The Wedding Challenge

“Hmm.” Lord Radbourne adopted a considering pose. “Greeting guests or facing Aunt Odelia—a difficult choice indeed. Is there not a third, more attractive, alternative—perhaps dashing into a burning building?”

Gideon smiled at his wife in a way that was almost a caress and went on, “I had best stay here, else Aunt Odelia will no doubt take me to task again because I did not come as Sir Francis Drake as she suggested, a globe under my arm.”

“A globe?” Callie repeated sotto voce as she and Irene strolled away.

“Yes. For sailing all over the world, you see—though I’m not entirely sure that Sir Francis Drake actually circumnavigated the globe. But that would scarcely matter to Aunt Odelia.”

“Little wonder that Radbourne did not care to come in that costume.”

“No, but it was not the globe that put him off so much as those puffed short pants.”

Callie laughed. “I am surprised you were able to get him to come in costume at all. Sinclair would not consider it, beyond a mask.”

“Doubtless the duke has more dignity to lose,” Irene replied lightly. “Besides, I have found ’tis quite amazing the persuasive power a wife can exert on her husband.” Her eyes glittered behind her gold mask, and there was a soft, provocative curve to her mouth.

Callie could feel a faint blush rising in her cheeks at the implication of the other woman’s words, and she felt a not unfamiliar twinge of curiosity. Women were usually quick to cease any discussion of the marriage bed if an unmarried girl was around, so Callie had heard very little about what happened in the privacy of a couple’s bedchamber, although, as was usually the case in a girl who had been raised in the country, she had some degree of knowledge of the basics of the act, at least among horses and dogs.

Still, Callie could not help but wonder about the feelings—the emotions and the physical sensations—that were involved in that very private human act. To ask a direct question was, of course, unthinkable, so she had had to glean what she could from conversations she overheard and, sometimes, an inadvertent slip of the tongue. Irene’s comment tonight was, she thought, different from most that she had heard from married women. Though lightly humorous, there was a pleased tone to her voice—no, more than that, there was the almost purring sound of someone who thoroughly enjoyed participating in that wifely “persuasion” about which she spoke.

Callie cast a sideways glance at Irene. If there was anyone who would talk about such a thing to her, she thought, it would be Irene. She cast about for some way to keep the conversation going in the direction Irene had taken, but before she could think of anything to say, she glanced across the room, and every thought left her head.

A man stood leaning against one of the pillars that marched along either side of the room. He looked negligently at ease, his arms crossed, one shoulder to the pillar. He was dressed in the style of a Cavalier, his wide-brimmed hat pinned up on one side and with a sweeping plume on the other. Soft leather gloves with wide, long gauntlets encased his hands and lower arms. His fawn breeches were tucked into soft boots that were elegantly cuffed just below the knees, and slender golden spurs hung at the heels. Above his trousers he wore a matching slashed doublet, bare of any ornamentation, and over that was a short round cape, tied casually at the neck and caught on one side behind the elegant thin sword hanging at his waist.

He could have stepped from a painting of the nobles who had fought and died for their doomed king, Charles I—elegant, and whipcord lean and tough. The dark half mask that hid the upper portion of his face only added to the air of romance and mystery that hung about him. He was glancing about the room, his expression arrogant and faintly bored. Then his eyes met Callie’s and stopped.

He did not move nor change expression, yet somehow Callie knew that he had become instantly, intently alert. She gazed back at him, her steps faltering. A slow smile spread across the lower half of his face, and, sweeping off his hat, he bowed extravagantly.

Callie realized that she was staring, and, with a blush, she took two quick steps to catch up with Irene. “Do you know that man?” she asked in a hushed voice. “The Cavalier?”

Irene glanced around. “Where—oh. No, I don’t believe I do. Who is he?” She turned back to Callie.

“I do not think I have ever seen him before,” Callie replied. “He looks…intriguing.”

“No doubt it is the costume,” Irene told her cynically. “The most impossibly dull sort would look dashing in the clothes of a Royalist.”

“Perhaps,” Callie agreed, unconvinced. She was tempted to turn and look back at the man, but she resisted the urge.

“Calandra! There you are!” Lady Odelia exclaimed in her booming voice as they approached the dais upon which the old lady sat.

Callie smiled as she stepped up to greet her great-aunt. “May I offer you my felicitations, Aunt Odelia?”

Lady Odelia, a formidable-looking woman even when she was not dressed up in the manner of Queen Elizabeth, allowed a regal nod and gestured Callie forward with a gesture worthy of that monarch. “Come here, girl, and give me a kiss. Let me look at you.”

Callie obediently bent and kissed her great-aunt’s cheek. Aunt Odelia took both Callie’s hands in hers and stared up at her intently.

“Pretty as ever,” she announced in a satisfied voice. “Prettiest of the lot, I’ve always said. Of the Lilles, I mean,” she offered in an aside to Irene.

Irene nodded her understanding, smiling. She was one of the few women in the ton who held no fear of Lady Pencully; indeed, she rather enjoyed the old woman and her blunt ways. She had, in fact, engaged in a few lively discussions with Odelia that had sent everyone else scurrying out of the room and left the two women flushed, eyes snapping, and quite pleased with themselves and each other.

“Can’t imagine what is wrong with young men today,” Lady Odelia went on. “In my day a girl like you would have been snapped up her first year.”

“Perhaps Lady Calandra does not wish to be ‘snapped up,’” Irene offered.

“Now, don’t go putting your radical ideas into her head,” Lady Odelia warned. “Callie has no desire to be an ape-leader, do you, my dear?”

Callie suppressed a sigh. “No, Aunt.” Was she never to get away from this topic today?

“Of course not! What intelligent young girl would? ’Tis time you put your mind to it, Calandra. Ask that chit Francesca to help you. Always thought the girl had more hair than wit, but she managed to get this one to the altar.” Lady Odelia gestured toward Irene, who rolled her eyes comically at Callie. “I would not have taken odds on that happening.”

“Indeed, Aunt,” Irene put in. “To hear you and Lady Radbourne speak of it, one would assume that your grandson and I had nothing to do with the matter, only Lady Francesca.”

“Hah! If I had left it up to you two, we would still be waiting,” Lady Odelia tossed back, the twinkle in her eyes counteracting the bite of her words.

The two of them continued to bicker in a playful fashion, and Callie realized with a rush of gratitude that Irene had skillfully led the obstreperous old woman away from the subject of Calandra’s own unmarried state. She cast her friend a look of gratitude, and Irene responded with a smile.

Callie stood, idly listening as her companions strayed into an apparently endless and comfortably familiar list of items about which Irene and her husband’s great-aunt enjoyed crossing swords. She glanced up at Irene just as her words suddenly came to halt and saw that Irene was looking over Callie’s shoulder. Just as Callie started to turn around to see what had caused the sudden interest on Irene’s face, a masculine voice sounded behind her.

“Pardon me, Your Highness, but I come seeking the favor of this fair maiden’s hand for the next dance.”

Callie swung around, and her eyes widened as she found herself staring up into the masked visage of the Cavalier.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MAN WAS, Callie realized, even more intriguing up close than he had been at a distance. The black half mask concealed the upper portion of his face, but it also emphasized the strong, chiseled jaw and well-cut, sensual mouth that lay below it. The eyes that looked out through the mask were fixed on her with a gaze that was decidedly warmer than was polite. He was tall, with wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, and he exuded a powerful masculinity that owed only part of its aura to the dashing costume he wore.

She should have given him a setdown, Callie knew, for she was certain that she did not know the man, which made it quite forward of him to ask her to dance. However, she found she had no desire to snub him. Indeed, what she desired was to put her hand in his and let him lead her out onto the floor.

However, Callie was certain that she would not be able to dance with him, for Lady Odelia would doubtless blister his ears for his impudence. Callie waited, with an inner sigh of regret, for that lady’s words.

“Of course,” Lady Odelia said—nay, almost purred, Callie thought, as she glanced at the old lady in surprise.

Irene’s face registered a similar sense of shock as she, too, turned toward Lady Odelia. But Lady Odelia was smiling with what could only be called pleasure at the Cavalier, and when Callie did not move, she waved her hand in a shooing motion toward her.

“There, girl, do not stand rooted on the spot. Get to the floor before the orchestra starts again.”

Callie did not need to be told twice to do what she wanted. If Lady Odelia had given her blessing to dancing with this man, it would satisfy the requirements of propriety—and prevent any upbraiding from her grandmother. But there was nevertheless a whiff of something illicit about dancing with a perfect stranger that she found enticing.

She quickly placed her hand on the arm the stranger held out to her, and they went down the step of the dais and onto the dance floor. Callie was very aware of the man’s arm beneath her hand, the muscle hard under the soft material.

“I should not dance with you, you know,” she told him, a little surprised at the flirtatious tone that bubbled up in her words.

“Indeed? And why is that?” He looked down at her, his eyes twinkling.

“I do not know you, sir.”

“How can you be sure?” he countered. “We are masked, after all.”

“Still, I am certain that we are strangers.”

“But is that not the point of a masquerade? That you do not know who anyone is? And so, surely, it is only to be expected that one would dance with a stranger. The usual rules do not apply,” he told her, and his gaze slid down her face in a way that made Callie feel suddenly warm.

“None of them?” she asked lightly. “Indeed, sir, that sounds dangerous.”

“Ah, but that is what makes it exciting.”

“I see. And it is excitement you seek?”

His smile was slow. “’Tis pleasure I seek, my lady.”

“Indeed?” Callie arched one brow, thinking that she should probably nip this conversation in the bud. It was growing altogether too familiar—and yet she could not resist the tingle that ran through her at his words, his smile.

“Indeed, yes—the pleasure of dancing with you,” he went on, the light in his eyes telling her that he was aware of exactly where her mind had strayed.

The lilting strains of a waltz began, and he held out his hands to her. Callie moved into his arms, her heart beating a trifle faster. It was even more daring to waltz with a stranger than it would have been to take to the floor for a country dance. She had to stand so close to him during a waltz, her hand in his, his arm almost encircling her. It was a much more intimate dance. It was often not even allowed at the more conservative assemblies in the countryside, and even here in London society, she had rarely shared a waltz with a man with whom she had not at least danced before. Certainly she had never done so with a man whose name she did not even know.

But Callie could not deny that despite the strangeness of it, she liked the way she felt in his arms, and she knew that the flush moving up her throat was due only in part to the exertion of the dance.

At first they did not speak. Callie concentrated on matching her steps to his; she felt almost as she had when she had first made her debut—anxious that she might make a misstep or appear awkward. She quickly found, however, that her new partner was an excellent dancer, his hand on her waist steady and firm, his steps in perfect rhythm to the music. She relaxed and settled down to enjoy herself, glancing up at him for the first time.

Callie found the Cavalier looking down at her, and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were gray, the color of a stormy sky in this low light, and so steady upon her that she felt herself lost in his gaze. She was near enough to him that she could see the lashes that ringed his eyes, thick and black, shadowing his expression. Who could he be? He seemed completely unfamiliar; surely no costume could disguise someone she knew so well. Yet how could it be that she had not met him sometime in the past five years?

Was he an interloper, someone who had seized the opportunity a masked ball offered to intrude upon a party to which he had not been invited? But Lady Odelia had apparently recognized him, so surely that was not the case. She supposed he could be a recluse, someone who disliked Society and usually shunned it. However, in that case, why was he here at an enormous party? Certainly his manner was scarcely that of one who was shy or solitary.

Could it be that he had been abroad for the past few years? A soldier or naval officer, perhaps? Maybe a member of the foreign office. Or simply a dedicated traveler.

She smiled a little to herself at her fanciful thoughts. No doubt the explanation was something perfectly ordinary. After all, she did not know everyone in the ton.

“I like to see that,” her companion said.

“What?” Callie asked, puzzled.

“The smile upon your face. You have been frowning at me so steadily that I was afraid I must have fallen headlong into your bad graces without even knowing you.”

“I am sor—” Callie began, then realized the man’s admission. “Then you agree that we are strangers.”

“Yes. I admit it. I do not know you. I am certain that I would recognize a woman who looks as you do…even in a costume. You cannot hide your beauty.”

Callie felt her cheeks go warm and was surprised at herself. She was not a schoolgirl to be so easily cast into confusion by a gallant compliment. “And you, sir, cannot hide that you are a terrible flirt.”

“You wound me. I had thought I was rather skilled at it.”

Callie chuckled in spite of herself and shook her head.

“The fact that we are strangers is easily enough remedied,” he went on after a moment. “Simply tell me who you are, and I will tell you who I am.”

Callie shook her head again. Curious as she was about this man, she found it enjoyable to dance and flirt with him, knowing that he did not know who she was. She did not need to worry about his motives or his intentions. She did not have to weigh each statement for the truth of it or wonder if he was flirting with her—or with an heiress. Even those men who did not need her fortune or pursue her for the sake of it were still aware of it. Her lineage and her fortune were as much a part of her to them as her laughter or her smile. She could never know how any of them might have felt about her if she had been merely a gentleman’s daughter rather than the sister of a duke. It was quite pleasant, she realized, to know that when this man flirted with her, he saw only her, was attracted only to her.

“Oh, no,” she told him. “We cannot tell each other our names. That would end all the mystery. Did you not just tell me that that was the whole point of a masquerade—the mystery and excitement of not knowing?”

He laughed. “Ah, fair lady, you have pierced me with my own words. Is it fair, do you think, for one of your beauty to possess so quick a wit, as well?”

“You, I take it, are accustomed to winning your arguments,” Callie countered.

“There are times when I do not mind losing. But this is not one of them. I should regret it very much if I lost you.”

“Lost me, sir? How can you lose what you do not have?”

“I will lose the chance to see you again,” he replied. “How shall I find you again, not knowing your name?”

Callie cast him a teasing glance. “Have you so little faith in yourself? I suspect that you would find a way.”

He grinned back at her. “My lady, your faith in me is most gratifying. But, surely, you will give me a hint, will you not?”

“Not the slightest,” Callie retorted cheerfully. There was, she was finding, a wonderful freedom in not being herself, in not having to consider whether what she said would reflect badly on her brother or her family name. It was quite nice, actually, for a few moments to be simply a young woman flirting with a handsome gentleman.

“I can see I must abandon hope in that regard,” he said. “Will you at least tell me who you are dressed to be?”

“Can you not tell?” Callie asked with mock indignation. “Indeed, sir, you crush me. I had thought my costume obvious.”

“A Tudor lady, certainly,” he mused. “But not the time of our Lady Pencully’s queen. Her father’s reign, I would guess.”

Callie inclined her head. “You are quite correct.”

“And you could not be aught but a queen,” he continued.

She gave him the same regal nod.

“Surely, then, you must be the temptress Anne Boleyn.”

Callie let out a little laugh. “Oh, no, I fear that you have picked the wrong queen. I am not one who would lose my head over any man.”

“Catherine Parr. Of course. I should have guessed. Beautiful enough to win a king. Intelligent enough to keep him.”

“And what of you? Are you a particular Cavalier, or simply one of the king’s men?”

“Merely a Royalist.” He wrinkled his nose. “It was my sister’s idea—I have the uneasy feeling she may have been jesting when she suggested it.”

“But you need the hair, as well,” Callie pointed out. “A long curling black wig, perhaps.”

He laughed. “No. I balked at the wig. She tried to talk me into it, but on that I was firm.”

“Is your sister here tonight?” Callie asked and glanced out across the ballroom. Perhaps she knew his sister.

“No. I visited her on my way to London. She will not be here until the Season begins.” He studied her, his eyes alight with humor. “Are you trying to guess who I am?”

Callie chuckled. “You have caught me, sir.”

“I must tell you that you can easily extract the information from me. My name—”

“Oh, no, ’twould not be fair. Besides, I will find it out once you have discovered who I am and come to call.”

“Indeed?” His brows went up, and his eyes glowed suddenly with a light that was not laughter. “I have your permission to call on you?”

Callie tilted her head to the side, making a show of considering. In truth, she was a little surprised at what she had said. She had not thought about it before the words had popped out of her mouth. It was rather audacious to give someone she had just met permission to call—especially before he even asked. It was, well, forward on her part. Her grandmother, a stickler for rules, would be horrified. She probably should tell him no.

But Callie found she had not the slightest desire to take back her words. “Why, yes,” she replied with a smile. “I believe you do.”

The dance ended soon after, and Callie was aware of a pang of regret as her companion led her off the floor. He left her with a bow, raising her hand to briefly brush his lips against it. And even though she could not feel his lips through the cloth of her glove, heat rushed up in her anyway. She watched him walk away, quite the most dashing figure in the room, and she wondered again who he was.

Would he call on her? she wondered. Had he felt that same surge of attraction that she had? Would he go to the trouble of finding out who she was? Or was he merely a flirt, passing the time with flattering banter? Callie knew that it would take only a few judicious questions to the right people to discover his name, but, oddly enough, she found that she liked not knowing. It added to the anticipation, the little thrill of excitement, wondering if he would indeed come to call.

She did not have long to think about the Cavalier, however, for her dances were soon all spoken for, and she spent most of the next hour on the dance floor. She was taking a much-needed rest, sipping a glass of punch and chatting with Francesca, when she saw her grandmother making her way toward her, gripping the arm of a solemn sandy-haired man.

Callie groaned under her breath.

Francesca glanced at her. “Is something the matter?”

“Just my grandmother. She is bringing over another prospect, I warrant.”

Lady Haughston spotted the dowager duchess. “Ah. I see.”

“She has become obsessed with the idea that I must marry soon. I think she fears that if I do not become engaged this next Season, I will spend the rest of my life as a spinster.”

Francesca glanced again at the pair walking toward them. “And she thinks Alfred Carberry would suit you?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“She thinks Alfred Carberry would suit her,” Callie replied. “He is in line to inherit an earldom, though given the fact that his grandfather is still alive and hale, not to mention his father, I shouldn’t think it will be until he is in his sixties.”

“But he is such a dreadfully dull sort,” Francesca pointed out. “All the Carberrys are. I do not suppose they can help it, living all together up there in Northumberland. But I should not think you would enjoy being married to him.”

“Yes, but, you see, he is so respectable.”

“Mmm, that is one of the things that makes him so dull.”

“But that suits my grandmother.”

“And he’s nearly forty.”

“Ah, but men my age are apt to be flighty. They might go haring off and do something that isn’t respectable. No, Grandmother prefers them stodgy and dull—and from a good family, of course. Wealth would be nice, but she is not utterly wedded to that.”

Francesca chuckled. “I fear your grandmother is doomed to disappointment.”

“Yes, but I am doomed to her lecturing me. She has been doing so all winter.”

“Oh dear,” Francesca said sympathetically. “Perhaps you should come visit me. My butler has instructions to turn away all dull and stodgy men—or women, for that matter.”

Callie laughed, opening her fan to hide her mouth as she murmured, “Do not let Grandmother hear that, or she will forbid me to call on you.”

“Calandra, dear, there you are. Not dancing? And Lady Haughston. How lovely you look, as always.”

“Thank you, Duchess,” Francesca replied, curtseying. “I must return the compliment, for you are in excellent looks tonight.”

It was true, of course, for Callie’s grandmother, with her upsweep of snow-white hair and slim, ramrod-straight body, was still an arresting-looking woman. She had been, Callie knew, quite a beauty in her day, and Callie counted herself fortunate that at least the duchess had excellent taste in clothes and had never quibbled about Callie’s choice of wardrobe—aside from a time or two in Callie’s first Season when her grandmother had put her foot down firmly against a ball gown that was other than white.

“Thank you, my dear.” The duchess smiled in a regal way, taking the compliment as her due. “You know the Honorable Alfred Carberry, do you not?” She turned toward the man at her side, unobtrusively maneuvering things so that the duchess stood facing Francesca and Mr. Carberry was closer to Callie.

The duchess went on, introducing the women to Carberry. “Lady Haughston. My granddaughter, Lady Calandra. Tell me, Lady Haughston, how is your mother? We must have a nice coze together, for I dare swear I have not seen you since Lord Leighton’s wedding.”