The Wedding Challenge

by Candace Camp

  “Callie, I don’t understand,” he said, going over to her. “I—I thought you would—I thought you would be agreeable to marriage. I was not aware that you had…an objection.”

  “I have no interest in marrying you to salve your conscience,” Callie shot back, swallowing back her tears. “I have no desire to marry you because you feel that you wronged my brother fifteen years ago, or because it is the proper thing to do, or because your sister trapped us into a compromising position.”

  “What the devil are you talking about!” he protested, his own temper rising now. “I never said any of those things!”

  “You did not have to. It is quite clear that all I am is a burden to you. You said not a word to me—not a smile or a glance—and went straight to my brother to apologize to him! As if he were the person who was most concerned with this, and I would do whatever was agreeable to him.”

  “No! I spoke to him because I wanted it all done properly. I wanted to make peace with Rochford so there would be no reason for a rift between you and your brother. It was not he who concerned me, it was you. My desire to marry you has nothing to do with the duke. Nor anything to do with my sister or with gossip or what everyone in the ton will think.”

  “Then why do you wish to marry me?” she challenged.

  He looked at her, astonished. “Because I love you, blast it! Because I cannot bear to live without you in my life. When I was there at the hunting lodge, before you came, I had nothing to do but look at the bleak days that stretched out in front of me. Endless, bitter, lonely days, because you would not be in them. I love you so much that my life is worthless without you. And that is why I want to marry you!”

  “Oh, Brom!” The tears now sprang into her eyes and fell, unheeded. She leaped forward, throwing her arms around his neck. “That is the right reason.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, burying his face in her hair. “Then will you agree to marry me? Or must I go down on one knee?”

  “No, no,” Callie said, half laughing, half crying. “Stay just where you are. Yes, I will marry you.”

  He kissed her then, a long, satisfying seal to their agreement. He raised his head and looked down into her eyes. “I love you, Callie, more than I ever dreamed I could love anyone.”

  “And I love you,” she said, looking up at him with stars in her eyes. She had come to London to find a husband, she thought, and instead she had found love.

  With a smile, she went up on her toes to kiss him.

  EPILOGUE

  FRANCESCA LOOKED AROUND the ballroom of Lilles House, decorated with what appeared to be all the spring flowers in a fifty-mile radius of London, and populated by fully half the ton. The cathedral earlier had been similarly crowded for the ceremony.

  It was no surprise. This was, after all, the wedding of the year. It was not every day that the sister of a duke married, especially the only and much-beloved sister. No expense had been spared, either for the wedding or the wedding dinner afterward, and the ton had been abuzz about it from the moment the engagement was announced. Invitations had been more eagerly sought than vouchers to Almack’s, and no one wanted to admit that they had not been invited.

  She made her way along the line of guests toward the happy couple. They were standing with the duke and Callie’s grandmother. Francesca knew that Lord Bromwell’s sister had also been invited, despite what she had done. Knowing how close Brom had been to his sister, Callie had been too softhearted to allow him to cut himself off from Daphne entirely. However, at least Lady Daphne was not receiving guests with them, and Francesca hoped that she would be able to avoid the woman altogether.

  The duke was, as usual, the most handsome man in the room. He bowed over Francesca’s hand, his eyes twinkling.

  “Ah, the fair lady who has brought all this about,” he said.

  “I can scarcely take the credit,” Francesca demurred. “’Twas love that triumphed. I find it usually does.”

  “Especially when love has an able general such as you.”

  “Francesca!” Callie reached out to hug her friend. Callie’s face glowed with happiness, and her large brown eyes were bright as stars.

  “Hello, Callie, Bromwell. I wish you both very happy,” Francesca told them, smiling. “But I can see that you already are.”

  “Indeed,” Bromwell agreed, lifting his wife’s hand to his lips to lightly kiss her fingers. “How could I be otherwise, when I am married to the most beautiful woman in the world?”

  Callie blushed and smiled, and as they looked at each other, it was clear that the rest of the room barely existed for them. They had eyes only for each other.

  Smiling, Francesca moved on. She must, she thought, start searching for someone to guide through the treacherous waters of the Season. It was already in full swing, and her time was growing short. She had meant to find someone as soon as Callie left, but she had gotten swept up in the wedding preparations, and she had not done her research.

  The truth was, she knew, that she was not looking forward to grooming any other girl for marriage. Over the past year she had had such a splendid time, and become such good friends with each of the women she had helped, that the thought of a more businesslike arrangement held little appeal.

  A few minutes later, she heard a murmur among the crowd, and she turned to see Callie and Brom taking the floor. They stopped in the center of the dance floor, waiting for the orchestra to strike up the strains of their first waltz as husband and wife. Looking at them and seeing the love that shone on their faces, Francesca could not help but blink back a tear.

  Of all the couples whom she had brought together, she thought that these two made her the happiest. Callie was like a sister to her. Indeed, she thought, once she had thought that Callie would be her sister in truth. Francesca shrugged away that thought impatiently, but she could not keep her eyes from going to the tall, straight figure of Callie’s brother, who stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching his sister dance with her new husband.

  The duke turned at that moment, and his gaze caught Francesca’s. They gazed at each other for a heartbeat; then Francesca glanced away, breaking the connection. She stared down at her gloved hands, busying herself with smoothing down each finger.

  “Well,” said a woman’s voice from just over her shoulder, “I am sure that you must be quite happy now.”

  Francesca turned and found herself staring into Lady Swithington’s pale blue eyes.

  “Of course I am pleased for Lady Calandra and Lord Bromwell,” Francesca replied coolly. “I am sure that they will be very happy.”

  “Naturally.” Daphne cast a sardonic glance at the newlyweds. “Such lovebirds.” She turned back to Francesca. “But I meant you. I am sure you are bubbling with happiness to have found out that I lied about Rochford.” Daphne’s pale blue eyes were venomous.

  Francesca shrugged. “I would never have believed that Rochford had gotten you with child and refused to marry you. He is not the sort of man to do that. Anyway, I never heard that rumor at the time, so it was scarcely any matter to me.”

  Daphne sneered. “You certainly jilted him anyway, did you not?”

  Francesca’s eyes flashed. “I could scarcely marry a man who was having an affair with another woman, even if he had no reason to marry her.”

  She stopped, staring at the other woman’s suddenly bleak face. A chill swept through her. In a shaky voice, Francesca said, “You lied about that, too, didn’t you? You just made it appear that you two were discovered in flagrante. It was one of your schemes!”

  Daphne’s lips curved up in a self-satisfied smirk. “Of course it was not true. Rochford was most boringly steadfast. If you had been a little less in love with yourself and more in love with him, you might have realized that.”

  Francesca turned away from Daphne, her eyes going across the room to the Duke of Rochford. She felt weak and sick inside, her knees trembling so that she thought she might fall down.

  Blindly she m
ade her way through the throng of people, not looking to either side. Someone took her elbow in a firm grasp, and she heard Irene’s voice, “Francesca? Are you ill?”

  Francesca looked at her. “A little, I think.”

  “Here, sit down.” In her brisk, competent way, Irene steered Francesca to a bench and sat down with her on it. “Let me get you something to drink.”

  “No. It’s all right. I merely needed to sit down. I had a bit of a shock, that is all.”

  “What happened? I saw you talking to that odious Lady Swithington. No doubt she said something to upset you.” At Francesca’s nod, Irene went on, “You must not believe her. I am certain it was a lie.”

  “No. I do believe that this time it was not.” Francesca’s voice was weary and laced with sorrow. “I fear that I made a terrible mistake many years ago. I wronged Rochford.”

  “What do you mean?” Irene asked. “I am certain that you could not have done anything terrible.”

  “I did. I did not believe him when he vowed he was telling me the truth.” She looked out over the crowd, seeking out his tall figure again. “Worse,” she went on, “I think I influenced him to—to live the sort of life he has.”

  “Whatever do you mean? He has a life anyone would envy.”

  “But he has never married. I think that what I did perhaps made him distrust women.”

  Irene stared at her. “Are you serious?”

  Francesca nodded. “Yes, and I must make it up to him.”

  “But how?”

  “It is clear,” Francesca said. “I must find Rochford a wife.”

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-0219-4

  THE WEDDING CHALLENGE

  Copyright © 2008 by Candace Camp

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