course not,” the duchess replied quickly. “But when one is seeking a husband, one must be especially careful about everything one says or does.”
“Are you seeking a husband, Callie?” Rochford asked now, turning to his sister with a quizzical glance. “I was not aware.”
“No, I am not,” Callie told him flatly.
“Of course you are,” her grandmother contradicted. “An unmarried woman is always seeking a husband, whether she admits to it or not. You are no longer a young girl in her first Season, my dear. You are twenty-three, and nearly every girl who made her come-out the same season as you has gotten engaged—even that moon-faced daughter of Lord Thripp’s.”
“To an ‘Irish earl with more horses than prospects’?” Callie asked. “That is what you called him last week.”
“Of course I would expect a far better husband than that for you,” her grandmother retorted. “But it is vexing beyond belief that that chit should have become engaged before you.”
“Callie has plenty of time for finding a husband,” Rochford told his grandmother carelessly. “And I can assure you that there are any number of men who would ask me for her hand if they had the slightest encouragement.”
“Which, I might point out, you never give anyone,” the duchess put in tartly.
The duke’s eyebrows sailed upward. “Surely, Grandmother, you would not have me allow roués and fortune hunters to court Calandra.”
“Of course not. Pray do not act obtuse.” The dowager countess was one of the few who did not stand in awe of Rochford, and she rarely hesitated to give him her opinion. “I am merely saying that everyone knows that should they show an interest in your sister, they are likely to receive a visit from you. And very few men are eager to confront you.”
“I had not realized that I was so fearsome,” Rochford said mildly. “However that may be, I fail to see why Callie would be interested in any man who was not willing to face an interview with me in order to pay suit to her.” He turned to Callie. “Are you interested in any particular gentleman?”
Callie shook her head. “No. I am quite happy as I am.”
“You will not always remain the most sought-after young woman in London,” her grandmother warned.
“Then she should enjoy it now,” Rochford stated, effectively ending the conversation.
Grateful for her brother’s intervention, Callie turned her attention to the window, peeking past the curtain at the carriages disgorging passengers before them. It was not, however, quite as easy to ignore her grandmother’s words.
Callie had spoken the truth: she was largely content just as she was. She enjoyed the social whirl of London during the spring and summer months—the dancing, the plays, the opera—and during the rest of the year she could also keep herself well-occupied. She had friends she could visit. She had grown especially close, over the last few months, to Constance, the new wife of the Viscount Leighton, and when the duke was at Dancy Park, Callie spent a great deal of time with her, for Redfields, Dominic and Constance’s home, was only a few miles from Dancy Park. The duke had a number of other residences which he periodically visited, and Callie often went with him. She was rarely bored, for she enjoyed riding and long walks in the country, and she did not disdain the company of the local folk or the servants. She had been almost entirely in charge of the duke’s household since she was fifteen, so there were always things to do.
Still, she knew that her grandmother was right. The time was approaching when she would need to marry. In two more years she would be twenty-five, and most girls were wed by then. If she remained single after that, she would soon be regarded as a spinster, which was not, she knew, a particularly pleasant position to occupy.
It was not that Callie had anything against marriage. She was not like her friend Irene, who had always declared that she would never wed—a conviction that she had recently given up when she met Lord Radbourne. No, Callie expected to marry. She wanted a husband and children and a house of her own.
The problem was, she had never found anyone whom she wanted to marry. Oh, there had been a time or two when she had fallen into an infatuation, when a man’s smile had made her heart flutter, or a set of broad shoulders in a Hussar’s uniform had increased her pulse. But those had always been fleeting things, soon over, and she had yet to meet a man whom she thought she could be happy to see over the breakfast table every morning—let alone give herself up to in the vague, darkly fascinating and slightly frightening rites of the marital bed.
Callie had listened to other young women enthusing over this gentleman or that, and she had wondered what it must be like to tumble with such seeming ease into the deep chasm of love. She wondered if those girls had any idea of the opposite side of such love—the tears she had seen her mother shed, even years after her husband’s death, the soft sad ghost her mother had become long before she actually died. She wondered if it was because she was aware of the sorrows love could bring that she found it more difficult to fall in love…or was it simply something lacking within herself?
She pushed aside such gloomy thoughts as the ducal carriage pulled up to the front steps of the brightly lit house and a footman sprang forward to open their door. She was not about to allow anything, either her grandmother’s criticisms or her own doubts, to spoil her first evening out in London.
Reaching up, she made sure her dainty half mask was in place over her eyes; then she took the hand her brother offered and climbed down from the vehicle.
They were greeted inside the ballroom by Lady Francesca Haughston, easily recognizable despite the narrow blue satin mask she wore. Lady Francesca, a vision in cream and gold and blue, was masquerading as a shepherdess—not the actual sort, of course, but the romantic ideal. Her blond curls were caught up by blue ribbons that matched the wide ribbon wrapped around her white shepherd’s staff, just below its crook. She wore a blue satin overskirt, draped to reveal a froth of white flounces on the skirt beneath, each draping point pinned by a rosette. Her feet were shod in golden slippers.
“Bo Peep, I presume,” Rochford drawled, bowing over Lady Francesca’s hand, and she curtseyed to him.
“You, I can see, did not bother to don fancy dress,” she retorted. “I should have known. Well, you shall have to answer to Lady Odelia. She was quite set on the idea of a masquerade, you know.”
She gestured toward the woman who sat across the room. On a raised dais, Lady Odelia sat enthroned—there was no other word for it—in a high-backed chair padded in blue velvet. On top of her hair she wore an orange wig, and her face was painted white. A circle of gold was thrust into the mass of bright curls, and a high starched ruff rose up from her dress behind her head. Ropes of pearls hung from her neck down over her brocade stomacher and skirts, and rings bedecked her fingers.
“Ah, Good Queen Bess,” Rochford remarked, following Francesca’s gaze. “The aging one, I presume.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Francesca replied. “She cannot stand for long to receive guests, so she decided to hold court instead. Rather appropriate, I think.”
Francesca turned toward Callie, holding out her hands and smiling with affection. “Callie, my dear. At least I can count on you. How lovely you look.”
Callie greeted the other woman with a smile. She had known Lady Haughston all her life, for Francesca was Viscount Leighton’s sister and had grown
