The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp
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to my wounded heart. This, I told myself, was what love was really like. So I married him. Our honeymoon was not yet over before I realized what a mistake I had made.”
“I’m so sorry.” Irene slipped her hand into Francesca’s and squeezed.
“Well, ’tis long past now,” Francesca replied, and forced a little smile.
“I can scarcely believe that Lady Daphne admitted that she had lied to you.”
“It was not done with any good will, I can assure you. I think she wanted me to realize what an idiot I had been. I am sure she hoped I would regret throwing away my chance to be a duchess.”
“And, instead, of course, what you regretted was having misjudged Rochford. The hurt you did to him.”
Francesca admitted, “His pride must have suffered greatly. He would have hated having his honor impugned, even though he knew he was not at fault.”
“Oh, Francesca…what a terrible thing. Certainly he was not the only one hurt.”
“No. But at least I was at fault. One could say I deserved what happened to me. I was the one who believed her lies. I was the one who would not listen to the truth when he told it to me. But Sinclair had done nothing wrong.”
“And you think finding the duke a wife will set this right?” Irene asked.
Francesca recognized the skepticism in her friend’s tone. “I know it cannot make up for what I did. But I fear that… What if it is because of me that Rochford has never married?” She colored a little. “I am not saying that I think his heart was forever broken. I do not rate myself so high as to think no other woman could take my place. But I fear that I led him to mistrust women so much that he has not wanted to marry. He was already used to being alone, I think, and it was easier, perhaps, for him to live that way. Sinclair came into his title at such an early age, and he had already learned that people courted his favor simply because of his title and wealth. I think that is one of the things he found appealing about marrying me—we had known each other since we were children, and I was not in awe of him. I knew him for himself, not for his title or anything else. But then, when I did not believe him, when I acted in a way that must have seemed a betrayal to him, I fear that he became even more distant and distrustful.”
“That may be, but if he does not want to marry…”
“But he must. He knows that as well as I do. He is the Duke of Rochford. He must have an heir, someone to inherit the title and estate. Rochford is far too responsible not to realize that. I will simply be helping him to do what he knows must be done.” She threw an impish grin at her companion. “And you, more than anyone else, cannot deny that I am adept at bringing to the altar even those who profess a determination not to wed.”
Irene acknowledged her words with a wry smile. “I will admit that you are expert at joining even the wariest together. However, I cannot help but wonder how the duke will take to this plan.”
“Oh, I do not intend for him to know about it,” Francesca responded blithely. “That is why you must not tell even Gideon about this. I am sure that Rochford would consider it a great interference on my part and would order me to stop it, so I have no intention of giving him that opportunity.”
Irene nodded, looking amused. “It should not be difficult to find women eager to wed the duke. He is the most eligible bachelor in the country.”
“True. I am certain that any number would wish to become his wife, but not just anyone will do. I had to find the right woman for him, which has proven to be a more difficult task than I had expected. But, then, Rochford is deserving of only an extraordinary woman, so it is no wonder that there are not many of them about.”
“Althea and Damaris are two of them, I gather. Who else have you picked out for him?”
“I have narrowed the field to three. Besides Damaris and Althea, there is only Lady Caroline Wyatt. I must talk to the three of them tonight and decide on how to throw each of them together with the duke.”
“What if he doesn’t like any of them?” Irene asked.
Francesca shrugged. “Then I shall have to find others. Someone is bound to suit him.”
“Perhaps I am being obtuse,” Irene began, “but it seems to me that the best candidate would be you.”
“Me?” Francesca cast a startled glance at her.
“Yes, you. After all, you are the one woman whom we are certain Rochford would want to marry, given that he has already asked you once. If you were to tell him you had discovered the lie, that you were sorry for not believing him…”
“No. No,” Francesca said, looking flustered. “That is impossible. I am almost thirty-four, far too long in the tooth to be a suitable bride for the duke. I shall, of course, apologize to him and confess how stupid and wrong I was. I must. But the two of us—no, that is long in the past.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. Pray do not give me that disbelieving look. I am certain of this. You know that I am done with marriage. And even if I were not, it has been too long, and too much has happened between us. He could never forgive me for breaking it off with him—not to that extent. Rochford is a very proud man. And whatever feeling he might have had for me once, by now it is long dead. It has been fifteen years, after all. I do not still love him. Even less would he harbor any love for the woman who rejected him. Why, for ages he scarcely even spoke to me. It has only been in the past few years that we have been something like friends again.”
“Well, if you are certain…?”
“I am.”
Irene shrugged. “Then what do you intend to do?”
“I…ah! There is Lady Althea.” Francesca had spotted her quarry standing beyond the dancers, chatting with another woman. “I shall start with her. I think that I may chat with her a bit, maybe plan an outing together. Then I can arrange it so that Rochford makes up one of our party.”
“If that is your plan, it seems that fortune has smiled on you,” Irene told her, nodding toward another part of the ballroom. “Rochford just walked in.”
“He did?” Francesca’s heart sped up a bit, and she turned to look in the direction her friend indicated.
It was Rochford, all right, effortlessly elegant in formal black and white, and easily the most handsome man in the room. His thick black hair was cut into an artfully casual style that many copied but few could achieve, and his lean, tall figure was perfectly suited for the close-fitting trousers and jacket that were the current fashion. There was nothing ostentatious about him—the only decoration he wore was a stickpin anchoring his cravat, the head of which was an onyx as dark as his eyes—yet no one, seeing him, would have thought him anything less than an aristocrat.
Francesca’s hand tightened on her fan as she watched him glance about the room. Every time she had seen him lately, she had felt this same roiling mixture of emotions. It had been years since she had felt this way, so jittery and filled with trepidation, yet strangely excited, as well. Daphne’s words, she reflected, had opened some sort of door on the past, letting in a whole host of feelings that she had thought time and experience had worn away.
It was entirely foolish, she realized. Knowing, as she did now, that Rochford had not been unfaithful to her made no real difference in her life. Nothing had changed because of it, and nothing would. Yet she could not deny the little spurt of joy it aroused in her whenever she saw him. He had never belonged to Daphne; his firm, well-cut mouth had not kissed her, nor whispered in her ear. His hands had not caressed her or showered her with jewels. The mental pictures that had tortured her fifteen years ago had been entirely false, and she could not help but be glad of it.
Francesca turned away, suddenly busy with her gloves and fan, smoothing down the front of her skirt. “I must tell him,” she said softly.
She knew that she could not be at ease