Page 45 of The Wedding Challenge

“No, thank you.”

He shrugged and drained the glass himself. Then he leaned closer, peering into her face. “Whassa matter? Don’ you want some fun?”

Callie recoiled. His breath stank of alcohol, and his eyes were bloodshot. “No,” she told him firmly. “Now, please, move somewhere else.”

She was not normally rude, but it was clear that no polite rejoinder would have any effect on him. He regarded her for a moment, his eyes narrowing, and for an appalled moment she thought he was going to say something vicious. But then he shrugged and hauled himself to his feet, reeling away toward the others.

Callie saw with dismay that while she had been occupied with the man, several of their party had left their box. Neither Miss Swanson nor Miss Turner was there, and the two dandies were gone, as well. She turned to look out across the promenade and was a little relieved to see that the four young people had decided to dance; they would come back soon. As she watched, they were swallowed up by the crowd of dancers.

She looked around at the occupants of the box. Mr. Swanson, it seemed, had reached his limit, for he was sitting slumped over one of the tables, eyes closed, snoring heavily. Mr. Tilford picked up a cup, filled it with punch, then toddled out the rear door, apparently seeking more lively companions.

Callie glanced at Lady Swithington. She was sitting between the two men whom she had invited into the booth, talking and laughing and flirting with them over her fan, now and then folding it to lay a light, teasing tap upon one or the other of them.

One of them took her hand and raised it to his lips, lingering far longer than was acceptable, but Daphne made no move to take her hand away. She simply laughed throatily and leaned closer to whisper something in the man’s ear.

“Lady Swithington,” Callie said urgently. “I—I must leave. I am sure that Francesca will be worried about me.”

It took Daphne a moment to focus on Callie. “But, my dear, it is still early yet. You cannot mean to leave so soon.”

“I—Lord and Lady Radbourne have not come, and I—I fear I should not be here. If you could send for your carriage…” She was not sure how she would safely reach the carriage, but she felt that she must leave, and soon, before the situation grew even worse.

Lady Daphne laughed, waving her hand airily. “Now, now, you can’t leave yet. Why, Brom has not even arrived. You must not let Lord and Lady Radbourne spoil your fun.”

“I am—I do not think that Lord Bromwell is coming,” Callie replied, trying to keep her voice even. “It is quite late.”

Lady Daphne rose, saying with a laugh, “The evening has scarcely begun. You cannot go yet. Come.” She held out a hand toward Callie. “Come with us. We are going to dance. Poor Willoughby needs a partner, don’t you, Mr. Willoughby?”

The man in question peered at Callie, then shook his head. “No, she won’t go. Too Friday-faced.”

“Lady Swithington…” Callie began again. “I truly do not wish to dance.”

“You see?” the drunken man said, nodding sagely. “Told you.”

“I wish to leave,” Callie went on. “And I imagine that Miss Swanson and Miss Turner should go, as well. They are in that crowd, completely unchaperoned.”

“Well, of course, of course, if that is what you wish,” Daphne replied magnanimously. “Just as soon as Brom comes. Though I doubt that Miss Turner and Miss Swanson will welcome your dragging them away, as well,” she added with a chuckle. “Now, if you are sure that you won’t come dance with us…”

She turned away, looping her hands through both men’s arms and flashing a dazzling smile at them. “Come, gentlemen. I am eager to dance.”

The man who was not Willoughby chuckled and murmured, “Eager for much else, as well, I trust.”

Lady Swithington laughed, seemingly not in the least offended by his suggestive words, and said, “We shall see, won’t we?”

“Lady Swithington!” Callie cried out, appalled, as the group made their way toward the door.

Daphne appeared not to hear her as she swept out of the box, closing the door behind them. Callie stood there, staring after her in astonishment. Slowly, she turned, taking in the scene. She was alone except for Mr. Swanson, passed out in his chair. Indeed, she had never felt quite so alone. She looked out at the increasingly boisterous scene in front of her. Lady Daphne and her two swains had disappeared into the crowd, nor could she spot any of the others who had come with her tonight.

Callie frowned and sat back down in her chair to think. What was she to do? She wanted very much to simply run through the crowd to the entrance and there jump into a hansom cab to take her home. However, she could not help but be concerned about Miss Swanson and Miss Turner, who had clearly had more of the arrack punch than was good for them—and were rather foolish to begin with, if one was being truthful. The men who were with them were hardly people on whom one could rely. She should have done something more to stop them, she thought. And it seemed irresponsible to simply leave them here.

“Well, what are you doing all alone, pretty one?”

Callie jumped, startled, and turned to see a middle-aged man leaning on the open ledge of the box. She rose, her heart pounding, and her hands clenching into fists at her side.

“Please go away. My brother will return soon,” she improvised, her mind roaming over the possibilities the box offered in the way of weapons. One of the empty bottles would be best, she thought, and she started to edge toward the table where Mr. Swanson sat, his head on his arms.

“Brother, is it?” His smile conveyed his disbelief. “He should have more sense than to leave a lovely like yourself all alone. Perhaps I should come in and keep you company ’til he gets back.”

“No. You should not.” Callie reached the table, and her hand curled tightly around the neck of the bottle.