result of it.”

The duke let out a low noise of frustration, then swung away from the staircase and started toward his study. He stopped and turned back to his grandmother. “I will finish my business in London quickly. Please get everything ready, so that we can return to the country the day after tomorrow.”

CALLIE STALKED INTO HER ROOM, fuming. Her maid Belinda was waiting for her there to help her undress, but Callie sent the girl to bed. She was too irate to stand still while Belinda unfastened her buttons. Anyway, she certainly could not lie down meekly and go to sleep.

The maid gave her an uncertain look, then slipped out the door. Callie strode up and down her room, stewing in her own anger. As she paced, she heard her grandmother’s slow steps go past her door, but she did not hear her brother’s heavier tread. No doubt he had retired to his favorite room, his study. He was probably peacefully reading some book or letter, or going over a set of numbers in preparation for visiting his business agent tomorrow. He would not be grinding his teeth or boiling with injustice and rage. After all, as far as he was concerned, the matter was over.

Callie grimaced at the thought and flung herself down in the chair beside her bed. She would not allow herself to be put in this position. She had thought herself a young lady who lived her life on her own terms, at least within the general limits of society’s rules. Had anyone asked, she would have said that she was free to do as she liked, that she directed her own life. She gave in to her grandmother a great deal, of course, in order to keep peace in the household, but that, she knew, was a decision she made. It was not something she had to do.

She went where she liked, received whom she wanted, attended or did not attend plays or routs or soirees as she chose. The household staff came to her for instructions. She bought what she pleased, using her own money, and if it was the agent who actually paid the bills for her, well, that was simply the way things were done. Sinclair’s bills were usually paid the same way. And even though Sinclair invested her money for her, he explained everything to her and asked her what she wanted to do. If she always went along with what he suggested, it was only because it was the sensible course. Sinclair had been running his own affairs for years and did so extremely well.

But now she could see that her vision of her own freedom was merely an illusion. She had simply never before crossed her brother. Who she saw, where she went, what she bought, the decisions she had made, had not been anything he disputed. But what she had presumed was freedom was not; she had simply been living in so large a cage that she had not touched the bars.

Until now.

Callie jumped to her feet. She could not allow this to stand. She was an adult, as old as many women who had married and had children. She was five years older than Sinclair had been when he came into his title. She would not give in meekly to his orders. To do so would be tantamount to granting him authority over her. She would not just go to bed and get up tomorrow morning as if nothing had happened.

She stood for a moment, thinking, then turned and went over to the small desk that stood against the wall. Quickly she dashed off a note and signed it, then folded and sealed it, writing the duke’s name across the front before leaving it propped against her pillow.

She grabbed up her cloak from the chair where she had tossed it, and once more wrapped it around her shoulders and tied it. Easing open her door, she stuck her head out and looked up and down the hall. Then, moving silently, she hurried down the hall to the servants’ staircase and slipped down the stairs. All was quiet in the kitchen, the scullery lad curled up in his blanket beside the warm hearth. He did not stir as she tiptoed past him nor even when she opened the kitchen door and stepped outside.

Callie closed the door carefully behind her and crept along the narrow path that ran down the side of the house to the street. She looked up and down the wide, dark thoroughfare. Then, pulling up the hood of her cloak so that it concealed her head, she started off boldly down the street.

ACROSS THE STREET and a few doors down from the ducal mansion sat a carriage. It had been there for several minutes, and the driver, huddled in his greatcoat, had begun to doze. Inside, two men sat. One, Mr. Archibald Tilford, sat back against his seat, a bored expression on his face as he turned his gold-knobbed cane around and around in his fingers. Across from him, staring out the open window of the carriage at Lilles House, sat Archibald’s cousin, the Earl of Bromwell.

“Really, Brom, how long are we going to sit here?” Tilford asked somewhat peevishly. “I’ve a bottle of port and some very lucky cards waiting for me at Seaton’s right now. And the brick the driver put in here is growing cold. My feet will be like ice in ten more minutes.”

The earl flashed him a cool look. “Really, Archie, do try to bear up. We have scarce been here a quarter of an hour.”

“Well, I cannot imagine what you are doing, watching a dark house,” his cousin went on. “What the devil do you expect to see at this time of night?”

“I’m not sure,” Bromwell replied, not taking his eyes from the house.

“It is clear no one will be coming or going so late,” Archie pointed out. “I cannot imagine why you took it into your head to see Rochford’s house right now. Good Gad, it’s been fifteen years, hasn’t it? I thought you had finally forgotten about the duke.”

Bromwell gave the other man a long look. “I never forget.”

Tilford shrugged, ignoring through long experience the fierce gaze that would have quelled most other men. “’Tis long over, and Daphne got married anyway.” Bromwell did not reply, and after a moment, Tilford went on. “What are you about?”

Bromwell countered his cousin’s question with one of his own. “What do you know about Rochford’s sister?”

Archie sucked in a sharp breath. “Lady Calandra?” He hesitated, then said carefully, “You’re not thinking of…some sort of game involving the duke’s sister, are you? Everyone knows the man is devilishly protective of her—as you would know, too, if you had not spent the last ten years of your life buried up on your estate making money.”

Bromwell grimaced. “I’ve never known you to complain about the money that I have made for the family.”

“Heaven forbid,” Archibald responded mildly. “But you have made an ample amount, surely. You can enjoy some of it now. Live a normal life for a change. Isn’t that why you came to London—to enjoy yourself for a while?”

Bromwell shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Well, a normal life does not include sitting about in cold coaches, spying on dark houses.”

“You were going to tell me about Lady Calandra.”

Archie sighed. “Very well. The lady is young and beautiful and wealthy.”

“Suitors?”

“Of course. But she has rejected them all—at least all the ones who were not too scared of the duke to even try to court her. Rumor has it that she will never marry. They say that the Lilles are simply a cold family.”

The corner of the other man’s mouth quirked up a trifle, and he murmured, “I saw nothing cold about the lady.”

Archibald shifted uneasily in his seat. “I say, Brom, what exactly are you thinking?”

A half smile played on Bromwell’s lips. “I was thinking how nervous it made the duke tonight to see me with Lady Calandra. It was most amusing.”

His words did not appear to reassure his cousin, who looked even more alarmed. “The duke will have your liver and lights if you harm Lady Calandra.”

Bromwell sent the other man a sideways glance. “Do you really think that I am afraid of anything the duke might do to me?”

“No, the devil take it. I am sure you are not. But, frankly, I am scared enough of him for both of us.”

The earl smiled. “Do not fret yourself, Archie. I do not intend to harm the girl. Indeed…” His lips curved up in a smile that was anything but reassuring. “I plan to be quite charming to her.”

Tilford let out a low groan. “I knew it. You are planning something. This is bound to end badly. I am sure of it. Please, Brom, can we not just drive on and forget all this?”

“Very well,” Bromwell replied absently. “I have seen all I wanted to, in any case.”

He started to drop the curtain that covered the window, but then he leaned forward, peering out, and held up a hand to his cousin. “No, wait. There is someone coming out. A woman.”

“A servant? At this hour?” Even Archibald sounded interested and turned to lift the other side of the window curtain. “An assignation, do you think, with some footman or—”

“The devil!” Bromwell’s exclamation was low but forceful. “It is the lady herself.”

He watched as the woman pulled up the hood of her cloak, concealing her head and face, then set off down the street. Taking Archie’s cane from his cousin’s relaxed hand, he raised it to open the small square window beside the driver’s head and give him a terse set of instructions.

Then he leaned back against the seat, pulling the concealing curtain into place, as the carriage rolled forward, following the woman.

“You think that is Lady Calandra?” Archie asked disbelievingly. “What would she be doing out? Alone? And at this time of night?”

“What indeed?” his cousin repeated, tapping his forefinger against his lips thoughtfully.

Archie pushed aside a sliver of curtain and looked out. “We’ve passed her.”

“I know.”

At the next street their carriage turned right and rolled slowly to a stop. Bromwell opened the door and stepped out of the carriage.

“Brom! What do you think you are doing?” Archie asked.

The earl replied lightly, “Well, I can scarcely let a lady walk alone at this hour, can I?”

With a smile and a tip of his hat, Bromwell closed the door and walked off.

CHAPTER FOUR

CALLIE WALKED QUICKLY, her footsteps echoing in the empty street. When she had conceived of her plan, she had not really thought about how dark and empty the night would be. It had seemed relevant only in that there would be no one about to see that she was walking out boldly without a maid or other companion. But now, as she hurried past the dark hulking shapes of the other houses, it occurred to her that a companion, even one as slight as her maid, would be reassuring.

She was not in general someone who frightened easily, but as she walked, the anger that had sent her hurrying out into the night began to ebb away, replaced by the realization that night was the time when thieves and other evildoers were afoot, going about their business. This was, of course, the best area of London and therefore should be much safer than any other place, but she could not help but remember the stories she had heard of gentlemen being followed home from taverns and attacked in their inebriated state. And surely, if someone was going to rob a wealthy household, now would be the time when the thief would be breaking in.

Moreover, even if there were no such robbers around, she knew that gentlemen, especially those in their cups, could be dangerous enough—and likely to assume that a woman alone on the street at night was not a decent woman at all, but in all likelihood one who sold her virtue on a routine basis. Callie had no desire to be mistaken for a barque of frailty plying her trade.

The sound of a carriage behind her made her start, but she did not look around, merely walked with as confident a stride as she could muster. Perhaps the occupant of the carriage would assume she was a man in a long cloak, not noticing the hem of her dress beneath it. Or perhaps he would not look out at all.

She let out a breath of relief as the carriage passed her, rattling over the bricks down the next block and disappearing around the corner. Callie hurried across the next intersection and on down the sidewalk. The few blocks to Lady Haughston’s home, so short a distance in ordinary circumstances, seemed frighteningly long now. Callie thought about turning back, but she told herself not to be a goose and forged on ahead.

In front of her, at the end of the block, a figure came around the corner, heading toward her. Callie hesitated, her heart leaping into her throat, and then she walked on slowly. If she were to turn and run now, she thought, it might cause the stranger to pursue her, if only because it would stir his curiosity.

Besides, there was something very puzzling about the man, something that made her go forward, squinting to see him better in the dim light. The man walking toward her did not wear a greatcoat or cloak or—how strange—even a hat. And though clearly he was a man, there was something odd about his manner of dress. His jacket was puffed at the sleeves, and his trousers were rather wide above his cuffed boots. He was not wearing the usual evening attire of a gentleman—or, indeed, the clothes of any sort of man she could identify. And he seemed to have stuck his cane through the side of his belt.

Her first thought was that he must be several sheets to the wind, and her second was that…but no, that was impossible!

Callie came to a dead stop.

The man continued toward her at the same steady pace, and with each stride she became more and more certain that her eyes were not playing tricks on her.

“Lord Bromwell!” she exclaimed.

In the next moment she wished that she had not let out the words. She should, she thought, have turned around and headed straight back for her house. He would think she was a lunatic. No, worse than that, he might assume that she was a woman of loose morals. No sister of a duke would be suspected of selling herself, of course, but she knew that the likeliest reason for her to be out at this time of night was for some sort of romantic rendezvous. In a married woman, such behavior would be scandalous, but for a girl not yet married, it would be disastrous.

Her stomach sank at the realization that this man would probably now look upon her with contempt. And if he told anyone that he had seen her in these circumstances, her reputation would be ruined, her brother and family shadowed by the disgrace. Someone who knew her well would, she hoped, not assume that she was engaged in something reprehensible, and even if he thought poorly of her, many a gentleman would keep the story to himself in order to spare her family the shame.

But this man scarcely knew her. And, worse, Sinclair had treated the earl in an unfriendly manner; indeed, Callie would characterize her brother’s attitude toward him as angry, even contemptuous. She hated to think how Sinclair had spoken to him after she left. Bromwell would have little reason to shield her or her brother; worse, he might gleefully seize this opportunity to get back at the duke.

And why had her brother acted that way? Sinclair’s meddling and his cool assumption that he could tell her what to do had irritated her so much that she had not really stopped to wonder what reason he had had for being so upset that she’d been alone with this particular man. Was it Bromwell’s reputation that alarmed her brother? Had the duke warned him off because he knew that the man had a history of seducing young females?

Her mind leapfrogged from one thought to another, each more disastrous than the last, in the instant that she stood there frozen. Her last thought, one that was purely wishful thinking, she knew, was that perhaps he had not recognized her voice and could not see her face inside the deep hood of her cloak. She could still turn and flee.

But in the next instant such hope vanished, for he started toward her, his face registering shock. “Lady Calandra? Is that you?”

Callie swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. She had to face this, whatever came; she must do what she could to keep the family name from being tainted by her impulsive behavior.

“Lord Bromwell. ’Tis no wonder that you are surprised.” Her mind raced, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for being there.

“Indeed, at first I thought my eyes were deceiving me.” He stopped a foot away from her. “This cannot be right. You should not be out at this hour. Where is your family?”

Callie gestured back down the street. “They are in their beds. I—I could not sleep.”

“So you came out for a stroll?” he asked, his raised eyebrows revealing the disbelief that his polite tone did not.

“I know you will think me very foolish,” she said.

“Oh, no.” He smiled. “I have a sister, and I am aware of how confining the restrictions of Society are, how the rules weigh upon a young woman of spirit.”

Callie could not help but smile back at him. Her fears had been foolish, she told herself. He seemed not at all disapproving of her actions; indeed, his smile, his face, his voice…all seemed both kind and understanding. Nor was there anything about him that bespoke the roué—no leer, no suggestive tone or improper suggestion.

“Then you will not…tell anyone…?”

“About coming upon you walking?” he finished. “Of course not. There is little to remark on in meeting a young lady who is taking a stroll, is there?”

“No, there is not,” Callie agreed, swept with relief.

“But, please, allow me to escort you back to your home.” He politely offered her his arm.

“I am not going there. I am bound for Lady Haughston’s house.”

He looked a bit puzzled, but to Callie’s relief he did not pursue the oddity of her deciding to take a stroll to Francesca’s house at this time of night, but merely said, “Then I shall be happy to escort you to Lady Haughston’s, if you will but show me the way. I am not, you may have guessed, well acquainted with London.”

“I did not think that I had seen you before,” Callie admitted, taking his arm and starting once more down the street.

“I have spent nearly all my time at my estate since coming into the title,” he told her. “I am sorry to say that it was in a rather sorry state of affairs. I have not had a great deal of time for…” He shrugged.

“Frivolities?” she suggested.

He smiled, glancing at her. “I do not mean to imply that a life spent here is frivolous.”

Callie grinned. “I take no offense, I assure you. Indeed, I know that a great deal of it is frivolous.”

“There is nothing wrong with a little frivolity.”

There was something quite exhilarating about walking along this way with this man—even their rather ordinary words seemed tinged with a feeling of daring and excitement. It was extremely rare for her to be alone with a man other than her brother for any length of time. And to be alone with any man at this time of night on a dark street was simply unheard of. Callie had never before done anything that would so shock everyone she knew. Yet she could not find it in herself to regret it. She did not, she realized with a little bit of surprise, even feel guilty or wrong. What she felt was free and fizzing with excitement.

Because she was a candid woman, she also knew that the way she felt inside did not come entirely from the adventure of being in this time and place. Indeed, most of the exhilaration bubbling up inside her had to do with this particular man.

She stole a sideways glance at him, taking in the hard straight line of his jaw, the upward swoop of his cheekbone, the faint shadow of beard that colored his cheek this late at night. There was something hard and powerful about him, not just in the obvious physical strength of his wide shoulders and tall frame, but in the air of confidence and competence he exuded. She sensed that, even as he smiled and talked to her, he was alert and watchful, his gray eyes always searching, his muscles tensed and ready. He was, she thought, the sort of man to whom people naturally turned in a crisis. But, conversely, she suspected that he was also not a man whom it was advisable to cross.

It occurred to her, with a little jolt, that in that way he was rather like her brother. Not as urbane as the duke and with a more roguish sort of charm. Still, she sensed that there was in him that same hard core that lay in Sinclair, a dark and immutable center that belied the aristocratic trappings and British gentility.

As if he sensed her eyes on him, he glanced over at her, his own eyes shadowed and dark. He did not smile or say anything, just looked at her, but Callie felt a sizzle of intense attraction snake down through her.

She looked away, afraid that her eyes would betray the sheer physicality of what she felt. Lord Bromwell unsettled her; she responded to him in a way she could not remember with any man. But the uncertainty, oddly, seemed to draw her rather than repel her. She wished that she knew what Sinclair disliked about this man, why he had reacted so sharply to seeing him with her.

“I must apologize for the way my brother acted,” she began, again looking over at him.

He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “It is only natural for a brother to worry about his sister. To want to protect her. I understand, having a sister, also.”

“I hope that you are not so heavy-handed about protecting her,” Callie replied with a smile.

He chuckled. “Indeed not. I fear she would have my hide if I tried to tell her what to do. She is a little older than I, though she would not like to hear me tell anyone so, and she is more accustomed to telling me what to do than the other way ’round.” The twinkle left his eyes, and there was steel in his voice, however, as he went on. “Still…I would despise any man who tried to harm her.”

“I love my brother and my grandmother, but sometimes they can be a bit smothering,” Callie admitted.

“Is their smothering why you are walking to Lady Haughston’s by yourself so late at night?”

Callie hesitated, then answered noncommittally, “I am going to Lady Haughston’s to ask her for a favor.”

She was relieved when he did not point out that she had not actually answered his question…or that it was rather an odd time to be asking for a favor. She was all too aware of that fact herself. It had been foolish of her to strike out on her own as impulsively as she had. It had been only her good fortune that it was Lord Bromwell she met and not some ruffian.

“You must think me young and silly,” she said, flushing a little. “Clearly I acted in the heat of anger.”

“No.” He smiled down into her face. “I find you young and very beautiful.” He paused, then added, the mischievous sparkle once more in his gaze, “And perhaps something of a trial to your overprotective relatives.”

Callie laughed. “No doubt I am.”

She looked up and found it was terribly hard to look away. It took a conscious effort to pull her gaze from his, and she knew that she had stared at him far too long for politeness. Her throat was dry, and her mind seemed astonishingly blank. She cast about for something to say, telling herself that she was acting like a schoolgirl at her first dance.

“I see you are not wearing your hat,” she said at last, groaning a little inwardly at the inanity of her comment.

“No, I left it behind. I found I could not bring myself to look quite that foolish on the street.”

“Foolish! No!” she bantered. “I thought your hat was quite dashing.”

She realized, with a little skip of her pulse, that she was flirting with him again, as she had earlier this evening. He responded in the same way, his voice light, yet laced with an underlying warmth and meaning, his eyes bright as he looked at her.

“You have not changed out of your attire, either.” He reached out with his forefinger and pushed her hood back a little, exposing the downward dip of her Tudor cap in the front. “I am glad. ’Tis a fetching hat.”

Callie realized that they had drifted to a halt, standing quite close together. His fingers still lingered at the edge of her hood.

“But I am glad you took off the mask,” he continued, his voice turning husky. “Your face is far too lovely to hide even a part of it.”

His fingertips brushed down her cheek, and Callie’s breath caught in her throat. She thought that he was going to kiss her again, and her heart began to pound in her chest. She thought of the heat that had flared between them, the pressure of his lips on hers, velvet smooth and enticing, yet demanding, as well.

But then his hand fell away, and he turned, starting to walk again. Callie fell in beside him. Her pulse was racing, and her knees were a little wobbly. She wondered what he had felt, if desire had raced through him just then, or if it had been only on her side.

It did not take them long to reach the elegant house in which Francesca lived, and Callie’s heart sank a little as they approached it. She forced a smile as she stopped at the foot of the steps before Francesca’s door.

“We are here,” she told him and extended her hand politely. “Thank you for escorting me. I hope I have not taken you too far out of your way.”

“It was a pleasure,” he assured her, taking her hand. But instead of bowing over it, he simply stood, holding it and looking down into her face. “But you must promise me not to do anything so dangerous again. You must send me a note if you plan any more midnight rambles. I promise I will come with you. To keep you safe.”

“I assure you, I will be quite careful in the future. I will not need you.”

“Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly; then, with a swiftness that surprised her, he wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her to him, bending his head to kiss her.

Bromwell’s kiss was everything she remembered, and more. His teeth were hard against her mouth, his tongue soft as it insinuated itself between her lips. He tasted a little of port and more of dark, beckoning hunger. Callie felt her knees sag, and she flung her arm around his neck, holding on, as she kissed him back.

His hand let go of hers and went to her back, sliding down along her cloak to the soft curve of her buttocks. His palm glided over the fleshy mound, fingertips digging in a little and lifting her up and into him. She felt the hard ridge of his desire against her softer flesh, and she was both startled and intrigued—even more so when she felt the wet heat of her own response blossoming between her legs.

She made a soft, eager noise, and heard the groan of his response. He lifted his head and stared down at her for a long moment, his eyes bright, a faint surprise mingling with desire on his face.

“No,” he murmured. “I think I have it wrong—’tis you who are dangerous.” He took a breath and released it, letting her go as he stepped back. “I will bid you adieu, my lady.” He removed himself another step, then flashed a grin at her as he said, “We will meet again. I promise it.”

With that he turned and walked away, though Callie noticed that he paused in the shadow of a tree two doors down and turned back to watch her. It warmed her to realize that he was waiting to see that she got safely inside, while at the same time protecting her reputation by not appearing with her. Hiding a smile, she trotted up the few steps to Francesca’s door. Taking a breath to calm her racing heart, she reached up and knocked.

Silence followed her knock, and for the first time it occurred to her that Francesca might not be at home. She could, indeed, still be at Aunt Odelia’s party. After all, clearly Lord Bromwell had just been walking home. Or, of course, everyone in the house could already be asleep.

She reminded herself that eventually someone would hear the knock and answer the door, even if the household was abed. Francesca’s butler would recognize her and let her in, however odd he might find her appearance on their doorstep at this hour.

Still, she was relieved when the door opened after a moment to reveal a slightly disheveled footman. At first he opened the door only a few inches; at the sight of only a young woman on the doorstep, his eyebrows flew up and he pulled the door wider.

“Miss?” he asked, looking bewildered.

“Lady Calandra Lilles,” Callie told him, putting on her most dignified face.

He appeared a trifle dubious, but at that moment Francesca’s butler appeared behind him, nightcap on and wrapped in a dressing gown. “My lady!” he exclaimed, then said sharply to the footman, “Step back, Cooper, and let her ladyship in.”

“I am sorry to appear at such a late hour, Fenton,” Callie told the butler as she stepped inside.

“Oh, my lady, do not even think such a thing,” Fenton replied. “You are always welcome in this house. Cooper will show you to the yellow sitting room while I inform Lady Haughston that you are here.”

With a bow for her and a sharp nod to the footman, the butler bustled off up the stairs. Callie followed the footman into the small sitting room down the hall. It was not the grandest of the receiving rooms, but she knew that the small room was Francesca’s favorite, its windows facing the tiny side garden and open to the morning sunlight. Also, because of its size, it was still rather warm from the banked coals of the evening fire.

Callie went to the fireplace to take advantage of its lingering warmth. Only a few moments passed before Francesca hurried into the room, tying the sash of her brocade dressing gown as she came. Her long blond hair tumbled down her back, and her pretty porcelain face was marred with a worried frown.

“Callie? What happened?” she asked, striding forward, hands outstretched. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh! No!” Callie answered, abashed. “I am so sorry—I did not think. I did not mean to alarm you. There is nothing wrong.”

Relief washed over Francesca’s face. “Thank heaven! I thought—well, I am not sure what I thought.” Her face pinkened a little, and she let out a deprecatory chuckle. “I am sorry. You must think me foolish.”

“Oh, no,” Callie hastened to reassure her. “Indeed, it is I who is foolish. I should not have come here at this hour. ’Tis only natural to assume that there is something wrong. I apologize for alarming you.”

Francesca airily waved her apology away. “Come, sit down. Would you like some tea?”

“No, I have already put your household in enough of a stir,” Callie answered. “I am fine.”

She sat down on the edge of a chair, and Francesca took the end of the love seat at right angles to her, looking at her with a concerned air.

“Are you really?” Francesca asked astutely. “I take it there is not an emergency, but…” She looked around speakingly. “Did you come here alone?”

Callie nodded. “Yes. I know it was not the safest thing to do, but I just—I could not stay in that house a moment longer!”

Francesca looked startled. “Lilles House?”

Callie nodded. “I am sorry to burst in on you at this hour. You must wish me at the devil, but I did not know where else to turn.”

“But of course you can come to me,” Francesca told her, reaching out to take her hand. “And do not worry about the hour. I had not retired, anyway. I was just brushing out my hair. And there is nothing Fenton loves like a little excitement. I shouldn’t wonder if he will come in here in a few minutes with tea and cakes.”

“You are very kind.” Callie smiled, then added, a little shyly, “You know, I have always thought of you as, well, almost a sister.”

Francesca’s face softened, and she squeezed the younger woman’s hand. “Why, thank you, dear. I am touched. I have often felt the same way about you.”

“Once,” Callie told her somewhat ruefully, “I actually thought that you were going to become my sister. I cannot remember why, precisely, but I thought so for some weeks—until Sinclair set me straight, of course. I was very young.”

A silence fell on them. Callie knew that Francesca was puzzled but politely waiting for her to explain her appearance after midnight.

Callie sighed. “I am sorry. Now that I am here, I’m not sure what to say.” She paused, then went on, “The fact is, Sinclair and I had a terrific row this evening.”

Francesca’s eyes opened wide. “You and Rochford? Why, what happened? I thought that the two of you got along so well.”

“We do, generally,” Callie allowed. “But tonight…” She stopped, reluctant to air her family disagreements, even to someone she had known all her life.

“You need not tell me if you don’t want to,” Francesca assured her kindly. “We can just talk about—oh, Lady Odelia’s party, for instance. It was quite a success, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, it was.” Callie grinned at the other woman. “And you are the consummate hostess. But I need to tell you. I must tell someone, and I—I think that perhaps you could help me, if you are willing to.”

“Why, of course,” Francesca replied, her curiosity fully aroused now. “Just tell me, then. Do not worry about dressing it up nicely. I have known your brother even longer than I have known you, and I dare swear nothing you tell me will shock me.”

“Oh, it is not shocking,” Callie hastened to tell her. “It is all quite ordinary, really. It is just that I have never known Sinclair to be so, well, so high-handed.”

“Ah.”

“Well, at least, not with me,” Callie went on. “He was excessively rude to a gentleman with whom I danced, a man whom even Grandmother said was a perfectly acceptable suitor. And he treated me—he treated me as if I were a child!” Heat rose in Callie’s cheeks at the memory, and her voice roughened with the remembered shame and anger. “I know I should not have been out on the terrace with him, but it was not the earl’s fault. Indeed, he helped me with a man who was being importunate. But Rochford would not even let me explain. He just told me to leave, as if I were a five-year-old being sent to her room without supper. I was humiliated.”

“I am sure you were,” Francesca sympathized. “No doubt Rochford will realize, when he has had a chance to calm down—”

“Oh, pray, do not take his part, too!” Callie cried.

“No, dear, of course not. I am sure he acted abominably. Men frequently do, I have found. But surely, when he reflects on it, he will be sorry he was so hasty.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Callie responded with some bitterness. “I tried to talk to him about it when we got home. But he still refused to give me any sort of explanation. All he would say is that he acted in my best interests—and I am supposed to be content with that!”

“Mmm. Most annoying,” Francesca agreed.

“Then my grandmother joined in, telling me how he was right, and that I have to do as he says. She went on about how I am under his control until I marry. And, of course, it goes without saying that I am under her control, as well.”

Francesca, who was well-acquainted with the dowager duchess, nodded sympathetically. “It is no wonder that you were upset.”

Callie let out a gusty sigh of relief. “I knew that you would understand!”

“I do. It is very hard having your relatives tell you what to do.”

Now that she had unburdened herself and had met with Francesca’s ready sympathy and understanding, perversely, Callie thought perhaps she did sound a bit childish. She gave the other woman a sheepish grin and said, “I am sorry. There is no reason to inflict all this upon you. It is just…I am so tired of the rules and restrictions. Grandmother has been living with us the whole winter, talking about how old I am and still unmarried. Even Aunt Odelia tonight told me I was on the verge of becoming an ape-leader!”

Francesca made a face. “You must not let Lady Pencully bully you into anything. I know that is easier said than done, for, frankly, Lady Odelia scares me silly. I find ’tis best simply to avoid her as much as possible.”

“Yes, but she is not your great-aunt. Anyway, I don’t mind her so much. At least she does not go on and on about one’s duty and being responsible and not letting the family down. Not doing anything that might reflect badly on the duke or on the family.”

“Families can be a terrible burden,” Francesca said in a heartfelt voice. “My mother pushed me to make a good match my first year out.”

“What did you do?” Callie asked curiously.

Francesca shrugged. “I disappointed her. But it was neither the first time nor the last, I assure you.”

“I get so tired of trying to please other people.”

“Perhaps you have been trying to please too many other people too much of the time,” Francesca suggested. “Perhaps you need to think about yourself, instead.”

“That is exactly why I came to you!” Callie cried. “I knew you were the person to help me.”

“I don’t understand,” Francesca said, puzzled. “I will certainly help you if I can, but I am afraid my opinion counts for little with either Rochford or the duchess.”

“Oh, no, I do not want you to talk to them. I want you to help me find a husband.”

CHAPTER FIVE

FRANCESCA STARED at her visitor blankly. “Pardon me?”

“I have decided to marry, and everyone assures me that you are the person to turn to when one is looking for a husband.”

“But, Callie…” Francesca looked dubious. “I thought that you were upset because your grandmother and Lady Odelia were pushing you to marry. It sounds to me as if you are simply trying to please them again.”

“No. Truly, I am not,” Callie told her earnestly. “You see, it is not that I am against marriage. I am not a bluestocking who would rather spend my life quietly reading than marry. And I am not independent like Irene, or wary of tying my life to a man’s. I want to marry. I want to have a husband and children and a home of my own. Don’t you see? I do not want to spend the rest of my life as Rochford’s sister or the duchess’s granddaughter. I want my own life. And the only way I can have that is to marry.”

“But, surely, if you wanted to be on your own…you are over twenty-one and in possession of an ample fortune.”

“Are you suggesting that I set up my own household?” Callie asked wryly. “And have the entire beau monde asking what has happened to set Rochford and me at odds with each other? Or listen to my grandmother lecturing me on my ingratitude, and my duty to my brother and to her? I have no wish to break with my family. I only want to have a life apart from them. To be free from the restrictions. But I would still have them all even if I had my own household. I would have to hire an older companion, preferably a widow, to live with me, and I would still be a young unmarried woman, unable to go anywhere or do anything on my own. You know what it is like, Francesca. It is not until you are married that you have the slightest freedom at all. I would so love to have a green ball gown. Or one of deep royal blue. Or any color other than this everlasting white!”

Francesca began to chuckle. “I remember that feeling. But you can hardly want to marry just to be able to wear royal blue.”

“Sometimes I think I might,” Callie retorted, then sighed. “But of course it is not just that. I want to be married. I feel sometimes as if I am bobbing along going nowhere, simply keeping pace, waiting for my life to begin. I want to start my life.”

Francesca leaned forward earnestly. “But, surely, my dear, you must have an ample amount of suitors. I would think you would only have to beckon and a dozen men would be on your doorstep, asking Rochford for your hand.”

“Oh, I have had no lack of suitors,” Callie admitted with a sigh. “But all too often they have been fortune hunters. There are other men, I think, who are actually reluctant to even approach me because of who I am. They do not want to be seen as opportunists, or they think that I would never consider them because they haven’t the proper amount of wealth or a noble-enough name. People assume, without even meeting me, that I am very high in the instep. And I am not, you know.”

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