The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp
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of those held the slightest appeal for Francesca, and, indeed, she was sure that no one would have hired her for either one. The skills she possessed—impeccable taste, an eye for the fashions that complemented one’s looks rather than taking away from them, a thorough knowledge of the London social scene, the ability to flirt to exactly the right degree, as well as to enliven even the dullest party or most uncomfortable situation—were not the sorts of things that would make one money.
However, it occurred to her, after yet another society matron begged her help in bringing off an unpopular daughter’s Season, that her skills were quite useful in the primary occupation of the mamas of the ton—securing a good marriage for their unmarried daughters. Few could better guide a naive young girl through the treacherous waters of the Season, and none were as adept in finding the perfect dress or accessory to flatter a figure or diminish a fault, or the most becoming hairstyle for any sort of face. Patience, tact and a ready sense of humor had helped her through an unhappy marriage, as well as fifteen years as one of the leaders of the beau monde, an always-perilous position. Surely those qualities could be used to successfully steer a young woman into a good marriage—even, if she was lucky, into love.
Francesca had been matchmaking for three years now—always under the genteel guise of doing a favor for a friend, of course—and she had managed, if not to live well, at least to get by. She was able to keep food on the table and pay a small staff, as well as heat the house in the winter—as long as she kept many of the larger, draftier rooms closed off. And given the amount of business she was able to bring dressmakers and millinery shops, she was often given a dress that had been ordered but not picked up, or allowed to buy a frock or hat at a considerable discount.
It was not the life she had dreamed of as a young girl, certainly, and she spent far more time than she cared to think of worrying about whether she would be able to pay her bills. But at least she was able to live on her own, as independent as any lady could be if she hoped to be respectable. Her mother, she knew, would have been shocked if she had known about Francesca’s secret occupation—as would a number of other members of society. Perhaps what she did was not genteel, but, frankly, she found it satisfying to take those without a sense of style and turn them into fashionable and attractive young ladies, and it was always pleasing to help a couple find each other.
All in all, she was quite content with her life. Or, at least, she had been. But over the last few weeks she had been aware of a feeling of dissatisfaction, a certain ennui. She had even at times been…well, lonely.
That was absurd, of course, because her social calendar was invariably full. She had invitations for every night of the week, often more than one a night. Every day brought a steady round of callers, both male and female. She never wanted for a dance partner or an escort. If she had been alone often during the past few weeks, that had been of her own accord. She had not really wanted to go out much or see anyone.
She missed Callie, she knew. She had grown quite accustomed to having the girl around, and the house seemed emptier without her, just as she had told the duke. And, she had to admit, she was also suffering remorse and guilt about the terrible mistake she had made so many years ago. She would have been less than human, she supposed, if she had not considered how different her life would have been if she had not broken off her engagement.
Certainly, if she had married Rochford, she would not now be spending her days worrying about how she was to keep food on the table or whether an old dress could be restyled yet again. But far more than the material benefits, she had to wonder if she might not have lived a happy life with him.
What if she had been married to a man of honor rather than a libertine? What might have happened if she had married the man she truly loved? She remembered the dizzying excitement she had felt when she was with Rochford back then, the glow that had filled her every time he smiled at her…the way she had tingled all over when he kissed her.
His behavior with her had been quite correct, and the few kisses he had given her had for the most part been chaste. Even so, she remembered, her heart had pounded at his nearness, and her senses had been filled with the sight and sound and scent of him. Once or twice, when he had laid his lips upon hers, she had felt heat surge in him, and he had pulled her close to him. His lips had dug into hers, opening her mouth before he pulled away abruptly, apologizing for his lack of decorum. Francesca had scarcely heard him. She had stared at him, lips open slightly, dazed by the new and strange sensations sizzling along her nerves, the fire exploding in her abdomen, and she had shivered, wanting more.
If she had married Rochford, she might now be surrounded by children, honored by her husband, perhaps even well-loved. She might have been happy.
A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. She opened her eyes and reached up to dash away the wayward drop. What foolishness, she thought. She was no longer a girl of eighteen to be carried away by romantic notions.
The truth was that, though she might have had children, her marriage to Sinclair would probably have been equally unhappy.
When she had fluttered inside at Rochford’s kisses, she had not realized what came after the kisses and embraces, or how those tantalizing sensations would die when she was confronted by the reality of the marital act. If she had married the duke, she told herself, the result would have been the same. The only difference would have been that she turned stiff and cold with Rochford, and it would have been he, not Andrew, who left her bed cursing and calling her Lady Ice—or, rather, the Duchess of Ice, she supposed.
A grim little smile curved her lips. The duke had been fond of her, but it was absurd to dream that she might have won his love over the years. He would have acted more honorably than Haughston, of course. He would not have harangued her or paraded his mistresses before her. But he would doubtless have enjoyed their marital bed as little as Andrew had. He, too, would have lost whatever feeling he had for her when she could not respond to him with ardor. And how much of her love for him would have remained as, night after night, she had had to endure having him thrust into her, hoping that this time it would not be painful, sighing with relief when the act was over and he left her bed?
There was no reason to think that any of that would have changed. She would not magically have become a passionate woman simply because she married a different man. It would have been worse, she thought, to have seen the disenchantment dawn on Rochford’s face as he realized that his wife was cold in bed. And it would have been worse, surely, to have come to dread the nighttime visits of the man she loved.
No, it was better by far to have lived the life she had. Better to still have her happy memories of the love she had once felt. Rochford, too, would have been thankful that she had not married him if only he had known the sort of woman she was. He could still marry and have heirs.
Indeed, any of the women she had chosen would make an excellent wife and duchess for Rochford. He could easily fall in love with one of them. After all, Francesca had achieved a great deal of success in that regard with the matches she had helped to bring about. The rest of his life would be happier than it doubtless would have been if they had married. And such an outcome would make her happy, too. Very happy, she told herself.
So why, then, she wondered, did the thought of arranging his wedding to another leave her feeling so empty inside?
CHAPTER THREE
FRANCESCA WAS WALKING through the garden at Dancy Park. The sun was warm upon her back, and the air was redolent with the scent of roses. In the golden light, flowers bloomed in a riot of color: purple larkspur, white and yellow snapdragons, the huge pink and red bursts of peonies, and everywhere roses in all shades, climbing trellises and spilling over walls. A breeze ruffled the flowers, sending their heads nodding and petals floating on the air.
“Francesca.”
She turned, and there was Rochford. The sun was behind him, and she could not see his features clearly, but she knew his voice, his form, the way he walked toward her. She smiled, emotion welling up in her.
“I saw you from my study,” he went on, coming closer to her.
His face was all angles and planes; she wanted to trace her