Page 67 of The Wedding Challenge

He sat back on his heels and quirked an eyebrow at her. “No. Of course not. You show up here—though I cannot fathom why or how you knew where I was. You begin raving about your brother, and then you start shrieking and run straight out into the rain, pelting off God-knows-where. And when I try to stop you, to find out what is the matter, you attack me. What in all that is anything but mad?”

When she made no answer, only looked at him mutinously, he said, “Very well. We will leave your shoes on.” He pulled her to her feet again. “Come here.”

“Where?” She set her jaw, looking mulish.

“Oh, blast!” He swooped her up in his arms again and strode off down the hall to the study, ignoring her wriggling protests.

He set her down on her feet in front of the fire and picked up the poker to stir the flames higher. The heat felt wonderful against her skin, and Callie could not refrain from letting out a sigh of pleasure. She sat down on a stool in front of the fire screen, automatically turning her head so that her hair fell loose down the side closest to the heat.

Bromwell strode over to the decanter and glass that still sat on the tray, and filled up the glass again. He returned to Callie and thrust the glass into her hand. “Drink this. It will warm you faster than the fire.”

She looked at him suspiciously, and his mouth tightened. “Drink,” he ordered, “or I shall pour it down your throat.”

With a grimace, Callie took a gulp of the liquor. It burned all the way down her throat, and she gasped, but it warmed her from the inside, and she felt immediately better. He took the glass from her and drank, then handed it back to her and squatted down in front of the fire beside her.

Callie took another, smaller, sip of the drink and stole a sideways look at Bromwell. He had shrugged off the cumbersome throw he had wrapped around his shoulders, and the firelight played across his bare shoulders and chest. There was something primitive about him as he squatted there, his arms resting on his knees, warming himself in front of the fire, his hair tousled and wet, drying in the heat.

Her throat was suddenly dry, and Callie was humiliatingly aware of the warmth that was stealing through her loins, a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the man in front of her.

He turned his head and caught her looking at him. She glanced quickly away, blushing, but he reached out and took her chin in his fingers, tilting her face back to look at him. He did not speak, only let his eyes roam over her, taking in her wet disheveled curls and the damp dress that clung to her breasts, revealing the thrust of her tightening nipples against the cloth. His mouth softened a little, and his eyes sparked with heat. His thumb caressed her chin, moving up to skim across her bottom lip.

The touch of his skin on the sensitive flesh of her mouth sent sparks skittering through her, and she realized, aghast, that she was tempted to take his hand and press her lips against it. Despite everything, some primitive urge deep inside her had responded to the desire in his eyes and wanted to see it flame even higher.

She shot to her feet. “No! Do not think that you can seduce me. I will not succumb to you. I will not be a willing part of your scheme to stain my name!”

He rose, too, facing her, and the heat in his eyes now was more anger than desire. “I would never do that. You know I would not.”

“Really?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Do you expect me to believe that you lured me here to talk?”

He opened his arms in a gesture of bewilderment. “I did not lure you here at all! I have no idea what you are talking about, nor have I since the moment you walked through that door, babbling about Rochford.”

“How can you say that?” Callie cried. Somehow it hurt all the worse because she wanted so much to believe his words. “I am not a fool. I received a letter telling me to rush here because my brother had suffered a carriage accident, and when I arrived, there was no one here but you.”

“What?” He continued to stare at her. “Callie…I sent you no letter. I have no idea what you are talking about. I would never—I swear on everything that is dear to me, I would never try to lure you here and take advantage of you. How can you even think that?”

Callie looked into his eyes, the silver-gray warmed with the gold of the fire, and in that moment she was suddenly sure that he was telling the truth. And she was equally sure who must have arranged the trick that had been played on her.

Silently, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded note she had received. With fingers that trembled a little, she held it out to him.

Frowning, Bromwell took the letter and opened it. Hidden inside her pocket, beneath her cloak, it had not been soaked. It was only slightly damp, and the words were still legible. Looking at Bromwell’s face, Callie knew that he recognized the handwriting. He read it through twice and handed it back to her.

Avoiding her eyes, he said, “That was not written by Mrs. Farmington. She is the housekeeper here, and I am not sure that she is even literate. Your brother has never been here. I came to this house when I left London after…after we talked at Lady Whittington’s musicale.”

“What is this place?”

“It is indeed named Blackfriars Cope,” he told her, and finally he looked her in the eye. “It was Lord Swithington’s hunting lodge.”

He looked in that moment sad and tired and older than he was. With a sigh, he turned away, adding, “And the hand looks very much like Daphne’s.” He picked up the glass from the hearth and drained it. “I am sorry, Callie. I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”

He moved away, going to the desk and setting down the glass. He turned back to her, saying, “Perhaps she thought that she was helping me somehow. She knew that I—felt more for you than I should. Perhaps she believed that I would welcome the chance to be placed in such a situation with you.” He shook his head. “I do not know what is wrong with Daphne. She has acted…in ways that I have never seen her act. She has said and done things that are not like her at all. She—all I can think is that she has become so obsessed with what she suffered that she has lost all sense of reason. She is driven by the need to avenge the wrong that was done to her.”

“Brom…” Callie went to him and laid her hand upon his arm, looking up earnestly into his face. “Sinclair swore to me that he did not get your sister with child. He told me that he did not even have an affair with Lady Daphne.”

His eyes sparked with anger, and his arm stiffened beneath her hand. He shrugged it off, moving across the room. “Of course he would deny it.”

“My brother is an honorable man. He feels badly about the way he treated you. He knows that he mishandled the situation. He was not, you know, all that many years older than you were. But he swore to me that what you accused him of was untrue. I believe him. I do not believe that he would lie to me.”

“We have talked of this before. Of course you believe him. He is your brother.”