CHAPTER TEN
FRANCESCA DID NOT see the duke over the course of the next few days. It was only to be expected, she told herself. Her part in the campaign to find him a bride was largely done. It was up to him now to carry on a courtship.
Of course she would be interested to see which of the women he chose, but she could not really expect to be further involved in the process in any way.
She felt a bit at loose ends, which was also to be expected. The search for the right woman, the planning, the party—all had occupied a good deal of her time. It was no wonder if her life suddenly seemed a trifle empty, even flat.
There was still Harriet Sherbourne to be dealt with, but even she would now require less effort on Francesca’s part. She was planning to attend the opera with Sir Alan and Harriet later in the week, and she would take the girl with her to a musicale tomorrow night and to several parties in the future.
But the real work was past. Francesca felt sure that the girl would receive invitations from the ladies to whom she had introduced her at the soiree, and the improvement in Harriet’s hair and dress should be enough to insure that she would have adequate dances and flirtatious conversations at parties. Francesca would make certain of that with a few judicious hints to some of the young men who consistently danced attendance on her. Given that neither the young lady nor her father seemed to have any real interest in Harriet landing a husband this Season, there would be little maneuvering left for Francesca to do.
It was no wonder, therefore, that she felt a trifle bored, even lonely. Nor was it remarkable that her mind kept returning to the bizarre episode that had transpired between her and Rochford.
Thinking of what he had done, she could not help but feel a little tremor of remembered sensation. She closed her eyes, letting herself drift for a moment in the memory.
Why had he done what he had? she wondered. What sort of game had he been playing? She did not for an instant believe that he had expected her to accept his premise that he was asking her for advice. If it had been any other man, she would have said that he was seducing her. But that was absurd.
Wasn’t it?
Rochford was capable of flirtation, of course. He had flirted when he was courting her—in his own very dry, understated way. And there had even been a faint element of flirtatiousness in the various casual conversations between them over the years—though it had been of a kind that hovered very close to sniping at times.
But he had never tried to seduce her—or any other lady that she knew of. Oh, she was not naive enough to think that he had never had a mistress. She had been wrong about Lady Daphne, but it would be foolish beyond belief to think that a gentleman of his age and station had never kept a fair Cyprian—some opera dancer or actress or professional courtesan. With those women, he might very well have acted as he did last night.
With a woman of good birth, however, the rules were different. A gentleman courted and wed a lady. He did not seduce her late at night in her home. At least, a gentleman like the Duke of Rochford did not.
On the other hand, she had to admit with a blush, a lady would not have come down to secretly open the door to a gentleman so late at night. Nor would she have slipped him past the servants and closed herself in a room alone with him.
Not only that, she had imbibed brandy in his company—she had even been the one to suggest it. Worst of all, she had thoughtlessly run down to meet him wearing only her dressing gown, under which she had on only her undergarments. No doubt any man might be forgiven for thinking that she was not averse to seduction.
When she looked at it in that light, it was enough to make her cringe with embarrassment. Widows were often considered to be more lax about their morals than a maiden; they were, at least, far more knowledgeable. Widows were not closely chaperoned, and when a woman was childless throughout years of marriage, as she had been, then there was unlikely to be the scandal of a child born out of wedlock. And in the sophisticated world of the ton, once a woman had married it was not unusual for her to engage in affairs without being ostracized for it, so long as she kept the matter discreet. However, Francesca had always been extremely careful not to give anyone even the slightest reason to believe that she was loose in her behavior.
Whatever had possessed her to act as she had last night? Had Rochford assumed that, given how she was dressed, she was open to seduction, perhaps even inviting it?
How could she face him again if he had thought that about her?
Yet she could not help but wonder—if he had thought her open to seduction, then why had he stopped? She had certainly done nothing to make him think she was unwilling. And that, she realized, was the most lowering thought of all: that he had grown uninterested in her.
Perhaps he had not felt the same excitement that she had. Maybe, even at that early stage, he had sensed in her the coldness that had so frustrated and angered Andrew. Tears sprang into her eyes at the thought. She had long ago stopped crying over her husband’s disappointment in her. In truth, she had been glad that it had at least caused him to seek her bed less and less often. She had hated knowing that she was inferior to other women, but it had stopped causing her sorrow that Haughston was disappointed in her.
But now, thinking that Rochford might have realized the true coldness of her nature, she wanted to cry. And as one day passed and turned into another, she could not help but think that his absence was due to the same reason that had made him cease kissing her and leave.
It should not make her feel so dejected, she knew. She would not have gone to bed with him if he had stayed—surely she would not have. She did not want an affair with him or any other man. Fortunately, the part of her life where she had to submit to a man’s pleasure was over. So there was absolutely no reason to feel downhearted because the man she had once loved had not tried to complete the seduction he had started.
And she would not dwell on it any longer.
She forced herself to turn to her neglected correspondence, but…within five minutes, her thoughts were going over the same well-trodden path.
When she did manage to put the matter of Rochford and their kisses from her mind, it was only to replace it with worry over Perkins. She had feared that he would appear at her door again to rage about Rochford’s treatment of him, but he had not. That fact should have been a relief, but it was not. Knowing that he might pop up at any moment kept her nerves on edge, and her anxiety only increased as the days crept along toward her day of reckoning with him.
Francesca had no idea what she would do, what she would say to the man when he came again to demand her payment. She racked her brain to think of some argument that would convince him not to go through with his plan, some way to disprove what he said, some schedule by which she could pay off the debt that he claimed she owed him. But her thoughts were scattered and disjointed, and nothing she could offer seemed adequate. He would know as well as she that she could not pay off that much money in her lifetime, and he certainly would not want to wait. Perkins was not a man to display any kindness.
Two days after the party, Francesca was in the sitting room, trying to add up all her assets in the hope of making them amount to something close to the figure Perkins was demanding, when she heard Callie’s voice in the hallway.
She jumped to her feet, thinking Rochford would be there, as well.
But it turned out that Callie had come alone, and Francesca chided herself for the faint spurt of disappointment she felt. Putting that aside with a smile, she stepped forward and took her visitor’s hands, squeezing them affectionately.
“Callie, I was just thinking of you. I was going to call on you this very afternoon.”
“Then I am glad that I arrived before you left to see me,” Callie responded with an answering smile.
Francesca rang for tea, and the two of them sat down for a good cozy chat. The night at the party, they had barely scratched the surface of conversation. Unfortunately, Francesca learned, her friend was departing the next day for her husband’s estate in the country.
“No, you must not! You have just gotten home,” Francesca protested.
“I know. But Brom has been away from his estate far too long already. He says he has neglected it dreadfully. He went back to it only briefly before our wedding.”
Francesca grinned at her friend. “Yes, I remember. He said he was going back for the whole two months of your engagement, but he could not stay away from you longer than two weeks.”
Callie laughed in a throaty, self-satisfied way. “True. Of course, at the time he claimed that there was less to do than he had thought.”
“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 almost 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.”