The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp
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BUT, OF COURSE, he did not kiss her. Instead, he took a step back, and she saw that his face was set in its usual cool reserve, not at all the expression that she had thought she glimpsed for an instant. It was a trick of the light, she decided, some shifting of shadows. No doubt Fenton, conserving money, had not lit enough candles.
“I am surprised that you are not holding a party to celebrate the occasion,” Rochford said somewhat stiffly.
Francesca turned away, struggling to quiet the tumult of butterflies in her stomach. She would not think about that ridiculous dream. It had meant nothing. And Rochford had no inkling of it, in any case. There was no reason to feel awkward and unsettled.
“Don’t be absurd,” she told him tartly, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. “I have reached the age where one does not want to draw attention to growing older.”
“But you deprive everyone of the opportunity to celebrate your presence here among us ordinary mortals.”
She cast him a dry look. “Doing it a bit too brown, aren’t we?”
He gave her a wry smile. “My dear Francesca, surely you are accustomed to being called divine.”
“Not by a man well-known all over the city for adhering to the truth.”
He let out a chuckle. “I yield. Clearly I am out-matched. I am well aware that it is an impossibility to have the last word when contesting wits with you.”
“’Tis nice to hear you admit it,” she replied with a smile. “Now…I believe that Lady Althea is awaiting us?”
“Yes, of course.” He did not look as interested in the prospect as Francesca would have hoped.
But then, she reminded herself, she had known that this would be a long and doubtless uphill battle with Rochford. He was not a man known for his changeability; it would take some time and effort to reverse the course he had pursued for years. Besides, she was not entirely certain herself whether Lady Althea would be the right wife for Rochford.
She could not help but remember the comment Irene had made the other night. Althea Robart was, frankly, a trifle snobbish, and while that was not really a problem for a duchess, Francesca could not help but wonder if such a person would really make Rochford happy. Rochford was certainly capable of assuming his “duke face,” as his sister Callie called it, when it suited him, but he was not a man who took himself too seriously most of the time. He was quite capable of conversing with almost anyone of any social level, and Francesca could not remember a single occasion when he had been too careful of his dignity to listen to or help someone.
Francesca glanced over at him as they left her house and approached his elegant town carriage. This carriage, for instance, was an example of his lack of overweening pride. Though well-made and obviously expensive, there was no ducal crest stamped on the side. Rochford had never sought the admiration of the general crowd, nor did he feel a need to announce his name or station to the world.
He handed her up into the carriage and settled across from her. She leaned back into the luxurious leather seat, the soft squabs cushioning her head. It was dark and close in the carriage, somehow much more intimate than sitting this near to one another in the chairs in her drawing room.
She could not remember when she had ever ridden in a carriage entirely alone with Rochford. He had never been one of her escorts, at least not since that brief time when they had been engaged, and then she had been a young, unmarried female, so there had always been a chaperone accompanying them—her mother or his grandmother. Francesca looked down at her gloved hands in her lap, feeling unaccustomedly uncertain.
It was ridiculous, of course. She knew that she was a woman who was counted upon to keep a conversation running, yet here she was, unable to think of anything to say—and with a man whom she had known all her life. But she could not seem to keep her mind from turning to that dream she had had the night before, a vision that quickly dried up any words that came to her lips and set her heart knocking foolishly in her chest. Besides, she could not escape the feeling that Rochford was looking at her. Of course, there was no reason why he should not be looking at her. They were seated across from each other, their knees only a few inches apart. And there was certainly no reason why his gaze should make her nervous…yet she could not help but feel unsettled by it.
It was a relief that the trip to Lady Althea’s residence took only a few minutes. Francesca waited in the carriage while Rochford went in to escort Althea. It did not take him long, Francesca noted, so clearly the two of them had spent little time chatting. She supposed she could not fault Althea, given that she had just spent the last few minutes in the carriage with Rochford feeling quite tongue-tied herself. Still, it seemed to her that the woman could have made a little more of a push.
As they paused outside the carriage while the footman opened the door and set down a stool for Althea to step up on, Francesca heard Althea say in some disappointment, “Oh. Then you did not bring the ducal carriage?”
Rochford’s glance flickered over to Francesca, who sat watching them out the carriage window, and he arched one eyebrow sardonically. Francesca had to raise her hand to her mouth to cover the smile that sprang up there.
“No, my lady, I am afraid only my grandmother uses the carriage with the crest. Still, one could say that this is the ducal carriage, being that it belongs to me.”
Lady Althea gave him a slightly puzzled glance. “Yes, of course, but how is one to know it?”
Francesca suppressed a sigh. Lady Althea appeared to have little lightness or humor in her.
“Very true,” the duke murmured, extending his hand to help her up into the vehicle.
Althea sat down beside Francesca, favoring her with an unsmiling nod. “Good evening, Lady Haughston.”
“Good evening.” Francesca smiled. “How lovely you look.”
“Thank you.”
It nettled her only a little that Lady Althea did not return the compliment. It was more annoying that after her brief answer, Althea made no effort to say anything else to move the conversation along.
“I trust your parents are well,” Francesca went on gamely.
“Yes, quite, thank you. Father is rarely ill. It is always so with the Robarts, of course.”
“Indeed?” Francesca noted the amusement that briefly danced in the duke’s dark eyes. Althea, she thought with a flash of irritation, was doing little to make a positive impression. “And is Lady Robart enjoying the Season? I confess, I have seen her only rarely this summer.”
“She is frequently at my godmother’s side,” Althea commented. “Lady Ernesta Davenport. Lord Rodney Ashenham’s sister, you know.”
“Ah.” Francesca knew Ashenham and his sister, both rather priggish sorts. As she remembered, Lady Davenport had once told her that a true lady did not laugh aloud—that only the common sort were given to braying—when Francesca had burst into a fit of giggles over some mishap or other during her first Season.
“They grew up together, you see,” Althea went on. “They are first cousins, as well.”
“I see.”
Althea apparently took this mild statement as an expression of interest, for she spent some time exploring the family tree of the Ashenhams, who had, apparently, ties to most of the major families of England.
Francesca, keeping her face fixed in the courteous expression of listening that had been ingrained in her as a child, mentally began to go through her slippers, trying to find a pair that would suit the sea-green evening gown of voile over silk that she had seen in Mlle. du Plessis’ store last week. The modiste had told her that it was waiting for a buyer, hostage to that woman’s final payment on a bill that had been too long outstanding. Mlle. du Plessis had admitted to grave doubts that the buyer would ever return, and she had agreed to sell it to Francesca at only a third of its original cost if the woman had not