The Courtship Dance

The Courtship Dance Candace Camp Lady Francesca Haughston had given up on romance for herself, finding passion instead in making desirable matches for others. So it seemed only fair, when she learned she had been deceived into breaking her own long-ago engagement to Sinclair, Duke of Rochford, that she now help him find the perfect wife.Of course, Francesca was certain any spark of passion between them had long since died - her own treatment of him had seen to that. The way Sinclair gazed at her or swept her suddenly into his arms.well, that was merely practice for when a younger, more suitable woman caught his eye. But soon Francesca found his lessons in love scandalously irresistible - and a temptation that could endanger them both. Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author CANDACE CAMP “Delightful…. Camp is firmly at home here, enlivening the romantic quest between her engaging lovers with a set of believable and colorful secondaries.” —Publishers Weekly on The Wedding Challenge “Camp delivers another beautifully written charmer, sure to please fans of historicals, with enough modern appeal to pull in some contemporary romance readers.” —Publishers Weekly on The Marriage Wager “Lively and energetic secondaries round out the formidable leads, and…assuring readers a surprise ending well worth waiting for.” —Publishers Weekly on The Bridal Quest “A beautifully crafted, poignant love story.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Wedding Challenge “The talented Camp has deftly mixed romance and intrigue to create another highly enjoyable Regency romance.” —Booklist on An Independent Woman “A clever mystery adds intrigue to this lively and gently humorous tale, which simmers with well-handled sexual tension.” —Library Journal on A Dangerous Man “A smart, fun-filled romp.” —Publishers Weekly on Impetuous The Courtship Dance Candace Camp www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN EPILOGUE CHAPTER ONE NO ONE WOULD have guessed from the way Lady Francesca Haughston moved through the Whittington ballroom that she was making the opening moves of her campaign. She strolled along in her usual manner, pausing to compliment a dress here or flirt with one of her many admirers there. She smiled and talked and plied her fan deftly, a vision in ice-blue silk, her blond hair falling in a cascade of curls from an upswept knot. But all the while, her dark blue eyes were looking for her prey. It had been almost a month since she had vowed to herself to find a wife for the Duke of Rochford, and tonight she intended to set her plan in motion. She had made all her preparations. She had studied the young unmarried women of the ton, and through careful research and observation, she had managed to whittle the number down to just three whom she felt suitable for Sinclair. All three of the young ladies would be here this evening, she was certain. The Whittington ball was one of the highlights of the Season, and, short of dire illness, any marriageable young lady would attend. Moreover, the odds were that the duke would be there, as well, which meant that Francesca could set her scheme in motion. It was time she began, she knew—past time. She had not really needed three weeks to sort out the possible brides for Rochford. There was only a rather small number of girls who could qualify to become his duchess. But for some reason, ever since Callie’s wedding, Francesca had been beset by ennui, curiously reluctant to pay calls or attend parties or the theater. Even her good friend Sir Lucien had commented on her sudden preference for staying at home. She was not sure of the reason for it; everything just suddenly seemed dull and scarcely worth the effort. She had felt, in fact, a trifle blue-deviled—a result, she had decided, of the fact that Callie, who had been living with Francesca while they sorted out a husband for her, was now married and gone. Without Callie’s cheerful voice and fetching smile, Francesca’s house was too empty. Still, she reminded herself, she had vowed to make up for the wrong she had done to Callie’s brother, Sinclair, fifteen long years ago. It was impossible to right matters, of course, but she could at least do the duke the favor of finding him a suitable bride. It was, after all, the thing at which she was most skilled. So she had come to this party tonight determined to begin the long dance of courtship on his behalf. She strolled along the perimeter of the grand ballroom, a huge affair painted all in white and gold, floored with oak planks the color of honey, and lit by three glittering cascades of crystal chandeliers. Several gold stands of thick white beeswax candles provided more light, as did the gold-and-white sconces along the walls. All this brilliance was softened by the huge bouquets of crimson roses and peonies standing in vases against the walls, and twining in garlands up the banister of the magnificent staircase to the second floor. It was an elegant room, worthy of a palace, and it was rumored that only the formal ballroom made Lady Whittington willing to remain in this enormous and antiquated old mansion situated unfashionably outside Mayfair. Francesca threaded through the crowd to the staircase, intending to use the vantage point of the second-floor railing to locate the young women she was seeking in the massive ballroom below. It was fitting, she thought, as she began to climb the curving stairs, that she should begin her campaign at the Whittingtons’ ball. It had been here, after all, that she had ended things with the Duke of Rochford fifteen years ago. It had been here that her world had come crashing down. The flowers had all been white that night, she remembered, masses of roses, peonies, camellias and sweet-scented gardenias, accented by glossy greenery trailing from the high vases. It had been a night of heady triumph for Francesca—she had made her debut only weeks before, and she was the undisputed Beauty of the Season. Men had flocked around her, flirting and begging for a dance, making extravagant declarations of love and paying flowery compliments. And all the while she had hugged her secret to herself, giddy with love and excitement—until the footman had slipped a note into her hand. Now Francesca reached the second floor and took her place at the railing, where she could gaze down at the swirling dancers below. Things were much the same, she thought, as they had been that night so long ago. The dresses had been different, of course, the colors of the walls and the decorations changed. But the glamour, the excitement, the hopes and intrigues, had not altered. Francesca gazed out at the crowd without really seeing them, remembering instead the past. “Is the party so grim?” a light, familiar voice said at her side. Francesca turned and smiled at the blond woman. “Irene. How good to see you.” Lady Irene Radbourne was a striking woman with thick, curling blond hair and unusual golden eyes. At twenty-seven years old, she had been a spinster—and determined to remain one—until last autumn, when Francesca, searching for a suitable spouse for the Earl of Radbourne, had realized that Irene was the perfect match for him. The two women had spent their lives in much the same circle, so she had known the blunt, opinionated Lady Irene for years, but the two of them had not been friends until they had spent two weeks together at the Radbourne estate as Francesca sought to match the rough Lord Gideon to a well-bred wife. Now Francesca counted Irene as one of her closest friends. Irene looked out over the multicolored crowd of dancers. “Is the new crop of marriageable young ladies so dismal?” Francesca shrugged. Though she and Irene had maintained a genteel silence regarding the matter, Francesca suspected Irene had guessed that her matchmaking efforts were more a question of survival than amusement. “Indeed, I have not really given them much attention. I have been quite lazy since Callie’s wedding, I fear.” Irene regarded her shrewdly. “You are distressed, are you not? Is there aught that I can do?” Francesca shook her head. “’Tis nothing, really. I am just remembering…a time long past. Another party here.” She forced a smile, the charming dimple in her cheek appearing. “Where is Lord Gideon?” In the six months the couple had been married, it was rare to see Irene without Gideon by her side. The pair had suited each other even better than Francesca had guessed; it seemed as if their love grew with each passing day. Irene let out a little giggle. “He was waylaid by his great-aunt as we came in.” “Lady Odelia?” Francesca asked, appalled. “Good Gad, is she here?” She glanced around apprehensively. “We are safe here,” Irene assured her. “I do not think she will climb the stairs. That is why I fled to the balcony as soon as I stepped out of the cloakroom and saw that she had cornered Gideon.” “And left him there?” Francesca asked, chuckling. “For shame, Lady Radbourne. What about your vows?” “My wedding vows made no mention of Great-Aunt Odelia, I assure you,” Irene retorted, grinning. “I did feel a twinge of guilt, but I reminded myself that Gideon is a strong man, feared by many.” “Even the bravest quail before Lady Odelia, however. I remember once when Rochford himself sneaked out the back door and went ’round to the stables when he saw her carriage out front, leaving my mother and me with his grandmother to face her.” Irene let out a burst of laughter. “I should like to have seen that. I shall have to tease him about that the next time we meet.” “How is the duke?” Francesca asked casually, not looking at Irene. “Have you seen him lately?” Irene glanced at her. “A week or so ago. We went to the theater together. He and Gideon are now friends, as well as cousins. But surely you have seen Rochford, as well.” Francesca shrugged. “Only rarely since Callie’s wedding. It was his sister who was my friend, really, not Rochford.” The truth was that Francesca had been avoiding the duke since his sister’s wedding. The guilty knowledge of how she had wronged him had weighed on her, and every time she had run into him, she had been pierced with guilt anew. She knew that she should tell him what she had found out, that she should apologize for her actions. It was craven of her not to. Yet she could not do it; her insides chilled whenever she thought of confessing and begging his pardon. They had at least achieved a kind of peace with each other after all these years. Not friendship, exactly, but some thing close to it. What if she told him and it brought back his anger? She deserved that anger, she supposed, but her stomach twisted at the idea. So she had taken to avoiding Rochford whenever possible, staying away from a party if she thought he would attend it, and when she did see him, taking care not to go near him. If they came face-to-face, as had happened once or twice, she had been stiff and awkward, escaping as soon as possible. Of course, that must end if she was to have any success finding a wife for the man. She could scarcely bring him together with one of his prospective brides if she continued to avoid him. “Callie told me that Rochford had been unfair to you,” Irene began carefully. “Unfair?” Francesca glanced at her, startled. “No. How was he unfair?” “I know not,” Irene admitted. “Something to do with Lord Bromwell courting Callie, I gathered.” “Oh, that.” Francesca dismissed the idea with a flick of her hand. “The duke had reason to be concerned. Brom’s sister had certainly poisoned him against Rochford, but…” She shrugged expressively. “There was little I could do once they fell in love, in any case, and Rochford realized it afterwards. I am not so tender a female as to wither under a rebuke.” Francesca glanced out again over the crowd, and Irene followed her gaze. “Who do you seek?” Irene asked after a moment. “What? Oh. No one.” Irene’s eyebrows lifted. “You are most diligent in looking for no one.” Francesca had difficulty dissembling with Irene. Something about Irene’s forthright manner seemed to call forth an equal candor in her. She hesitated now, then admitted, “I was hoping to see Lady Althea Robart.” “Althea?” Irene repeated in surprise. “Whatever for?” Francesca could not help but chuckle. “You dislike the woman?” Irene shrugged. “Dislike is too strong a word. She simply is not company I would choose to keep. Too high in the instep for me.” Francesca nodded. The lady did seem a bit stiff. But she was not sure that pride would necessarily be a detriment to a future duchess. “I do not know her well.” “Nor I,” Irene agreed. “What about Damaris Burke?” “The daughter of Lord Burke?” Irene asked. “The diplomat?” Francesca nodded. “Exactly.” Irene thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I cannot say, really. I have never moved in government circles.” “She seems quite pleasant.” “Smooth,” Irene agreed. “What one would expect, I suppose, from a woman who holds diplomatic parties.” She glanced at her friend curiously. “Why are you asking? Do not tell me they have asked your help in seeking a husband.” “No,” Francesca told her quickly. “They have not. I was just…considering them.” “Ah, then it is a gentleman who has sought your help?” Irene guessed. “Not really. I have been thinking. On my own, as it were.” “Now you have completely aroused my curiosity. You are matchmaking for someone who has not even asked you? Is this another wager with the duke?” Francesca blushed. “Oh. No, nothing like that. I had thought—well, there was someone I wronged once, and I had been looking to make it up to him.” “By finding him a wife?” Irene asked. “There are a number of men who would not thank you for that favor. Who is the man?” Francesca studied the woman next to her. Of all her friends, Irene knew the most about her. Though Francesca had never confided in her about her own past, Irene’s father had been a friend of Francesca’s late husband, so no doubt Irene suspected how little happiness Francesca had found in her marriage, and Francesca had never felt it necessary to maintain a pretense to Irene that she had missed Andrew in the five years since his death. She had never told anyone about what had happened between her and Rochford so long ago, but she suddenly found herself wanting to confide in Irene. “Is he the reason for your melancholy?” Irene persisted. “I think that is caused by the rapid approach of my birthday,” Francesca replied lightly, but then she sighed and said, “And a little by having hurt him when he did not deserve it. I am very sorry for what I did.” Irene frowned. “I cannot imagine that you could have done anything so terrible.” “I think he might differ with you,” Francesca responded. She looked into her friend’s eyes, warm with sympathy. “No one must know this—not even Lord Gideon, for he knows the man.” Irene’s brows went up, and Francesca saw understanding dawn in the other woman’s clear golden eyes. “The duke? You are talking about Rochford?” Francesca sighed. “I should have known that you would guess. Yes, it is Rochford, but you must promise me that you will not tell anyone.” “Of course. I promise. Not even Gideon. But, Francesca, I don’t understand. Rochford is your friend. What great wrong could you have done him?” Francesca hesitated. Her heart felt like lead within her chest, the long-dead sorrow hanging there still. “I broke off our engagement.” Irene stared. “I knew there was something between you!” she exclaimed softly. “I just was not sure exactly what it had been. But I have never heard of this. I don’t understand. It must have been a huge scandal.” “No.” Francesca shook her head. “There was no scandal. Our engagement was secret.” “Secret? That scarcely sounds like the duke.” “Oh, there was nothing havey-cavey about it,” Francesca assured her. “Rochford was always quite proper. He—he told me that he did not want me to be locked into an engagement during my first Season. It was the summer I made my come-out, you see. He said that I might change my mind once I had had a Season. I knew that I would not, but…well, you know the duke. He always allows for every contingency. And he thought me flighty, no doubt.” “You were young,” Irene said. Francesca shrugged. “Yes. But more than that—I have never been, will never be, a weighty sort.” She flashed a smile at her companion. “A ‘butterfly’ is the way he described me.” “So you did not suit, then?” “No, it was not that. Rochford was content enough, I think. He expressed no displeasure, at least. And I—” She paused, her eyes seeing a different time, a faint smile hovering on her lips. “I was desperately in love with him—as only an eighteen-year-old girl can be.” Irene wrinkled her brow. “Then what happened?” “Daphne happened,” Francesca replied grimly. “Daphne! Lady Swithington?” Irene stared at her. “Lord Bromwell’s sister?” Francesca nodded. “Yes. She was the source of the trouble between Rochford and Brom, the reason Rochford was so set against him becoming Callie’s husband. I was not the only one fooled by Daphne’s lies. Her brother believed, as well, that Rochford and Daphne were having an affair.” “Oh, no! Francesca…” Irene laid her hand on her friend’s arm, sympathy warm on her face. “You thought she was his mistress?” “Not at first. She told me straight out that she was, but I refused to believe her. I knew Rochford. Or I thought I knew him. I was aware that he did not love me as I loved him, but I believed he was too honorable a man to marry one woman and keep another as a mistress. But then, one evening—in this very house, in fact—I discovered that I was wrong. A footman brought me a note as I finished a dance. It said that if I went to the conservatory, I would find something interesting.” “Oh, dear.” “Yes. Oh, dear. I thought the duke had sent me the note. I imagined that he had some sort of surprise for me, something romantic, perhaps. He had given me a pair of sapphire earrings the week before, saying that they were the best he could find, though they could not match the brilliance of my eyes.” She let out a sound, half laugh, half sigh. “Goodness, how long ago that seems.” “Do you have the earrings still?” Irene asked. “Of course. They were beautiful. I did not wear them, but I could not get rid of them. I offered them back to him afterwards, of course, but he refused, with the blackest look.” “I presume you found him and Lady Daphne in flagrante?” Irene went on. Francesca nodded. She remembered how she had felt, so brimming with love and eagerness, as she had hurried through the wide halls toward the conservatory. She had hoped that Rochford had found a way to steal some time alone with her. It had been even more difficult here in the city than it had been at home, surrounded as they were not only by chaperones, but all the ton, as well. Such a secluded tryst was not like him, of course; he was always supremely careful of her honor, unwilling to engage in any behavior that might damage her reputation. But perhaps, she had thought, tonight passion had carried him away, and the idea had sent a delicious shiver through her. Francesca had not been able to quite imagine what it would be like to see Sinclair burn with passion. The duke was such a cool and elegant sort, ever unflappable in the face of the most major crisis, and correct to a fault. But there had been a time or two when he had kissed her, when his lips had pressed harder into hers and his skin had flamed in such a way that her own nerves had begun to jangle inside her, and she had wondered if something hotter, harder, stronger, boiled inside him, as well. He had always pulled away quickly, of course, but Francesca had seen a flash of something in his eyes—something hot and almost frightening, but in a somehow delicious way. “I went into the conservatory,” Francesca recalled now. “I said his name. Sinclair was at the far end of the room, and there were some orange trees between us. He started toward me, and I saw that his ascot was in disarray, his hair mussed. I did not understand at first, but then I heard a noise, and I looked beyond him. Daphne had come out from behind the trees, as well. Her dress was unfastened down the front to the waist.” Unconsciously, Francesca’s face hardened as she remembered the moment. Daphne’s hair had been partially undone, straggling around her face in tangled curls. Her flimsy chemise had been unlaced, and her full white breasts had spilled flagrantly out, almost completely uncovered. She had smiled at Francesca like the cat that had just gotten into the cream. And Francesca had shattered inside. “When I saw them, I realized what a fool I had been. I had not been so deluded that I believed that Rochford was madly in love with me. He had, after all, pointed out to me all the very practical reasons why he and I were a good match. He had not spouted declarations of love or written odes to my smile or any such foolishness. But I believed that he cared for me. I had been sure that he would never harm me or treat me with anything but respect. And I had known that I would be such a good wife to him, make him so happy, that someday he would come to love me as much as I loved him.” “Instead he had been bedding down with Lady Daphne while he was engaged to you.” “Yes. Well, no, not really. It was all a lie. But I did not know that at the time, and I could not bear what I believed to be true. No doubt there are other women who would have ignored it, reasoning that they would still be his duchess, even if another had his heart. But I could not. I broke it off with him.” “But in fact Daphne had arranged that little scene and sent you the note?” “Yes. She told me at Callie’s wedding that it had all been a lie. He had not slept with her, just as he swore to me then that he had not. I did not believe him when he tried to tell me that, of course. I refused to listen to him. And afterwards, when he called on me, I would not see him.” “And that is why you married Lord Haughston?” Irene asked shrewdly. Francesca nodded. “He was everything that Rochford was not—full of romantic words and extravagant gestures. I was his stars, his moon, he told me.” She gave a little grimace. “His words were like balm to my wounded heart. This, I told myself, was what love was really like. So I married him. Our honeymoon was not yet over before I realized what a mistake I had made.” “I’m so sorry.” Irene slipped her hand into Francesca’s and squeezed. “Well, ’tis long past now,” Francesca replied, and forced a little smile. “I can scarcely believe that Lady Daphne admitted that she had lied to you.” “It was not done with any good will, I can assure you. I think she wanted me to realize what an idiot I had been. I am sure she hoped I would regret throwing away my chance to be a duchess.” “And, instead, of course, what you regretted was having misjudged Rochford. The hurt you did to him.” Francesca admitted, “His pride must have suffered greatly. He would have hated having his honor impugned, even though he knew he was not at fault.” “Oh, Francesca…what a terrible thing. Certainly he was not the only one hurt.” “No. But at least I was at fault. One could say I deserved what happened to me. I was the one who believed her lies. I was the one who would not listen to the truth when he told it to me. But Sinclair had done nothing wrong.” “And you think finding the duke a wife will set this right?” Irene asked. Francesca recognized the skepticism in her friend’s tone. “I know it cannot make up for what I did. But I fear that… What if it is because of me that Rochford has never married?” She colored a little. “I am not saying that I think his heart was forever broken. I do not rate myself so high as to think no other woman could take my place. But I fear that I led him to mistrust women so much that he has not wanted to marry. He was already used to being alone, I think, and it was easier, perhaps, for him to live that way. Sinclair came into his title at such an early age, and he had already learned that people courted his favor simply because of his title and wealth. I think that is one of the things he found appealing about marrying me—we had known each other since we were children, and I was not in awe of him. I knew him for himself, not for his title or anything else. But then, when I did not believe him, when I acted in a way that must have seemed a betrayal to him, I fear that he became even more distant and distrustful.” “That may be, but if he does not want to marry…” “But he must. He knows that as well as I do. He is the Duke of Rochford. He must have an heir, someone to inherit the title and estate. Rochford is far too responsible not to realize that. I will simply be helping him to do what he knows must be done.” She threw an impish grin at her companion. “And you, more than anyone else, cannot deny that I am adept at bringing to the altar even those who profess a determination not to wed.” Irene acknowledged her words with a wry smile. “I will admit that you are expert at joining even the wariest together. However, I cannot help but wonder how the duke will take to this plan.” “Oh, I do not intend for him to know about it,” Francesca responded blithely. “That is why you must not tell even Gideon about this. I am sure that Rochford would consider it a great interference on my part and would order me to stop it, so I have no intention of giving him that opportunity.” Irene nodded, looking amused. “It should not be difficult to find women eager to wed the duke. He is the most eligible bachelor in the country.” “True. I am certain that any number would wish to become his wife, but not just anyone will do. I had to find the right woman for him, which has proven to be a more difficult task than I had expected. But, then, Rochford is deserving of only an extraordinary woman, so it is no wonder that there are not many of them about.” “Althea and Damaris are two of them, I gather. Who else have you picked out for him?” “I have narrowed the field to three. Besides Damaris and Althea, there is only Lady Caroline Wyatt. I must talk to the three of them tonight and decide on how to throw each of them together with the duke.” “What if he doesn’t like any of them?” Irene asked. Francesca shrugged. “Then I shall have to find others. Someone is bound to suit him.” “Perhaps I am being obtuse,” Irene began, “but it seems to me that the best candidate would be you.” “Me?” Francesca cast a startled glance at her. “Yes, you. After all, you are the one woman whom we are certain Rochford would want to marry, given that he has already asked you once. If you were to tell him you had discovered the lie, that you were sorry for not believing him…” “No. No,” Francesca said, looking flustered. “That is impossible. I am almost thirty-four, far too long in the tooth to be a suitable bride for the duke. I shall, of course, apologize to him and confess how stupid and wrong I was. I must. But the two of us—no, that is long in the past.” “Really?” “Yes. Really. Pray do not give me that disbelieving look. I am certain of this. You know that I am done with marriage. And even if I were not, it has been too long, and too much has happened between us. He could never forgive me for breaking it off with him—not to that extent. Rochford is a very proud man. And whatever feeling he might have had for me once, by now it is long dead. It has been fifteen years, after all. I do not still love him. Even less would he harbor any love for the woman who rejected him. Why, for ages he scarcely even spoke to me. It has only been in the past few years that we have been something like friends again.” “Well, if you are certain…?” “I am.” Irene shrugged. “Then what do you intend to do?” “I…ah! There is Lady Althea.” Francesca had spotted her quarry standing beyond the dancers, chatting with another woman. “I shall start with her. I think that I may chat with her a bit, maybe plan an outing together. Then I can arrange it so that Rochford makes up one of our party.” “If that is your plan, it seems that fortune has smiled on you,” Irene told her, nodding toward another part of the ballroom. “Rochford just walked in.” “He did?” Francesca’s heart sped up a bit, and she turned to look in the direction her friend indicated. It was Rochford, all right, effortlessly elegant in formal black and white, and easily the most handsome man in the room. His thick black hair was cut into an artfully casual style that many copied but few could achieve, and his lean, tall figure was perfectly suited for the close-fitting trousers and jacket that were the current fashion. There was nothing ostentatious about him—the only decoration he wore was a stickpin anchoring his cravat, the head of which was an onyx as dark as his eyes—yet no one, seeing him, would have thought him anything less than an aristocrat. Francesca’s hand tightened on her fan as she watched him glance about the room. Every time she had seen him lately, she had felt this same roiling mixture of emotions. It had been years since she had felt this way, so jittery and filled with trepidation, yet strangely excited, as well. Daphne’s words, she reflected, had opened some sort of door on the past, letting in a whole host of feelings that she had thought time and experience had worn away. It was entirely foolish, she realized. Knowing, as she did now, that Rochford had not been unfaithful to her made no real difference in her life. Nothing had changed because of it, and nothing would. Yet she could not deny the little spurt of joy it aroused in her whenever she saw him. He had never belonged to Daphne; his firm, well-cut mouth had not kissed her, nor whispered in her ear. His hands had not caressed her or showered her with jewels. The mental pictures that had tortured her fifteen years ago had been entirely false, and she could not help but be glad of it. Francesca turned away, suddenly busy with her gloves and fan, smoothing down the front of her skirt. “I must tell him,” she said softly. She knew that she could not be at ease around him again until she had revealed what she had learned and apologized for not trusting or believing him. And, clearly, she could not match him with a wife if she could not even be around him without going into a fit of nerves. She must tell him…but how? “I think that you are about to get your chance,” Irene told her dryly. “What?” Francesca looked up. And there, climbing the stairs toward them, was the Duke of Rochford. CHAPTER TWO FRANCESCA FROZE, aware of a craven impulse to flee. But she could not, of course. Rochford was looking straight at her. She could not turn away without being rude. Besides, Irene was right: this was her opportunity to explain everything to him. So she stood her ground and smiled as the duke approached them. “Lady Haughston. Lady Radbourne,” he greeted them, sketching a bow. “Rochford. How nice to see you,” Francesca replied. “It has been a long time. I have seen you at few parties.” She might have known that he would notice. Rochford rarely missed anything. “I…have been resting a bit since Callie’s wedding.” “Have you been ill?” He frowned. “Oh. No. No, not at all. Um…” Francesca sighed inwardly. Hardly two sentences spoken, and already she was floundering. She found it the most difficult thing to lie to Rochford. Even the most innocuous social lie that she might blithely relate to anyone else seemed to curdle and die on her tongue when she was faced with his dark gaze. She felt sometimes as though his eyes could look deep inside her, see to the very depths of her soul. She glanced away from those eyes now as she went on. “I was not ill, merely…tired. The Season can grow somewhat wearying, even to me.” She had the distinct feeling that he did not believe her. He studied her for one long moment more, then gracefully replied, “None would know it, I assure you. You are as radiant as always.” Francesca acknowledged his compliment with a gracious nod, and he turned toward Irene. “As do you, my lady. Marriage seems to suit you.” “It does,” she admitted, sounding faintly surprised. “Is Radbourne here this evening?” he asked. “I am surprised not to find him by your side.” “That is because Irene deserted him,” Francesca put in, grinning. “’Tis true,” Irene agreed. “I abandoned him to Lady Pencully’s clutches and fled like a coward for the stairs.” “Good Gad, is Aunt Odelia here?” he asked, casting an alarmed glance toward the ballroom below. “Yes, but she will not climb the stairs,” Francesca replied. “So long as you stay up here, you are safe.” “I would not be so sure. The woman seems to have become positively reinvigorated since her eightieth birthday ball,” Rochford responded. Irene glanced over at Francesca, then said lightly, “I suppose I had better play the good wife and go rescue Gideon before his patience grows too thin and he says something to her that he will later regret.” Francesca quelled the spurt of panic that rose in her at her friend’s departure. She had conversed with the duke hundreds of times; it was absurd that it should suddenly seem so awkward. “How is the duchess?” she asked once Irene had left, for want of anything better to say. “Grandmother is well and enjoying Bath. She keeps threatening to come for at least a few weeks of the Season, but I think she will not. She is too relieved at no longer having to do her duty by chaperoning Callie.” Francesca nodded. That seemed to be the end of that topic. She shifted nervously and glanced out over the ballroom again. She had to tell him, she knew. She could not continue in this way, being shy and uncomfortable around him. Over the past few years, she had become accustomed to having him as something of a friend again. She looked forward to conversing with him at parties; it was always enlivening to bandy words with him, and his wit made even the most boring gathering tolerable. And she could count on him for a waltz, which meant that at least one dance of the evening would be effortless, like floating around the floor. She had to make amends. She had to confess and ask his forgiveness, no matter how much the thought of it frightened her. She glanced up and found him watching her, his dark eyes thoughtful. He knew, she thought; the man was simply too discerning. He knew that there was something wrong with her. With them. “Perhaps you would care to take a stroll with me,” he told her, offering her his arm. “I understand that the Whittingtons’ gallery is quite enjoyable.” “Yes. Of course. That sounds quite pleasant.” Francesca placed her hand upon his arm and walked with him through the double doors into the long hallway running along one side of the Whittington mansion. The gallery was hung with portraits of ancestors and a variety of other subjects, including a favorite hunter or dog of one Whittington or another throughout the centuries. They strolled along, now and then glancing at the pictures, but with little real interest. There was no one else about, and their steps echoed hollowly on the polished parquet floor. Silence stretched between them, growing deeper and more awkward with each passing moment. Finally Rochford said, “Have I offended you past remedying?” “What?” Startled, Francesca’s eyes flew to his face. “What do you mean?” He stopped and turned to face her. His expression was solemn, his straight black eyebrows drawn together harshly. “I mean that while ’tis true that I have seen you at few parties in the past weeks, you have been at some of them—and whenever you saw me, you immediately turned and disappeared into the crowd. And if, by chance, you came upon me unexpectedly, with no way to avoid the encounter, you seized the first opportunity to make your excuses and leave. I can only assume that you have not forgiven me for what I said to you that day, when I found out that Bromwell had been courting Callie.” “No!” Francesca protested, laying a hand earnestly upon his arm. “That is not true. I did not blame you. Truly I did not. I… Perhaps you were a bit harsh. But you apologized. And, clearly, you had reason to be concerned. But I could not betray Callie’s trust, and she had the right to choose her own future.” “Yes. I know. She is quite independent.” He sighed. “I realize that you had little choice, and I had no reason to expect you to be able to control my sister. God knows, I had poor enough luck at it. And once I was over my anger, I knew I was in the wrong. I apologized, and I thought you had accepted my apology. But then you began hiding from me.” “No, truly…” Francesca told him. “I did accept your apology, and I am not angry with you about what you said. I have seen your temper a time or two before, you know.” “Then why are you upset with me?” he asked. “Even at Callie’s wedding, I saw you but little.” He stopped abruptly, then asked, “Was it because of that scene at the hunting lodge? Because I—” He hesitated. “Because you knocked your sister’s future husband to the floor?” Francesca asked, a smile hovering at the corners of her lips. “Because the two of you were brawling through the parlour, knocking vases off tables and overturning chairs?” Rochford started to protest, then stopped, his own mouth twitching into a small smile. “Well…yes. Because I was acting like a ruffian. And making a general fool of myself.” “My dear Duke,” Francesca drawled, laughter glimmering in her eyes, “whyever should I have taken exception to that?” He let out a short laugh. “Well, at least you have the good grace not to say that it is nothing unusual. Although I might point out that while I may have been a ruffian, at least I was not telling enormous clankers, as were some of us.” He shot her a droll look. “Clankers!” Francesca tapped his arm lightly with her fan, scarcely noticing that the awkwardness had fallen away from them and she was bantering with him once again in a carefree way. “You are most unjust, sir.” “Come, now, you cannot deny that you were…shall we say, most inventive that morning?” “Someone had to bring that mess into some order,” she shot back. “Else we would all have been in a pretty predicament.” “I know.” His face sobered, and he reached out, surprising her, and took her hand. “I know how much you did for Callie that day. You earned my undying gratitude for your ‘inventiveness.’ And your kind heart. Callie would have been embroiled in a serious scandal if it were not for you.” Francesca felt her cheeks growing warm under his steady regard, and she glanced away. “There is no need to thank me. Indeed, I am quite fond of Callie. She is much like a sister to me.” It occurred to her then that her words had been unfortunate, and she blushed even harder. Would Rochford think her presumptuous? Or assume that she was reminding him of the fact that they had nearly become man and wife? Francesca turned and continued walking. Her hand was curled so tightly around her fan that the sticks were digging into her flesh. Rochford fell in beside her, and for a moment they walked in silence. She could feel him watching her. He knew something was wrong. She was only making it worse and prolonging her own anxiety. “I have to apologize to you,” she blurted out suddenly. “Excuse me?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice. She stopped and turned to him, steeling herself to look up into his face. “I wronged you. Fifteen years ago, when we—” She stopped, feeling as though her throat was closing up on her. He stiffened slightly, the puzzlement on his face turning to a slight wariness. “When we were engaged?” he finished for her. Francesca nodded. She found she could not hold his gaze, after all, and she glanced away. “I— At Callie’s wedding, Lady Swithington told me—she said she lied about the two of you. That there was never anything between you.” When he said nothing, Francesca squared her shoulders and forced herself to look back up at him. His face was still, his gaze shuttered, and she knew no more of what he was thinking or feeling than she had when she was turned away from him. She swallowed and went on. “I was wrong. I accused you unjustly. I should have listened to you, heard you out. And I—I wanted you to know that I am sorry for what I said to you, for what I did.” “Well…” He half turned from her, then swung back. “I see.” He was silent for a moment longer, then said, “I am afraid I don’t know what to say.” “I don’t know that there is anything to say,” Francesca admitted, and they turned and began to stroll back the way they had come. “There is nothing to be done. It is all long over. But I could not feel easy without telling you how wrong I was. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wanted you to know that I learned the truth, and that I am sorry for misjudging you. I should have known your character better.” “You were very young,” he replied mildly. “Yes, but that is not an adequate excuse, surely.” “I daresay.” Francesca cast a sidelong glance at the duke. She had worried that when she told him, he would slice her with a cold, acerbic remark. Or that his eyes would light with fury, and he would storm at her or stalk away. She had not considered that her confession might render him speechless. They walked through the double doors leading into the upper level of the ballroom and stopped, turning toward each other awkwardly. Francesca’s heart hammered in her chest. She did not want to simply part from him this way, unsure of what he thought and felt, not knowing if he was seething inside or simply relieved to know that she no longer believed him a cad. She could not bear it, she thought, if her confession resulted in the ruination of the delicate friendship they had built over the years. Impulsively, she asked, “Shall we dance?” He smiled faintly. “Yes, why don’t we?” He extended his arm to her, and they started down the curving staircase. A waltz struck up just as they reached the floor, and Rochford swept her into his arms and out to join the dancers. Something fluttered inside her, soft and insistent, and she was suddenly uncertain and nervous, yet almost giddy, as well. She had danced with the duke many times over the course of the past few years, but somehow, in this moment, it felt different, even new. It felt…almost as it had years before. She was very aware of the strength of his arms encircling her, his warmth, the smell of his cologne mingled with that faint, indefinable scent that was his alone. She remembered how it had been that Boxing Day, at the ball he had given at Dancy Park, when he had taken her into his arms for a waltz, and she had looked up at him and realized that the girlish infatuation she had felt for him for years was something much more. Gazing into the depths of his dark eyes, she had known that she was hopelessly, madly in love with the man. She had been dizzy with excitement, her entire body tingling with awareness of him. He had gazed back down at her and smiled, and in that moment, heat had burst inside her like a sun. Staring up at him now, Francesca felt color rush to her cheeks at the memory. He looked so much the same; if anything, the years had only added to his handsomeness, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes softening the sharp planes and angles that could make his face appear cold. He had always looked a bit like a pirate, she thought, with his black eyes and black hair, and the high swooping line of his cheekbones. Or at least he appeared that way when his straight black brows drew together, or when he turned his level, icy stare on one. At those moments he seemed a trifle dangerous. But when he smiled, it was a different matter altogether. His face lit up and his eyes warmed, and his mouth curved in a most inviting way. It was almost impossible not to smile back at him at such a moment, and, indeed, it made one want to do something to bring that smile out again. She glanced away quickly, embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts. She hoped that he had not seen her blush or had any idea what had brought it about. It was absurd, of course, for her to be nervous or eager. And even more laughable for her thoughts to go skittering to juvenile maunderings about his good looks or appealing smile. She was long past such feelings—for Rochford or anyone else. Whatever girlish love she had felt for the man had died many years ago, burned away by long nights of sleepless anguish, drowned in a sea of tears. She cast about for some topic to bridge the silence. “Have you heard from Callie?” “I have had a letter from her. Very brief, I might add. ‘Paris is beautiful. Bromwell is wonderful. Looking forward to Italy.’” Francesca chuckled. “Surely ’twas not quite so short as that.” “Oh, no, there was a bit more description of Paris. But all in all, it was a model of brevity. Their plan is to return to London in another week—if, of course, they do not decide to extend the honeymoon.” “Well, at least it sounds as if she is happy.” “Yes. I believe she is. Against everything I would ever have thought, Bromwell apparently loves her.” “It must be lonely for you without her.” “The house is a trifle quiet,” Rochford admitted with a faint smile. “But I have kept busy.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “What about you?” “Have I kept busy? Or have I been lonely without Callie?” “Either. Both. She was with you more than she was at home the last two months before she married.” “That is true. And I have found that I miss her,” Francesca admitted. “Callie is…well, her leaving creates a larger hole in one’s life than I would have imagined.” “Perhaps you should take another young lady under your wing,” Rochford suggested. “I have seen a number of women here tonight who could do with an application of your expert touch.” “Ah, but none of them has asked for my help. It is a bit rude, you know, to offer one’s opinion, unasked, on how another can be improved.” “I suppose it would be. Although one cannot help but wish that you might say something to Lady Livermore.” Francesca stifled a giggle, following the direction of Rochford’s eyes to where Lady Livermore was dancing with her cousin. She was wearing her favorite color, a strong puce that would show to advantage on very few women. Lady Livermore was not among them. The color would have been bad enough in itself, but Lady Livermore was of the opinion that if something was good, then more of it was even better. Ruffles festooned the neckline of her dress and the bottom of the skirt, billowing out beneath the scalloped hemline of her over-dress. Even the short puffed sleeves carried two rows of ruffles. Silk rosettes marked the upward points of the scallops, each one centered by a pearl, with a swag of pearls stretching from point to point. A pearl-trimmed toque of matching color sat atop her head. “Lady Livermore, I fear, is unlikely to change,” Francesca told him. She paused for a moment, then said, “Do you know Lady Althea?” Francesca could have bitten her tongue as soon as she said it. How could she have blurted that out so clumsily? “Robart’s daughter?” the duke asked in a surprised tone. “Do you think that she needs help finding a husband?” “Oh, no! Goodness.” Francesca let out a little laugh. “I am sure Lady Althea has no need for any help from me. I just saw her dancing with Sir Cornelius, that’s all.” She paused, then went on. “I am sure that she has no lack of suitors. She is quite attractive, don’t you think?” “Yes,” Rochford answered. “I suppose she is.” “And accomplished, too. She plays the piano quite well.” “Yes, she does. I have heard her play.” “Have you? She is much admired, I understand.” “No doubt.” Francesca was aware of a distinct spurt of annoyance at his reply. She was not sure why the duke’s agreeable admissions of Lady Althea’s excellence irritated her. After all, her job would be much easier if Rochford already found the woman appealing. And surely she was not so vain herself that she could not bear to hear another woman praised. Still, she found it hard not to respond sharply, even though she herself had raised the subject. She turned the conversation to something else, but later, when the music ended, she subtly maneuvered Rochford into walking off the dance floor in the direction that Lady Althea and her partner had taken. She was lucky enough that Sir Cornelius was taking his leave of the lady as they approached. “Lady Althea,” Francesca greeted her with apparent pleasure. “How nice to see you. It has been an age since we have met, I vow. You know the Duke of Rochford, do you not?” Lady Althea offered them a measured smile. “Yes, of course. A pleasure to see you, sir.” Rochford bowed over her hand, assuring her politely that the pleasure was all his, as Francesca cast an assessing eye over the woman. Lady Althea was tall and slim, and her white silk ball gown was tasteful, if somewhat lacking in dash in Francesca’s opinion. And if her lips were a bit too thin and her face a trifle long for real beauty, she did have a wealth of dark brown hair, and her brown eyes were large and lined with thick, dark lashes. Many men, Francesca was sure, would call her pretty. She cast a sideways glance at Rochford, wondering if he numbered among those men. Lady Althea inquired politely after Rochford’s grandmother and Francesca’s parents, then moved on to compliment Callie’s wedding. It was the sort of polite chitchat in which Francesca had engaged for much of her life, as had Lady Althea and Rochford, and they were able to spend several minutes talking about almost nothing at all. When they had finished praising Lady Whittington’s ball—perhaps her finest, in Lady Althea’s opinion—as well as commiserating over the sad state of Lady Althea’s mother’s nerves, which had kept her in bed tonight instead of attending this event, they moved on to the latest play at Drury Lane, which, as it turned out, none of them had actually seen. “Why, we must go!” Francesca exclaimed, looking at Lady Althea. The other woman seemed faintly surprised, but replied only, “Yes, certainly. That sounds quite pleasant.” Francesca beamed. “And we shall press the duke to take us.” She turned toward Rochford expectantly. His eyes, too, widened a trifle, but he said evenly, “Of course. It would be my privilege to escort two such lovely ladies to the theater.” “Wonderful.” Francesca glanced back at Althea, who, she noticed, appeared more eager about the invitation now that the duke was attached to the expedition. “Let us set a night, then. Tuesday, shall we say?” The other two agreed, and Francesca favored them with a smile. She had, she knew, ridden roughshod over them. She was customarily more deft in her maneuverings than she had been tonight. She was not sure why she had been clumsier than usual, but at least neither of the others looked disgruntled or suspicious. She made a few more minutes of small talk, then slipped away, leaving Rochford with Althea. She made her way across the room, greeting some and pausing to chat with others. She should have felt a sense of triumph, she knew. She had finally set her plan in motion. But, in truth, all she felt was the beginning of a headache. She paused and glanced around her. She saw Irene in the distance, and a moment later she spotted Sir Lucien on the dance floor. She could make her way to Irene or wait for Sir Lucien—or, indeed, she could find half a dozen others to talk to, and there were any number of men who would doubtless ask her for a dance. However, she found herself unwilling to do any of those things. Her temples were beginning to pound, and she felt bored and curiously deflated. All she really wanted, she reflected, was to go home. Pleading a headache, which for once was real, she bade good-night to her hostess and went outside to her carriage. The vehicle was ten years old and growing somewhat shabby, but it felt good to be in it, snugly away from the music and lights, and the noise of a multitude of people chattering. FENTON, HER BUTLER, was surprised to see her home so early, and immediately hovered over her solicitously. “Are you well, my lady? Have you caught a chill?” The man had been her butler for over fourteen years; she had hired him soon after she and Lord Haughston were married. He was intensely loyal, as all her servants were. There had been many times when she had been unable to pay their wages, but Fenton had never grumbled—and she felt sure he had made quick work of any servant who did. Francesca smiled at the man now. “No. I am fine. Just a bit of a headache.” Upstairs, she faced the same quizzing from her maid, Maisie, who immediately took down Francesca’s hair and brushed it out, whisked off her dress and helped her into her nightclothes, then bustled out of the room to fetch lavender water to ease her headache. Before long Francesca found herself ensconced in her bed, pillows fluffed behind her, a handkerchief soaked in lavender water stretched across her forehead and the kerosene lamp beside her bed turned to its lowest glow. With a sigh, Francesca closed her eyes. She was not sleepy. The hour was far earlier than she was accustomed to retiring. And, in truth, the headache had eased as soon as she returned home and let down her hair. Unfortunately, the gloom that had touched her at the ball seemed to have settled in. She was not a woman who dwelled upon her misfortunes. When her husband had died five years ago, leaving her with little but this town house in London, one of the few things that had not been entailed with his estate, she had not sat about twisting her hands and bemoaning her fate. She had done her best to marshal her resources and pay off his debts, reducing her own expenses to the bare minimum. She had closed off part of the house and reduced the staff, then proceeded to gradually sell her silver and gold plate, and even her own jewelry. She had also quickly learned to practice economy, turning and refurbishing her old gowns rather than buying new ones, and wearing her slippers until the soles wore through. Even so, it had become apparent that such economies and her small jointure were not enough to support her and even a small staff for any length of time. Most women in her position would have sought a new husband, but after her experience with the first one, Francesca had been determined not to embark on that course again. Without a marriage to finance her, she knew, the expected course would be to retire to her father’s house, now her brother’s, to live as a dependent relative for the rest of her life. Instead, she had cast about for some means of bringing in more income. There were no jobs for ladies, of course, except for something like a companion or a governess. Neither of those held the slightest appeal for Francesca, and, indeed, she was sure that no one would have hired her for either one. The skills she possessed—impeccable taste, an eye for the fashions that complemented one’s looks rather than taking away from them, a thorough knowledge of the London social scene, the ability to flirt to exactly the right degree, as well as to enliven even the dullest party or most uncomfortable situation—were not the sorts of things that would make one money. However, it occurred to her, after yet another society matron begged her help in bringing off an unpopular daughter’s Season, that her skills were quite useful in the primary occupation of the mamas of the ton—securing a good marriage for their unmarried daughters. Few could better guide a naive young girl through the treacherous waters of the Season, and none were as adept in finding the perfect dress or accessory to flatter a figure or diminish a fault, or the most becoming hairstyle for any sort of face. Patience, tact and a ready sense of humor had helped her through an unhappy marriage, as well as fifteen years as one of the leaders of the beau monde, an always-perilous position. Surely those qualities could be used to successfully steer a young woman into a good marriage—even, if she was lucky, into love. Francesca had been matchmaking for three years now—always under the genteel guise of doing a favor for a friend, of course—and she had managed, if not to live well, at least to get by. She was able to keep food on the table and pay a small staff, as well as heat the house in the winter—as long as she kept many of the larger, draftier rooms closed off. And given the amount of business she was able to bring dressmakers and millinery shops, she was often given a dress that had been ordered but not picked up, or allowed to buy a frock or hat at a considerable discount. It was not the life she had dreamed of as a young girl, certainly, and she spent far more time than she cared to think of worrying about whether she would be able to pay her bills. But at least she was able to live on her own, as independent as any lady could be if she hoped to be respectable. Her mother, she knew, would have been shocked if she had known about Francesca’s secret occupation—as would a number of other members of society. Perhaps what she did was not genteel, but, frankly, she found it satisfying to take those without a sense of style and turn them into fashionable and attractive young ladies, and it was always pleasing to help a couple find each other. All in all, she was quite content with her life. Or, at least, she had been. But over the last few weeks she had been aware of a feeling of dissatisfaction, a certain ennui. She had even at times been…well, lonely. That was absurd, of course, because her social calendar was invariably full. She had invitations for every night of the week, often more than one a night. Every day brought a steady round of callers, both male and female. She never wanted for a dance partner or an escort. If she had been alone often during the past few weeks, that had been of her own accord. She had not really wanted to go out much or see anyone. She missed Callie, she knew. She had grown quite accustomed to having the girl around, and the house seemed emptier without her, just as she had told the duke. And, she had to admit, she was also suffering remorse and guilt about the terrible mistake she had made so many years ago. She would have been less than human, she supposed, if she had not considered how different her life would have been if she had not broken off her engagement. Certainly, if she had married Rochford, she would not now be spending her days worrying about how she was to keep food on the table or whether an old dress could be restyled yet again. But far more than the material benefits, she had to wonder if she might not have lived a happy life with him. What if she had been married to a man of honor rather than a libertine? What might have happened if she had married the man she truly loved? She remembered the dizzying excitement she had felt when she was with Rochford back then, the glow that had filled her every time he smiled at her…the way she had tingled all over when he kissed her. His behavior with her had been quite correct, and the few kisses he had given her had for the most part been chaste. Even so, she remembered, her heart had pounded at his nearness, and her senses had been filled with the sight and sound and scent of him. Once or twice, when he had laid his lips upon hers, she had felt heat surge in him, and he had pulled her close to him. His lips had dug into hers, opening her mouth before he pulled away abruptly, apologizing for his lack of decorum. Francesca had scarcely heard him. She had stared at him, lips open slightly, dazed by the new and strange sensations sizzling along her nerves, the fire exploding in her abdomen, and she had shivered, wanting more. If she had married Rochford, she might now be surrounded by children, honored by her husband, perhaps even well-loved. She might have been happy. A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. She opened her eyes and reached up to dash away the wayward drop. What foolishness, she thought. She was no longer a girl of eighteen to be carried away by romantic notions. The truth was that, though she might have had children, her marriage to Sinclair would probably have been equally unhappy. When she had fluttered inside at Rochford’s kisses, she had not realized what came after the kisses and embraces, or how those tantalizing sensations would die when she was confronted by the reality of the marital act. If she had married the duke, she told herself, the result would have been the same. The only difference would have been that she turned stiff and cold with Rochford, and it would have been he, not Andrew, who left her bed cursing and calling her Lady Ice—or, rather, the Duchess of Ice, she supposed. A grim little smile curved her lips. The duke had been fond of her, but it was absurd to dream that she might have won his love over the years. He would have acted more honorably than Haughston, of course. He would not have harangued her or paraded his mistresses before her. But he would doubtless have enjoyed their marital bed as little as Andrew had. He, too, would have lost whatever feeling he had for her when she could not respond to him with ardor. And how much of her love for him would have remained as, night after night, she had had to endure having him thrust into her, hoping that this time it would not be painful, sighing with relief when the act was over and he left her bed? There was no reason to think that any of that would have changed. She would not magically have become a passionate woman simply because she married a different man. It would have been worse, she thought, to have seen the disenchantment dawn on Rochford’s face as he realized that his wife was cold in bed. And it would have been worse, surely, to have come to dread the nighttime visits of the man she loved. No, it was better by far to have lived the life she had. Better to still have her happy memories of the love she had once felt. Rochford, too, would have been thankful that she had not married him if only he had known the sort of woman she was. He could still marry and have heirs. Indeed, any of the women she had chosen would make an excellent wife and duchess for Rochford. He could easily fall in love with one of them. After all, Francesca had achieved a great deal of success in that regard with the matches she had helped to bring about. The rest of his life would be happier than it doubtless would have been if they had married. And such an outcome would make her happy, too. Very happy, she told herself. So why, then, she wondered, did the thought of arranging his wedding to another leave her feeling so empty inside? CHAPTER THREE FRANCESCA WAS WALKING through the garden at Dancy Park. The sun was warm upon her back, and the air was redolent with the scent of roses. In the golden light, flowers bloomed in a riot of color: purple larkspur, white and yellow snapdragons, the huge pink and red bursts of peonies, and everywhere roses in all shades, climbing trellises and spilling over walls. A breeze ruffled the flowers, sending their heads nodding and petals floating on the air. “Francesca.” She turned, and there was Rochford. The sun was behind him, and she could not see his features clearly, but she knew his voice, his form, the way he walked toward her. She smiled, emotion welling up in her. “I saw you from my study,” he went on, coming closer to her. His face was all angles and planes; she wanted to trace her fingertips along them. In the sunlight, his dark eyes were lighter than they appeared indoors, the irises the color of warm chocolate surrounding the coal-black of the pupils. Her eyes went to his mouth, firm and well-defined. His lips, she thought, looked succulent, and at the idea, something twisted in her abdomen, hot and slow. “Sinclair.” His name was no more than a breath upon her lips. Her chest tightened, her throat closing up as it often did when he was near. He was as familiar to her as this garden or this house, and yet whenever she was around him these days, she was as skittish and eager, as thrumming with energy, as if she had never seen him before. He raised his hand, cupping her cheek in his palm. His hand was hard, and warmer than even the sun’s caress. His thumb smoothed its way across her cheek and brushed against her mouth. Featherlight, he traced the line of her lips, and the exquisitely sensitive flesh blazed to life beneath his touch. Tendrils of heat twined through her body, tangling deep in her loins. A pulse sprang to life between her legs, surprising her, and she drew a quick breath. She watched in anticipation as he lowered his head to hers, finally closing her eyes in sweet surrender as their lips joined. His hand upon her cheek was suddenly searing. He wrapped his other arm around her, pressing her into his body, his hard flesh sinking into her softness. Francesca was aware of her heart thudding like a wild thing in her chest, and her insides seemed to be made of molten wax. His lips pressed against hers, opening her mouth. An unexpected, unknown hunger roared through her, and she squeezed her legs together against the ache that blossomed there. She trembled all over, heat surging in her, yearning for something that seemed just beyond her reach. Her eyes flew open, and Francesca lay in the dark, staring blindly up at the tester above her bed. Her chest heaved, and her skin was damp with sweat. Her heart thundered within her, and there was a sweet, aching warmth between her legs. For a moment she was lost, unsure of where she was or what had happened. Then she realized. She…had been dreaming. A trifle shakily, she sat up, glancing around her as though to make certain that she was still in her bedroom at home. The dream had been so vivid, so real…. She shivered and pulled the covers up around her shoulders. The air was cool against her damp skin. She had dreamed of Rochford in his garden at Dancy Park before they came to London for her first Season. Had it been the youthful Rochford she had seen? She could not remember exactly how his face had looked. She could remember quite clearly the sensations the dream had caused, however; they quivered in her still. She closed her eyes, drifting for a moment in the unaccustomed feelings. It was so odd, so unlike her, to have that sort of dream, drenched with heat and hunger. Again she shivered. She felt, she thought, incomplete…aching for she knew not what, caught in a void between emptiness and wonder. Was this, she thought, desire? Did it always leave a woman feeling this way—alone and unsure whether she wanted to smile or cry? She remembered the inchoate longing that had once kept her awake at night, thinking of Sinclair and his kisses, daydreaming about the day when she would belong to him. She had known nothing then of what “belonging” to a man entailed. She had found that out on her wedding night as Andrew drunkenly pawed her, shoving up her nightgown and running his hands over her. Francesca remembered the humiliation of his looking at her naked body, the sudden fear that she had made a terrible mistake. Her husband had leered down at her as he unbuttoned his breeches and shoved them down, his manhood springing from its restraint, red and pulsing. Horrified, she had closed her eyes as he pushed her legs apart and climbed between them. Then he had thrust into her, tearing her tender flesh, and she had cried out in pain. But he had been unheeding, continuing to shove himself into her again and again, until at last he collapsed on top of her, hot and damp with sweat. It had taken her a moment to realize that he had fallen asleep that way, and she had needed to wriggle and squirm her way out from beneath him. Then she had pulled her nightdress back down over her naked body and turned away from him, curling up into a ball and giving way to sobs. The next morning Andrew had apologized for causing her pain, assuring her that it was only the first time that hurt a woman. In the light of day, she had hoped that it would get better. Had not her mother hinted, in her tight-lipped way, about getting the worst out of the way on the wedding night? Francesca had not known what she meant, but clearly that must have been it. Besides, Andrew had been drunk from the wedding feast. Surely he would be more tender, more loving, when he had not been drinking. And now that she knew what was involved, it would not be so frightening or embarrassing. She had been wrong, of course. It had not been as painful, that was true. But there had been none of the sweet eagerness, none of the glowing happiness, that she had once believed would await her in marriage. There had been only the same feeling of awkwardness and humiliation as he ran his hands over her, squeezing her breasts and shoving his fingers between her legs. She had endured the same harsh thrusting into her tender flesh, leaving her bruised and battered. And her tears had flowed the same afterwards—except that this time Andrew had been awake to hear her, and had wound up cursing and leaving her bed. It had never improved in any real way. As time passed, it did not hurt as much—sometimes only a little and sometimes not at all. But it was always uncomfortable and humiliating. And, she found, Andrew was more often drunk than otherwise. She dreaded his coming to her bed, his breath stinking of port, his hands grabbing at her breasts and buttocks, his body invading hers in rough, jarring thrusts. She had learned to close her eyes and turn her head away, to think of something else as she lay beneath him, and before long it would be over. Andrew would curse her for her lifelessness and call her cold as ice. The cheapest whore gave him a better ride than she did, he told her bitterly, and if she complained to him about his faithlessness, he reminded her that he would not have to turn to a mistress if she were a real woman. Francesca wished that she could deny his words. But she suspected that he was right, that she was not like other women. She had heard other married women talk and giggle over what happened in bed or how virile their husbands were. She had heard whispers behind fans of the prowess of a certain man and murmurs praising the form of this fellow or that, speculations regarding some lord’s performance beneath the sheets. Other women, apparently, enjoyed the marital bed rather than dreading it. She had wondered if something had died within her when Rochford broke her heart. However, she also could not help but wonder if Rochford had perhaps sensed the coldness that dwelt within her, even before they married, and that it had been her lack of passion that had driven him into Daphne’s arms. She had assumed that it was gentlemanly restraint that had kept him from trying to sneak into some corner to kiss and caress her. But what if he had not done so simply because he realized that she was as cold as a fish? At least she would get children out of it all, she had told herself, but even there, she had been wrong. Six months into their marriage, she had gotten pregnant. Four months later, as she and Andrew had been arguing about his gambling losses, he had grabbed her arm as she stormed away from him. She had jerked herself free and stumbled backward, crashing into the railing at the top of the stairs and falling down several steps. Within hours, she had miscarried, and her doctor, frowning, had warned her that she might not be able to have children. He had been right. She had not conceived again. Those had been the darkest days of her life, knowing that she had lost all chance at the family she had once thought she would have. She was not sure if she had ever really loved her husband; certainly, whatever love she had felt for him had died since they became man and wife. And now she knew that she would not have the joy of children, either. It had been a relief when Andrew came less and less frequently to her bed, and, frankly, she had not even really cared that he stayed away from their home more, as well, spending his time wenching and drinking. She had not bothered to remonstrate with him over anything but his gambling, which further endangered their always precarious finances. When he died falling from his horse in a drunken stupor, she had not been able to summon up a single tear for him. What she had felt, really, had been a blessed sense of freedom. However great a struggle it had been to keep her head above water since, at least she had been her own person for the last five years. At least she no longer had to worry that Andrew might come stumbling in and once more lay claim to her body. Nothing, she thought, would ever bring her to put herself in that position again. She had no interest in marrying. There were men far better than Lord Haughston had been, of course, but none, she felt sure, would welcome a wife who did not want to share his bed. And she had no desire to subject herself to the duties of marriage even with a nice man. Perhaps she was freakish in her lack of passion, as Andrew had told her. But she knew that she was unlikely to change at this age. She simply was not touched by desire. It was that fact that made the dream she had just had so startling. What was that jangling heated yearning she had felt? And what did it mean? From whence had it come? She supposed that the dream had grown out of the memories that had invaded her mind tonight—thoughts and emotions from fifteen years ago, when she had been in love with Rochford. It had been those girlish hopes and inexperienced feelings that had somehow entwined themselves in her dreams. Those feelings meant nothing about the barren husk of a woman that she had become. Nothing at all. TWO DAYS LATER, Francesca was upstairs consulting with her maid, Maisie, on the possibilities of freshening up one of her gowns, when her butler came to the door to announce that Sir Alan Sherbourne had come to call on her. “Sir Alan?” she repeated blankly. “Do I know him, Fenton?” “I do not believe so, my lady,” he replied gravely. “And do you think I should receive him?” “He seems quite unexceptionable. A gentleman who spends most of his time in the country, is my opinion.” “I see. Well, my curiosity is piqued. Show him into the drawing room.” When Francesca entered the drawing room a few moments later, she saw at once that her butler’s description of Sir Alan was perfectly apt. Of medium height, with a pleasant face that was neither handsome nor unattractive, the man was not particularly noticeable, but was also not lacking in any regard. His carriage, speech and demeanor were clearly those of a man raised a gentleman, but there was no arrogance about him. And though his clothes were of a good quality and cut, they were not in the most up-to-date fashion, indicating, as Fenton had remarked, that he was not a man of the city, an impression reinforced by the plainness and open quality of his manner. “Sir Alan?” Francesca asked a trifle questioningly as she stepped into the room. He turned from his contemplation of the portrait above the mantel, and his eyes widened expressively. “Lady Haughston. Beg pardon…I did not realize…” He stopped, a faint line of color forming on his cheeks. “Excuse me. I am not usually so inarticulate. I am afraid I was unprepared to find that Lady Haughston was someone as young and radiant as you.” Francesca could not refrain from smiling. It was always pleasant to hear a compliment, particularly when it appeared as spontaneous and surprised as this one. “Oh, dear,” she replied, her tone teasing. “Has someone been painting me as old and haggard?” The color in his cheeks deepened as he stammered out, “No. Oh, no, my lady. No one said anything like that. It is simply that everything I have heard about your influence and your considerable social skills led me to envision someone much older than yourself. A matriarch…a—” He stopped short. “I am making a hash of it, clearly.” Francesca chuckled. “Do not fret. I promise you, I am not offended. Please, sit down, sir.” She gestured toward the sofa as she took a seat on the chair that lay at a right angle to it. “Thank you.” He accepted her invitation, sitting down and turning toward her. “I hope you will forgive my intrusion. It is presumptuous of me, I know, not being acquainted with you, but a friend told me that you might be willing to help me.” “Really? Well, certainly, if I can.” “It is about my daughter. Harriet. She made her debut this year.” “I see.” His mission here was becoming clearer to Francesca. She tried to remember a girl named Harriet Sherbourne, but she could not picture her. Of course, that was probably the problem: Harriet was not making an impression in her first Season. “I am a widower,” her visitor went on. “It’s been just Harriet and me for six years now. She is a good, sweet girl. She’s been a wonderful companion to me, and she would make any man a good wife. Why, she has more or less run my household since she was fourteen. But she, well, she just doesn’t seem to be ‘taking.’” He frowned, obviously puzzled. “It can be difficult for a young girl when she first comes to London,” Francesca assured him. “It’s not that I am anxious to see her married,” he went on quickly. “Quite frankly, I know I shall be quite lonely when she’s gone.” He gave her a small smile. “But I hate to see Harriet not enjoying her time here. And how can she, always sitting against the wall and not dancing?” “Exactly right.” “Someone told me that you were known to work wonders with young girls who had been, well, left behind in the social race, so to speak. I know you have no reason to help me, not knowing us, but I hoped that you might consider favoring me with some advice. I was told you were most generous in that regard.” “Of course I should be happy to help you,” Francesca assured the man. She liked her first impression of Sir Alan, and, in any case, she could scarcely turn down an opportunity that had happened along so fortuitously. She should have been combing the ranks of the new marriageable girls, looking for those who could benefit from her expertise—and were willing to open their purses, of course, to achieve results. “I am not sure exactly what it is that you can do,” her guest continued a little uncertainly. “Nor am I,” Francesca admitted. “It would help, no doubt, if I were to meet your daughter.” “Yes, of course. If it would be acceptable for us to call on you, I should be most happy to bring her to visit you.” “That sounds like just the thing. Why don’t the two of you come to see me tomorrow afternoon? Lady Harriet and I can become acquainted, and I can get a better idea of the problem.” “Excellent,” Sir Alan responded, beaming. “You are very kind, Lady Haughston.” “In the meantime, perhaps you might tell me a bit about what you, um, would like to happen for Lady Harriet this Season.” He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” “Well, I find that parents often have different expectations. Some hope for their daughter to make a quick match, others a highly advantageous one.” “Oh.” His face cleared. “I have no expectations of marriage, my lady. I mean, if Harriet were to meet a suitable young man whom she wished to marry, that would be very nice, of course. But she is still young, and I have not heard her express a great interest in marrying. I wish only for her to have a pleasant Season. She never complains, but the past few years she has had to take on more responsibility than a girl her age should. She is entitled to a little fun. That is why we came here for the Season. But, truthfully…well, I believe she is bored at these parties. She would like to dance and converse. My mother has been sponsoring Harriet, but she is getting up in years. It is a burden to her to take the girl about. And I sometimes wonder if the parties she attends are really, well, entertaining to Harriet.” Francesca nodded, the picture growing clearer for her. “Of course.” Sir Alan seemed a kind and pleasant man, one who wanted only the best for his daughter, which was certainly a refreshing change from many of the parents who had come to her. Most of them seemed more interested in an advantageous marriage than a happy one, and few expressed, as this man had, an interest in their daughter enjoying her come-out. Of course, kindness did not necessarily translate into a willingness to spend money to accomplish his goals. There had been far too many parents who had expected her to work wonders for their daughter without purchasing different clothes, or to purchase an adequate wardrobe on a cheeseparing budget. “I have found that bringing a girl out properly often demands adjustments to her wardrobe, entailing further expenses,” Francesca said, probing delicately. He nodded agreeably. “Of course, if that is what you think is best. I would leave that matter entirely in your hands. I fear that my mother was not, perhaps, the best person to choose my daughter’s frocks for the Season.” “And doubtless you will need to host a party yourself.” At the man’s dismayed expression, she hastily added, “Or we can hold it here. I can take care of the preparations.” “Yes.” His face cleared. “Oh, yes, that would be just the thing, if you would be so kind. Just direct the bills to me.” “Certainly.” Francesca smiled. It was always a pleasure to work with an openhanded parent, especially one who was happy to put all the decisions and arrangements into her hands. Sir Alan beamed back, clearly quite pleased with the arrangement. “I don’t know how to thank you, Lady Haughston. Harriet will be so pleased, I’m sure. I should not take up any more of your time. I have already imposed on you more than enough.” He took his leave, giving her a polite bow, and Francesca went back upstairs, feeling a good bit more cheerful. Taking Harriet Sherbourne in hand would give her something to do, as well as provide her with some much-needed coin in the coming weeks. Given the quality of the last few meals her cook had prepared, she knew that Fenton must have run out of the money the duke’s man of business had sent them for Callie’s upkeep while she was living with Francesca. The butler and her cook had, of course, worked their usual economic magic with the cash, managing to apportion the money so that it lasted several weeks longer than the time Callie had been there. The household was still solvent and would remain so for the rest of the Season, due to the gift that Callie’s grandmother, the dowager duchess, had sent. When Callie had left Francesca’s household, she had given Francesca a cameo left to her by her mother, a gift so sweet and instantly dear to Francesca that she had been unable to part with it, even for the money it would have brought. However, shortly thereafter, the duchess had sent her a lovely silver vanity set as her own thanks for taking the burden of arrangements for the wedding ceremony off the duchess’s hands. Francesca hated to give up the engraved tray and its set of small boxes, pots and perfume bottles, simply because it was so beautifully done, but yesterday she had turned it over to Maisie to take to the jeweler’s and sell. Still, the cash the set would bring would not last forever, and after the Season ended, there would be the long stretch of fall and winter, in which there were few opportunities to make any more income. Whatever she could earn by helping Sir Alan’s daughter would be very welcome. Besides, life always seemed better when she had a project to work on. Two projects, therefore, should utterly banish the fit of the blue devils she had suffered the other evening. Her spirits were further buoyed by the fact that, in her absence, Maisie had recalled some silver lace that she had salvaged from a ruined ball gown last fall, and which would, the maid was sure, be just the thing to spruce up Francesca’s dove-gray evening gown for her visit to the theater. The two women spent the rest of the afternoon happily remaking the ball gown in question, replacing its overskirt with one of silver voile taken from another gown, and adding a row of the silver lace around the hem, neckline and short, puffed sleeves. It took only a bit of work on the seams and the addition of a sash of silver ribbon, and the dress seemed entirely new and shimmery, not at all like the same gray evening dress she had worn a year ago. Francesca thought that she would look quite acceptable—and not at all like a woman fast approaching her thirty-fourth birthday. When Tuesday evening came, bringing with it the trip to the theater that Francesca had arranged, the duke arrived, unsurprisingly, before his appointed time. It was much more unusual that Francesca, too, was ready early. However, when Fenton informed her of Rochford’s presence downstairs, she dawdled a few minutes before going down to greet him. It would never do, after all, for a lady to appear eager, even if the man in question was a friend, not a suitor. The butler had placed Rochford in the formal drawing room, and he was standing before the fireplace, studying the portrait of Francesca that hung over it. The painting had been done at the time of her marriage to Lord Haughston, and it had hung there so long that she never noticed it anymore, regarding it as one of the familiar pieces of furniture. She cast a glance at it now, however, and wondered if, indeed, her skin had been that wondrously glowing and velvety, or if it was just an example of the painter’s art. Rochford glanced over his shoulder at the sound of her footsteps, and for an instant there was something in his face that brought her up short. But then the moment passed. He smiled, and Francesca could not work out exactly what it was she had seen in that brief glimpse…. Whatever it was, it had left her heart beating a trifle faster than was customary. “Rochford,” she greeted him, walking forward with her hand extended to shake his. He turned around fully, and she saw that he held a bouquet of creamy white roses in his hand. She stopped again, her hand coming up to her chest in pleased surprise. “How beautiful! Thank you.” She came forward and took them from him, her cheeks becomingly flushed with pleasure. “I am a day early, I know, but I thought that by the time we parted this evening, it would be your birthday,” he told her. “Oh!” The smile that flashed across her face was brilliant, her eyes glowing. “You remembered.” “Of course.” Francesca buried her face in the roses, inhaling their scent, but she knew that her action was as much to hide the rush of gratification on her face as to smell the intoxicating odor. “Thank you,” she told him again, looking back up at him. She could not have said why it brought her so much pleasure to know that he had remembered her birthday—and had bothered to bring flowers to commemorate it. But she felt unaccountably lighter than she had for the past week. “You are very welcome.” His eyes were dark and unfathomable in the dim light of the candles. She wondered what he was thinking. Did he recall how she had looked fifteen years ago? Did he find her much changed? Embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts, she turned away, going to the bell pull to summon the butler. Fenton, efficient as always and having seen the flowers when the duke entered, bustled in a moment later, a water-filled vase in hand. He set it on the low table in front of the sofa, and Francesca busied herself for a few moments with arranging the flowers. “I do hope, however,” she went on lightly, watching the flowers rather than Rochford’s face, “that your memory is kind enough not to recall the number of years that I have gained as well as it remembered the date of my birth.” “Your secret is safe with me,” he told her with mock gravity. “Though I can assure you that if I were to reveal your age, there are none who would believe it, given the way you look.” “A very pretty lie,” Francesca retorted, the dimple flashing in her cheek as she grinned at him. “No falsehood,” he protested. “I was just looking at your portrait and thinking how remarkably the same you look.” She was about to toss back a rejoinder when suddenly, unbidden, the memory of her dream the night before came back to her. She stared at him, feeling as though her breath had been stolen from her, and all she could think about was the look in his eyes as he had gazed into her face and the velvet touch of his lips as they met hers. She blushed deeply, and something in his face changed, his eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. He was about to kiss her, she thought, and her body suddenly shimmered with anticipation. CHAPTER FOUR BUT, OF COURSE, he did not kiss her. Instead, he took a step back, and she saw that his face was set in its usual cool reserve, not at all the expression that she had thought she glimpsed for an instant. It was a trick of the light, she decided, some shifting of shadows. No doubt Fenton, conserving money, had not lit enough candles. “I am surprised that you are not holding a party to celebrate the occasion,” Rochford said somewhat stiffly. Francesca turned away, struggling to quiet the tumult of butterflies in her stomach. She would not think about that ridiculous dream. It had meant nothing. And Rochford had no inkling of it, in any case. There was no reason to feel awkward and unsettled. “Don’t be absurd,” she told him tartly, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. “I have reached the age where one does not want to draw attention to growing older.” “But you deprive everyone of the opportunity to celebrate your presence here among us ordinary mortals.” She cast him a dry look. “Doing it a bit too brown, aren’t we?” He gave her a wry smile. “My dear Francesca, surely you are accustomed to being called divine.” “Not by a man well-known all over the city for adhering to the truth.” He let out a chuckle. “I yield. Clearly I am out-matched. I am well aware that it is an impossibility to have the last word when contesting wits with you.” “’Tis nice to hear you admit it,” she replied with a smile. “Now…I believe that Lady Althea is awaiting us?” “Yes, of course.” He did not look as interested in the prospect as Francesca would have hoped. But then, she reminded herself, she had known that this would be a long and doubtless uphill battle with Rochford. He was not a man known for his changeability; it would take some time and effort to reverse the course he had pursued for years. Besides, she was not entirely certain herself whether Lady Althea would be the right wife for Rochford. She could not help but remember the comment Irene had made the other night. Althea Robart was, frankly, a trifle snobbish, and while that was not really a problem for a duchess, Francesca could not help but wonder if such a person would really make Rochford happy. Rochford was certainly capable of assuming his “duke face,” as his sister Callie called it, when it suited him, but he was not a man who took himself too seriously most of the time. He was quite capable of conversing with almost anyone of any social level, and Francesca could not remember a single occasion when he had been too careful of his dignity to listen to or help someone. Francesca glanced over at him as they left her house and approached his elegant town carriage. This carriage, for instance, was an example of his lack of overweening pride. Though well-made and obviously expensive, there was no ducal crest stamped on the side. Rochford had never sought the admiration of the general crowd, nor did he feel a need to announce his name or station to the world. He handed her up into the carriage and settled across from her. She leaned back into the luxurious leather seat, the soft squabs cushioning her head. It was dark and close in the carriage, somehow much more intimate than sitting this near to one another in the chairs in her drawing room. She could not remember when she had ever ridden in a carriage entirely alone with Rochford. He had never been one of her escorts, at least not since that brief time when they had been engaged, and then she had been a young, unmarried female, so there had always been a chaperone accompanying them—her mother or his grandmother. Francesca looked down at her gloved hands in her lap, feeling unaccustomedly uncertain. It was ridiculous, of course. She knew that she was a woman who was counted upon to keep a conversation running, yet here she was, unable to think of anything to say—and with a man whom she had known all her life. But she could not seem to keep her mind from turning to that dream she had had the night before, a vision that quickly dried up any words that came to her lips and set her heart knocking foolishly in her chest. Besides, she could not escape the feeling that Rochford was looking at her. Of course, there was no reason why he should not be looking at her. They were seated across from each other, their knees only a few inches apart. And there was certainly no reason why his gaze should make her nervous…yet she could not help but feel unsettled by it. It was a relief that the trip to Lady Althea’s residence took only a few minutes. Francesca waited in the carriage while Rochford went in to escort Althea. It did not take him long, Francesca noted, so clearly the two of them had spent little time chatting. She supposed she could not fault Althea, given that she had just spent the last few minutes in the carriage with Rochford feeling quite tongue-tied herself. Still, it seemed to her that the woman could have made a little more of a push. As they paused outside the carriage while the footman opened the door and set down a stool for Althea to step up on, Francesca heard Althea say in some disappointment, “Oh. Then you did not bring the ducal carriage?” Rochford’s glance flickered over to Francesca, who sat watching them out the carriage window, and he arched one eyebrow sardonically. Francesca had to raise her hand to her mouth to cover the smile that sprang up there. “No, my lady, I am afraid only my grandmother uses the carriage with the crest. Still, one could say that this is the ducal carriage, being that it belongs to me.” Lady Althea gave him a slightly puzzled glance. “Yes, of course, but how is one to know it?” Francesca suppressed a sigh. Lady Althea appeared to have little lightness or humor in her. “Very true,” the duke murmured, extending his hand to help her up into the vehicle. Althea sat down beside Francesca, favoring her with an unsmiling nod. “Good evening, Lady Haughston.” “Good evening.” Francesca smiled. “How lovely you look.” “Thank you.” It nettled her only a little that Lady Althea did not return the compliment. It was more annoying that after her brief answer, Althea made no effort to say anything else to move the conversation along. “I trust your parents are well,” Francesca went on gamely. “Yes, quite, thank you. Father is rarely ill. It is always so with the Robarts, of course.” “Indeed?” Francesca noted the amusement that briefly danced in the duke’s dark eyes. Althea, she thought with a flash of irritation, was doing little to make a positive impression. “And is Lady Robart enjoying the Season? I confess, I have seen her only rarely this summer.” “She is frequently at my godmother’s side,” Althea commented. “Lady Ernesta Davenport. Lord Rodney Ashenham’s sister, you know.” “Ah.” Francesca knew Ashenham and his sister, both rather priggish sorts. As she remembered, Lady Davenport had once told her that a true lady did not laugh aloud—that only the common sort were given to braying—when Francesca had burst into a fit of giggles over some mishap or other during her first Season. “They grew up together, you see,” Althea went on. “They are first cousins, as well.” “I see.” Althea apparently took this mild statement as an expression of interest, for she spent some time exploring the family tree of the Ashenhams, who had, apparently, ties to most of the major families of England. Francesca, keeping her face fixed in the courteous expression of listening that had been ingrained in her as a child, mentally began to go through her slippers, trying to find a pair that would suit the sea-green evening gown of voile over silk that she had seen in Mlle. du Plessis’ store last week. The modiste had told her that it was waiting for a buyer, hostage to that woman’s final payment on a bill that had been too long outstanding. Mlle. du Plessis had admitted to grave doubts that the buyer would ever return, and she had agreed to sell it to Francesca at only a third of its original cost if the woman had not paid her bill within a week. The dress was too long, but that was a trifling matter that Maisie could take care of easily enough, and Francesca knew that she was desperately in need of a new gown. There were only so many times that one could redo a gown to look fresh, and it would not do to appear in the same ball gown too often. Pride was a sin, Francesca knew, but she could not bear for people to know how close she skated to the edge of penury. The problem, however, was the slippers to go with it. No matter how careful she tried to be with them, the thin soles of dancing slippers wore through incredibly quickly, and they were not the sort of thing on which one could normally work a bargain. Therefore, she did her best to stick to plain colors that would go with many different frocks. What would really look marvelous with the dress, of course, would be a pair of silver sandals, but that would be too extravagant a purchase. But perhaps… There were several other dresses they would suit, after all. Maybe she could go into the attic and dig about in the trunks again. Some valuable trifle that she could sell might turn up. “Lady Haughston?” Francesca glanced up quickly, aware that she had become entirely too lost in her thoughts. “What? I’m sorry. I must have been woolgathering.” “We are here,” Althea told her somewhat stiffly. “Ah, yes, so we are.” Francesca glanced out the window to see the familiar form of the Royal Theater. She suspected that she had put Althea’s nose out of joint a bit by drifting off like that. But, really, the girl should learn that analyzing one’s family tree was scarcely the way to capture anyone’s attention. She would have to think of some way to tutor the girl in the art of conversation if she was to have a chance of winning Rochford’s favor. Of course, that was if she decided Lady Althea was the woman she wanted to win his favor. Francesca was, quite frankly, beginning to have her doubts. Rochford climbed out with alacrity and reached back up to hand the women down. Francesca managed to hang back a bit as they strolled into the theater so that Rochford was walking beside Althea alone. She must, after all, give him a chance to get to know the woman better. Perhaps Althea had been a trifle nervous about the situation; Rochford’s presence sometimes had that effect. Nerves frequently made people chatter on about the most inconsequential things. Francesca cast a glance at them, walking slightly ahead of her. Rochford’s dark head was bent a little toward Althea as he listened to her. Perhaps he had not minded Althea’s conversation earlier. She had seen husbands who were quite content with the most ninny-hammered of wives. And Althea was attractive. It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to drop by someone’s box during intermission; that would give the couple a chance to be alone together without it being improper, given that there was an entire theater of people around them. She would have to look around the place before the play began to see if she could spot an acquaintance. She turned to glance around at the other people walking into the theater. Startled, she felt a touch beneath her elbow and turned to find Rochford gazing quizzically at her. He and Lady Althea had dropped back beside her. “Woolgathering again, Lady Haughston?” he asked with a faint smile. “Oh, um…” Francesca felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. I am afraid I must be a trifle distracted this evening.” They continued into the theater, with the duke now by Francesca’s side, Lady Althea in front of them. However, when they reached the duke’s luxurious box, Francesca managed to neatly maneuver things so that she was against the wall, and Althea was between her and Rochford. Again separating herself from their conversation, Francesca scooted forward in her seat and raised her opera glasses to inspect the other occupants of the theater. There was Mrs. Everson, with her husband and two daughters. Francesca supposed she could visit with them later, though the prospect was not inviting. She lowered her glasses and nodded to them, just in case, then resumed her search. She wished she had urged Sir Lucien to attend with someone tonight, for then she could have visited with him and been assured of a lively conversation. As she looked, she became aware of that odd, indefinable sensation of being watched. She lowered her glasses and swept her eyes around the large room, taking in the tiers of boxes, then glanced down at the floor below. She let out a low exclamation as her eyes fell on a man standing in the aisle, staring up at her. Her hand tightened involuntarily on her fan. “Francesca? What is it?” she heard Rochford say, leaning forward and following her gaze. “The devil!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Perkins.” The man, seeing that he had gained Francesca’s attention, swept her a mocking bow. Francesca looked away without even a nod, sitting back in her seat. “What is he doing here?” she asked with disgust. “Who?” Lady Althea asked, glancing toward the crowd below. “Galen Perkins,” Rochford answered. “I don’t believe I recognize the name.” “There is no reason for you to,” Francesca assured her. “He has been out of the country for years.” “He is a thorough rogue,” Rochford added, shooting a quick sideways glance at Francesca. He knew, Francesca thought, that Perkins had been one of her late husband’s cronies. Though he came from a minor branch of a good family, he had done all he could to tarnish their name. He had been a gambler and drinker, accompanying Lord Haughston on many of his wilder ventures. He had even, Francesca recalled, with a tightening of her stomach, been so low as to make advances to her despite his friendship with her husband. “What is he doing back in London?” Francesca asked. She explained in an aside to Althea, “He had to flee to the Continent several years ago because he killed a man in a duel.” Althea’s eyes widened. “Oh, my. Who?” “Avery Bagshaw, Sir Gerald’s son,” the duke told her. “As Sir Gerald died not long ago, I presume Perkins has decided that it is safe to return. Without Sir Gerald to push the authorities to arrest him, it is doubtful that anything will be done now. It has been seven or eight years, and they are apt to turn a blind eye to such things, anyway.” “Well, I am sure he will not be received anywhere,” Althea said decisively, delivering what was for her, apparently, the greatest punishment. “No. I am sure not,” Francesca agreed. It was terrible that he was once again able to live here freely, given what he had done. But at least she would not have to be around the man. With Andrew gone, he would not be coming to her house, and Althea was right in saying that he would not be received by polite society, so he would not be at any parties. She pulled her mind away from the thought of Galen Perkins, turning her attention back to her companions. Conversation had lagged while she had been scouting the theater, and Rochford and Althea fell silent again once the topic of Galen Perkins had been dropped. Gamely, Francesca took up the conversational baton again, saying, “Have you read the newest book?” “Lady Rumor?” Rochford tossed back, a smile quirking at the corner of his lips. “Who?” Althea asked, looking confused. “Lady who?” “Rumor. It’s a nom de plume,” she explained. “No one knows who it is. It is said that she is a member of the ton.” Althea looked at her blankly. “Why would a member of the ton wish to write a book?” “It is supposed to be full of scandals and rumors—thinly disguised, of course. Everyone is said to be quaking for fear they will be in it,” Francesca went on. “Ah, but how slighted they will feel if they are left out,” Rochford added. Francesca chuckled. “True enough.” “But that’s absurd,” Althea said, frowning. “No one would wish to be included in a book about scandal. Who would wish for a blot upon one’s name?” It occurred to Francesca that Althea Robart truly was entirely lacking in a sense of humor. She glanced at Rochford and saw his dark eyes dancing in amusement. “You are right, of course, Lady Althea,” he said smoothly. “I cannot fathom why I should have thought such a thing.” He cast a droll glance at Francesca, and she had to turn away to hide a smile. But that would not do, she knew. Clearly, the light social conversation in which she was wont to engage was not the sort of thing at which Lady Althea shone. Therefore, it was incumbent upon her to turn the conversation in the other woman’s direction, to introduce a topic upon which Lady Althea could expound. She cast about for such a subject. The problem was that she did not know Lady Althea well. “Lady Symington’s ball will be coming up soon,” she said after a moment. “Will you be attending, Lady Althea?” “Oh, yes. She is second cousin to my father, you know.” Francesca suppressed a groan. Indeed, she had managed to hit on a topic the woman enjoyed—family. “Ah, look, the lights are going down,” Rochford spoke up. “The play is about to begin.” “Why, yes, so it is.” With relief, Francesca turned her attention to the stage. She was not really interested in the action that was occurring there, however. She was too much occupied with her plans. She seemed to be failing at every turn to bring Althea into any interesting conversation. It would be best, she thought, if she followed up on her idea to visit someone else during intermission, leaving Althea and Rochford alone in the box. It would have been better if she could have found someone more engaging than the Eversons, of course. Mr. Everson was the sort who thought himself an expert on almost any topic and was more than happy to give his opinion, whether one wished it or not. Mrs. Everson, on the other hand, was given to conversing about her ailments, which seemed to be legion, but which never appeared to keep her from attending all social functions. The girls, at least, had little to say—though it was not hard to see why, given that both of their parents strove to dominate any conversation. However, Francesca knew that she had little choice. She was growing more certain that Althea Robart was not the wife for Rochford, but still, she ought to give it one more push. Perhaps, if she was alone with Rochford, Althea would unexpectedly blossom in some way. Therefore, as soon as the curtain fell and the lights came on, Francesca stood up, turning to the others. Rochford, however, had been faster than she. He, too, had risen, and before she could speak, he began, “Ladies, shall I bring you some refreshments? A glass of ratafia, perhaps?” “How kind of you,” Francesca replied quickly before Althea could say anything. “Not for me, thank you. I believe that I shall slip around to see Mrs. Everson. But perhaps Lady Althea would like a glass.” Rochford stared at her, his eyebrows rising. “Mrs. Everson?” “Yes. I saw her across the way.” Francesca gestured vaguely about the theater. “Yes. So did I.” Rochford looked at her oddly. “Well, then…pray allow me to escort you.” “What?” Now it was Francesca’s turn to stare at him. “You?” She was well aware that the duke had avoided Mr. Everson like the plague ever since the man had tried to inveigle Rochford into some investment scheme in India. Why, just a few weeks ago Callie had related, laughing, the way Rochford had spent an entire weekend at Lord Kimbrough’s country house dodging Mr. Everson. Why would he be volunteering to enter the man’s presence now? “Yes,” Rochford returned her gaze blandly. “I.” “But I— That is—” “Yes?” He cocked an eyebrow in that maddening way he had. Francesca swallowed. “Of course. How nice.” She turned to the other woman with a smile. “Lady Althea, would you like to accompany us?” Althea blinked and cast a glance across the theater—no doubt wondering, Francesca thought caustically, what was so interesting about the Eversons. “Yes, all right,” she said after a moment, also rising to her feet. Rochford stepped aside to let the women pass in front of him, but before Francesca was halfway to the door, there came a knock, and then it opened. Galen Perkins stood framed in the doorway. Francesca stopped abruptly, and for a long moment there was nothing but silence in the small room. Then Perkins bowed and stepped inside. “Lady Haughston. You look lovelier than ever. I would have thought eight years would have aged you, but clearly you have found some magic potion.” “Mr. Perkins,” Francesca answered through tight lips, thinking that she could not say the same about him. She had never liked the man, but he had once been attractive. Years of dissipation, however, had padded his once-lithe frame and blurred the lines of his face. His golden curls, though still artfully tousled, had lost much of their glimmer and were growing thinner, and there was a jaded look in his pale blue eyes. “Please accept my condolences on your loss,” he went on. “Lord Haughston was a good friend to me. I was very sorry that I was out of the country when he passed away.” “Thank you.” Rochford stepped past the women, placing himself in front of Francesca. “Perkins.” “Rochford,” the other man replied, looking faintly amused at the duke’s gesture. “I am surprised to see you here,” Rochford went on flatly. “Indeed? I wished to speak to Lady Haughston. I could not ignore the presence of an old friend.” “We were never friends,” Francesca told him. “Such harsh words,” Perkins responded, the small, disdainful smile never leaving his lips. “After all the years that we have known each other, I would not have thought you could be so unkind.” “I did not mean that I was surprised to see you here in this box,” Rochford explained sharply, “though it is somewhat presumptuous, given your lack of invitation. What I meant was that I would not have thought to see you in London after your precipitous departure eight years ago.” “That is all in the past.” “A man’s life can scarcely be shrugged aside so easily,” Rochford retorted. “I can see that you have not changed,” Perkins drawled. “You always were a sanctimonious sort.” He turned toward Francesca, adding, “Setting your sights higher this time, my dear? I wonder what poor Andrew would think.” Francesca stiffened. It had slipped her mind over the years how thoroughly she disliked this man. But the duke spoke before she could open her mouth to deliver a set-down. “I think it is time you took your leave, Mr. Perkins.” Perkins’ lips tightened, and for a moment Francesca thought he was going to shoot back an angry retort—or worse—but then he visibly relaxed. “Of course, Your Grace.” The honorific sounded like an insult on his lips. Perkins bowed toward Francesca and Althea. “Ladies.” He turned and left the box. For a moment no one spoke. Then Althea said, “Really. What an obnoxious creature. Do not tell me you actually associated with him, Lady Haughston.” “No, of course I did not,” Francesca returned irritably. “He was an acquaintance of my late husband’s, that is all.” “Very bad form, his coming here,” Lady Althea commented. “I don’t believe that Mr. Perkins worries overmuch about ‘form,’” Rochford said dryly. “Well, there is scarcely time now to pay the Eversons a visit,” Francesca announced. “Come, let us sit down again, Lady Althea.” She tucked her arm through Althea’s, guiding her back to their chairs, so that Althea would once again be between Francesca and Rochford. Throughout the next act, Francesca kept glancing over at Rochford, trying to see whether he ever even glanced at Althea. His eyes were always on the stage, except once, when she found him gazing at her. She blushed up to her hairline, grateful for the concealing darkness. She hoped she had not been too obvious. Rochford had always been annoyingly quick to notice things, and if he realized what she was about, he might very well order her to cease. Deciding that the ploy of visiting another box had been a dismal failure, she remained seated during the next intermission and made a last attempt to engage Althea and Rochford in conversation. As it turned out, it was she and Rochford who did most of the talking, though she did her best to turn the discussion in Althea’s direction whenever she could. When Rochford brought up a composer, Francesca asked Althea what she thought of him. When he mentioned going to his manor house in Cornwall, Francesca sought Althea’s opinion of the loveliness of the area. And when Francesca and Rochford drifted off into a conversation about Francesca’s old bay at Redfields, she turned to Althea and inquired whether she liked to ride. It was a wearing way to conduct a conversation, and, frankly, Francesca could not tell that it did any good. Althea answered her questions, but her contributions were not particularly enlivening, and as a result the conversation did not flow naturally, but bumped and shuddered along. Francesca could not imagine that Rochford felt any particular inclination to seek out Lady Althea’s company in the future, but she was determined that if he did, he would be entirely on his own in the matter. She had no desire to spend another evening trying to milk an enjoyable conversation out of the woman. When the play was over, Rochford escorted the women home, politely walking Althea to her door, then returning to the carriage to see Francesca back to her house. The butler answered the door, and then, with a bow, took himself off to bed. Francesca turned to Rochford. She was suddenly, excruciatingly, aware of the dark silence of the house around them. They were alone for the first time that she could remember—not really alone, of course, but as much so as anyone could possibly be. The servants were all upstairs in their beds asleep. A candelabra set on the table in the hallway provided the only light. The silence was profound, almost a presence in itself, and darkness hovered at the edges of the candlelight. She looked up into Rochford’s face, feeling again the odd tingling of awareness that had affected her the night of the dance. Her stomach plummeted, however, when she saw his expression. His brow was knitted in a frown, and his mouth was a straight line. His dark eyes glittered in the dim light. “What the devil do you think you are doing?” CHAPTER FIVE FRANCESCA BLINKED, for a moment too taken aback to think. Then she lifted her chin and responded in a glacial tone, “I beg your pardon? I am sure I haven’t the slightest notion what you are talking about.” “Please. That innocent expression may work with others, but not with someone who’s known you since you were in short skirts. I am talking about your little performance tonight.” “Performance? Don’t you think you are being a trifle dramatic?” “No. What else would you call it? First you contrived for the three of us to attend the theater tonight—even though you are not friends with her.” “How can you know that?” Rochford shot a level look at her. “Francesca…really, give me a bit more credit than that. Then, when we got to the theater, it was ‘What do you think about this, Lady Althea?’ and ‘How do you like that composer, Lady Althea?’ Not to mention your plan to leave the two of us together while you went to call on the Eversons. Admit it. You were practically throwing Althea Robart at me this evening. I must say, it isn’t like you to be so ham-fisted.” “Yes, well, if the woman had even an inkling how to carry on a conversation with a man, I wouldn’t have had to be,” Francesca retorted in an aggrieved tone. “Why? Don’t tell me that she has set her cap for me. I cannot imagine her unbending enough to pursue anyone. Nor can I envision her mother seeking anyone else’s help, either.” “No. No one asked me to. Althea is not trying to catch you. I think that should be clear.” “Again I ask, why?” Francesca simply looked at him for a long moment, wondering whether there was any good way out of this situation. At her delay, Rochford crossed his arms and cocked a brow at her. “Don’t bother to think up a lie. We both know I shan’t believe it.” She grimaced. “I daresay not. Can you not accept that I was simply trying to do you a favor?” “By saddling me with a woman who can recite her entire family tree for five generations back?” he retorted. “I did not realize she was so boring,” Francesca admitted. “I am not well acquainted with the woman.” “Yet you thought she was the perfect woman for me?” “No. I thought she was only one of a number of candidates.” He stared, seemingly bereft of speech. Finally, speaking each word with great care, he said, “Why would you have any candidates?” “Well, really, Rochford, it is time that you married. You are thirty-eight, after all, and as the Duke of Rochford, you have a duty to—” “I am well aware of my age, thank you,” he ground out. “As well as of my many duties as the Duke of Rochford. What I fail to understand is why you thought I was seeking a wife. Or why you should be the one to provide me with prospects!” “Rochford!” Francesca cast a glance up the staircase. “Shh. The servants will hear.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/candace-camp/the-courtship-dance/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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