The Wedding Challenge. Candace Camp
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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