CHAPTER TWELVE
FRANCESCA DID HER best not to think about what had happened with her and Rochford in his mother’s garden. Anything between them was out of the question. The love she had felt for Sinclair had died long ago, and she was not certain that he had ever really loved her. All they felt now was desire, fueled no doubt by the knowledge that their romance had died an abrupt and bitter death.
The last thing either of them needed at the moment was an affair. Rochford was ready for marriage. And she should be concentrating on doing whatever she could to avoid losing her home to Mr. Perkins. Besides, it was bound to end badly. The flickerings of desire in her would wither and die once they reached the bedchamber, and she would be left shamed before Sinclair. She could not, would not, allow that to happen.
She spent the next morning tallying up the things Maisie and Fenton had managed to sell. Fenton had gotten rid of a number of objects, though he had held stubbornly to the silver flatware and a few large serving dishes, as well as the crystal goblets and china. She had not pressed the issue. The pearls, too, were gone, which cost her a bit of a pang, as well as all the candelabras in the house except those used in the drawing room and formal dining room. Even so, the amount of money they had amassed fell woefully short.
But she had known that would be the case. Perhaps it would be enough money for her to hire a solicitor. The thought of going to court turned her stomach to ice.
The afternoon she spent making plans for Rochford’s party, an occupation that greatly brightened her mood. It was wonderful having a huge room and an unquestioning source of money with which to work, and she let her imagination roam free.
However, she could not help but remember Sinclair’s offhand remark that it would perhaps be an engagement ball, and that thought deflated all her happiness.
The Haversley soiree was to take place the following evening. Francesca had not planned to attend, but she knew that the Calderwoods were certain to be there, as Lady Calderwood and Mrs. Haversley were cousins and friends. If Lady Mary was there, wasn’t it likely that Rochford would attend, as well? If the rumors she had heard were accurate, he certainly would.
She wanted to see them together. She was not sure why, but the idea was persistent. If she watched them, she was certain she could gauge the extent of Rochford’s interest in Mary. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to see that for herself.
Besides, she reasoned, it would be another way to help Harriet if she asked Harriet and her father to accompany her. By the time she went up to dress for supper, she had convinced herself to attend the party, and she sat down and dashed off a note to Sir Alan, asking them to go with her to the soiree the following evening.
As it turned out, she was correct in her supposition that the Calderwoods would be at the party. Francesca felt an unbidden sense of relief when she saw that the duke was not there, but he arrived a few minutes later. Well, at least he had not come with them, she thought.
She managed to keep her eyes on Rochford and Lady Mary throughout most of the evening. She saw them together once in earnest conversation, and later he brought the young girl a cup of punch. Of course, she also saw him talking at one point to Lady de Morgan, and later to Damaris Burke and her father. Indeed, if anything, he talked to Damaris the longest, but Francesca found it difficult to judge the depth of his interest in the girl, since most of the conversation appeared to be between the two men.
She tried not to be obvious about the direction of her attention, but at one point Sir Lucien, standing beside her, commented dryly, “Spying on the duke, are we?”
“What?” Startled, Francesca turned at him. “No, of course not. Don’t be silly.”
However, she feared that her words of innocence were spoiled by the blush she felt creeping up her face. Confirming her fears, Sir Lucien cast her a knowing look.
“Mmm-hmm. Then I am sure that you are not interested in hearing the word going around the clubs.”
“Word? What word? About Rochford?”
“The very same.”
“People love to talk,” Francesca said casually, looking off across the room as if she had no interest in the matter. However, when Lucien did not continue, she finally had to prompt him, “What do they say?”
A little smile touched his lips, but he said only, “Oh, that the duke seems to be in the market for a bride.”
“Really?” She turned to him, abandoning all pretense of disinterest. “Has he said something?”
“I doubt it. He’s a closemouthed one. But it has been noticed that he has been far more social than in other years. Attending parties and plays. Making social calls. Taking rides in the park in the company of ladies. And at those parties, he rarely leaves soon after his arrival, as he has been known to do in the past. He is often seen conversing, not only with friends and family, but with a number of young women—few of whom he even seemed to notice in years past.”
“I see.” Francesca paused. She knew all this, of course. Indeed, she was the one who had urged him to do these things. But somehow this information, coming as it did from general Society gossip, made it seem terribly real—and final. “And do they link him with any name in particular?”
“One I have heard more than once is Lord Calderwood’s youngest.”
“Mary.”
“Yes. She is a shy sort, yet she has been observed in animated conversation with the duke. Moreover, he has called on her and taken her for a ride in his phaeton. All unusual signs of interest.”
Francesca shrugged. “I suppose so. Still, it seems little enough to make people speak of marriage. Rochford is a notorious bachelor.”
“Which is precisely why such small signs are pored over and declared proof of wife-shopping. He is so disinclined to have his name linked with any lady that even the smallest indication is magnified. In one man, being in the market for a wife might involve showering a young girl with attention—flowers, walks, calls, rides, poetry. In Rochford, however, a few visits might suffice.”
“Still, I think people are being a bit premature. It could be only that he is making a bit more effort now that Callie is no longer living at Lilles House. He might want company.”
“Perhaps. But usually that entails spending more time at White’s, not taking up with marriageable young women.”
Francesca nodded a bit absently, turning to glance around. She could not find Rochford now. But she spotted Mary Calderwood sitting against the wall with one of her sisters.
Beside her, Lucien followed her gaze. “Of course, he would have to put up with Calderwood as a father-in-law. That should be sufficient deterrent.”
Francesca smiled. “That hardly seems reason not to choose a girl.”
“I don’t know. One would have to talk to him if he was one’s father-in-law, and the chap is a dead bore.”
“True. Perhaps you ought to point it out to Rochford.”
He let out a little snort of derision. “You won’t find me attempting to give the duke advice on his love life. Some may find my life of little worth, but it’s quite valuable to me.”
Francesca tilted her head, considering Lady Mary and her sister. “She seems a bit…bland for Rochford, don’t you think?”
Sir Lucien cut his eyes toward her speculatively. “I don’t know. She is shy. Perhaps when one gets to know her, she sparkles with wit.”
“I cannot imagine her being able to meet the duke’s social obligations. She blushes and drops her gaze whenever she is introduced to someone.”
“Becoming modesty, some would say,” Lucien suggested.
“Nor are her looks exactly what one would expect Rochford to be drawn to.”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Sir Lucien drawled.
Francesca turned to find her friend smirking at her. “Nonsense. Why would I be jealous?”
He did not reply, only studied her for a moment, then commented, “There is another name bandied about as the woman who has drawn the duke’s interest.”
“Who?” Francesca asked, surprised.
“Lady Haughston.”
For a moment she simply stared at him, his words having effectively rendered her speechless. Finally, she squeaked out, “Me? How absurd.” She rolled her eyes. “Why, Rochford and I have known each other forever.”
“Knowing one a long time does not necessarily preclude marriage.”
“We are friends, that is all.”
“Neither does being friends rule out marriage. Though one would have to assume that it would not continue after the ceremony.” He paused, then added, “You cannot deny that you and the duke have been a good deal friendlier in recent weeks.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Francesca opened her fan and began to waft it gently. The ballroom had become much warmer, it seemed.
“You have gone for rides in the park, just as Rochford and Lady Mary have.”
“One ride,” Francesca corrected swiftly.
“As Rochford and Lady Mary have,” he repeated. “You have stood up to dance with him several times.”
“It is not unusual for Rochford to ask me for a dance.”
“Three times in two weeks?”
“Have you been keeping count?” Francesca gazed at him in astonishment. “No doubt it is that many only because the duke has been attending so many more balls.”
“And he has called on you a number of times.”
“We are friends. You know that.”
“How often did the duke pay social calls on you in the past several years?”
Francesca searched her mind frantically. “I cannot remember,” she said at last. “But I am certain that he has. Why, in January, he called on me a time or two, I am certain.”
“Sometime other than when his sister was staying with you.”
“Really, Lucien, how can I be expected to remember every little detail?” She gave him an exasperated look. “I do hope you are not fueling such idiotic rumors.”
“Of course not. I would never gossip about you.” Sir Lucien looked wounded. “However, one cannot help but notice things. And one would think that one’s friends might inform one if—”
“Pray do not get on your high ropes, Lucien. I did not tell you because there is nothing to tell. Rochford is not interested in me, and I am not jealous.”
He looked at her for a moment, then gave in. “Very well. I shall just continue to look mysterious and say nothing when people ask me.”
“Lucien! You must disabuse people of the notion!”
“Are you mad? One can scarcely dine out on denials.”
Francesca had to chuckle. Lucien began to talk of the gossip swirling around the Countess of Oxmoor, which centered on her relationship with an artist her husband had hired to paint her portrait. Francesca only half listened to him, once more scanning the room.
She saw that Mary Calderwood was now seated by herself against the wall. It was, Francesca thought, the perfect opportunity to start up a conversation with the girl.
“Pardon me,” she inserted quickly into the first pause in Lucien’s chatter. “I need to speak to someone.”
She left almost as soon as she spoke and did not see the speculative glance her friend cast at her as she wound her way through the throng to the chairs where Mary sat.
She paused a time or two to say hello to someone or compliment a gown or hairdo, not wanting it to seem as though she had made a straight line to the girl. When she felt she was close enough, she turned and let her gaze fall upon Mary as if she had just seen her sitting there.
“Lady Mary,” she said, smiling and going over to her. “How nice to see you again.”
The girl jumped up and bobbed a quick curtsey toward her, saying, “Lady Haughston. Hello. Um, it’s very nice to see you, as well.”
Pink crept along the girl’s cheeks, and she looked down at her shoes.
Francesca pretended not to notice Mary’s awkwardness. How in the world did the girl manage to converse so easily with Rochford, who regularly intimidated people far braver than she? Francesca sat down in the chair next to Mary’s. Mary looked faintly alarmed, but took her seat again. Francesca noticed that the girl sat at the front edge of the chair, as if she might bolt at any second.
“I am so glad you were able to come to my little soiree last week,” Francesca began.
Mary’s blush deepened. “Oh, yes. I beg your pardon—I should have said—That is, I am, um, very glad that you invited me. Us, I mean.”
“I hope that you enjoyed it,” Francesca went on, ignoring Mary’s blushes and stammering about.
“Yes, it was most beautiful.” Mary smiled, looking as though it was rather painful to her, and quickly glanced away.
“I hope your parents are well,” Francesca said, working her way through the customary polite chat.
Mary was of little help, answering in brief phrases and making no attempt to open up any topics of her own. Francesca felt as if she was being cruel to continue talking to the girl when she was so plainly uncomfortable, so she gave up the social niceties and simply jumped into the topic that had brought her over, trusting that Mary would scarcely notice the awkwardness of the transition.
“You seemed to enjoy a nice chat with the Duke of Rochford at my party,” she began.
Mary’s demeanor changed instantly. She lifted her head, her face suddenly glowing, as if lit from within. The lights glinted off the glass of her round spectacles as she said, “Yes. He is the most wonderful man, is he not?”
“Very admirable,” Francesca agreed, suppressing a sigh. Clearly the young lady was topsy-turvy over Rochford. It was no wonder, of course; any girl would be, even a bookish sort. Sinclair was handsome, witty and strong, everything a woman could want in a man.
Mary nodded enthusiastically. “He is ever so kind. Usually—well, I am sure you noticed—I do not talk easily to anyone. But the duke is so pleasant and attentive. Indeed, I scarcely realized that I was conversing until I heard myself babbling away.”
Francesca nodded agreeably, although she could not help but be amazed. She wondered if Caroline Wyatt would agree that the duke was so easy to talk with. But then, she supposed, it made all the difference in the duke’s demeanor if the girl who was talking was one who had caught his fancy.
“You must think me very silly,” Lady Mary went on, smiling in a self-deprecating way. “You have been friends with the duke so long.”
“Yes, indeed, I have.” Francesca forced herself to smile, to ignore the hard knot that had taken hold in her chest. “He is a wonderful gentleman.”
Mary beamed back at her. “I know. I am so lucky.”
Francesca fought to keep the pleasant smile on her face. Already the girl counted herself lucky? Was she that sure of herself and her hold on the duke? In another woman, Francesca might have termed the statement foolish arrogance, but Mary Calderwood was not the arrogant sort. No, she was simply too inexperienced to know that she should not speak with such certainty until the duke had actually asked for her hand.
But then, perhaps he had already asked and just had not told her. The thought cut Francesca like a knife.
Suddenly she could not bear to sit there anymore, listening to the happiness bubbling in the young woman’s voice, seeing her eyes shine. She smiled and uttered a few pleasantries that she could not remember afterward, then took her leave.
Francesca walked away from the rest of the crowd, ducking into a hallway. She found an alcove that was blessedly secluded, and she sat down, drawing a deep breath.
Could it be that Lucien was right, and she was jealous? She wanted to laugh and say that it was absurd, as she had told him, but she could not do it. All the time that she had been planning the party for Sinclair, the thought that it would be an engagement ball had preyed on her mind. It was wicked of her, she told herself, not to want Rochford to find love with Mary. There was naught wrong with the girl; she seemed sweet, and the love had been clear to see on her face. That was what Sinclair deserved, a girl who loved him, who would make him a good wife. That was what she wanted for him. Wasn’t it?
Yet neither could she deny the ache in her chest when she thought of the two of them together. She burned with resentment to think of him in love.
She knew it was wrong…and wicked. And she was determined not to feel this way. She would fight the nasty burning inside her. She would not allow herself to be the sort of woman who wished a man to be unhappy simply because she could not have him.
It could be done, surely. Perhaps she was not a deep person, but she was sure that she was not a bad person, either. She had started this whole thing because she wanted Sinclair to be happy, and she still wanted that. If Mary Calderwood was the woman who would make him happy, she would somehow bring herself to be glad.
The only problem was figuring out how to do so.
THE DEADLINE Mr. Perkins had set loomed before Francesca, but she refused to think about it. Barring a miracle, she could not possibly have the money for him, leaving her with nothing but the decision of whether to refuse to leave or to go meekly. And though she quailed inside at the thought, she was rather certain what she would do when it came down to it. Whatever else the FitzAlans may have been, her family had always been warriors.
Instead, she kept herself busy with the plans for Rochford’s party. She soon realized that she needed to discuss her plans with Cranston, Rochford’s efficient butler. She could have sent a note to him, requesting him to call on her. She knew that would be the most correct thing to do. Instead, she decided that she would go to Lilles House to consult with him. She would take Maisie with her, so it would be quite proper. And it would be easier to show the man what she wanted if they could actually go into the ballroom.
She might run into the duke, but she had taken herself firmly in hand after the Haversley soiree. She was sure that she had exorcised the demon of jealousy from herself. It had been just a momentary emotion, after all, and reason would overcome it. Besides, it was quite likely that Rochford would not even be at home.
He was not, as it turned out, and she told herself that things had worked out perfectly. Cranston looked rather surprised to see her, though he hid it well, only his light blue eyes revealing a hint of curiosity at finding Francesca and her maid standing in the entryway of Lilles House. When she explained that she was there to consult with him on the duke’s upcoming ball, his carefully polite expression vanished, and he beamed, the first time Francesca could ever remember seeing him do so.
“My lady, of course. I would be more than happy to assist you. I have seating charts, as well as plans for the ballroom.”
“Excellent,” Francesca said, her eyes lighting up. Such efficiency would make Fenton jealous, she thought. “If there is a table where we could sit…?”
“Naturally. If her ladyship would not mind, there is the table in the servants’ hall, where I do most of my planning. Or, um, the library might be more suitable.”
“The table in the servants’ hall sounds just the thing.”
So while Maisie went off for a bit of tea and gossip with the Lilles House housekeeper, having earned that woman’s friendship the last time they were there by praising Callie, Francesca settled down at the table in the servants’ dining hall, one of Cranston’s drawings of the large ballroom spread out on the table before her.
The dining area was a cozy place, separated by a short hall from the kitchen, and while there was the clanging of pots and pans and the usual bustle of a working kitchen, the sound was muffled enough that it provided only a low background noise. Cranston solicitously brought her a cup of tea and a pot for refills, as well as a small plate of biscuits, then stood a little behind her and to the side.
“Do sit down, Cranston,” she told him, indicating the chair beside her.
“Very kind of you, my lady, but…”
She knew that he was a stickler for correct procedure in every detail, but she was also aware that the older man had grown increasingly stiff in his knees over the past few years. She was well-versed in dealing with aging servants.
“Please do,” she insisted. “It will be much easier for us to talk. I shan’t have to crane my head around to see you that way.”
“Of course, my lady, if you wish it.”
The butler sat down beside Francesca, though he remained poised on the edge of the seat, as though ready to spring up at any moment, and he kept his chair slightly behind hers.
“Here is the preliminary list of guests,” she told him, laying a sheet of paper on the table. “I thought you might look over it and see if I have by chance missed someone who ought to be on it or put someone there who would be quite wrong.”
“I am sure your opinions are absolutely correct,” Cranston assured her, though he set the list aside for later viewing.
Francesca took up a pencil and began to describe her ideas for the decorations, marking them on his map of the ballroom. Cranston nodded approvingly, jotting down notes on a piece of paper as he went.
They moved on to the refreshments, which meant that the cook had to be brought in on the discussion, as well. The cook, obviously another Lilles retainer who had been there for many years, was a rotund woman with iron-gray hair and the beefy arms of one who had spent her life kneading bread and stirring soups. As possessive of her territory as most cooks Francesca knew, she came into the room with a slightly wary expression on her face. It did not take long, however, for Francesca’s charm to work its usual magic, and soon she, too, was nodding and agreeing to all Francesca’s suggestions.
“Well, well,” came a cultured male voice from the doorway. “Are you poaching my servants, Lady Haughston? Should I take umbrage?”
All three of the occupants of the room swiveled around to the door, where the duke was leaning against the frame, a smile starting on his lips.
“I should love to, I can assure you, but then I would have to face the wrath of my own staff,” Francesca replied, smiling back at him.
It occurred to her, as it had the other day when she was here, that had she married him years ago, this scene would have been a common occurrence. How many times would she have looked up to see him standing in a doorway, watching her?
“Then I can only assume that you are here laying plans for the ball,” Rochford went on.
“Yes. Would you like to hear where I intend to put the decorations?”
“Come show me instead,” he suggested. “Then perhaps we could have tea, if you would like.”
“That would be lovely,” Francesca answered honestly.
“Excellent. Cranston, tea in the morning room, I think. Twenty minutes?”
Cranston nodded, and he and the cook quickly disappeared into the kitchen. Rochford turned to Francesca, offering her his arm, and they walked back through the long hallway to the foyer, then along the even longer gallery to the large ballroom.
“I thought it would make sense to show Cranston where the decorations should go,” Francesca said, thinking that Rochford might wonder why she had come to his house to talk to Cranston instead of the other way around. “But he had plans of the ballroom, with everything marked, so I was able to jot it all down for him there.”
“He is a wonder of organization. I have little doubt that he has the layout of every room in this house, with each stick of furniture marked in its place. Nothing escapes Cranston’s attention. No doubt he was ecstatic at having someone who takes an interest in decoration and menus. I fear that he finds me hopelessly lacking when it comes to such things. I am sure he feels the loss of Callie deeply.”
Francesca smiled and squeezed his arm a little. “As do you, I imagine.”
He glanced at her and allowed a small smile. “You are right, of course. I had thought that I had become accustomed to her absence when she was staying with you, but I discovered that it is quite a different feeling when one knows that she is not returning after a month or two. I have to be glad for her, for I know she is happy with Bromwell, but I cannot help but wish that his estates were not so far as Yorkshire.”
“At least Marcastle is much nearer there,” Francesca put in consolingly.
“Yes. No doubt we shall visit more when I am back home.”
Francesca could not keep from feeling a pang of loneliness, thinking that then she would be here quite alone. It took her a moment to realize that she was being nonsensical—she was rarely alone in London, even when the Season was over. Besides, given the threat that loomed before her with Mr. Perkins, it was all too likely that she would not be in London at all, but immured at Redfields.
Determinedly, she steered the conversation in a new direction as they entered the ballroom. “I thought that you might have a Midsummer’s Night Eve party—what do you think? We could have it on that date and make the place appear a fairyland. Cranston thought that it could be done in time. We can have lots of greenery and, amidst all that, white flowers of every sort.”
She went on happily describing the wonders that could be done with net and tulle sprinkled with silver sequins and draped in swags across the ceiling to catch the lights. After a few minutes, she stopped and arched an eyebrow at him.
“I am boring you to tears, am I not?” she asked with a sigh.
“Not at all. I could not be more transported,” he assured her, one side of his mouth quirking up in a grin.
“Liar,” she told him without heat.
He chuckled. “I am sure it will be delightful. Everyone will be dazzled. They will dance away the night and go home declaring that no one can entertain like Lady Haughston.”
“But it will be your party, not mine,” she pointed out.
“I think all and sundry will be aware that mine was not the genius behind it. Such elegance and whimsy could only be yours. Will you come as Titania—a vision in white and silver?”
Francesca’s eyes sparkled. “There’s an idea. Perhaps we should make it a fancy-dress ball.”
He let out a groan. “No, please, not that. Aunt Odelia’s fancy-dress ball was more than enough for one year.”
“You did not even come in costume!” she protested. “It could not have been so hard.”
“No, but I was plagued to death to do so, which is perhaps worse.”
Francesca shook her head at him, smiling. They had been strolling around the large room as they talked, but he stopped now and turned to look at her. She raised her eyes questioningly, not sure what he was doing.
“You must save the first dance for me,” he told her.
Under his gaze, she felt suddenly, strangely shy. She shook her head. “But I must oversee the arrangements—make sure everything runs smoothly. I won’t have time for dancing.”
“Nonsense. That is what Cranston will be doing. You will open the dancing with me.”
She looked up into his face. There was something in his dark eyes that made her breathless. “But surely…one of the young ladies—Lady Mary, for instance—should have the honor.”
“No,” he replied. “Only you.”
He surprised her by taking her hand and sweeping her out onto the floor, humming a waltz. Francesca laughed and fell into the easy rhythm of the dance, and they whirled around the room. It might have been daylight, and the grand room utterly empty of any decoration, but it felt for a few moments quite magical to her.
She was very aware of the hard muscle of his arm beneath her hand, of his long, supple fingers at her waist, guiding her subtly. Finally he stopped, and for a long moment they simply stood there gazing at each other, her hand still in his, his hand still at her waist. Though they had not danced long, his breathing was visibly harder, his chest rising and falling. His eyes glowed with a dark light. Francesca could feel the sudden surge of heat in his hands, and his mouth softened. He leaned closer.
She knew that he was about to kiss her, knew that she should move away. Instead, she closed her eyes.