by Candace Camp
Francesca still looked troubled, but she let the matter drop. Callie was grateful. She knew that her words were not entirely truthful, and it was hard to keep up a pretense of good cheer.
She did believe that the gossip about her would die down quickly enough, and though she did not like the fact that people were talking about her, she could bear it without much difficulty. But she had lied about the heartache that she felt. The truth was that her heart had been sore without Brom. It had not been only her pride that had been hurt.
She had not fallen in love with him. She reminded herself of that fact frequently. But she could not deny that her days were far duller without him in them. She missed talking to him and seeing his face. She missed his smile, his laugh, the way his presence filled a room. The other night, when she had seen him across the room, her heart had leapt in her chest. The problem was, she thought, she was lonely without him, and unhappy. Every morning when she woke up she would feel again for a moment as she used to, and then she would remember that Brom was missing from her life, and a quiet sadness would settle upon her.
However, she was determined that the world, at least, should not see that she was unhappy. Gritting her teeth, she went about her usual social routine. A Lilles, after all, had to keep up appearances.
Therefore, as the days wore on she paid calls or received visitors every afternoon, and she accompanied Francesca to parties, smiling and chatting with friends and acquaintances as if she did not have a care in the world. And if there were nights when she cried herself to sleep, or mornings when she wished that she did not have to get out of bed, she did not let on.
One evening, at the theater, Sally Pemberton, a rather sharp-faced blond girl, came in with her mother to visit them in their box, and once the requisite amount of small talk had passed, she said archly, “’Tis odd, is it not, how rarely one sees Lord Bromwell these days.”
“Really?” Callie glanced at her. “I am afraid I had not noticed.”
“Not noticed! But, my dear, the man was practically in your pocket, was he not? Every party, every dinner. Why, the way he danced attendance on you, I vow I quite expected to hear a happy announcement very soon. And now…” She shrugged. “Well, one cannot help but wonder what has happened.”
“I have learned that it is a fool’s game to take a young gentleman seriously—either in what he says or in what he does. It is precisely because of a young man’s fickleness that a woman is always wise to keep a firm grip upon her heart.” Callie smiled serenely at Miss Pemberton.
And if she had to curl her hand into a fist in her lap, fingernails digging into her palm, to keep any emotion from showing in her face, or if she cried into her pillow again that night…well, at least the Miss Pembertons of the world did not know it.
Francesca, she felt sure, suspected that Callie’s nights were restless; she could hardly have missed the mornings when Callie came down to breakfast with eyelids still swollen from tears or smudged with faint blue beneath them from lack of sleep. But, tactfully, Francesca refrained from comment.
Callie knew, too, that Francesca turned down a number of invitations, choosing only enough to make it clear that Callie was not sitting home nursing a broken heart. Her friend also, Callie noticed, remained by her side through most of any party, quick to steer the conversation in a new direction if it entered troubling waters, or to skewer with a few well-chosen words any person with the audacity to repeat whatever gossip still circulated about Callie and Lord Bromwell. For that, if for no other reason, Callie thought, Francesca would always have a special place in her heart.
She did not see Bromwell at any of the parties she attended. She thought he might have left London. He had only been visiting, after all; he obviously preferred living on his estate. But she heard his name now and then at parties, and Sir Lucien told Francesca that Bromwell had been seen frequently at Cribb’s Parlour, a drinking establishment favored by the “fancy,” as gentlemen with a keen interest in the sport of pugilism were known. He had also, according to Francesca’s friend, spent several afternoons at Jackson’s Saloon, where he had been given the honor of stripping to the waist and sparring with Gentleman Jackson himself.
Callie could not help but wonder if Bromwell was staying in London so that he could see for himself what sort of damage he had inflicted on Rochford’s sister. This thought served to stiffen her spine and send her to one or two parties that she had been reluctant to attend for fear she might run into him.
More and more members of the ton were arriving in London almost daily, it seemed, and Callie knew that it would not be many more weeks before the Season was well under way. The number of invitations they received each day was rapidly growing, and they were spending more and more evenings at one party or another.
She thought of the months ahead and the exhausting whirl of parties and calls, and she quailed inside. She was not sure she could stand living through this spring and into June, going to a constant round of social engagements, when all the while she felt somehow both leaden and empty inside. As for her original plan of using the Season to find a husband—well, that idea carried no importance for her any longer. Looking back on it, she wondered why she had ever thought that she wanted to marry, much less spend the time and effort it would require to actively seek out a likely prospect for the endeavor.
She thought with longing of going to Marcastle to stay with Sinclair—or, even better, to Dancy Park. She could spend her days riding about the estate or taking long tramps through the countryside. There were friends to visit there—Dominic and Constance. Everything would be quiet and calm, and there would be no prying eyes searching her face for signs of sorrow or embarrassment. She would not have to worry about what she would do if she saw Lord Bromwell walk into a party.
But she knew that she could not leave yet. It was too soon, and gossiping tongues would stir. No one left at the height of the Season except with good reason, and everyone would be certain that her reason was a broken heart. She would have to stay at least another two months now, until May, she decided, and she almost wept at the thought.
“I thought we would attend Lady Whittington’s musicale tonight,” Francesca announced one afternoon.
Callie barely suppressed a groan.
“Yes, I know,” Francesca commiserated. “They are dead bores, usually.”
“Usually?”
“Well, always. However, they have one distinct advantage. They do not last past ten o’clock, ever, and one also does not have to converse most of the time. You can pretend to be listening to the wretched music.”
“If one is adept at acting,” Callie agreed. “But you are right. Having to be out only two hours is a very welcome thing.”
So with somewhat less reluctance than she usually felt, Callie dressed for the evening, letting her maid spend a few extra minutes taming and arranging her curls, and she and Francesca went to the musicale. Francesca, as usual, arranged it so that they swept in later than most of the crowd; such behavior was always marked down as simply the way Lady Haughston was, but Callie was well aware of the fact that it greatly reduced the time that she would have to spend keeping up her pose of cheerful indifference to Lord Bromwell’s absence.
They met Lady Manwaring and her sister, Mrs. Beltenham, just inside the foyer, and they strolled into the music room together, pausing to look about for seats. Callie’s gaze went to the west wall of the room, opposite the windows, and her heart skittered in her chest.
Standing there, his elbow resting negligently upon a marble pedestal and looking straight at her, was Lord Bromwell.
Callie felt as if she suddenly could not breathe. It had been over a week since she had last seen him and two since she had spent any time with him, and she was struck all over again by his hard, spare handsomeness. He straightened as their gazes locked, and Callie thought, feeling a little panicky, that he was about to walk over to her.
She could not bear that. Not here, in front of all these people. She turned quickly away
, touching Francesca’s arm. “I—I am feeling a bit of a headache. If you will excuse me…”
“Oh, dear. Do you want to leave?” Francesca asked quickly. “Perhaps you are coming down with something. I hear that there is a fever going about.”
“No, no, I think it is just a…um, a trifle warm in here. Pray do not worry. Just sit and enjoy the music. I shall return shortly.”
Callie turned, not daring to glance back at Bromwell, and fled from the room.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CALLIE HURRIED down the hallway, paying little attention to where she went. A door stood open to a small library, and she slipped inside, closing the door after her. Letting out a sigh of relief, she sank down into a wingback chair. Her legs, she noticed, were trembling.
She wished she had not fled. Had anyone noticed? She suspected that someone must have. She only hoped she had not looked as distressed as she had felt.
It was so much harder to maintain her air of indifference when Bromwell was there. When he had first stopped calling on her, she had half expected to see him every time she walked into a party. She had been prepared, braced to run into him…as well as still hopeful that when she saw him, somehow everything would return to the way it had been.
But now she had become accustomed to his not being around. She had let her guard down, and the sight of him had been a shock. Moreover, now that she knew why Brom had pursued her and then rejected her, there was no hope in her heart, only pain at the sight of him.
She would have to go back, she knew. She could not hide in here for the entire musicale—or even for more than a few minutes. People would notice her absence, and there would be talk. If she let on how much Lord Bromwell had hurt her, then all of her careful work for the last two weeks would be for naught. Callie closed her eyes and tried to school herself for the ordeal ahead.
The door opened suddenly, and Callie jumped at the sound, her eyes flying open. Lord Bromwell stood framed in the doorway.
She stared at him for a moment, every nerve in her body tingling. Then she rose to her feet, her hands curling into tight fists at her side as though ready to literally fight.
“Lord Bromwell,” she said, relieved that her voice came out much steadier than she felt.
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, but did not come any closer. “I thought—are you all right?”
“I am fine,” Callie replied coldly. “If you hoped to find me brokenhearted over you, I fear you are doomed to disappointment.”
“Of course I did not hope to break your heart!” he flared up, his eyes flashing silver. “I—” He broke off, his face stamped with frustration, and began to pace the room. “Blast it! I never thought about you. I only thought to tweak the duke’s nose a bit.”
Callie stiffened. “I am well aware that your only interest in me was to hurt my brother. However, I do not think that a few whispers about my losing a suitor will do much to damage Rochford. No doubt you regret the fact that you were not able to besmirch my name,” she added in a voice that dripped sarcasm. “It would have been a much greater scandal.”
Bromwell stopped in his pacing and whirled around to face her. “I never intended to do that! Is that what you think of me? That I am the kind of man who would shame a lady, just to get revenge on her brother?”
“What else am I to think?” Callie shot back, taut with fury. Her muscles trembled as the anger and hurt, long tamped down, came welling up in her. All the pain, all the tears, all the worry and doubt, swept through her, filling her with such rage that she could no longer keep it from flooding out. “Why else did you pursue me? That is what my brother believes. It is why he warned me not to have anything to do with you. You wanted to put a blot on our good name, and what easier way to do so than that?”
“Oh, really?” Bromwell took a long stride closer to her. “And if that was my purpose, how do you explain the fact that I did not ‘besmirch’ you?”
“Rotten luck on your part, I suppose,” Callie snapped.
His hand lashed out, grasping her upper arm, his fingers digging in. “Rotten luck?” he repeated incredulously. “Is that what you believe? In what way did I have bad luck? It certainly was not in lack of opportunity—and you were certainly not unwilling.” He jerked her to him, his eyes blazing down into hers. “I’ll warrant you still are not unwilling.”
He bent and kissed her, his mouth laying claim to hers with a savage intensity that she knew should have frightened and repelled her. But it did not, she realized with dismay. Instead, the harsh, possessive, ravening kiss ignited a fire inside her. It geysered up, shooting throughout her body, turning her skin to flame, and settled in a hot, aching mass deep in her abdomen.
His arms went around her, pressing her into him. She wrapped her own arms around his neck, and they strained against each other, their mouths clinging, devouring. His hands moved over her body hungrily. Growing frustrated at the cloth that thwarted his desire to touch her, he bunched the dress in his hand, pulling it up and up until at last his fingers were able to slip beneath her skirts.
He spread his hand across the soft flesh of her thigh, separated from him only by the sheer cotton of her undergarment. His hand slid upward, seeking the moist heat of her center, and the path of his fingers sent shivers of passion through her. As his mouth possessed her, he caressed and stroked her leg, sliding back to curve over the soft mound of her buttock, then around to the front, easing between their bodies.
Callie gasped and moved involuntarily in surprise as his hand boldly slid across her abdomen and delved down between her legs. Never had she imagined being touched in such a way, but she found that it excited her almost beyond measure. She moved, wanting more…needing more.
Brom made a noise deep in his throat, hunger tearing at him as he found the damp, heated cleft between her legs. His fingers stroked and flexed, aching to touch her skin without the thin cloth between them.
Breaking the seal of their mouths, he kissed his way down her throat and onto the supremely soft flesh of her breast, which rose above the neckline of her dress. He tasted her skin with lips and tongue, tracing hot wet patterns across the smooth flesh and gently grazing it with his teeth.
Callie trembled, sure that she would go mad beneath the touch of his fingers and mouth. The pleasure was stunning, sending the heat within her skyrocketing. She ached to feel him all over her, to take him inside her. She was aware of a deep, primitive longing to circle her hips against him, to open her legs to his hard masculine force.
With his other hand, he reached up to tug at the neck of her gown, working down the dress and the chemise beneath it until at last her breast was free. He grew still, gazing down for a long moment at the soft white orb and the pinkish-brown circle of her nipple.
Then he bent and circled the center with his tongue, causing it to grow even harder. Softly he blew on the nipple where his tongue had touched, and it tightened even more, plucking a cord that ran straight down into her abdomen and flooded her with desire.
Slowly, thoroughly, he loved her with his mouth, using teeth and tongue and lips to arouse the tight bud of her nipple. Finally he settled down to suckle at her nipple, pulling with strong, deep strokes even as his fingers moved in the same rhythm between her legs.
Desire clawed at his loins like a wild beast, and he wanted to pull her to the floor and take her, to rip the clothes from her and sink into her, surging to his completion. He felt her skin flame beneath him, felt her move and gasp and softly moan at the pleasure he was evoking in her, and it filled him with such heat and hunger that he thought he would explode.
Callie’s breasts were full and aching, her loins throbbing with an incessant beat. She arched up against him, wordlessly seeking more. Something was building inside her, intense and demanding.
With a low, soft curse, he broke from her and turned away. She swayed where she stood, staring after him, stunned and bereft. She wanted to follow him, to throw herself at him and beg him to take her, to give h
er the satisfaction her body so craved. Only some last small vestige of pride enabled her to remain where she was, silent.
Brom leaned over the library table, his hands braced, his chest rising and falling with deep fast breaths. Callie stared at his back. She was trembling all over, her mind benumbed, and she felt incredibly soft and aching, vulnerable, like a creature outside its shell.
Slowly she came to herself enough to pull up the neck of her dress and smooth down her skirts into some semblance of modesty. She moved away shakily, saying, “Well…you must be happy now that you have humiliated me.”
“Humiliated you?” he answered through gritted teeth. “I am the one who cannot walk out of this room.”
Her body was still hot and aching, still yearning for satisfaction, but she was not about to argue with him about which of them suffered most from desire. “This is to no purpose,” she said tightly, bringing her hands up to cool her burning cheeks.
She could feel the sorrow rising in her, pushing its way through the heat of her desire. “I will not let you use me against my brother,” she told him, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Whatever mad feeling you may be able to call up in me, it will not be enough to make me ruin my good name and his. I will make certain that we are never alone together again.”
“I did not mean to do that,” he gritted out. “And you need not fear me. Or what I want from you.” He swung around to look at her, his face stark and etched with pain. “I did not consider what would happen to you when I started this, and for that I apologize. I wanted only to tease the duke, to make him worry that I might do to you what he did to my sister. I had some hope that it might even bring him to confront me personally—to finish what started fifteen years ago.
“But I never set out to hurt you,” he went on. “And, God knows, I never intended to—to wind up wanting you so much it’s driven me near mad. I did not expect to spend every day counting the minutes until I could be with you again. Or to become the sort of fool who would attend a dull thing like Lady Whittington’s musicale just on the chance that I might get to see you again.”