CHAPTER SIX
SIR ALAN CAME to call on Francesca the following afternoon, bringing his daughter with him. Francesca was relieved to see them. She had felt dispirited all day, fearing that she had lost Rochford’s friendship forever. She had stopped and started several tasks, unable to concentrate on anything, for her thoughts kept returning to Rochford’s anger. It seemed terribly unfair, she thought, that he had been so angry at her when all she had done was try to help him. Perhaps she had been a trifle clumsier than she normally was about such matters, but surely he could see that she had bore him no ill will in the matter.
If he had just allowed her to explain, she was sure that she could have made him understand—or at least kept him from becoming enraged. It was not like him to be quick to anger or disinclined to listen to reason. But Francesca was becoming aware that she apparently had that effect upon him. It was, she suspected, her frivolous nature that had grated on him. Rochford had always been serious—well, not serious, exactly, for he had a quick sense of humor and a wonderful laugh. And, of course, when he smiled, the room seemed to light up. He was not one of those dreadfully boring sorts who was always grim.
But he was so responsible, so dedicated to his duty, so careful and well-planned in everything he did. He was well-read, even scholarly, and his interests ranged over a wide variety of subjects. He corresponded with scientists and scholars in many different fields. She knew that he must consider her far too flighty and shallow, a woman interested only in clothes and hats and gossip. It was for that reason, when they had been engaged, that Francesca had feared he would one day grow tired of her or, worse yet, come to view her as an annoyance.
Now he obviously did view her that way, since his infatuation with her was long gone. Still, she was surprised that his reaction had been so extreme. She wished that she had been smoother in her dealings with him and Althea, and she spent much of the day going over and over what she could have done differently.
When Sir Alan arrived, she met him with cordiality, glad to turn her attention to someone else. Sir Alan smiled when she greeted him, and she saw again in his eyes a certain masculine appreciation. She would have to be careful in dealing with him, she thought; she certainly did not want to encourage any romantic inclinations.
Francesca turned quickly to say hello to his daughter, then rang for tea and settled down for a chat, studying Harriet covertly as they talked.
The girl was pretty enough, with nice brown eyes, a snub nose and thick brown hair. Her skin was too brown; she obviously was not careful about wearing a hat in the country. But at least she was not spotty or freckled. She had a frank, open face and a friendly smile—not the cool, aristocratic look that was deemed correct by society mavens. But Francesca had never found that that particular look attracted a man, anyway.
A different style for her hair would work wonders, as would a lesson in plucking her eyebrows. And her dress did not suit her at all. It was dowdy and prim—and Francesca had no difficulty in believing that Sir Alan’s mother had picked out the girl’s clothes.
“Your father tells me that you are interested in making a bit of a splash this Season,” Francesca began in a friendly tone.
Harriet grinned back at her. “Oh, I would not aim so high as a ‘splash,’ Lady Haughston. I think mere notice would be an improvement.”
Francesca smiled, liking the girl’s forthright response. Of course, she would have to school some of that out of her if Harriet hoped to be a success. “I think we can do better than that—if we put our minds to it.”
“I am willing,” Harriet replied. She cast a smile at her father as she went on. “I fear Papa has wasted his money so far. I would hate for it all to have been for naught.”
“Now, Harry,” her father protested fondly. “You needn’t worry about things like that.”
“I know you do not mind,” she responded. “But I despise waste in any form.”
“Then you are, um, willing to be guided by me in these matters?” Francesca inquired. There was nothing worse than a recalcitrant student.
“I put myself entirely in your hands,” Miss Sherbourne assured her. “I know that I haven’t sufficient town bronze. I can tell that sometimes the things I say make people look at me askance. But I am a quick learner, and I’m willing to change in whatever way I have to—at least for the length of a Season.”
“I think that a shopping expedition is the place to start,” Francesca said, with a quick glance at Harriet’s father. He nodded agreeably, and she continued. “I also think it would be a good idea, Sir Alan, if we put on some sort of party. We could invite some of the people whom I think would be helpful in getting your daughter noticed. Now, the other day, you mentioned that you would prefer that I—”
“Oh, yes, Lady Haughston,” Sir Alan jumped in eagerly. “If you would—my mother, you see, is not in the best of health. Nor does she move about in Society that much. I think it might be too much for her. Not, of course, that she wouldn’t be willing.” The expression on his face put the lie to that last sentence.
“I could easily have a small soiree or a dinner here,” Francesca suggested.
The man heaved a sigh of relief. “Just the thing, I’m sure. It is a great deal to ask of you, I know, but I am certain that you would handle everything so much better. Just direct all the bills to me—as you must do with the dresses, of course.”
“I shall be happy to play hostess,” Francesca assured him honestly. She enjoyed arranging parties, and it was much more fun to do so when she was not limited by her own financial situation.
Harriet and her father rose to leave not long afterwards. As Francesca and Harriet stood making arrangements for the shopping expedition the following day, the butler appeared in the doorway to announce another visitor.
“His Grace, the Duke of Rochford, my lady,” Fenton intoned.
Francesca turned toward the door, startled to see Rochford standing in the hallway behind her butler. Her stomach tightened, and she could feel a blush rising up her throat. She hardly knew what to say or think as memories of the evening before flooded in on her. In the space of a single instant she veered from embarrassment at the thought of his kiss to pain from the angry words he had thrown at her to an answering anger of her own.
“Rochford. I—I did not expect you. I—oh, forgive me.” Belatedly, she remembered her other guests. “Pray allow me to introduce you to Sir Alan Sherbourne and his daughter, Miss Harriet Sherbourne. Sir Alan, the Duke of Rochford.”
To her surprise, Sir Alan smiled and said, “Thank you, Lady Haughston, but the duke and I have met. Good to see you again.”
“Sir Alan.” The duke nodded to the other man, explaining to Francesca, “Sir Alan and I met the other day at Tattersall’s.” The horse sales were conducted every Monday, and had become a favorite congregating place for men of all ranks.
“Yes, and his Grace was kind enough to advise me against buying a certain hunter that I had my eye on.”
“I had knowledge of him, you see. Good-looking animal, but no go in him.” The duke turned toward Harriet, saying, “But until now I have not had the pleasure of meeting your daughter, Sir Alan.” He nodded. “Miss Sherbourne.”
Harriet, who was rather goggling at the duke, hastily curtsied, a blush spreading along her cheeks. “An honor, Your Grace.”
Sir Alan and Harriet then took their leave, with Sir Alan once again expressing his gratitude to Francesca. After they were gone, the duke turned back to her.
“One of your projects?” he asked her, raising an eyebrow.
“I have decided to take an interest in Miss Sherbourne, yes,” Francesca replied a little stiffly, not sure how to respond to him.
It seemed unlikely that he would have come to expound on his dislike of her actions, but neither was it reasonable that he would have abandoned his anger this quickly. Even if he had, Francesca thought, she was not inclined to ignore the way he had railed at her just the night before.
“I came to apologize,” he told her now, coming straight to the point. “I have no excuse for how I acted last night. I can only hope that your good nature will lead you to forgive me.”
“Some would say that appealing to my better nature would fall on deaf ears,” Francesca retorted crisply, but she could not help but be disarmed by his apology.
He smiled. “Anyone who could say that obviously does not know you.”
“I did not mean to upset you, you know,” she told him. “I wanted to make up for my mistakes, not commit a new one.”
“You are not to blame for my reaction.” He shrugged. “I fear that I am a trifle sensitive on the subject of marrying. My grandmother has taken me to task for it far too many times, as has Aunt Odelia.”
“Oh, dear. I hate to hear that I am behaving like a grandmother or great-aunt.” She had no interest in staying angry with Rochford. And she certainly did not want to get into the matter of his kiss! No, better to gracefully let go of the whole matter.
“I hope that you will accept a ride through the park as an adequate peace offering,” he went on. “It is a lovely May day out.”
He had surprised her again. Francesca could not remember when she had ridden out alone with Rochford—well, yes, she could. It had been when they were engaged so long ago. But better not to think of that.
“Yes,” she told him with a smile. “That sounds delightful.”
A few minutes later he was handing her up into his high perch phaeton, a fashionable vehicle with a seat so far from the ground that Francesca would have felt alarmed had any less notable a whip than Rochford been handling the horses.
He climbed up beside her and took the reins, and they set off. She could not deny an unaccustomed bubbling of excitement inside her. Though she was used to being admired by many gentlemen and was not averse to a little light flirtation, she rarely accepted any man’s invitation to ride through the park. It was her practice not to allow even so small a step toward courtship.
It was a rather heady experience to be sitting up this high, and there was a certain added fillip of danger without any need to be scared. There was no one better at handling a team than Rochford.
They did not talk much as they made their way through the city streets, for the traffic made it necessary for him to concentrate on keeping his powerful team in hand. Francesca did not mind. Frankly, it was taking her a bit of time to adjust to the feelings that were running through her.
She and Rochford had often driven through Hyde Park when they were engaged. When she had come to London for her first Season, she had missed him terribly, for she had been accustomed to seeing him almost every day in the country. They had ridden together, and strolled in the gardens at Redfields and Dancy Park, and gone on long rambles through the countryside. When he had come to call on her at Redfields, no one had watched them too closely, and it had been easy enough to talk together and to exchange glances, perhaps even for his hand to brush against hers.
But once they were in London, all that had changed. They were surrounded by people everywhere. There were always callers in Francesca’s drawing room and crowds of people at parties, other men vying for the opportunity to dance with her or escort her to the opera. She had felt alone and frustrated, and she had looked forward to the times when the duke took her for a drive.
Of course, they had had to be circumspect about the number of times they went to the park and the length of time they stayed. Any excessive attention on Rochford’s part would have been fuel for rumors. But Francesca had felt happier on those rides than at any other time during that Season.
Memories of those long ago moments rushed in upon her now, nearly taking her breath away. It was the same time of year, with the same feel in the air, the same caress of the sun on their backs. Francesca could not help but remember how excitement had surged up in her on those drives, the breathless joy she had felt just sitting beside Rochford.
He was just as close to her now. She had only to reach out a hand and she could touch him. She remembered how much she had longed to do just that fifteen years ago, worried that he would be disapproving of her boldness, afraid that someone else might see.
The breeze caressed her cheek and tugged at a lock of hair beneath her hat. Everything around her seemed brighter, the leaves glossier, the shade beneath the trees deeper and more inviting. The faint scent of the duke’s cologne teased at her nostrils, and she was very aware of him beside her. She thought of his kiss the night before, of the way his hard body had pressed into hers, his arms tight and strong around her. His lips sinking into hers…his mouth velvety and inviting, hot with desire.
Francesca swallowed and turned her face to look off to the side, hoping that the sudden flush in her cheeks would cool down before he glanced at her. How could she be thinking this way about that kiss—her flesh tingling, her muscles tightening, heat coiling in her stomach?
She wished that she could deny the effect his kiss had on her, but she knew that she could not. Even the other night, in her dream, she had thrilled to his kiss, her whole body melting against him, her mouth opening to his seeking tongue.
“I thought a great deal last night about what you said,” Rochford began when they had reached Hyde Park and he no longer had to focus on the reins to such a degree.
Francesca, lost in her thoughts, started. “Oh?” She hoped he did not notice how breathily her voice came out.
“Yes. When I calmed down, I realized not only that I had been appallingly rude, but also that you had been quite correct in what you said. And my grandmother, as well.”
“Really?” Francesca stared at him in some astonishment. “Do you mean—”
He nodded. “Yes. It is time that I married. Past time.”
“Oh. I see. Well…” Francesca was aware of an odd feeling in her stomach, a faintly queasy sensation reminiscent of the way she felt when she looked down from a great height.
“I decided you were right—it is time I started looking for a bride. I doubt I shall suddenly develop any interest in marrying. I should simply set myself to the task and do it.”
“Being resigned hardly seems a good foundation for marriage,” Francesca blurted out. She was, she realized, perversely disheartened by the duke’s words.
Rochford quirked an eyebrow at her. “I thought that was what you wanted.”
“No! I didn’t want you to drag yourself to the altar. I—I wanted to make you happy.”
As soon as she said the words, she realized that they sounded all wrong. She glanced away, hoping that she did not appear as flushed as she felt.
“What I mean,” she continued, “is that I hoped that marrying would provide you with happiness. That it would change your life for the better.”
Quietly he asked, “Did marriage make you happier?”
Francesca shot a flashing look at him, then turned away. Tears clogged her throat. She would not, could not, talk to him about that. Swallowing hard, she gave a shrug and turned a bright smile toward Rochford.
“Ah, but we are discussing you and your happiness, not me.” Quickly, she moved on. “What are you planning to do, now that you have decided on marriage?”
“I have already taken the first step,” he informed her, his eyes steady on her face. “I came to you.”
Francesca stared at him speechlessly for a moment. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“What better person to guide me through this project than the woman who has brought about so many successful matches?” Rochford asked. “I thought that you could help me find my bride.”
“But I—” She felt blank and strangely weak. Whatever she had thought Rochford might say when he arrived at her house today, this certainly had not been it. “I fear that my accomplishments have been greatly exaggerated.”
“If even half of what people say you have done is true, then you must be quite skilled in the matter,” Rochford protested. “Certainly you did well by my cousin. I don’t know when I have seen a more happily married man. And your brother and his wife are quite happy. I saw them only recently, and they are obviously still as much in love as the day they married—perhaps even more so.”
“Those are unusual cases. And I cannot take credit for—for the love that they have found.”
“But for you, none of them would be together today,” he pointed out. “Nor my sister and Bromwell.”
“You cannot be pleased about that.”
“As long as Callie is happy, I am well pleased.” He paused, then went on. “In any case, you have already done a great deal of the work. If I understood you correctly last night, you have come up with several prospective brides for me.”
“You are not shamming?” Francesca studied his face earnestly. “Do you really want me to help you?”
“That is why I am here.”
She gazed at him for another long moment, then gave a little nod. “All right, then. I will help you.”
“Excellent.”
A barouche was approaching from the opposite direction, and when it pulled close, they could see that the open carriage held Lady Whittington and her bosom friend Mrs. Wychfield. Since the Whittington barouche stopped beside them, Rochford could not pass with only a polite nod, but had to stop and exchange a greeting. Naturally, they must then spend a few minutes commenting on Lady Whittington’s ball, how splendid it had been and how much everyone had enjoyed it, followed by polite inquiries as to the other members of everyone’s families.
Francesca could feel the women’s eyes fixed on her speculatively, and she knew that soon the news that she had been riding through the park in the duke’s phaeton would be circulating throughout the ton. Even though everyone knew that they were well-acquainted, it did not take more than a change in the routine, such as this, to set the gossips’ tongues wagging.
Finally they were able to take their leave, and the duke set his team in motion, taking up their conversation again. “Tell me, how many candidates have you found for me?”
“What? Oh. Well, I had narrowed it down to three young women.”
“As few as that?” He cast her an amused glance. “Am I so unpopular?”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “You know it is exactly the opposite. There are scores of women who would love to be chosen as your fiancée. But I had to be rather choosey.”
“And what were your criteria, if I may ask?”
“Naturally, they must be pleasing in face and form.”
“I am fortunate that you took that into account.”
Francesca cast him a speaking glance and continued. “They must come from excellent families, though I did not think that wealth would be a matter of concern for you.”
He nodded. “You are correct, as always.”
“I also thought that it would be good if they were intelligent enough to converse with you and your friends, although I do not imagine that you would expect them to be as learned as your scholarly circle. They should also have the social skills necessary to be a hostess at the sorts of dinners and parties that a duchess must give. They have to be able to converse with important guests. And they must have the knowledge and ability to oversee a large staff of servants—indeed, the staffs of several houses. Then there are the other duties that are expected of a duchess, such as dealing with your tenants’ families and the local gentry at your various estates. And, of course, they must be pleasing to you personally.”
“I had wondered if that entered into your equations,” he murmured.
“Really, Rochford, don’t be absurd. That is the most important thing. She must not be vain and self-centered. She must not be unkind or flighty or frequently sick.”
The duke chuckled. “I am beginning to understand why you came up with so few prospects.”
Francesca laughed with him. “I know that your standards are high.”
“Yes, they always have been,” he agreed.
The implication of his words hit her—he was implying, was he not, that she had met his high standards—and she cast a quick glance up at him. She found his gaze on hers, and she blushed, feeling foolishly pleased and a little flustered.
She cleared her throat and looked away, suddenly unsure what else to say.
“Your first pick, obviously, was Althea Robart,” he said, breaking the awkwardness of the moment. “One has to wonder why.”
“She is quite attractive,” Francesca pointed out, defending her selection. “Also, her father is the Earl of Bridcombe, and her sister is married to Lord Howard. Her family is quite good, and she doubtless has an understanding of the tasks she would have to perform as the Duchess of Rochford.”
“Rather arrogant, though,” he commented, casting her a droll look.
“I assumed that would suit a duchess well enough,” Francesca retorted.
“Mmm, but perhaps it would not suit the duke.”
Francesca could not keep her lips from curling up into a smile. “All right. I will admit that Lady Althea was a poor choice.”
“Yes. I suggest that we leave her out of any future considerations. Or perhaps hold her in reserve, if I should become desperate.” He paused for a moment, then added, “No, I fear not even then. I do not think that even my sense of duty to my heirs could compel me to endure a lifetime of Lady Althea.”
“Consider Lady Althea crossed off the list. What about Damaris Burke? She is intelligent and competent. Her mother is dead, so Lady Damaris has been acting as Lord Burke’s hostess for the past two years. As he is in government, she is accustomed to handling important people and putting on important parties.”
“Hmm. I have met Lady Damaris.”
“What did you think of her?”
“I’m not sure. I had not really looked at her with an eye to her being my duchess, you see. I did not dislike her, as I recall.”
“All right, then we shall consider her. Agreed?”
He nodded.
“The last one is Lady Caroline Wyatt.”
The duke frowned, thinking. “I do not believe I am acquainted with her.”
“This is her first year out.”
Rochford looked at her, surprise and doubt mingling in his face. “A girl fresh from the schoolroom?”
“She is a trifle young,” Francesca admitted. “But her family is actually the best of all three. Her father is only a baronet, but her mother is the youngest of the Duke of Bellingham’s daughters, and her grandmother on her father’s side was a Moreland.”
“Impressive.”
“I have been around the girl, and she does not seem to be a giddy or silly sort. I have not once heard her giggle or fly into raptures.”
“Very well. I will consider her.” He paused for a moment. “But I must say, it does seem that you have chosen rather young women for me. I am, if you will remember, thirty-eight years old.”
Francesca pulled a face at him. “Indeed, yes. You are near decrepit, I am sure.”
“Are any of them over twenty-one?”
“Lady Damaris is twenty-three, and Althea is twenty-one.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Well, it is harder to find the best prospects among women who are older,” Francesca defended herself. “If they are lovely and accomplished and all that one could want, they are often already married.”
“There are widows who are nearer my age,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but—I did not consider any widows as prospective brides for you.”
“Why not? Some widows are the most beautiful women in the ton.”
Francesca flushed. Did he mean her? If this were any other man, she would have been certain that he was flirting with her. But Rochford did not flirt—certainly not with her.
And yet…she could remember a time when he had flirted with her—in a very understated Rochford style, of course. Still, he had looked at her in a certain way as he teased her, a way that made her feel warm and excited inside—very much the way she felt right now.
She hoped she did not appear as flustered as she felt. “Surely it is important to a man that his wife not have been married before. That she be…” Francesca blushed even harder. It was beyond embarrassing to have to speak to Rochford, of all people, about such things. Finally she finished in a low voice, “That she be untouched.”
He did not respond, and she rushed on. “Besides, there is the matter of children. A younger woman, after all, has more—more time…” She limped to a halt.
“Ah, yes, the all-important heir,” he said dryly. “I had forgotten. We are choosing a broodmare, not a companion for me.”
“No! Sinclair!” Francesca turned to him, concern overcoming her embarrassment. “’Tis not like that.”
“Is it not?” His smile was wry. “At least I wrung a ‘Sinclair’ from your lips.”
She glanced away again, unable to hold his gaze. Why did she feel so disconcerted around him today? One would have thought she was a schoolgirl, the way she was acting. “It is your name,” she pointed out a little breathlessly.
“Yes, but I have not heard it on your lips in many years.”
There was a tone in his voice that made her heart flutter in her chest. She raised her eyes to his and found herself caught by their dark depths. She remembered another time when she had looked up at him, feeling as if she might drown in his eyes. She had uttered his given name then, too, had whispered “Sinclair” as if it were a prayer, and he had kissed her, pulling her hard against him and seizing her lips like a man starved. The memory of that kiss sent a stroke of heat through her, and her pulse began to pound in her throat.
Francesca tore her eyes away from his. Struggling to keep her voice even, she said, “There are—I did consider two more women. They are both older than the others.”
“Indeed?” The odd note was missing from his voice now; he spoke in his usual dry, faintly amused tone. “And who are these ancients?”
“Lady Mary Calderwood, Lord Calderwood’s eldest daughter. She is, I think, somewhere in her midtwenties. And Lady Edwina de Winter, Lord de Winter’s widow. She is a trifle older than that. Lady Mary is quite intelligent, I believe, though a bit shy. It is for that reason that I did not include her earlier.”
“I will be happy to meet both of them,” he told her. “Now, tell me, how do you propose I interview these candidates? Do you plan to stage a house party for all of them, as you did with Gideon? It is rather handy, I must say, collecting them all in one spot. Though I am not so sure that I should want to have to make my choice at the end of the two weeks.”
“No, I see no need for that. There were special circumstances, as you know, with Lord Radbourne, which hardly apply in this case. It is not necessary, anyway. It is the Season, after all, and everyone is here in London. I am sure it will not be difficult to arrange for you to meet them while you are out and about. Although…” She paused, thinking. “Why don’t you come to the party that I am holding for Sir Alan’s daughter next week? Your presence there would help establish Harriet in Society, and at the same time you would have a chance to talk with Lady Damaris and the others.”
“Very efficient of you.”
Francesca shot him a wary glance, not sure what his dry tone indicated. But he only smiled at her and added, “I will put myself in your hands. I am sure that you will come up with the perfect woman for me.”
“I shall do my best,” she answered.
“Good. Then let us move on to more amusing topics. Have you heard about Sir Hugo Walden’s challenge to Lord Berry’s youngest?”
“To race their curricles?” Francesca chuckled. “I had indeed. I was told it ended with Sir Hugo landing in a henhouse.”
Rochford laughed. “No, no, that was some poor parson who got caught between them on the road. Sir Hugo wound up in the duck pond, I believe.”
The rest of the drive passed in cheerful conversation, talking of the latest gossip and dissecting the political news, then moving on to the changes that Francesca’s brother was instituting at Redfields. The awkwardness that had cropped up during their earlier conversation fled entirely, and Francesca found herself laughing and chatting freely.
It had been a long time, she thought, since she had spoken with Rochford with such a lack of restraint. In her earlier years, he had been not only the man she loved, but also a close friend. It had been the absence of his companionship as much as her shattered heart that had darkened the first years without him. She did not know that she had ever felt the same closeness and affection with anyone else.
Perhaps they could be friends again now, she thought, when he had returned her to her house. She went to the window of the drawing room, which looked out onto the street, and watched him climb back up onto the high seat of the phaeton. She found her eyes lingering on his long, leanly muscled legs and on his strong hands, masterfully taking up the reins again.
There could be more afternoons like this, more conversation and laughter, now that the barriers of the past had fallen. She no longer carried the hurt of his betrayal, and he—well, he must have lost most of his anger, coming back to her and apologizing as he had done today.
They could work together on finding him a wife, she told herself. And when she had done that, she would have rid herself of the guilt she felt. She would have helped him find happiness. He would have a wife and children. And she would have his friendship.
Then why, she wondered, as she watched him drive away, did she feel such a strange emptiness inside?