The Courtship Dance (16 page)

“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.

F
RANCESCA 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.”