Page 58 of The Wedding Challenge

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.”