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.
Francesca turned her head away from him, afraid that her feelings showed too readily on her face. Rochford had always been able to see what she thought.
Sternly, she reminded herself that however little Sinclair was like Andrew, he was, after all, a man. He would have given her his respect, treated her with honor, but she had no reason to think that he would have been any happier in her bed. He would have done it more discreetly, of course, but he, too, would have sought other women when he found her cold and passionless. And, really, it was nothing but a pipe dream to think that, had she married Sinclair, her basic nature would have changed, that she would have blossomed with desire.
Pushing aside her foolish, useless thoughts, Francesca looked around her. The entry hall of Lilles House was vast, stretching up two stories, with a sweeping double staircase as its centerpiece. Behind the staircase, a hallway stretched back to the conservatory and garden entrance, while to the left lay the hallway to the kitchen and servants’ area.
To the right, however, the room opened up to the gallery, a stately hallway floored in Carrara marble, and lined with large portraits of former dukes and duchesses, as well as their children and pets. Elegant wall sconces provided light in the evening, but by day the tall, paned windows along the outside wall flooded the corridor with a golden light. Long velvet curtains, the color of dried moss, hung beside the windows, looped in artful swags over round metal holdbacks.
“I’ve always loved Lilles House,” Francesca said.
He glanced over at her, and she wondered if he, too, was thinking that the house would once have been hers. The idea flustered her, and she glanced quickly away, heat rising in her cheeks. What if he thought she regretted losing the magnificence of the house?
“I am fond of it, as well,” he replied, and to her relief she could detect nothing in his voice that indicated he found her words anything but normal. “Though it is somewhat dated, I fear. No doubt my bride will wish to change things. Put her own mark upon it.”
“Oh, no!” Francesca protested, a little surprised at how fiercely she disliked the idea. “I hope she will not. It is beautiful just as it is. I would not change a thing.”
But she had nothing to say about the matter, of course. She colored, once again aware of how her remark might be misconstrued, and she cast a glance at her companion. Fortunately, Rochford was looking in another direction and seemed not to have noticed her misstep.
He opened a set of double doors on the left. These doors, as well as a second pair farther down the hall, opened into the large ballroom, which stretched all the way to the rear of the house. Three huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the floor was of the same pinkish-veined marble that lay in the gallery. Along the side wall was a row of tall windows, shaded in heavy brocade draperies of a deep maroon shade, and across the rear wall stood three sets of double French doors opening out onto a terrace.
“If you hold it in this room, it will have to be a grand ball,” she warned. “Else it would not suit. It will take time to prepare for it.”
“An end of the Season party, then. Mayhap one to announce an engagement.”
Francesca felt the now-familiar clutch of nerves in her stomach. Was he so sure, then, of his choice? It must be Lady Mary. Given what he had said, she was certain that he was not considering Caroline Wyatt any more than he was Althea Robart. Damaris seemed a better choice, and Lady de Morgan was more lovely. But it was Mary Calderwood to whom he had talked for so long, whom he had taken riding in his phaeton.
Of course, he had taken Francesca herself for a ride in his phaeton, but that was an entirely different matter.
“You will have enough time to prepare, will you not?” the duke went on.
Her heart dropped. Would she even be in London in a few more weeks? If Perkins made good on his threats, she would be out of her house. How could she possibly still manage Rochford’s party?
She forced a smile on her face, however, and told him, “Yes, of course. One does not need to add much decoration here.”
They strolled through the grand ballroom to the sets of doors at the other end. Francesca stood, gazing out onto the terrace and the garden beyond. It was a very large yard for a house in the city, with an expansive garden.
“Would you like to extend the party into the garden?” she asked, turning toward him. “We could string up lights between the trees.”
“Like Vauxhall Gardens?” he asked.
“Well…yes, I suppose so. But less ostentatious, perhaps—and hopefully without some of the behavior that takes place there. But perhaps we could set up a few tables and chairs on the terrace.” She pointed. “There, where it is more secluded. We could have lights on the steps, and we could add decorations to the benches surrounding the fountain.”
“It sounds very pleasant,” Rochford agreed, reaching out to open one of the doors. “Let us go look at the garden more closely.”
He offered her his arm, and they strolled across the terrace and down into the garden, moving at a leisurely pace and looking all around them. Francesca pointed out where stands of candelabra could be placed, and how wide ribbons twined through the railings would add a festive touch to the terrace and stairs. It would be a delight to plan for this party, she thought—if it were not for the knowledge, sitting in her chest like a lump of lead, that she was planning the joyous occasion for another woman.
“We would not have to use the whole garden,” she went on as they circled the fountain and moved deeper into the garden. “We could mark off the paths at certain points to restrict them.”
He shrugged. “No doubt the head gardener will disapprove, but I think ’twould be pleasanter to have it all open.”
A tall, green hedge divided the garden, with an arch cut into it, leading into the back reaches. Beyond the great hedge, roses grew by the hundreds, filling the air with their heady scent. Here the garden grew less formal, the flower beds no longer contained in neat symmetrical shapes, but sprawling in gloriously bright abandon.
“It’s beautiful,” Francesca breathed. Though she had been to several parties over the years at Lilles House, and had called on the dowager duchess and Callie many times, she had never gone deeper into the garden than the section in front of the dividing hedge.
“My mother loved the garden,” Rochford said quietly. “She clashed with my grandmother over it—the only times I ever heard her dare to disagree with the duchess. She encouraged the gardener to keep the rear garden wilder.”
“I did not know your mother well,” Francesca said. “But I am sure I would have liked her if this garden is any example.”
“She did not visit Dancy Park much after my father’s death. You were still a child when he died—twelve or thirteen, I suppose. My mother was…she was a sweet woman, a romantic one. Theirs was a love match. Her family was quite good, but not as lofty as the Lilles. My grandparents thought my father could have made a better match, and no doubt Mother felt it. She was intimidated, I am sure, when she married my father. Well, you can imagine coming into a family with in-laws like my grandmother and Great-Aunt Odelia.”
“Sweet heaven!” Francesca said, much struck by the idea. “Either one of those women is enough to strike fear into anyone’s heart. Your poor mother.”
He smiled. “I do not think she minded as much as some women would have. She was glad enough at times, I think, for Grandmother’s counsel and advice. She was not always comfortable in the role of duchess. However, as a wife she was perfect for my father. They were very much in love. She was a good, kind mother, as well, one who did not leave her children entirely to the nurse and governess.”
“Well, those are the important roles she played. Being a duchess would not count as strongly.”
He glanced at her. “That is what I thought. And my father. With Grandmother, of course, duty is paramount. The family. The name.”
Francesca shrugged. “We have to face our responsibilities, of course. But surely happiness and love are more important.”
“Do you think so? I would not have said so, from your admonitions to me about marrying.”
Francesca stopped and turned to face him. “Are you again comparing me to the dowager duchess? Really, Rochford…you can be most maddening. I did not say you should marry for your family. What is important is that you be happy.”
He studied her for a moment, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I am glad to hear you say it.”
Francesca felt an odd quiver run through her. She did not care to think about it, so she turned and started forward again, saying, “Why did your mother dislike Dancy Park?”
“She did not dislike it so much as she found it hard to leave Marcastle. After Father died, she retreated from the world. She rarely came to London for the Season. She had lost her enjoyment of it. Indeed, she had lost most of her joy in life. She traveled less and less, preferring to stay where she and Father had spent most of their lives together. She felt closest to him at Marcastle.”
“How sad. I mean, ’tis very sweet, as well, but it seems a sad life to live.”
“It was. I felt sorry for her. And yet…”
“And yet what?” Francesca asked when he did not continue, unconsciously tucking her hand into his arm again.
He shook his head slightly. “You will find me very selfish, I fear. I wished she had not been so wrapped up in her grief. It was almost as if both our parents had died. Callie was just a child. She soon could not even remember our father. But for her our mother was…a wraith. A pale imitation of the woman she had been. Callie cannot remember the vibrant woman who was once our mother. She grew up with a quiet, sad person, one who was always a bit removed from everyone else’s life.”
“You must have missed her, as well,” Francesca offered.
He glanced at her. “I did. There were times when I badly wished for her counsel. I was but eighteen and often overwhelmed by the title. There was my grandmother to advise me, of course.”
“The upholder of Duty and Responsibility,” Francesca murmured.
Rochford smiled faintly. “Yes. At least with Grandmother, one did not have to fear a lack of opinion. She was always certain of the correct thing to do.”
“But not the most loving of women, I warrant.”
“No. Not that. She did not approve of you, you know.”
Francesca turned her face up to him, startled. “She knew? That you and I—”
“I did not tell her,” he assured her. “But she could see the attention that I paid to you that last year. She knew the inordinate amount of time I spent at Dancy Park instead of at the family seat, and she was able to guess the reason. Grandmother has always been astute.”
“Oh, dear.” Francesca winced. “She must have been furious with me, then, when I—”
“No. As I remember, she told me it was exactly what I should have expected. And she assured me that it was the best thing that could have happened to me, that it would allow me to ask for Carborough’s younger sister.”
“Lady Alspaugh?” Francesca asked in astonishment.
“Well, she was not married to Lord Alspaugh at the time, but yes, Lady Katherine.”
Francesca continued to stare at him, slack-jawed, until he burst into laughter. “Oh!” she exclaimed then, playfully slapping his arm. “You are telling me a Banbury tale.”
“No, indeed, I am not. She was my grandmother’s choice. It had to do with her lineage and her dowry, primarily. A sizeable portion of land, which she was to inherit on her grandmother’s death, also played into it. The land in question abutted my acres in Cornwall and would have made it a very nice estate.”
“But she is buck-toothed and hasn’t a humorous bone in her body,” Francesca protested. “And she is several years older than you.”
“Four,” he admitted. “Still, duty called.”
Francesca let out an inelegant snort. “Not a clarion call, I presume.”
“No. It was a very soft whisper, indeed, as far as I was concerned. Grandmother took it hard, but she rebounded with another choice in a few months—and after that, another. The past few years, however, she has grown rather silent on the matter, except for the occasional sigh and significant look, especially when she reads the news of some heir or other being born.”
“I suppose I am to blame for it all.” Francesca let out a martyred sigh.
“No, not at all,” Rochford answered. “She is quite happy to lay the entire blame in my lap. Indeed, in recent years, she likes to remind me that I was quite foolish to let you go.”
“Sinclair, I’m so sorry….”
“No, do not be.” He covered her hand on his arm with his other hand. “I made my own mistakes. I let my damnable pride stand in my way. I should have—” He broke off, shrugging. “It does not matter now. But I do not want you to feel responsible. We were both young, and it was a long time ago. It is long past time to forget.”
His hand was warm on hers, and Francesca was aware of a strong urge to lean her head against his arm. She could imagine him sliding his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and she would lay her head upon his chest, hearing the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear. Something flickered deep in his dark eyes, and Francesca suddenly feared that he had guessed her thoughts.
She turned away quickly, dropping her hand from his arm and starting forward again. Rochford moved along with her, and after a moment, he asked, “Would you like to see Mother’s garden?”
Francesca turned back to him. “I thought this was her garden.”
“It is, but not her own private one. It’s a secret garden.”
Francesca glanced around the yard curiously, intrigued. Rochford smiled and took her hand in his.
“Come. I’ll show you.”
He led her toward the rear of the garden, where a row of beeches lined the aged brick wall. At the end of them, the wall jutted forward, then continued east for a time before meeting the side wall of the estate. Both the side wall and the short wall beyond the beech trees were covered with ivy, green and vibrant. A slight breeze rustled the leaves, creating a soft whispering.
Rochford walked around the corner, and there, between the wall and the last beech tree, was a narrow, low wooden door with a metal ring set into it. Rochford tugged on the ring, and the door opened with a reluctant creak. He stepped aside, motioning for Francesca to enter, then followed her in, closing the door behind them.
“Oh!” She let out a happy cry.
The small garden was centered by a calm pond upon which water lilies floated. In the far corner, a stone face spilled water from his mouth into a basin below, from whence it trickled down onto artistically placed rocks. The soothing sound permeated the garden, joined now and then by the stir of leaves from the trees and ivy beyond the wall. A willow tree graced another corner of the garden, and an ornate wrought-iron bench was set near the pond.
Everywhere else, flowers bloomed in a riot of colors and scents. In some places they grew up the walls along carefully delineated paths, and in other areas, they spilled downward like a box of jewels overturned. They stretched upward on tall stalks, their heads bobbing heavily, or spread like a carpet across the ground, or mounded up in bright clumps.
It was clear, Francesca thought, that the garden was carefully tended. No weed dared show its head. Yet there were seemingly no constraints upon the flowers, which spread and bloomed and mingled with each other in glorious abandon.
“It’s beautiful….” she breathed, turning around to take it all in. “And so wonderfully…”
“Excessive?” Rochford guessed.
“No, not at all,” she protested. “Sumptuous is the word I would use. I love it.”
“So did my mother.” He followed her as she trailed through the flowers, stopping to admire first one plant and then another. “My father had this part of the garden walled and filled with plants just for her. It was a gift to her on their second anniversary. She always missed the gardens at Marcastle when they came to London for the Season, so he had all her favorites planted here. She could come here and lock herself away whenever she wanted.”
“It locks? I did not see a key.”
“It locks only from the inside.” He gestured back toward the door, where, indeed, a metal bar could be pulled across to secure the door. “No children, no servants, no mother-in-law, could bother her here. Not even a husband, if she so wished. She liked to paint or read or simply sit and be…not a duchess.”
“And you kept it as it was.” Francesca turned to look up at him.
“Yes. It’s been many years since she was here. She came to London only a time or two after Father died. But I could not change it.”
“Of course not. It is lovely.” She glanced around again. “Do you visit it often?”
“Sometimes. But…it is the duchess’s garden.”
She looked up to find him watching her. A stray bit of breeze lifted a curl of her hair and brushed it against her cheek. Rochford reached out and smoothed the curl back from her face with his knuckles.
Would this garden be Mary Calderwood’s, then? Francesca wondered, and her heart tightened in her chest at the thought. She wanted this place to be hers, but she knew that the stab of possessiveness she felt went much further than that—she wanted this man to be hers.
She ached for what she had lost. For him. For a life that she would never know. For children and hopes and laughter.
But she knew that her wishes were futile. The time when she could have had those things, when she could have embraced love and lived a different life, was long gone. However much she ached for it, she could not have it back.
Was she really so selfish? she wondered. How could she begrudge Rochford his chance at happiness? If Lady Mary was the woman he wanted for his duchess, then she should do everything she could to help him win her.
And however sweet it might be to feel the stroke of his hand across her cheek, it would be folly to indulge in any nostalgic attempt to recapture the romance that she and Sinclair had once shared. Though he looked at her now in a way that made her want to melt into his arms, though her mouth yearned to press against his and try to recapture the sweet fire that it had felt the other night when he kissed her, she knew that to do so would be nothing but folly.
Sinclair might want her, might want the memory of her, at least. And she knew that at this moment she wanted him. If she leaned toward him, if she put her hand upon his chest and gazed up into his eyes, she was certain that he would bend to kiss her. And she was filled with a tingling anticipation, a burgeoning hope that if they kissed again, she would once more know the new and wondrous sensations that had flooded her the other night. For a few minutes she might feel gloriously alive.
But that was a fleeting thing.
What Sinclair needed was a woman he could marry, a woman who could bear his children and share a life with him, who could return his passion and fill his life with love. He did not need a woman who was, at the deepest center of her, barren and cold. And she knew, after her years of childless marriage with Andrew, that she could not give Sinclair either the passion or the children he deserved.
She turned away, saying in a low voice, “It is growing late. I should return home.”
“Francesca…” He reached out, grabbing her wrist. “Wait.”
“No.” She looked back at him, her eyes wide and dark with the turmoil of emotions inside her. “No. We must go.”
She jerked her arm from his grasp and hurried out of the garden.