The Courtship Dance (12 page)

“No more than I,” Irene admitted a little shamefacedly. “You know that I was never one of those women to gush about babies and motherhood. But these past few weeks—oh, Francesca, I have never been so filled with hope and happiness, even though I spend half the morning being sick. I am scarce like myself. I hardly ever argue with Gideon. I think he believes it is because of how ill I feel—and he is so careful around me, so solicitous, that I actually cried, I was so touched by his behavior. Which, of course, convinced him even more that I am exceedingly ill. But the truth is I am just so happy that I cannot bring myself to disagree with anyone. Well, anyone but Maura.”

“And
I
am so happy
for
you,” Francesca said honestly. “First Constance, and now you—soon there will be infants crawling all over.”

“You must promise to be his godmother—or hers,” Irene said. “I am sure that Constance has already
claimed you for the honor, but I insist that you stand for my baby, as well.”

Tears came unbidden to Francesca’s eyes. She hoped that her friend believed that they were simply tears of joy. She
was
enormously happy for Irene and Gideon, just as she had been for her brother and his wife when Constance had written with the news of her impending pregnancy. But Francesca also knew that deep down inside, her happiness was laced with pain and grief for her own lost child. Part of her cried not for joy, but for the knowledge that she would never herself know motherhood.

“Of course I will. I shall be the most doting godmother you have ever known,” she promised.

“There you are!” A familiar voice came from a few feet to their left, and both women whirled around to see a black-haired beauty in a stunning peacock-blue dress walking toward them, her hand on the arm of a tall, handsome man.

“Callie!” Francesca cried, jumping to her feet and hurrying over to her friend. “Oh, my goodness! I am so surprised to see you! I did not know you were in town yet. Your brother did not say a word about it.”

Francesca reached out and pulled Rochford’s sister into a hug. Callie squeezed her tightly, laughing. “I made him swear not to. I wanted to surprise you. Brom and I arrived just before Sinclair left for your soiree, and I told him that I had to come see you, even if we were not invited. Since we first had to clean up and dress, I made him promise not to tell you before I got here.”

“You are always invited,” Francesca assured her, stepping back to gaze at her friend. “You know that. You look beautiful.”

“’Tis the gown.” Callie’s dark eyes danced merrily. “I bought it in Paris.”

“It is not the gown,” Francesca told her firmly.

“Then perhaps it is married life.” Callie cast a fond look over at her husband.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with a leanly muscled build, Bromwell was one of the best-looking men in the
ton.
Indeed, only the duke could be said to be more handsome than he. His thick hair was the color of mahogany, and his eyes were a vivid blue. In looks, one could see the resemblance to his striking sister Daphne, but fortunately his character was a far cry from that woman’s.

Because of his sister’s lies, Bromwell had hated the duke for many years, and when he had begun courting Callie, he had acted more out of a desire to upset Rochford than anything else. In the end, though, he had come to realize that nothing else mattered but Callie and the way he felt about her. Even he and the duke had become reconciled to one another after Bromwell learned of his sister’s lies. Of course, that had not happened until after a dustup between the two men, but somehow, in that peculiar way men had, the incident had actually seemed to increase their regard for one another.

The Earl of Bromwell bowed to them in greeting.
“Lady Haughston. Lady Radbourne. ’Tis good to see you both looking well.”

“And you, sir,” Francesca greeted the earl warmly. Early in the pair’s relationship, she had feared that Bromwell meant to harm her friend, and she had watched him like a hawk. But clearly the two of them were meant for each other, and Callie was a very happy woman.

“I am pleased to see you again,” Irene added. “I hope that you enjoyed your trip.”

“I think I have seen every cathedral in France and Italy,” Bromwell told them in mock complaint. “I had not realized my wife was so fond of churches.”

“It isn’t the churches, although they are lovely. It is the art,” Callie explained.

The four of them chatted for a few minutes about the sights the couple had seen on their honeymoon. Then Irene led the earl away to say hello to Gideon, and Francesca pulled Callie over to the chairs where she and Irene had been talking earlier.

“You are happy, aren’t you?” Francesca asked, her eyes searching her friend’s face.

“Incredibly, wonderfully happy,” Callie replied. “If I had known how very much I would enjoy married life, I would have wed years ago.”

“I think this particular husband might have had something to do with it.”

Callie beamed. “I love him, Francesca. More than I even realized. Or maybe it is just that it grows every
day. I did not think it possible to love him any more than I did the day we married, but I do, somehow.”

“I am so happy for you, my dear.”

She had always been fond of Calandra, whom she had known since the girl was in leading strings, but over the last few months, the two of them had grown very close. Callie had once said that she felt almost as if Francesca were her sister, and Francesca knew that her own feelings about Callie were much the same.

“Tell me the latest news,” Callie urged. “I feel as though I have been gone forever—although it also seems as if the time simply rushed by.”

Francesca began by recounting the latest bits of gossip. There seemed oddly few of them, and she added a little apologetically, “I fear that I have not been to as many parties as usual. I am probably not up on a great deal of the news.”

“Have you been feeling ill?” Callie turned concerned eyes on her.

Francesca’s gaze fell before Callie’s searching one. She was suddenly afraid that Callie would realize how troubled she had been lately. “No, of course not. I am a little tired—I have been so busy with this party.”

“It’s lovely.” Callie glanced around. “Of course, that goes without saying. You have such an elegant touch. Sinclair said your party was for Harriet Sherbourne. Do I know her?”

“No, she is recently up from the country. She is over there, talking to Oscar Coventry.”

“Oh, yes. Pretty girl. Another one you are polishing up?”

“A little.”

Callie’s roving gaze stopped. “Who is the girl to whom my brother is talking?”

Francesca turned to where Callie’s gaze was directed. Rochford was standing beside a pretty young blonde, who was gazing at him raptly.

“That is Lady Caroline Wyatt. She just made her come-out this year. She is Sir Averill Wyatt’s daughter.”

“Sir Averill…” Callie frowned, then her face cleared. “Oh, she is Lady Beatrice’s daughter?”

“Exactly. Bellingham’s granddaughter.”

“Goodness, I can scarce believe that Sinclair is talking to her as long as he is. Usually young girls bore him to tears. Do you think he is interested in her?”

“Perhaps. She is quite pretty,” Francesca pointed out. Rochford did seem to be talking to the girl for a long time. The girl was saying very little, just nodding, and now and then smiling prettily or wafting her fan to cool her face.

They continued to watch the couple. Rochford continued to talk; Lady Caroline continued to smile.

“I must say,” Francesca commented with some asperity, “she does not seem to talk much. I should not think Rochford would find her very entertaining.”

It occurred to her as soon as the words came out of her mouth that they sounded harsh. She glanced over at Callie, wondering if her friend had noticed.

Trying for a pleasanter tone, she added, “Of course, I suppose many men prefer that sort of woman.”

She found herself hoping that Rochford was not one of them. Why had she even included the girl? She was not sure, but suddenly it seemed almost unbearable to think that Rochford might fall in love with the dewy-faced young woman.

That, of course, was utterly absurd. It should not matter to her which of the women he chose. She had tried to find ladies who would appeal to him. The whole point was for him to fall in love, wasn’t it? Why should it be worse if he chose a blond girl almost young enough to be his daughter? After all, Francesca herself had been a fresh-faced blond girl once.

“I would not think my brother is of that opinion,” Callie commented, which warmed Francesca’s heart.

There was the sound of masculine voices raised in the hallway, and Francesca pulled her gaze away from Rochford and Lady Caroline to look. As she watched, Galen Perkins strolled into sight, Francesca’s butler at his side, remonstrating.

“Oh, dear.” Francesca’s stomach twisted into knots. Was Perkins going to ruin her party, as well? She could easily imagine him declaring to one and all that this house was not really hers. “Excuse me,” she murmured to Callie, as she stood up and made her way to the open double doors.

“Ah, Lady Haughston.” Perkins smiled at her in an
obnoxiously smug way. “I am glad to see you. Pray tell your servant that I am welcome at your little party.”

“What are you doing here?” Francesca asked in a low voice, ignoring his request. “I did not invite you.”

“I am sure you merely overlooked it,” he told her. “You would not have wanted to exclude an old friend of your husband’s.”

“Please leave.”
What would she do if he made a scene?
“You told me it would be three weeks—”

He leered at her, his grin growing broader. “Three weeks ’til what, my lady?” As always, the title sounded like an insult on his lips.

“Mr. Perkins, please…”

“Lady Haughston.” The duke’s cool, modulated tones sounded behind her.

Francesca turned to him in relief. “Rochford…”

“May I be of some assistance?” His gaze went to Perkins, and there was a flat, hard look in his eyes that took Francesca aback. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I am a guest of the lady’s. The late Lord Haughston and I were good friends.” His eyes cut toward Francesca. “I shall be happy to tell people about our friendship, should anyone question my being here.”

“Shall I toss him out for you?” the duke asked, his gaze never leaving Perkins.

Perkins sneered. “As if you could.”

The duke said nothing, simply gave him a long, level look. Perkins was the first to turn his eyes away. Then Rochford looked at Francesca questioningly.

“No,” Francesca said hastily, reaching out to put her hand on the duke’s arm. The last thing she wanted was for Rochford to haul Perkins out of the room, with the man screaming out imprecations, shouting that her house actually belonged to him now. “Pray don’t. I—I do not want a scene to ruin Lady Harriet’s party. It would be much too bad.”

Rochford frowned. It was obvious that he did not approve of her letting the man stay. She sent him a pleading look. “Rochford, please…”

“Of course.” He gave in gracefully. “As you wish. Have a care, Perkins. I shall keep my eye on you.”

“It’s a wonder I shan’t die of fright,” Perkins retorted.

“Come in. Why don’t you partake of something to eat?” Francesca gestured vaguely toward the refreshments table.

She could only hope that the man would not reveal anything damaging if she allowed him to stay. At least the party was nearing its end. She would not have to endure his presence for more than another hour or so. Unfortunately, where Perkins was concerned, that time could seem like an eternity.

Callie came up beside Francesca, linking her arm through hers. “Come, introduce me to Miss Sherbourne. I should so like to meet her.”

“Of course.” Francesca turned gratefully to her friend, and they walked away from Perkins.

“Who is that man?” Callie asked. “Sinclair looked like thunder when he saw him.”

“No one. He—he was an acquaintance of my late husband. A low sort of man. But I could not ruin Harriet’s party by letting Rochford throw him out.”

“Of course not,” Callie agreed. “But don’t worry, Sinclair will take care of him if he does grow unruly. And Brom, too, I should imagine. Do you know that the two of them have become almost friendly? Men are the oddest creatures.”

Francesca chuckled. It was hard not to relax around Callie. “Very true.”

The rest of the evening passed well enough. Francesca circulated among her guests, now and then glancing around the room for Perkins. She spotted him by the refreshments table and later just strolling around the room, nodding to this or that man. The men invariably appeared a trifle nervous at the sight of him, and Francesca wondered if they knew him from the gaming tables. Perhaps they, too, were wary of what he might reveal.

It was sometime later when she looked around for Perkins again and noticed that he was gone. She made another slow circuit of the room with her eyes and still did not see him. It seemed odd to her. He was not the sort of person to slip quietly out into the night.

She began to wend her way through the crowd, searching for him. By the time she returned to her starting place, she was certain that he was not in the room. She had also noticed that another person was missing: Rochford.

Her stomach clenched. Had Rochford somehow managed to quietly maneuver Perkins out of the house? She could not help but be glad for that, but she dreaded to think what might have happened after they left. Rochford was the sort of man who could take care of himself, of course. Lean and athletic, he was one of the aristocrats who followed the “fancy,” as the sport of pugilism was known. She had even heard that he had been seen sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s club with Jackson himself, an honor not given to just anyone. She did not doubt his abilities, having witnessed him brawling with Lord Bromwell three months earlier.

In a normal situation, she would not worry about him. But Perkins was a different matter. Francesca felt sure that he was not the kind who followed any gentlemanly rules when it came to fighting. If Rochford took him on, there was no telling what Perkins might do. Frowning a little, she glanced around again, wondering if she should approach Gideon, or perhaps even Lord Bromwell, for help.