He stood quite still for a moment, looking at her with such intensity that she was sure he was trying to see through the veil. She turned her face away abruptly, fearing he would suddenly shout out her real name to the street.
"Of course," he said in an oddly light tone, doffing his plumed hat in the face of this direct cut. "But how could I be so foolish as to suppose you would remember me by name? I was among the liaison officers after the abdication. You were so kind as to open your home to us and give a luncheon al fresco, to celebrate the liberation of your country."
"Ah," Callie said, silently cursing Trev and his choice of towns and names. She put up her chin. "Yes, the picnic. You were there? I have a poor head for faces, Monsieur. A strange chance, to encounter you here, is it not? But you must pardon me, I will attend my husband now."
To her despair, he turned with her, persisting in walking alongside. "And where do you stay in Hereford, Madame? I would be pleased to return your hospitality, if you and your husband would do me the honor of joining me for dinner."
"I must regret," she said. "Monsieur Malempré is resting."
"I am devastated." He sounded truly sorry. "I would wish to make some return of your kindness. I have never forgot that sunny day in your gardens."
"Have you not, Monsieur?" Callie walked quickly, but he kept pace.
"Madame." He put his hand on her elbow as she turned the corner. He seemed to have no qualms about touching her. "Never," he said intensely. "My God, how could I?"
She cast a look aside at him, startled by the fierce note in his voice. He stopped, holding her, and then let her go as if he realized what he was doing. Callie took advantage of that to turn away in the direction of the dressmaker's shop. She thought that surely he would not follow her that far. But he came with her, keeping up easily with his longer stride. She began to feel hunted, frightened that he had recognized her and was playing some sly game. For the whole distance of the street he walked alongside her, saying nothing.
As they approached the shop, she debated with herself furiously. He appeared determined to keep company with her in spite of any rudeness she could summon. She had intended to go into the shop to change and emerge as herself, but she was afraid now that he would even try to accompany her in, or linger outside. She did not dare to go in as Madame Malempré and come out as Lady Callista Taillefaire.
She slowed her steps as she neared the door. She saw Lilly lingering across the street. Trev's footman trailed at a respectful distance. Lilly stared a moment toward them with an uncertain look, then turned quickly away, giving a coy smile to a pair of large young fellows lounging in a tailor's door.
Callie paused. The dressmaker's shop was impos sible. He could see inside it. She nodded shortly and said, "I will leave you here, Monsieur. I must go to our hotel."
"Sofie!" he said under his breath. "Don't do this to me, I beg you!"
She stared at him through the veil. An astonishing suspicion came to her. He could not mean-surely he did not mean-it was shocking enough that there seemed to be a real Madame Malempré who he had met, but he appeared to believe that he had far more than a passing acquaintance with her.
He took her hand. "Don't tell me you have truly forgotten me," he murmured. "The garden. The summerhouse. I know you might not recall my name, but-" He broke off, looking down. "It was not so much to you as to me, perhaps."
As the full import of his words sank in, Callie began to feel an upwelling of outrage. He not only knew this Madame Malempré, but it was becoming quite clear that he'd had some romantic encounter with her in a summerhouse. And it appeared that he would be quite willing to renew the acquaintance, in spite of the fact that he had been diligently courting Callie for the past week.
As the realization sank in, a new recklessness possessed her, the sort of feeling that she had not experienced in a very long time. Not since her last adventure with Trev, in fact, in which she had been obliged to steal a melon from a canvas bag and replace it with a large hedgehog. Instead of marching away, she allowed the major to take her gloved fingers to his lips.
He smiled over her hand. "You have not forgot," he whispered. "Tell me it is so."
From the corner of her eye, Callie could see that Charles had drawn closer. His bulk towered over the major's height. At a word, she thought, she could have Major Sturgeon deposited in a watering trough. The picture of it made her give a low laugh as she let him kiss her hand. "Forget?" she asked noncommittally. "What do you mean, Monsieur?"
He turned away from Charles, drawing her arm through his, leaning very close to her ear. "Is it your husband?" he murmured. "I didn't think he was a jealous man."
Callie's heart beat faster. She found it difficult to believe that he did not recognize her from so close. But if he did, he was playing a very deep game. She should repulse him immediately, she was sure, but the desire to take some small revenge was growing.
"You must have a better knowledge of him than I, if you suppose that," she said.
"But it's not very handsome of him to leave you alone at a dirty cattle fair, Madame."
Callie instantly wanted to protest that the Hereford show maintained exceptionally high standards of cleanliness, but she suppressed her annoyance. "He has the headache," she said, allowing her fingers to play over his arm the way she had once seen Dolly do as she f lirted discreetly with a gentleman houseguest. "Refresh my poor memory, Monsieur, if you please. I met you at the Waterloo picnic?"
His hand tightened on her a little. "I see that I made scant impression on you. I'm humbled. But a lady of your loveliness must have many admirers."
"You f latter me," she said, putting a sultry note into her voice. She was pleased to encourage him to suppose himself forgettable. "But there aren't so many. I'm very sorry-I cannot understand how I have not recalled you. The summerhouse…?" She let her words trail off suggestively.
"Perhaps you recall more than you wish to confess," he said. There was a hint of bitterness in his words.
"La, if only you would give me some hint. Some detail that might prod my memory."
"Are you angry with me, Sofie?" he asked huskily. Apparently it didn't suit him to believe any woman might not remember an encounter with him. "You know I could make you no promises, nor return again."
"Oh?" she asked with a dawning interest. "Why not?"
"You do remember!" he exclaimed instantly. "But then you know why, my love. How could I promise to come back, when I was to wed the moment I returned to England?"
"I see," Callie said. She stopped. She could feel her cheeks growing hot under the veil. "You were engaged to an English lady?"
He shrugged, walking on with her. "Yes. I told you then, Sofie. I didn't hide it. I thought you understood."
"So of course, you were in love."
He gave a brusque snort. "Nothing of the sort. In fact I didn't care for her-she's a chilly woman, with a dull wit and no beauty. What little time I had with you was precious, when I knew what I must go back to."
Callie blinked. She bit her lip. With a sense of turning a knife in her own breast, she said, "How sad for you, Monsieur. A man like you, to marry a plain woman."
"Not a pleasant prospect, I admit. But fate inter vened, and I didn't marry her after all," he said.
"Fate?" she inquired with an effort. "Did you discover some prettier heiress?"
He took her hand, kissing it. "Of course not. Do you think me a fortune hunter? She died before the wedding."