The Wedding Challenge. Candace Camp

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      Callie hesitated, then answered noncommittally, “I am going to Lady Haughston’s to ask her for a favor.”

      She was relieved when he did not point out that she had not actually answered his question…or that it was rather an odd time to be asking for a favor. She was all too aware of that fact herself. It had been foolish of her to strike out on her own as impulsively as she had. It had been only her good fortune that it was Lord Bromwell she met and not some ruffian.

      “You must think me young and silly,” she said, flushing a little. “Clearly I acted in the heat of anger.”

      “No.” He smiled down into her face. “I find you young and very beautiful.” He paused, then added, the mischievous sparkle once more in his gaze, “And perhaps something of a trial to your overprotective relatives.”

      Callie laughed. “No doubt I am.”

      She looked up and found it was terribly hard to look away. It took a conscious effort to pull her gaze from his, and she knew that she had stared at him far too long for politeness. Her throat was dry, and her mind seemed astonishingly blank. She cast about for something to say, telling herself that she was acting like a schoolgirl at her first dance.

      “I see you are not wearing your hat,” she said at last, groaning a little inwardly at the inanity of her comment.

      “No, I left it behind. I found I could not bring myself to look quite that foolish on the street.”

      “Foolish! No!” she bantered. “I thought your hat was quite dashing.”

      She realized, with a little skip of her pulse, that she was flirting with him again, as she had earlier this evening. He responded in the same way, his voice light, yet laced with an underlying warmth and meaning, his eyes bright as he looked at her.

      “You have not changed out of your attire, either.” He reached out with his forefinger and pushed her hood back a little, exposing the downward dip of her Tudor cap in the front. “I am glad. ’Tis a fetching hat.”

      Callie realized that they had drifted to a halt, standing quite close together. His fingers still lingered at the edge of her hood.

      “But I am glad you took off the mask,” he continued, his voice turning husky. “Your face is far too lovely to hide even a part of it.”

      His fingertips brushed down her cheek, and Callie’s breath caught in her throat. She thought that he was going to kiss her again, and her heart began to pound in her chest. She thought of the heat that had flared between them, the pressure of his lips on hers, velvet smooth and enticing, yet demanding, as well.

      But then his hand fell away, and he turned, starting to walk again. Callie fell in beside him. Her pulse was racing, and her knees were a little wobbly. She wondered what he had felt, if desire had raced through him just then, or if it had been only on her side.

      It did not take them long to reach the elegant house in which Francesca lived, and Callie’s heart sank a little as they approached it. She forced a smile as she stopped at the foot of the steps before Francesca’s door.

      “We are here,” she told him and extended her hand politely. “Thank you for escorting me. I hope I have not taken you too far out of your way.”

      “It was a pleasure,” he assured her, taking her hand. But instead of bowing over it, he simply stood, holding it and looking down into her face. “But you must promise me not to do anything so dangerous again. You must send me a note if you plan any more midnight rambles. I promise I will come with you. To keep you safe.”

      “I assure you, I will be quite careful in the future. I will not need you.”

      “Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly; then, with a swiftness that surprised her, he wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her to him, bending his head to kiss her.

      Bromwell’s kiss was everything she remembered, and more. His teeth were hard against her mouth, his tongue soft as it insinuated itself between her lips. He tasted a little of port and more of dark, beckoning hunger. Callie felt her knees sag, and she flung her arm around his neck, holding on, as she kissed him back.

      His hand let go of hers and went to her back, sliding down along her cloak to the soft curve of her buttocks. His palm glided over the fleshy mound, fingertips digging in a little and lifting her up and into him. She felt the hard ridge of his desire against her softer flesh, and she was both startled and intrigued—even more so when she felt the wet heat of her own response blossoming between her legs.

      She made a soft, eager noise, and heard the groan of his response. He lifted his head and stared down at her for a long moment, his eyes bright, a faint surprise mingling with desire on his face.

      “No,” he murmured. “I think I have it wrong—’tis you who are dangerous.” He took a breath and released it, letting her go as he stepped back. “I will bid you adieu, my lady.” He removed himself another step, then flashed a grin at her as he said, “We will meet again. I promise it.”

      With that he turned and walked away, though Callie noticed that he paused in the shadow of a tree two doors down and turned back to watch her. It warmed her to realize that he was waiting to see that she got safely inside, while at the same time protecting her reputation by not appearing with her. Hiding a smile, she trotted up the few steps to Francesca’s door. Taking a breath to calm her racing heart, she reached up and knocked.

      Silence followed her knock, and for the first time it occurred to her that Francesca might not be at home. She could, indeed, still be at Aunt Odelia’s party. After all, clearly Lord Bromwell had just been walking home. Or, of course, everyone in the house could already be asleep.

      She reminded herself that eventually someone would hear the knock and answer the door, even if the household was abed. Francesca’s butler would recognize her and let her in, however odd he might find her appearance on their doorstep at this hour.

      Still, she was relieved when the door opened after a moment to reveal a slightly disheveled footman. At first he opened the door only a few inches; at the sight of only a young woman on the doorstep, his eyebrows flew up and he pulled the door wider.

      “Miss?” he asked, looking bewildered.

      “Lady Calandra Lilles,” Callie told him, putting on her most dignified face.

      He appeared a trifle dubious, but at that moment Francesca’s butler appeared behind him, nightcap on and wrapped in a dressing gown. “My lady!” he exclaimed, then said sharply to the footman, “Step back, Cooper, and let her ladyship in.”

      “I am sorry to appear at such a late hour, Fenton,” Callie told the butler as she stepped inside.

      “Oh, my lady, do not even think such a thing,” Fenton replied. “You are always welcome in this house. Cooper will show you to the yellow sitting room while I inform Lady Haughston that you are here.”

      With a bow for her and a sharp nod to the footman, the butler bustled off up the stairs. Callie followed the footman into the small sitting room down the hall. It was not the grandest of the receiving rooms, but she knew that the small room was Francesca’s favorite, its windows facing the tiny side garden and open to the morning sunlight. Also, because of its size, it was still rather warm from the banked coals of the evening fire.

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