CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEN HIS LIPS were on hers, soft and seeking. His hands did not move from the position they had been in as they danced. He did not pull her against him or touch her anywhere else. Only his lips spoke for him, sweetly, yearningly kissing hers—entreating, teasing, tempting her.
Francesca trembled. She wanted to go up on tiptoe and throw her arms around his neck. She ached to hold on to him and kiss him, to press her body into his. She wanted to throw everything else aside—all caution, all sense—and indulge herself. To forget that he was on the verge of making an offer for another woman. To ignore her past and not think about where this kiss could lead.
But if she could not bring herself to pull away, neither could she allow herself to move forward. She simply lived in the moment, fragile and sweetly aching, drinking in the pleasure of his mouth.
At last he broke the kiss and raised his head. Neither of them spoke.
There was the sound of footsteps in the long gallery outside, and Rochford moved away. A footman appeared in the doorway to announce that tea was served. Rochford turned to Francesca and offered her his arm, as apparently cool and reserved as ever.
She took his arm, hoping that she seemed equally unfazed, and they strolled out of the room. However, instead of following the footman, Rochford led her out the French doors and onto the terrace, cutting across it to another door.
“This is the morning room,” he said as they stepped inside. “It is my favorite, although I actually prefer it late in the afternoon, like this.”
Francesca could understand his pleasure in the room. Spacious and comfortably furnished, it was graced by a wall of tall, wide windows facing the terrace and the extensive gardens beyond. Protected as it was from the west sun, it was delightfully cool and shaded, yet open to the lovely view.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, moving across the room to the chairs and low table where the butler had set out their tea tray.
She poured for them, and was struck once again by the thought that this might have been her life. It seemed so natural and right. His face across from her was as familiar as her own. Yet she knew, too, that it would never have grown commonplace to her, even if they had been married for years. Now, as whenever she saw him, her pulse leapt a little.
They chatted as they sipped their tea, and ate the square cakes and slivers of sandwiches. They talked of the ball and of Francesca’s letter from home that morning. Dominic was pleased with what they had accomplished on the estate this spring planting, and Constance, it seemed, was contentedly growing larger as she moved into her seventh month.
“Will you travel to Dancy Park to be with her?” he asked.
Francesca nodded. “I shall stay here another month or six weeks and then go. She has no family, you know, besides us—except for that excessively annoying aunt and uncle of hers, and I cannot imagine she would want that woman there at such a time. Nor is my mother a woman one would choose at such a time. Not, of course, that I am any hand with babies, but the nurse can provide that. I, at least, can keep Constance entertained.”
“I am sure you will be a great comfort to her. Perhaps I shall see you there. I intend to visit Dancy Park again before autumn.”
Francesca glanced at him, a little surprised. “I would have thought that you would remain here after—” She stopped abruptly.
His brows pulled together in a frown. “After what?”
“Nothing. It is none of my business, really. I only thought that, well, you would be making wedding plans.”
He looked at her steadily for a moment. “Did you?”
“Yes. After all, you seem to be moving in that direction. You as much as said you would be announcing your engagement at the ball, and you have shown a marked interest in Lady Mary. I must say, she seems an excellent choice. Only the other night, at the Haversley soiree, she was expressing her fondness for you.”
“Was she?” His black brows rose. “How interesting.”
“Oh, yes.” Francesca felt the now-familiar crawl of jealousy through her stomach, but she was determined not to give in to it. It did not matter what had happened minutes earlier in the ballroom; it did not matter how she felt.
She started to go on, but at that moment there was the sound of raised voices in the hall, something so uncommon in the quiet and aristocratic atmosphere of Lilles House that both Francesca and Rochford stopped their conversation and glanced toward the door.
“—must see him!” came a male voice, raised in agitation. “I don’t care what he’s doing!”
His words were followed by the deeper, calmer tone of Rochford’s butler, but it was clear that his attempt at reason had little effect.
Rochford rose to his feet and started toward the door at the clear sound of scuffling. “Cranston? What is going on here!”
“I must see you!” Though Francesca could not see the clearly agitated young man in the hallway, she could hear him well enough. “I am Kit Browning. Christopher Browning. I think you will know why I am here.”
Rochford scowled. “You were supposed to call on me tomorrow morning.” He sighed, then motioned for the visitor to come in. “Very well. It is all right, Cranston. I shall see him.”
He turned back toward Francesca. “I am sorry. This should take but a moment.”
Christopher Browning burst into the room. Francesca saw, with some surprise, that he wore the black suit and clerical collar of an Anglican priest. His thin, blond hair stood out all over his head, as though he had been worrying at it with his fingers, and his lean, ascetic face was pale and taut. He appeared at once frightened and angry, and he faced the larger duke with an air of defiance.
“I will not allow you to do this!” he announced to Rochford.
“Indeed?” Rochford studied him somewhat curiously. “And what exactly is it that you will not allow?”
“I will not let you have her! You may have dazzled her with your grand airs and your huge house and all the gold you no doubt have. But I know that those things will not make her happy. She is a quiet, studious girl. She loves nothing so much as a good book by the fire or a quiet ramble down the lane. She cannot be happy as a duchess.”
“I daresay,” Rochford replied quietly, and the corner of his mouth twitched in the way that told Francesca he was suppressing his amusement. “Am I to take it that you are speaking of Lady Mary Calderwood?”
“Of course! Who else would I be talking about? Do you have some other poor young woman dangling on a string?”
Francesca’s interest rose even higher at the mention of Lady Mary, and she inspected the young man more carefully.
“I was not aware that I had Lady Mary ‘dangling,’ let alone any other. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what you are talking about.”
“I’m talking about your pursuit of her. Oh, do not think that I have not heard about it. Rumors reach even into the sacred halls of the church.”
“Yes. No doubt. So these rumors that have reached you in the church…”
“Do not sneer at me!” Browning flared, color flaming in his cheeks. “Just because you are wealthy and powerful does not make you a better man. It does not give you the right to push me aside with a laugh.”
“No, you are quite correct,” Rochford replied. “Indeed, I was not sneering at you. I am, I admit, somewhat taken aback, however, by your, um, ferocity.”
“No doubt you thought you would have a clear path to the lady. But I, sir, stand in your way.”
“So I see.” Rochford put his hand to his lips, and Francesca suspected that he was firmly suppressing a smile at the young man’s florid manner of speech.
“Lady Mary loves me! She and I are to be wed. We have promised each other. I know it was not before the church, and that her father disapproves. But in her heart, I know that she considers it as sacred a vow as I do. This is her father’s doing, I know. He is pushing her to marry you.”
Then Rochford had already asked Lady Mary to wed! Francesca felt as if a great hand had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart.
“My dear Mr. Browning,” Rochford said, “as enlightening as all this is, I fear that I must move the conversation along. You have caught me in the middle of tea, you see.”
“Oh, yes, I see!” the young man retorted, and he turned a flashing gaze on Francesca. “Consorting with your lightskirts while my sweet Mary—”
Francesca’s eyes widened at the man’s description of her, and she started to protest, but Rochford had taken a step forward and fixed Browning with a hard look that shut up even that wordy young man.
“I will make allowances for your poor manners because it is clear that you have been driven to some disorder of the mind by your affection for Lady Mary. However, I assure you that you will not malign this lady, either in my presence or elsewhere. Is that clear?”
“Y-yes.” Browning swallowed and took a step back. His gaze flickered over to Francesca, and he murmured, “My apologies, ma’am.”
Francesca inclined her head regally. She was too interested in the conversation to spend any time discussing this side issue.
“Now, as to your…problem with me,” Rochford continued. “Are you aware that I invited you to visit me tomorrow morning?”
“I knew it. I presume that it is your intention to inform me of your engagement to Lady Mary. But what kind of man do you take me for, to think that I would stand idly by and let you take her from me?”
“I took you for a man of better judgment than was warranted, apparently,” Rochford snapped. “Have you not spoken to Lady Mary? Did she not tell you why I wished to see you?”
“No,” Browning replied somewhat stiffly. “I have not yet seen her. She sent me a note to meet her in the park this afternoon, but I did not go. I—I had to confront you first. I could not let her tell me she was marrying you without putting up a fight for her.” He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, staring Rochford in the eye.
“Well, if you had gone to see her,” the duke said, “I feel sure that she would have told you that I have a living available. I am considering giving it to you. St. Swithin in the village of Overby, near my manor house at Dancy Park.”
The clergyman looked first stunned, then eager. Then, as if remembering what he was about, he pulled his face into sober lines and grew even stiffer, if that was possible. “It is, of course, a position that anyone would love to have. However, I cannot accept a bribe to look the other way while you marry the woman I love.”
“Good Gad!” Rochford exclaimed. “If I have to suffer much more of this inanity, I can guarantee you that I will not make the offer. I am not trying to bribe you, you young fool! I have no interest in marrying Lady Mary Calderwood.”
Mr. Browning gaped at Rochford. Francesca stared at him in almost equal astonishment.
“But everyone says you—you have been dancing attendance on her,” the young man sputtered.
“I have spent a great deal of time with her, listening to her sing your praises,” Rochford responded. “I can only assume from her vision of you that you must display better sense when you are around her.”
Browning had the grace to blush at those words, and Francesca had to press her lips together to keep a gurgle of laughter from spilling out. She felt suddenly a great deal more cheerful, almost buoyant.
“Lady Mary has told me the entire story of your blighted hopes,” Rochford went on. “And she related her father’s not unreasonable demand that she shall not marry a man who cannot provide for her. A living would give you the ability to provide for a wife and family, and would, presumably, encourage the lady’s father to approve of your suit. She asked me for my help, and I agreed to speak to you about the living at St. Swithin’s, which opened up quite recently.”
Mr. Browning simply stood, staring at the duke, as his face slowly registered a realization of the opportunity that had opened for him and of exactly what his actions might have cost him.
“Oh,” he said at last, weakly. Finally, squaring his shoulders again, he went on in a subdued voice, “I beg your pardon, sir. I—I shall not bother you further.” He bowed toward Rochford and then toward Francesca. “Ma’am.”
He turned to leave, and Rochford said, “Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
Browning swiveled back around to face him. “Then you—you’ll still interview me?”
“Yes. Love makes fools of us all, I fear. I would like to speak to you under…better circumstances.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The young man’s face underwent a lightning change, eager hope spreading over his features. “I am so… Thank you.”
He seemed to think better of any lengthier speech, and simply gave another bow and strode out of the room.
“Well,” Francesca said lightly. “So now you are finding husbands for your prospective wives.”
He turned back to her, giving her a half smile. “I did not find him. He was presented to me.”
“But you are going to make it possible for her to marry him.”
He shrugged and returned to his seat opposite her. “I find I have little interest in wooing a woman who is in love with another man.”
“Were you interested in wooing her?”
“I tried to be.”
“So all these things—the ride in the park, calling on her—they were—”
“Conversations about her desire to marry Mr. Browning and how that could be achieved.”
No wonder Mary Calderwood had sung the duke’s praises the other night! Now her conversation with the girl appeared in an entirely different light. Mary had thought herself lucky not because the duke wanted her, but because he was helping her to obtain the husband she desired.
Francesca chuckled. “I should be cross with you. You led me to believe that you were interested in her!”
“I did not say any such thing.”
Had he not? She could not remember exactly what had been said. But he certainly had not told her the complete truth regarding the girl; he had never mentioned a word about this scheme to find employment for the man she loved.
It was probably something she should be miffed about, she thought, but she could not bring herself to care.
“Do you still intend to give the man the living at St. Swithin’s?” Francesca asked.
“Probably.” He shrugged. “It would be a welcome change, I imagine, to the people of St. Swithin’s, to have a vicar who cared passionately about anything. The last one could barely keep his eyes open during his own sermons.”
“You do not think he is a trifle…impulsive?”
A grin touched Rochford’s lips. “He is that. One hopes today may have taught him a lesson. If he seems seriously unstable tomorrow, I shall not offer it to him, of course. But he is young and in love, and one does foolish things at such times.”
“Yes, one does,” Francesca agreed quietly. That was one thing she knew far too well.
She finished her tea in the best of spirits and was, frankly, tempted to linger. However, as she had plans to attend the opera that evening with Sir Alan and his daughter, she had to take her leave.
Rochford, unsurprisingly, insisted that she and her maid be driven home in his carriage rather than walking the few blocks to her house. Francesca, leaning back against the luxurious leather seats, contemplated the meaning of her discovery. Rochford had already ruled out Althea Robart and Caroline Wyatt, and now it was clear that he had no interest in Mary Calderwood, either.
Was he not serious about pursuing a wife? In that case, what was she to make of his comment regarding an engagement announcement at the ball?
It could be that one of the two choices remaining would catch his interest—or had already done so. After all, Damaris seemed the most prepared to take on the duties of a duchess, and Lady de Morgan was the most attractive of all the prospects. However, Francesca had seen little about the duke that bespoke a man in love with either prospect. He had not mentioned either of the women even once. And according to the gossip, only Lady Mary had appeared to be the object of his pursuit.
But if he was not serious about marriage, then why had he come to her and asked for her help with the ball?
And in light of the ball and its intent, why had he kissed her?
LOST IN SUCH MUSINGS, Francesca went straight to her room when she returned home. It was already time to start preparing for her evening out with the Sherbournes. She bathed and ate a quick supper, which was brought to her on a tray in her room. It was often what she did when she dined at home alone in the evenings, especially when she had to dress for an evening out. It was easier on the servants, and, besides, she invariably felt a trifle foolish dining alone at the long table.
She hummed to herself as she sat down before her mirror and Maisie began the lengthy process of putting up her hair. Maisie was an artist at arranging hair, and she would not be rushed. Francesca opened her jewelry box and glanced over the earrings within. She picked up a pair of jet bobs, then set them down, and opened the small, secret drawer in the bottom. She took out the sapphire earrings Rochford had given her fifteen years ago and laid them in her palm.
She studied the rich, dark blue stones, their depth brightened by the tiny diamonds surrounding them.
She had never worn them. At first she had not done so because their engagement was secret, and after that, the thought of wearing them had been too painful. Even when the years had worn away most of the pain, she had been reluctant to put them on. It had seemed somehow wrong.
However, it struck her now that it was quite foolish to hide away such lovely jewelry. Especially tonight, when she was going to wear an evening gown of deep blue. She put the earrings in her earlobes and turned her head from side to side, studying the effect as the diamonds caught and reflected the light.
“Oh, my lady!” Maisie sucked in her breath in appreciation. “Those are beautiful, those are. And won’t they look a treat with your dress?”
“I was just thinking the same thing.” Francesca smiled at her maid in the mirror.
“Are you going to wear the bracelet, as well?”
“I don’t know.” Francesca pulled out the circlet of diamonds and sapphires.
It was not a heavy bracelet, but the work was exquisite, and the jewels were of the highest quality, exactly the epitome of taste and elegance that one would expect Rochford to choose. She slipped it on her wrist and admired it.
“You know…I believe I will.”
Maisie helped her into the blue ball gown, a gossamer voile dress of deep blue laid over a lighter blue underskirt, the contrast of colors repeated in the sleeves. Francesca had just stepped into her slippers when there was the sound of a thunderous knock downstairs.
Maid and mistress looked at each other in surprise. It was too early for Sir Alan’s arrival, and in any case, he would not have pounded so rudely upon the door. Curious, Francesca went to the door of her bedchamber and opened it as Maisie went on about her business, pulling out Francesca’s light evening cloak, fan and gloves, and laying them out on the bed.
A man’s voice reverberated downstairs, strident and aggressive. Francesca stiffened. She did not recognize the voice so much as the manner. What was Mr. Perkins doing here? He had promised to wait until Saturday.
Her hand tightened on the doorknob, her insides clenching. She should have known that he would not keep to his promise. She hesitated. She did not want to go down and face him, and for a short moment she was tempted to stay there and let Fenton deal with the man.
It was only a fleeting thought, however, for she knew there was no way Fenton could make Perkins leave, and Perkins was exactly the boorish sort who would refuse to go. Indeed, it would not surprise her at all if the man decided to bully his way up the stairs to find her. She had to get rid of him before Sir Alan arrived.
So, with a sigh, she started downstairs. The voices were rising in volume and heat as she approached, and as she rounded the corner of the stairway, she saw Perkins reach out and grab her butler by his shirtfront, bunching the material in his fist and giving the man a shake.
“By God, she will see me, or I’ll know why!”
Fenton’s face turned dangerously purple with rage, and Francesca ran quickly down the last few steps.
“I am here, Mr. Perkins, so you can stop your bellowing.”
He let go of Fenton and swung around. Only a few feet from him now, Francesca could see that his eyes were bloodshot and his face puffier than the last time she had seen him. The distinct smell of alcohol hung on the air around him.
“You,” he said heavily.
“Yes. I.”
“My lady,” Fenton began, almost quivering with rage.
“Yes, Fenton, I know. You did all you could to stop him. But I think it is best that I speak to Mr. Perkins. If you will come with me…?” She gestured toward the drawing room, then strode off in that direction, and Perkins followed her.
When they reached the drawing room, she turned around to face him. “Now. What are you doing here? I have plans for this evening. I did not expect you until Saturday.”
“Maybe I don’t want to wait until Saturday,” he retorted. “After the way you tossed me out of your party last week, I decided I needn’t stand on formalities.”
With an insolent grin, he plopped down in a chair without waiting for her to sit first.
Firmly suppressing her distaste, Francesca took a seat on the couch across from him, saying evenly, “I had nothing to do with that. However, when one arrives at a party uninvited, I imagine one might expect a bit of rudeness.”
“I expect nothing else from the high and mighty duke,” he sneered. “He’s always held himself better than the rest of us. Haughston’d be spinning in his grave if he knew Rochford was sniffing around you.” Perkins cast a baleful glance at her. “No doubt he’s hoping to set you up as his next mistress.”
Francesca drew in her breath sharply, startled by his words. Anger followed an instant later, and she jumped to her feet. “How dare you speak such lies? Rochford would never do such a thing.”
Perkins let out a short laugh. “Any man would.”
“That’s absurd,” Francesca told him stiffly. “Rochford is an honorable man.”
“Honor’s got nothing to do with it. ’Tis lust that pulls that cart.”
“You could not possibly understand a man like Rochford.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “A man’s a man, for all the fine airs he puts on, I can tell you that.” An ill-humored grin split his face. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking you can bring the man to marry you?”
“Of course not!” Francesca turned and walked away from him.
“Best not be,” he continued. “That one’ll marry for duty and naught else.”
She stopped and turned back, facing him with all the hauteur of which she was capable. “I am well aware of that. I can assure you that I have no intention of trying to ‘bring’ him to marry me. Nor do I have any intention of discussing my personal life with you.”
“All right, then. Let’s talk business. Do you have my money?” He crossed his arms and waited, looking at her.
Francesca, gazing back at him, felt her momentary anger drain out of her, leaving only the apprehension than had been haunting her for the past two and a half weeks. She took a step forward even though it felt more comfortable to be standing several feet away from the man. She suspected that it was important, as it was with an animal, not to let Perkins see that she was afraid.
“I—” Her voice was shaky, and she stopped, beginning again, injecting some iron into her words. The moment was upon her, and she had to try to save her house.
She started again. “I have a proposition for you.”