The Courtship Dance Page 9

  “I have decided to take an interest in Miss Sherbourne, yes,” Francesca replied a little stiffly, not sure how to respond to him.

  It seemed unlikely that he would have come to expound on his dislike of her actions, but neither was it reasonable that he would have abandoned his anger this quickly. Even if he had, Francesca thought, she was not inclined to ignore the way he had railed at her just the night before.

  “I came to apologize,” he told her now, coming straight to the point. “I have no excuse for how I acted last night. I can only hope that your good nature will lead you to forgive me.”

  “Some would say that appealing to my better nature would fall on deaf ears,” Francesca retorted crisply, but she could not help but be disarmed by his apology.

  He smiled. “Anyone who could say that obviously does not know you.”

  “I did not mean to upset you, you know,” she told him. “I wanted to make up for my mistakes, not commit a new one.”

  “You are not to blame for my reaction.” He shrugged. “I fear that I am a trifle sensitive on the subject of marrying. My grandmother has taken me to task for it far too many times, as has Aunt Odelia.”

  “Oh, dear. I hate to hear that I am behaving like a grandmother or great-aunt.” She had no interest in staying angry with Rochford. And she certainly did not want to get into the matter of his kiss! No, better to gracefully let go of the whole matter.

  “I hope that you will accept a ride through the park as an adequate peace offering,” he went on. “It is a lovely May day out.”

  He had surprised her again. Francesca could not remember when she had ridden out alone with Rochford—well, yes, she could. It had been when they were engaged so long ago. But better not to think of that.

  “Yes,” she told him with a smile. “That sounds delightful.”

  A few minutes later he was handing her up into his high perch phaeton, a fashionable vehicle with a seat so far from the ground that Francesca would have felt alarmed had any less notable a whip than Rochford been handling the horses.

  He climbed up beside her and took the reins, and they set off. She could not deny an unaccustomed bubbling of excitement inside her. Though she was used to being admired by many gentlemen and was not averse to a little light flirtation, she rarely accepted any man’s invitation to ride through the park. It was her practice not to allow even so small a step toward courtship.

  It was a rather heady experience to be sitting up this high, and there was a certain added fillip of danger without any need to be scared. There was no one better at handling a team than Rochford.

  They did not talk much as they made their way through the city streets, for the traffic made it necessary for him to concentrate on keeping his powerful team in hand. Francesca did not mind. Frankly, it was taking her a bit of time to adjust to the feelings that were running through her.

  She and Rochford had often driven through Hyde Park when they were engaged. When she had come to London for her first Season, she had missed him terribly, for she had been accustomed to seeing him almost every day in the country. They had ridden together, and strolled in the gardens at Redfields and Dancy Park, and gone on long rambles through the countryside. When he had come to call on her at Redfields, no one had watched them too closely, and it had been easy enough to talk together and to exchange glances, perhaps even for his hand to brush against hers.

  But once they were in London, all that had changed. They were surrounded by people everywhere. There were always callers in Francesca’s drawing room and crowds of people at parties, other men vying for the opportunity to dance with her or escort her to the opera. She had felt alone and frustrated, and she had looked forward to the times when the duke took her for a drive.

  Of course, they had had to be circumspect about the number of times they went to the park and the length of time they stayed. Any excessive attention on Rochford’s part would have been fuel for rumors. But Francesca had felt happier on those rides than at any other time during that Season.

  Memories of those long ago moments rushed in upon her now, nearly taking her breath away. It was the same time of year, with the same feel in the air, the same caress of the sun on their backs. Francesca could not help but remember how excitement had surged up in her on those drives, the breathless joy she had felt just sitting beside Rochford.

  He was just as close to her now. She had only to reach out a hand and she could touch him. She remembered how much she had longed to do just that fifteen years ago, worried that he would be disapproving of her boldness, afraid that someone else might see.

  The breeze caressed her cheek and tugged at a lock of hair beneath her hat. Everything around her seemed brighter, the leaves glossier, the shade beneath the trees deeper and more inviting. The faint scent of the duke’s cologne teased at her nostrils, and she was very aware of him beside her. She thought of his kiss the night before, of the way his hard body had pressed into hers, his arms tight and strong around her. His lips sinking into hers…his mouth velvety and inviting, hot with desire.

  Francesca swallowed and turned her face to look off to the side, hoping that the sudden flush in her cheeks would cool down before he glanced at her. How could she be thinking this way about that kiss—her flesh tingling, her muscles tightening, heat coiling in her stomach?

  She wished that she could deny the effect his kiss had on her, but she knew that she could not. Even the other night, in her dream, she had thrilled to his kiss, her whole body melting against him, her mouth opening to his seeking tongue.

  “I thought a great deal last night about what you said,” Rochford began when they had reached Hyde Park and he no longer had to focus on the reins to such a degree.

  Francesca, lost in her thoughts, started. “Oh?” She hoped he did not notice how breathily her voice came out.

  “Yes. When I calmed down, I realized not only that I had been appallingly rude, but also that you had been quite correct in what you said. And my grandmother, as well.”

  “Really?” Francesca stared at him in some astonishment. “Do you mean—”

  He nodded. “Yes. It is time that I married. Past time.”

  “Oh. I see. Well…” Francesca was aware of an odd feeling in her stomach, a faintly queasy sensation reminiscent of the way she felt when she looked down from a great height.

  “I decided you were right—it is time I started looking for a bride. I doubt I shall suddenly develop any interest in marrying. I should simply set myself to the task and do it.”

  “Being resigned hardly seems a good foundation for marriage,” Francesca blurted out. She was, she realized, perversely disheartened by the duke’s words.

  Rochford quirked an eyebrow at her. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

  “No! I didn’t want you to drag yourself to the altar. I—I wanted to make you happy.”

  As soon as she said the words, she realized that they sounded all wrong. She glanced away, hoping that she did not appear as flushed as she felt.

  “What I mean,” she continued, “is that I hoped that marrying would provide you with happiness. That it would change your life for the better.”

  Quietly he asked, “Did marriage make you happier?”

  Francesca shot a flashing look at him, then turned away. Tears clogged her throat. She would not, could not, talk to him about that. Swallowing hard, she gave a shrug and turned a bright smile toward Rochford.

  “Ah, but we are discussing you and your happiness, not me.” Quickly, she moved on. “What are you planning to do, now that you have decided on marriage?”

  “I have already taken the first step,” he informed her, his eyes steady on her face. “I came to you.”

  Francesca stared at him speechlessly for a moment. “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “What better person to guide me through this project than the woman who has brought about so many successful matches?” Rochford asked. “I thought that you could help me find my bride.”

  “
But I—” She felt blank and strangely weak. Whatever she had thought Rochford might say when he arrived at her house today, this certainly had not been it. “I fear that my accomplishments have been greatly exaggerated.”

  “If even half of what people say you have done is true, then you must be quite skilled in the matter,” Rochford protested. “Certainly you did well by my cousin. I don’t know when I have seen a more happily married man. And your brother and his wife are quite happy. I saw them only recently, and they are obviously still as much in love as the day they married—perhaps even more so.”

  “Those are unusual cases. And I cannot take credit for—for the love that they have found.”

  “But for you, none of them would be together today,” he pointed out. “Nor my sister and Bromwell.”

  “You cannot be pleased about that.”

  “As long as Callie is happy, I am well pleased.” He paused, then went on. “In any case, you have already done a great deal of the work. If I understood you correctly last night, you have come up with several prospective brides for me.”

  “You are not shamming?” Francesca studied his face earnestly. “Do you really want me to help you?”

  “That is why I am here.”

  She gazed at him for another long moment, then gave a little nod. “All right, then. I will help you.”

  “Excellent.”

  A barouche was approaching from the opposite direction, and when it pulled close, they could see that the open carriage held Lady Whittington and her bosom friend Mrs. Wychfield. Since the Whittington barouche stopped beside them, Rochford could not pass with only a polite nod, but had to stop and exchange a greeting. Naturally, they must then spend a few minutes commenting on Lady Whittington’s ball, how splendid it had been and how much everyone had enjoyed it, followed by polite inquiries as to the other members of everyone’s families.

  Francesca could feel the women’s eyes fixed on her speculatively, and she knew that soon the news that she had been riding through the park in the duke’s phaeton would be circulating throughout the ton. Even though everyone knew that they were well-acquainted, it did not take more than a change in the routine, such as this, to set the gossips’ tongues wagging.

  Finally they were able to take their leave, and the duke set his team in motion, taking up their conversation again. “Tell me, how many candidates have you found for me?”

  “What? Oh. Well, I had narrowed it down to three young women.”

  “As few as that?” He cast her an amused glance. “Am I so unpopular?”

  Francesca rolled her eyes. “You know it is exactly the opposite. There are scores of women who would love to be chosen as your fiancée. But I had to be rather choosey.”

  “And what were your criteria, if I may ask?”

  “Naturally, they must be pleasing in face and form.”

  “I am fortunate that you took that into account.”

  Francesca cast him a speaking glance and continued. “They must come from excellent families, though I did not think that wealth would be a matter of concern for you.”

  He nodded. “You are correct, as always.”

  “I also thought that it would be good if they were intelligent enough to converse with you and your friends, although I do not imagine that you would expect them to be as learned as your scholarly circle. They should also have the social skills necessary to be a hostess at the sorts of dinners and parties that a duchess must give. They have to be able to converse with important guests. And they must have the knowledge and ability to oversee a large staff of servants—indeed, the staffs of several houses. Then there are the other duties that are expected of a duchess, such as dealing with your tenants’ families and the local gentry at your various estates. And, of course, they must be pleasing to you personally.”

  “I had wondered if that entered into your equations,” he murmured.

  “Really, Rochford, don’t be absurd. That is the most important thing. She must not be vain and self-centered. She must not be unkind or flighty or frequently sick.”

  The duke chuckled. “I am beginning to understand why you came up with so few prospects.”

  Francesca laughed with him. “I know that your standards are high.”

  “Yes, they always have been,” he agreed.

  The implication of his words hit her—he was implying, was he not, that she had met his high standards—and she cast a quick glance up at him. She found his gaze on hers, and she blushed, feeling foolishly pleased and a little flustered.

  She cleared her throat and looked away, suddenly unsure what else to say.

  “Your first pick, obviously, was Althea Robart,” he said, breaking the awkwardness of the moment. “One has to wonder why.”

  “She is quite attractive,” Francesca pointed out, defending her selection. “Also, her father is the Earl of Bridcombe, and her sister is married to Lord Howard. Her family is quite good, and she doubtless has an understanding of the tasks she would have to perform as the Duchess of Rochford.”

  “Rather arrogant, though,” he commented, casting her a droll look.

  “I assumed that would suit a duchess well enough,” Francesca retorted.

  “Mmm, but perhaps it would not suit the duke.”

  Francesca could not keep her lips from curling up into a smile. “All right. I will admit that Lady Althea was a poor choice.”

  “Yes. I suggest that we leave her out of any future considerations. Or perhaps hold her in reserve, if I should become desperate.” He paused for a moment, then added, “No, I fear not even then. I do not think that even my sense of duty to my heirs could compel me to endure a lifetime of Lady Althea.”

  “Consider Lady Althea crossed off the list. What about Damaris Burke? She is intelligent and competent. Her mother is dead, so Lady Damaris has been acting as Lord Burke’s hostess for the past two years. As he is in government, she is accustomed to handling important people and putting on important parties.”

  “Hmm. I have met Lady Damaris.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “I’m not sure. I had not really looked at her with an eye to her being my duchess, you see. I did not dislike her, as I recall.”

  “All right, then we shall consider her. Agreed?”

  He nodded.

  “The last one is Lady Caroline Wyatt.”

  The duke frowned, thinking. “I do not believe I am acquainted with her.”

  “This is her first year out.”

  Rochford looked at her, surprise and doubt mingling in his face. “A girl fresh from the schoolroom?”

  “She is a trifle young,” Francesca admitted. “But her family is actually the best of all three. Her father is only a baronet, but her mother is the youngest of the Duke of Bellingham’s daughters, and her grandmother on her father’s side was a Moreland.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I have been around the girl, and she does not seem to be a giddy or silly sort. I have not once heard her giggle or fly into raptures.”

  “Very well. I will consider her.” He paused for a moment. “But I must say, it does seem that you have chosen rather young women for me. I am, if you will remember, thirty-eight years old.”

  Francesca pulled a face at him. “Indeed, yes. You are near decrepit, I am sure.”

  “Are any of them over twenty-one?”

  “Lady Damaris is twenty-three, and Althea is twenty-one.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her.

  “Well, it is harder to find the best prospects among women who are older,” Francesca defended herself. “If they are lovely and accomplished and all that one could want, they are often already married.”

  “There are widows who are nearer my age,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, but—I did not consider any widows as prospective brides for you.”

  “Why not? Some widows are the most beautiful women in the ton.”

  Francesca flushed. Did he mean her? If this were any other man, she would have
been certain that he was flirting with her. But Rochford did not flirt—certainly not with her.

  And yet…she could remember a time when he had flirted with her—in a very understated Rochford style, of course. Still, he had looked at her in a certain way as he teased her, a way that made her feel warm and excited inside—very much the way she felt right now.

  She hoped she did not appear as flustered as she felt. “Surely it is important to a man that his wife not have been married before. That she be…” Francesca blushed even harder. It was beyond embarrassing to have to speak to Rochford, of all people, about such things. Finally she finished in a low voice, “That she be untouched.”

  He did not respond, and she rushed on. “Besides, there is the matter of children. A younger woman, after all, has more—more time…” She limped to a halt.

  “Ah, yes, the all-important heir,” he said dryly. “I had forgotten. We are choosing a broodmare, not a companion for me.”

  “No! Sinclair!” Francesca turned to him, concern overcoming her embarrassment. “’Tis not like that.”

  “Is it not?” His smile was wry. “At least I wrung a ‘Sinclair’ from your lips.”

  She glanced away again, unable to hold his gaze. Why did she feel so disconcerted around him today? One would have thought she was a schoolgirl, the way she was acting. “It is your name,” she pointed out a little breathlessly.

  “Yes, but I have not heard it on your lips in many years.”

  There was a tone in his voice that made her heart flutter in her chest. She raised her eyes to his and found herself caught by their dark depths. She remembered another time when she had looked up at him, feeling as if she might drown in his eyes. She had uttered his given name then, too, had whispered “Sinclair” as if it were a prayer, and he had kissed her, pulling her hard against him and seizing her lips like a man starved. The memory of that kiss sent a stroke of heat through her, and her pulse began to pound in her throat.

  Francesca tore her eyes away from his. Struggling to keep her voice even, she said, “There are—I did consider two more women. They are both older than the others.”

  “Indeed?” The odd note was missing from his voice now; he spoke in his usual dry, faintly amused tone. “And who are these ancients?”