Page 52 of The Wedding Challenge

Francesca frowned a little, but said lightly, “How odd. Well, we must take him to task for his neglect next time we see him.”

But they did not see him—not that evening when they attended Mrs. Cutternan’s soiree, nor the next afternoon when they received callers. Callie determinedly kept a polite smile on her face as they chatted with their visitors, doing her best not to appear as though she was waiting each moment for Lord Bromwell to appear. But she could scarcely attend to what was being said. All she could think of was Lord Bromwell and whether he would call on her later in the afternoon, and if not, why not.

Had she said something wrong? Done something wrong? Had he thought she acted imprudently the other night, that she should have left Vauxhall as soon as the party turned boisterous? Or that she should not even have gone there without Irene and Gideon in attendance?

But surely he could not be so unfair as to blame her for going there with his own sister as chaperone. If Lady Swithington had not been acting with such abandon, if she had exercised more control over the party, it would not have degenerated into such a romp. Would he actually blame Callie when it was obviously his sister who should have been more responsible?

On the other hand, she reasoned, perhaps it was not that at all. Perhaps it was her behavior after they left the supper box. She had not wanted to go straight home but had asked him to linger. Had he thought her too bold? Had she not appeared shaken enough by her experience? Had she seemed too worldly? Too experienced?

Or was it that Bromwell thought she had behaved like a wanton? The memory of the kisses they had shared by the fountain were enough to bring blushes to her cheeks. She could not help but wonder if he had found her too brazen, too bold. It was unfair, of course, for certainly he had participated in their kisses and caresses fully as much as she. But she knew full well that men were often unfair in their moral judgments of women. A young man could have relations with a woman and no one thought anything of it. A young woman, however, would be ruined if she lay down with a man. A man might want to sleep with a woman, but if she gave in, then he would not want to marry her. It was a tale she had been told ever since she came out.

She could feel Francesca casting worried glances her way from time to time. When their last visitor left, Francesca turned to her and said quietly, “Perhaps Lord Bromwell has been called away from town for some reason. There might have been an emergency at his estate, and he did not have time to leave a message.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Callie answered, summoning up a smile. “Or perhaps he is simply the fickle sort. I have heard that some men are.”

“He did not seem so,” Francesca replied, her frown deepening. “I had come to think—oh, well, there is no use in talking of it now, is there? We must wait and see if he writes and tells you what happened. Or perhaps he will simply arrive tomorrow with a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

Callie was not sure what an adequate explanation would be, as it seemed to her that whatever had happened, he could have sent round a note by now to explain his absence. However, she was eager to end the conversation, for it was growing more difficult with each second to keep her worry and fears from showing. She was afraid that if Francesca continued talking about the matter much longer, she might start to cry.

Fortunately, Francesca seemed as happy as she to drop the subject and began to chat about what they should wear to the opera that night. Callie joined in, grateful that Francesca was able to bear more than her share of the conversational burden.

They went to the opera with Irene and Gideon, occupying Lord Radbourne’s luxurious box. Callie paid especial attention to her attire and hair, unable to suppress the hope that she might see Bromwell tonight. If he was there, it was vitally important that she look her best—and that she appear lighthearted and carefree.

He was not there, however, and Callie was not sure whether to be unhappy or relieved. For if he was at the opera, it would mean that he had not been called away or been ill or any other such thing; it would mean that he simply had not wanted to call on her.

The next afternoon, she decided to make a round of calls. She had been staying home all too much recently, waiting for Lord Bromwell to visit, and she did not want to spend another afternoon that way. There was a little niggling worry inside her that he would come by and she would be gone, but she refused to give way to it. If he did call, it would serve him right that she was not there. He would see that she was not sitting about pining for him.

Still, when she returned, she could not keep from sifting through the calling cards that had been left her in absence, just to see if Bromwell’s was among them. It was not.

Francesca had tactfully not mentioned Lord Bromwell since their brief discussion of the subject the afternoon before. Callie could only admire the woman’s ability to find so many other things to talk about other than the one that was so glaringly obvious.

The next evening was Lady Smythe-Furling’s ball. She was not known for the excellence of her parties, but it was the only social entertainment that evening, and Callie was now determined to go out at every opportunity. She wanted desperately to keep herself occupied, to dance or chat or do something, anything, to chase away the depressing thoughts and doubts.

Almost as soon as they entered, however, Callie wished that they had not come. As she made her polite curtsey to Lady Smythe-Furling and her two daughters, she glanced across the room. And there, standing at the edge of the dance floor, talking to Lord Westfield, was Bromwell.

Her heart skittered in her chest, and she struggled to keep control of her expression. He was here! Hope surged within her, no matter how she struggled to keep it down. He would see her, she thought; he would turn and smile, and then he would walk over to her, and everything would be all right again. She could stop her incessant worrying.

But he did not turn or look at her. She strolled away, careful not to stray toward the part of the room where he stood. She refused to seek him out. If he wanted to talk to her, he would come to her.

He did not.

She danced with her host, and with the husband of Lady Smythe-Furling’s oldest daughter. She danced with Francesca’s good friend Sir Lucien—and was very grateful for his presence at her side for much of the evening. She felt certain that Francesca had put a word in his ear, but it was, Callie thought, kind of him to oblige her and devote his evening to easing her discomfort.

She was also grateful that her dance card was full and she was able to appear, at least, to be enjoying the party. She chatted, she laughed, and she even managed to flirt a bit—it was easy with Sir Lucien, who was able to carry on a flirtation almost entirely by himself, truth be known.

Inside, however, she ached. Bromwell was here—the man who had kissed her passionately only a few nights before, the man who had devoted himself to her over the past few weeks—and he had not even come over to say hello to her. It was just as well that he had not, she thought, for she was not sure how she would have maintained her composure. It had been difficult enough to do so without having to face him.

The hours moved with excruciating slowness. All Callie wanted was to go home and throw herself upon her bed and cry, but she would not allow herself to leave early. She would not give anyone the opportunity to whisper about how upset she had been.

She knew that there were already whispers. Lord Bromwell had been so assiduous in his attentions to her recently that it was obvious to everyone there that he was not speaking to her tonight. She had felt the glances that were directed her way; she had seen the conversations stop in midsentence when she had looked toward someone. It made her pain much worse to bear—and at the same time, it made it all the more imperative that she not reveal that pain.

Francesca, she noticed, began to act tired long before she normally did, now and then covering a yawn with her fan, then apologizing prettily to those around her for her sleepiness. Callie suspected that she was doing it for Callie’s benefit, so that they could slip away from the party early.

It did not surprise her when Francesca announced that she simply could not remain any longer, and so they made their goodbyes. Callie let out a sigh of relief as she sat down in the carriage and leaned back against the soft leather seat.

“Thank you,” she said softly to Francesca.

“It was a dull party, anyway,” Francesca replied airily. She reached over and put her hand on Callie’s arm. “Are you all right, dear?”