The Courtship Dance Page 15

  “I shall miss you terribly.”

  “You must come visit me,” Callie told her. “I shan’t know a soul there. It will be terribly lonely. You should come as soon as the Season is over.”

  “You will have Bromwell,” Francesca reminded her. “And somehow, I suspect that he will be enough. I don’t want to intrude on a newly married couple.”

  “It will not be an intrusion. Why, I will be an old married woman by then. And Brom will be busy. It will be harvest time.”

  “Well, perhaps for a little while.”

  “At least a month,” Callie insisted, and Francesca, laughing, gave in.

  They went on to talk of other things, chief among them the gowns that Callie had purchased in Paris. She was wearing one of them today, a lilac silk day dress with short petal sleeves overlying puffed sleeves of lilac net. This topic occupied them quite happily until Fenton entered to inform them that Lady Mannering had come to call.

  It was a disappointment to have her time alone with Callie cut into by another guest, but Francesca gestured for the butler to show their visitor in. Lady Mannering was one of the hostesses whom she was hoping would issue an invitation or two to Harriet in the future.

  “Lady Haughston. And Lady Bromwell,” the newest guest said happily. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here, as well.”

  There was polite chat about Francesca’s party, as well as about the beauty of Callie’s wedding. Then Lady Mannering leaned toward Callie with a knowing smile and said, “One has to wonder, Lady Bromwell, if there isn’t another Lilles alliance in the offing.”

  “Excuse me?” Callie stared at the other woman blankly.

  “Why, your brother, dear. He seems most interested in Calderwood’s eldest, does he not?”

  Francesca felt a sudden cold clutch in her stomach. “Lady Mary?”

  “Yes, that’s the girl.” Lady Mannering nodded her carefully coiffed head. “I saw him talking with her the other night at your party, Lady Haughston. I remarked to Lord Mannering about it—how long they talked and how unlike the girl it was. Quite pretty, she looked, too. Once she gets past that dreadful shyness of hers and actually smiles, you can see that she is rather attractive.”

  “Yes,” Francesca agreed. “And sweet, as well. But, surely, one conversation at a party does not make a romance.”

  Her guest’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, but that is just the thing. Yesterday I saw her with him again. They were riding along in that phaeton of his. She was chatting away as if they were old friends. It is so unlike her. And him. One cannot help but wonder if there is a courtship afoot.”

  Francesca kept a polite smile on her face. “Indeed.”

  “I would not refine overmuch on that,” Callie told the other woman. “If Rochford has any especial interest in anyone, I have not heard of it.”

  The look on Callie’s face, Francesca thought, could almost rival the duke’s when it came to damping pretension. Lady Mannering quickly abandoned the topic and instead began to talk of the dinner she was planning in a week. Did Lady Haughston think that nice Sir Alan and his daughter might like to attend?

  Francesca forced herself to put any other thoughts out of her head and concentrate on helping Harriet Sherbourne. As their conversation progressed, she had the feeling that it was Lady Harriet’s father and his single state that spurred Lady Mannering’s interest more than anything else. However, Francesca was not above taking advantage of that interest to advance Harriet’s social career. Lady Mannering was one of the city’s most prolific party-givers, and her events were always well attended.

  Besides, if she could stir up a romance for Harriet’s father, as well as enliven Harriet’s Season, surely that was to the good. So she answered Lady Mannering’s questions about the Sherbournes with alacrity and even added a few tidbits of information beyond what the woman asked.

  Francesca managed to keep her attention on their conversation, but later, when both Callie and Lady Mannering had departed, she told Fenton that she was not at home to any more callers and took herself off to her bedroom.

  She went to the window and stood looking out at the street below, but her mind did not really register what she saw.

  So it was Mary Calderwood who had taken Rochford’s fancy.

  Francesca supposed that she should have known that the duke would not do what she expected. Lady Mary would have been the last of the women whom she would have guessed Rochford would want. Not that there was anything wrong with her, of course. Her reputation was impeccable, and her lineage was excellent.

  It was just that Francesca would not have thought that the duke would be drawn to a such a quiet, shy girl. She was, well, exactly the opposite of Francesca herself. Though there was really no reason, she supposed, to think that Rochford would want someone similar to the choice he had made fifteen years ago. Still, she had thought that he would be more drawn to beauty and vivacity than other qualities.

  But then, as Lady Mannering had pointed out, Mary was pretty when her face became more animated, and clearly Rochford seemed to be able to put the reticent girl at ease. Besides, Rochford was fifteen years older now. Doubtless he had realized over the course of the years that there were more important reasons for choosing a bride than the physical attraction he had felt for Francesca when they were young.

  He enjoyed reading and corresponding with learned men. It was likely that he would enjoy being married to a woman with whom he could talk about serious, important matters. Even at the time, Francesca had known that she was too light in thought and manner for the duke. He must have come to realize that himself, as well.

  Of course, it was early on yet. There was nothing to say that he would marry the girl simply because he had paid attention to her a time or two. Yet, like Lady Mannering, Francesca knew how rare it was for Rochford to show any sort of particularity toward a young woman. He was the sort of man who avoided gossip like the plague, and, moreover, knowing how highly he was rated on the marriage market, he was too much a gentleman to raise hopes in any available female’s breast.

  For him to be seen with a marriageable girl, particularly spending an appreciable and concentrated time alone with her, such as taking a drive together, indicated a high degree of interest in her. Moreover, to do that after having a fairly long conversation with her at a party only a day or two earlier was bound to cause speculation and lead to rumors. Rochford knew these things as well as anyone in the ton. Yet he had done them anyway.

  Those facts raised what in another man might have been only an expression of some degree of interest to a much higher level. If he were to dance with her a time or two at a ball, it would really set tongues to wagging.

  Of course, Francesca had the advantage over Lady Mannering in knowing that the duke was looking for a wife. It did not strike her as odd that he had talked with or called upon or in some other manner spent time with the various young women he was considering. However, knowing that, she also was more aware than anyone else that any interest he showed was leading toward marriage. Moreover, she knew that by taking Lady Mary for a ride in his phaeton, he was paying more marked attention to her than to any of the others.

  Francesca could not imagine any reason for Rochford’s actions other than the one Lady Mannering had arrived at: the duke was seriously considering Lady Mary for his wife.

  She should feel glad, she knew, that her efforts were already bearing fruit. This was what she had wanted: to make up for the wrong she had done him. She wanted him to find a woman to whom he could give his heart. She wanted him to find happiness.

  So why, then, had this odd weight settled in her chest? Why did she find it difficult to see the street for the tears pooling in her eyes?

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Francesca was at her desk, opening her most recent invitations, when Fenton appeared in the doorway.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Rochford, is here.”

  Francesca jumped to her feet, knocking her knee painfully against her desk in the process. It had been a
lmost four days since her party, and after her visit with Callie and Lady Mannering the day before, she had convinced herself that she was unlikely to see Rochford again except in the old sporadic way she had for the last few years.

  Yet here he was.

  Heat spread into her face, and she felt faintly embarrassed, wondering if her old servant had noticed her response.

  “Please show him in,” she said, schooling her expression into one of polite welcome.

  Rochford strode in a moment later, and the moment he stepped into the room, it seemed suddenly smaller. Francesca had thought she was prepared; she had spent much time advising herself on how she should react upon seeing him, given what had happened between them last time—and given his apparent interest in Lady Mary Calderwood.

  But now, faced with him in the flesh, she found it harder than she had imagined. She could not keep the memories of his kisses from flooding her mind. She felt herself flushing, and she quickly dropped her eyes. What was he thinking? What did he feel upon seeing her?

  She forced herself to look up at him again and go toward him, holding out her hand in greeting. “Rochford, what a pleasant surprise. I confess, I had not expected to see you again.”

  “Indeed?” He came forward, his eyes on her face, his own gaze annoying unreadable. “And here I thought I had become such a frequent guest that my presence would occasion no more than an ‘oh, is it you again?’”

  “I am sure that your presence never occasions that sort of remark,” Francesca retorted.

  His hand closed around hers, and he bowed over it. She was very aware of the feel of his skin on hers—the warmth, the slightly rougher texture. Why was it that his touch evoked a feeling in her that no one else’s ever had? She found herself wishing that he had kissed her hand rather than simply bowing over it.

  She pressed her lips together and turned away, gesturing toward the chairs grouped together in the small, casually intimate arrangement. “Pray, sit down. Would you care for refreshment?”

  He shook his head, and they spent a few minutes in the usual polite exchange, commenting on the weather and asking after one another’s health, as well as agreeing how pleasant it had been to see Callie again, and how sorry they were that she was so soon traveling to her new home.

  Finally Francesca felt enough time had passed to broach the subject that was uppermost in her mind. “I am glad to hear that you have been paying court to Lady Mary.”

  His brows lifted a little, and he smiled faintly. “Indeed? Is that what people are saying?”

  “I understand that you took her for a drive in your phaeton.”

  “Yes, I did.” He continued to look at her, the same slightly quizzical smile hovering on his lips. “It hardly seems an event worth noting.”

  “My dear duke, any sign of favor from you is sure to garner attention.”

  He made a small, noncommittal noise.

  “You feel a preference, then, for Lady Mary?” she went on after a moment. It was not her custom to press for information, but she could not seem to stop herself.

  Still, his face gave nothing away. “She is a pleasant young woman.”

  Francesca reflected that Rochford could be irritating in the extreme. She would not let herself be one of those horrid women who chased down gossip, but it was more difficult than she would have thought to turn away from the subject. Why would he not just admit whether he had developed a tendre for the girl?

  “Yes, she is,” Francesca agreed. “Quite intelligent.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Still, I presume that you are continuing to consider all the options we discussed.”

  “Of course.” Again the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. “That is the reason for my visit today.”

  “Really? You wish to discuss the young women in question? Or perhaps you would like to consider some other choices. These do not suit?” Francesca felt a distinct lifting of her spirits. “I am sure that I can think of a few others.”

  “No. I believe these are entirely adequate,” he told her. “What I had in mind was creating another opportunity in which to woo my future wife. I have decided that I should host a ball.”

  “Of course. That would be an excellent idea.”

  “I want you to help me make the arrangements.”

  Francesca felt a rush of pleasure. “Indeed? I am most flattered.” Reluctantly, she added, “However, it is scarcely my place to do so.”

  “Who better?” he challenged. “There are none who can surpass your talents as a hostess.”

  “That is most gratifying to hear, of course, but there is no reason…I mean, it would be considered odd, surely. I have no connection to you.”

  “Do you not?” he asked, and for a moment his gaze, undeniably warm, rested on her face. Then he moved, and the look in his eyes was gone. “In the past my grandmother arranged such things, and in recent years, of course, Callie has acted as my hostess. But neither of them is here now. I can hardly ask my grandmother, at her age, to come rushing to London to put on a ball for me.”

  “No, of course not. But I am sure that your butler would be more than capable of arranging it.”

  “Cranston is quite capable, of course,” Rochford agreed amiably. “But he is a man accustomed to implementing plans, not making them. Nor does he have the skill that you do. The task requires a lady of taste, such as yourself.”

  “You think flattery will bring me around?” Francesca asked, doing her best to look severe.

  “I certainly hope so.”

  She could not help but laugh. “You are shameless.”

  “So I have been told.”

  “You know it would not be seemly. People would gossip.”

  “There is no reason for them to know.” He shrugged. “I will not ask you to receive guests with me.” His dark gaze was penetrating as he asked, “Would you be willing, then…if we hid it from the world?”

  Francesca’s heart picked up its beat, and she wondered suddenly, crazily, if his words somehow meant more than the obvious.

  “Perhaps,” she replied quietly. “Though it would seem to me that there must be someone else who would better serve.”

  “No.” He continued to look steadily into her face. “It must be you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FRANCESCA STARED AT him, his words reverberating through her, and for a moment the very air seemed to shimmer between them. She abruptly broke their gaze, fearing suddenly that he must see how her breath had quickened, that the pulse roaring in her ears might become as audible to him.

  “Very well,” she told him quietly, “if that is what you wish.”

  “It is.” There was the faintest undertone of triumph in his voice as he stood up and came over to her. He reached down to her, and automatically, Francesca took his hand and rose to her feet. He smiled. “What should we do? I suppose Lilles House would be the place to start, would it not?”

  “You intend a large ball?” she asked.

  “I think so. Something that will give your skills adequate range.”

  Francesca cast him a mischievous look. “You might regret doing that.”

  He grinned. “Never—although I have no doubt you will do your utmost to put that resolve to the test. However, you have carte blanche to do whatever you wish—and I mean that in the most respectable way, of course.”

  His last words highlighted the double entendre of the phrase, a term often used to describe the relationship a man made with his mistress, and Francesca felt her cheeks grow warm. Whatever was the matter with her? she wondered. You would think she was a naive girl instead of a sophisticated woman a decade and a half removed from her come-out.

  “Ah, I see I have made you blush. Pardon me.” Rochford’s voice sounded more pleased than sorry, despite his words.

  Francesca glanced up at him and found his dark eyes twinkling.

  “You are not sorry in the slightest, you detestable man. But I can assure you that ’tis the heat of the summer,
not your words. No doubt I look like a kitchen maid.” She touched her cheek self-consciously.

  “Whatever the cause, you look lovely.” For a moment his face turned serious, but then he smiled and went on lightly, “As you very well know.” He took a step back. “Come. Ring for the servants to fetch your hat. We shall go to Lilles House.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, why not? No reason not to get started, is there? Bring your maid, if you are worried about propriety. You must look the place over, see the ballroom. How else are you to plan?”

  “How, indeed?” He was right about that, Francesca knew. Still, there was something illicit-seeming in going to a gentleman’s house with him when there was no female relative residing there.

  Maisie rode in the carriage with them. Though a widow enjoyed far more independence than a woman who had never married, Francesca knew that she could not be seen going into a bachelor’s house alone. However, when they reached the imposing white-stone Lilles House, Maisie made her way with the footman to the servants’ quarters, leaving Francesca in the foyer with the duke.

  “I am surprised you do not insist that your maid accompany us through the house,” Rochford teased. “Am I so fearsome a creature?”

  Francesca rolled her eyes. “Really, Sinclair, you know I could not come here without her. You were the one who suggested it, after all. It is as much for your sake as mine. I can imagine the look on Cranston’s face if you had walked in here with an unaccompanied woman.” She paused, glancing at him. “That is to say, with me. I suppose that you have brought women of a certain sort here before.”

  The duke gave her a long, level look.

  “Come, Rochford, I am not naive,” she told him. “You are a man in your thirties, after all. I realize that you must have had women.”

  “Not here,” he replied simply.

  Strangely, she felt warmed by his answer. Rochford was not the sort of man who would dishonor his house, his family or his wife in any way. He would not conduct casual affairs in the home that had been his parents’, and that would someday be his wife’s and children’s. Had she married him, she would always have had his honor, she knew, and for a moment regret swelled in her throat. How different her life would have been if she had married Sinclair.