Page 26 of The Wedding Challenge

Francesca laughed. “Just be glad that white looks fetching on you, with that glorious black hair and strawberries-and-cream skin. Think of how awful it is for us blondes. We look positively insipid.”

Callie smiled at the other woman. “I am quite sure that you never faded away in any dress. Everyone knows that you have been the reigning beauty of London since your presentation.”

“Thank you, my dear, that is lovely to hear, although I am sure it is not true. Anyway, I thought that the blue accents on the satin ball gown quite made up for its being white.”

“You are right.” Callie thought of the sketch she had chosen for the gleaming white satin—an overskirt looped up over a froth of white tulle ruffles, each high point of the drapery anchored with a baby blue rosette, with a blue satin sash around the high waist, and blue ribbons bordering the cap sleeves of the bodice. “And the lace and seed pearls on the other ball gown are lovely, too. Besides, I should never complain about anything when I am shopping with you. It is ever so much nicer than going with my grandmother. She always insists on raising the necklines.”

“Oh, dear.” Francesca made a moue of distress. “Will I be in trouble with the duchess now? I did not think any of the gowns were immodestly low.”

“They were not,” Callie assured her. “Everyone, even the youngest girl making her first Season, shows more of their bosom than Grandmother allows me. I cannot imagine why. In her time, they wore much more daring necklines. But even she will not dare to say anything about a dress that you approved. She has always told me that you have the best sense of style of anyone in the ton.”

“That is a compliment to treasure. Everyone knows the Duchess of Rochford is the epitome of elegance.”

The two women spent a few more minutes happily going over their fashion coups, enjoying the bargains in ribbons, buttons, trims and shawls from Grafton’s almost as much as the pelisses and dresses from the finest modistes. Fenton had brought in a tray of small cakes and sandwiches along with the tea, and they hungrily downed them as they talked, washing everything down with sweet milky tea.

Finally, reaching the end of the repast as well as of their recounting of their purchases, Francesca set her teacup down and said, “Now, if you are tired and do not wish to, you must tell me, but I had thought that we might begin our little project this evening by going to the theater.”

“Oh, no, I am quite revived,” Callie assured her, her dark eyes brightening with interest. “That sounds delightful.”

“Good. I shall send a note round to Sir Lucien. One can always count on him as an escort,” Francesca said, getting up and suiting her action to her words by sitting down at the small desk beside the window and beginning to scribble a note to her friend. “I thought it would give us a chance to do a spot of reconnoitering. See just what bachelors out there are worth meeting. And, of course, we need to decide exactly what requirements we are looking for in a husband for you.”

“I am not choosy, really,” Callie told her. “He does not have to be wealthy or come from the highest of families. My grandmother is always telling me that I am distressingly egalitarian.” She sighed. “Though I suppose a certain amount of wealth and name are necessary to make sure he is not marrying me for my money and family.”

“And looks?”

“Are not that important, either, although it would be nice if he were not terrible to look at. He need not be handsome—but I like a strong face. And intelligent eyes.” The image of gray eyes under straight dark brows came unbidden to her mind. She had never realized, Callie thought, until she met him, but the Earl of Bromwell’s face was precisely the sort of masculine visage that drew her. But, of course, she reminded herself, she was not foolish enough to choose a spouse on the basis of looks.

“He must be easy to talk to,” Callie told Francesca firmly. “And have a sense of humor. I could not abide a husband who was always serious. Nor do I want a scholar. So many of Rochford’s friends bore me to tears, the way they go on and on about history and such.” She cast the other woman a sheepish glance and chuckled. “I must sound quite shallow.”

“Not at all. I am sure Rochford’s scholarly friends would have the same effect on me.” Francesca blew on the note to hasten the drying of the ink, then folded and sealed it.

“But I don’t want a dullard, either,” Callie pointed out. “I mean, Rochford is not boring until he gets around one of those men with whom he corresponds. Scientists and historians and such. But I would not want someone who did not know how to make a clever rejoinder or could not understand what Sinclair is talking about, either.” She paused. “Oh, dear, I am beginning to think that I have a great many more requirements than I thought.”

“And well you should. You are, dear girl, a prize in the marriage mart. It should require a special man to win you. Besides, it makes it far easier to winnow through the prospects. Why, simply refusing dullards will cross out a large number of the men of the ton.”

“You are wicked,” Callie told her, laughing.

“Merely truthful,” Francesca responded as she rose from her desk and went to pull the bell cord to summon a servant. “There, I have invited Sir Lucien to dine with us before the theater.”

Even though Sir Lucien was her dear friend and most faithful escort, Francesca knew that it was always best to insure his company with a supper invitation. A confirmed bachelor and a man of impeccable style and taste, Sir Lucien’s pockets were usually to let—due partly to the small size of his income and even more to the fact that he spent the major portion of that income on his clothes and the small but fashionably located rooms he let. Therefore, he was accustomed to dining out frequently, using his primary assets of good looks and good taste to maintain a steady supply of invitations from a number of hostesses.

The invitation sent, the two women went upstairs to prepare for the evening ahead. After all, the purpose of an evening at the theater was not the play, but the opportunity to see and be seen, and one needed to look one’s best just as much as one would at a party.

A short nap with a cool lavender-soaked rag across her eyes was enough to refresh Callie and return her to her usual looks. She followed it with a bath, then dressed with the help of her maid, Belinda, choosing her favorite white evening dress, piped around the bottom of the overskirt and along the neckline with white braid. She wished that she could wear the dark green morocco slippers she had ordered just this afternoon, but, of course, they would not be finished for another few days, so she had to settle for a pair of brocade slippers. Her only jewelry was a single short strand of pearls with matching earrings. An elegant fan and long gloves would complete the outfit.

She sat down in front of her vanity, and her maid swept her hair up in a knot at the crown of her head, letting it fall down from the knot in several long curls, carefully formed with Callie’s brush. In the front, around Callie’s face, she allowed the shorter hair to frame her features in natural soft curls. Belinda had, Callie knew, been inspired to make her best effort on the hairdo because of the presence of Francesca’s maid, Maisie, who was reputed to be an artist with hair. Callie thanked her, smiling, then went downstairs to join Francesca.

She found Sir Lucien sitting with her hostess, talking while they enjoyed a glass of sherry before supper. Sir Lucien sprang to his feet when Callie entered the room and executed a graceful bow.

“Lady Calandra! You can imagine my pleasure at being allowed to escort two such lovely ladies to the theater. The gods have indeed smiled upon me.”

“Sir Lucien.” Callie smiled at the man fondly.

Sir Lucien was urbane, witty and handsome, the perfect escort—and, Callie suspected, more interested in one’s frock than in the woman inside it. Of course, no one would speak of such things before a young unmarried girl, but it had not taken Callie long to sense that Sir Lucien’s flirtation and flatteries were more an enjoyable game to him than anything that contained real feeling. While he had a great appreciation of beauty in any form, whether it was a face or figure or the cut of one’s dress, she had never witnessed in him the flash of heat that flared in some men’s eyes when they looked at her. Lord Bromwell, for instance—there had been an intensity to his gaze, a palpable warmth that emanated from his body when he drew her close to kiss her.

“I am so glad you came,” Callie told Sir Lucien, firmly putting aside her wayward thoughts of Lord Bromwell. “Although I fear our gain must be some other poor hostess’s loss.”

Sir Lucien gave a graceful shrug. “I was planning to attend Mrs. Doddington’s musicale this evening, and I can only thank you for saving me from that. The woman always has excellent refreshments—poor Lethingham’s been trying to steal her cook from under her nose for years. But her taste in music is execrable. And she always insists on her daughters contributing a set, which is more than one should have to bear, really.”