The Courtship Dance (13 page)

It was then that it struck her that she had not seen the other two men, either. Had the three of them taken it upon themselves to usher Perkins out? For a moment, she relaxed. Rochford would be in no danger if that was the case.

However, her relief did not last long. Perkins would be furious if they had done so. She hated to think what he might do if he was enraged enough. What if he blurted out his story to them? Francesca’s cheeks
burned. She hated to think of Rochford knowing the full depths of Haughston’s behavior.

She set out to find Callie, and was somewhat surprised when she located her talking to Lady Wyatt and her daughter Caroline. When Francesca walked up, however, Callie excused herself with a smile and came up to Francesca’s side.

“I am so glad to see you,” Callie murmured. “I felt as if we were on an island. No one had come close to us in fifteen minutes at least. I thought I would be marooned there, listening to Lady Wyatt go on about her youngest sister’s lying-in for the rest of the evening. Just because I am now a married woman does not mean that I want to hear terrifying stories of childbirth.”

“I should think not,” Francesca agreed. “I would have come sooner if I had but known. I was looking for your husband.”

Callie smiled. “Forgive me. I fear it still makes me a trifle giddy, hearing him called that. I am not sure where he is.” She glanced around. “The last time I saw him, he had gone off with Lord Radbourne to chat with Sinclair. I think perhaps they were conspiring to sneak off and enjoy a cigar out in the garden.”

“I see.” So they
were
all together. But perhaps it was true that they were only enjoying a smoke and some masculine companionship.

“There they are,” Callie said, looking toward the doors.

Francesca turned to see Lord Radbourne and Lord Bromwell stroll into the room. Of Rochford, however,
there was no sign. Had she been wrong, then? Was Rochford dealing with Perkins by himself? Or had Rochford simply left and Perkins had done the same, and she was making up worries for no reason?

“Shall we join him?” Callie asked. “Did you wish to talk to him about something?”

“What? Oh. No. That is, well, it wasn’t important, really.” Francesca knew her friend must think she was acting peculiarly, and indeed, she felt rather foolish. But she could think of no easy way to ask Bromwell what she wanted to know. If he had helped get rid of Perkins, he was not likely to tell her, and if he had not, it would only raise questions in him and Callie.

Fortunately, at that moment she noticed a couple making their way toward her and Callie, so she was able to say truthfully, “Oh, there are Lord and Lady Hampton. No doubt they are ready to make their goodbyes. Have you ever noticed how they are invariably the first to leave?”

She slipped away from her friend to meet the others. After that, other guests began to leave gradually. Francesca took up a station nearer the doors into the hallway so that she might more easily say farewell to her guests.

Before long, everyone had left, and the servants came in to begin cleaning up. Francesca climbed the stairs to her bedroom, and since Maisie was busy downstairs with the others, she struggled to unhook her dress without her maid’s help and took down her own hair. Then, wrapping herself in her dressing gown, she sat
down on the window seat and began to brush out her hair. One window stood open a little to let in the night breeze, and it felt good after the heat of the crowded party.

She had just finished brushing out her hair when a man’s figure appeared at the end of the block. She leaned forward, squinting. It was too dark to make out his features, but she was certain, looking at his form, his walk, that it was Rochford.

He stopped in front of her house and looked up. Her room was dark, for she had set her candle down just inside the door, on the other side of the room from the windows. He hesitated, glancing at her front door.

Quickly Francesca leaned forward and rapped on one of the panes. His head snapped up, his eyes searching the upper floor. She bent down to the open window.

“Rochford,” she whispered loudly.

When he saw her, he whipped off his hat and sent her an elegant bow. She pointed down at the front door, then slipped off the window seat and, grabbing her candle, hurried out of her room.

H
E WAS WAITING
on the front stoop when she unlocked the heavy door and opened it. Mindful of the servants finishing up their cleaning in the assembly room, she held a finger up to her lips for quiet. It would be just as well that the servants not see her letting a man into the house this late at night, even one of such character as the Duke of Rochford. Her own servants were discreet, but she did not know the ones whom Fenton had hired to help with the party.

Rochford raised his brows at her gesture but obediently did not speak, merely stepped inside. Francesca cast another glance over at the lighted room, then gestured for him to follow her and slipped off down the hall.

She led him to the morning room at the back, which was her favorite spot—and was also the farthest from the room where the servants were cleaning. When he stepped inside, she closed the door behind him and walked over to light a lamp.

Turning back to him, she crossed her arms and fixed him with a severe look. “All right. Confess.”

“Gladly,” he responded lightly. “To what would you like me to confess?”

“I saw that Mr. Perkins was soon suspiciously absent from the party.”

“Perhaps he grew bored. I doubt he was well received by any of your guests.”

Francesca quirked a brow. “I also noticed that you and your cohorts were gone at the same time.”

He grinned. “My cohorts? Pray, tell me, who are my ‘cohorts’?”

“Lord Radbourne and Lord Bromwell. What did you do?”

“We simply suggested to Perkins that he would be happier elsewhere…and then we went with him to make sure that he arrived safely.”

“Sinclair! Did you hurt him?”

“Really, Francesca, what sort of ruffian do you take me for?” He idly picked a speck of lint from the arm of his immaculate black jacket.

“I would have said no ruffian at all, until I saw you trying to bash in your future brother-in-law’s head.”

“He was not my future brother-in-law at the time,” he pointed out mildly. “Besides, I had a good deal more basis for hitting Bromwell. I thought he was trying to ruin my sister’s reputation. Perkins was merely…bothersome.”

“So you only talked to him?” Francesca asked.

He shrugged. “Yes. Gideon was in favor of throwing him in the Thames—” At Francesca’s horrified gasp, a
smile hovered at the corners of his mouth, and he went on in a confidential tone. “Gideon’s upbringing, you know. Bromwell and I dissuaded him, though I may have intimated to Perkins that his fate would be worse if he bothered you again.”

“What did he…did he say anything untoward?”

“He said a number of things I cannot repeat to a lady. Nothing of any significance.” He studied at her, puzzled. “Tell me, why are you so concerned about the miserable villain? Surely you did not actually invite him tonight.”

“No, of course not. I don’t care about him. Well, I do care, but not in a good way. He is a wicked man. I was worried that he might have hurt you, if you must know.” She turned away, crossing the room. “Though clearly I need not have been concerned.”

He took a step after her, his expression softening, then stopped. “No, you need not. Perkins is no threat.”

“He might retaliate,” she pointed out as she opened the door of a walnut cabinet and reached inside.

“I can handle him.”

“Very well. Brandy?” Without waiting for his reply, she pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured each of them a glass. Brandy was not considered a woman’s drink, and she usually did not partake, keeping it on hand more for her friend Sir Lucien than for any other reason. But tonight, she thought, a brandy seemed just the thing.

Rochford watched her as she poured. He wondered
if she had even thought about the fact that she had answered the door in her dressing gown, her unbound hair flowing in a golden cascade down her back. Once he had dreamed of being with her this way—of course, in those daydreams he would have had the right to go to her and take her in his arms, to glide his hand down the silken fall of her hair.

He turned away abruptly and sat down on a chair. “Why did you permit him to stay tonight?”

Francesca sighed. “It seemed the easiest course. I did not want a scene, and I feared that Perkins was precisely the sort of man who would cause one. Besides, he was Andrew’s friend. I—I hated to be openly rude to him.”

She handed the duke a snifter of brandy and sat down on the sofa across from him. Rochford took a sip.

“I would have thought that it would be quite easy to be rude to most of Haughston’s friends.”

Francesca could not hold back a grin, but she tried to cover it by taking a quick drink of the brandy. It slid down her esophagus like velvet fire, igniting her stomach and sending soft tendrils of relaxation creeping through her. She let out a sigh, then took another sip and curled her feet up on the sofa beside her, like a child.

She looked across at Rochford. He was so strong, so capable. Of course Perkins would not worry him. He would brush the man off like an insect.

For an instant she thought of telling Rochford about Perkins and his threat, of putting the whole mess in his competent hands. Quickly she turned her gaze back to
her drink, swirling the amber liquid around in the glass. She could not do such a thing, of course. She had no hold on Rochford, no claim. It would be unthinkably forward of her to tell him of her problems. Like the gentleman he was, he might try to solve the matter for her, but obviously that would be wrong.

Besides, it would be utterly humiliating to reveal to the man she had not married what a horrible, foolish mistake she had made in the man she
had
chosen. To let him see how close she lived to the edge of poverty, how she had to scrabble for money to pay for food and clothing and servants. Besides, he might think she was asking him for the money to pay off Perkins, which would sink her with shame. Quickly, she took another sip of her drink.

Rochford’s eyes went to the front of her dressing gown, where her lapels gaped a little, showing the shadowed tops of her breasts and the dark valley of demarcation between them. He could not help but wonder what she wore beneath the robe. If it was a nightrail, it must be low-necked. Or perhaps she had thrown the robe on over her undergarments, so that only a flimsy chemise and pantalets lay under the dressing gown.

He started to speak and was startled by the hoarseness of his voice. He cleared his throat and started again. “I thought we might discuss the, ah, ladies we were considering.”

“Yes, of course.” Francesca was happy to divert her thoughts from their course. “How did you like Lady Damaris?”

“She seems quite competent, as you said. Adept at conversation.” He paused.

“Then, um, was she your favorite?” His words seemed cool praise to her, but then, Rochford was a very sensible man.

“Not especially. I am not sure I had a favorite, really.”

“You talked to Lady Mary quite a bit. I was surprised. She has usually seemed rather shy when I have been around her.”

His lips twitched slightly. “I rather think that she thought me too old to be frightening. I believe she puts me in the category of her father and his friends.”

“Old!” Francesca gaped at him, then burst into laughter. “Oh, my.”

“Well you may laugh,” he retorted. “I might remind you, my dear, that you are not that many years behind me.”

“No, of course not. I am an old crone, as well, no doubt.” She grinned wickedly at him. “Perhaps you can steal in beneath her defenses. I have no doubt that later you would be able to convince her that you are not entirely doddering yet.”

“It seems quite an effort,” he mused.

“What of Lady Caroline?” She remembered the pang she had felt, watching him with the young girl. Envy, she supposed, at the girl’s youth. But she could not let that influence her—or cause her to try to influence him.

His mouth tightened. “Bloody hell, Francesca! What possessed you to saddle me with that chit? A more boring girl I hope never to meet.”

Francesca pressed her lips together tightly to suppress a laugh. She should not feel so elated to hear that he had disliked the girl, but she could not quell the amusement rising up in her like a bubble.

“She was unable to talk about anything,” he went on with some bitterness. “And if she had an opinion on something, I was unable to discover it. Every time I asked her a question, she responded by asking what I thought of it. Where is the sense in that? I already knew what
I
thought.”

Francesca swallowed her chuckle. “Perhaps you should give Lady Caroline another chance. She is young, after all, and mayhap she is shy around someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” he repeated, fixing her with his black gaze. “What do you mean? Are you implying that I am intimidating? Stiff and unyielding? Or perhaps it is my advanced age to which you are referring.”

She could not repress a laugh at that. “You can be a trifle…overwhelming. You are a duke, after all, and when you get that look on your face—you know, as if a muddy pup had just put his paws on your best boots…”

“I beg your pardon. I am never unkind to puppies.” With an effort, he controlled the quiver at the corner of his mouth. “And I must say, I have never noticed that
you seemed to be in the least in awe of my being a duke. Not even when you were fourteen.”

“It is difficult to be in awe of someone when you have seen him sliding down the roof of a barn into a haystack,” Francesca shot back.

Rochford let out a hoot of laughter. “When was that?”

“At Dancy Park, when I was eight and you were thirteen. You and Dom and I had been riding, and we stopped at Jamie Evans’ farm. The groom tried to stop us, but it was no use. There was a great pile of hay, and Dom jumped off a fence rail into it and dared me to jump into it, too.”

“And you said, ‘I’ll go off the roof!’ Of course. How could I have forgotten that? You were incorrigible.”

“Well, I only did it because you told Dom that I was much too small to do such a thing, so I had to prove to you that I wasn’t. And then you
ordered
me not to.”

“Ah, yes. Of course that would have set you to it immediately. I was less wise at thirteen.”

“Then
you
jumped off the roof, as well.”

“I could hardly refrain if you were daring enough to do it.”

“If that isn’t just like you!” Francesca exclaimed in mock exasperation. “Putting the blame on me.”

“That is precisely where it belonged most of the time. You were a mischievous imp.”

“And you were entirely too full of yourself.”

His smile broadened. “One has to wonder, then, why you chose to tag about after me.”

“I did not do any such thing,” Francesca retorted, adding with great dignity, “You and Dom simply happened to go where I wanted to.”

He chuckled, his dark eyes alight, and rose from his seat. “Another brandy?”

“I better not. I am feeling quite pleasant. Any more and I would be absolutely tiddly.” She took a last sip of her drink and stood up. “Would you like another?”

“No. I am fine.”

She took his glass and crossed over to the cabinet to set the snifters down beside the decanter. Not looking at him, she said casually, “Do you have a preference, then?”

“A preference? What do you mean?”

“For one of the girls.” She turned back. “Are you more in favor of one than another?”

He looked at her for a moment, then replied blandly, “Yes, I prefer one.”

“Who?” Francesca walked back to him. The question seemed suddenly very important. Which of the women had caught his eye? Did he plan to pursue her?

“Not Lady Caroline,” he told her dryly. He took a step closer to her. His voice was low as he went on, “Tell me, my dear, do you plan to oversee my courtship, as well?”

Standing this close to him, looking up into his face, stirred an odd feeling in Francesca, something warm and yet a trifle frightening, as well. She remembered that time on the roof of the barn, when she had stared
down at the haystack below her, and her heart had hammered madly inside her ribs with fear, yet she’d been oddly drawn to jump, as well. She felt something like that now, as she gazed into his black eyes.

She pulled her gaze away, turning her head to the side as she said, her voice a little breathless, “I am sure that you will be able to handle that well enough on your own.”

“I would not be so sure, if I were you,” Rochford replied. “After all, look at my past attempts at wooing women. Obviously I have not been terribly successful.” He paused, then went on, “Perhaps you should give me instructions in wooing.”

“Indeed?” Francesca tilted her chin up challengingly. “I hardly think that is necessary. I am sure that you know well enough how to compliment a woman.”

Her breath was coming much too rapidly, she knew. It was absurd to feel this way—warm and loose, yet tingling with barely suppressed anticipation.

“Such as telling her that her hair shimmers like gold in the candlelight?” he asked, his eyes going to her hair. “Or that her eyes glow like sapphires?”

“You must not do it too brown,” she retorted, striving for a light tone.

He reached up and touched her hair lightly with the back of his hand. “It is only the truth.”

His husky voice reverberated through her.

“I—I’m not sure the truth is ever a good idea when one is describing a woman.”

“Not even when her skin is soft and smooth?” he asked, as his knuckles brushed down her cheek. “Or when her lips are perfectly shaped?” He traced his forefinger along the line of her upper lip. “Just waiting to be kissed.”

“You seem quite skilled at this,” Francesca breathed, her eyes fluttering closed. Tendrils of heat were stealing through her, awakening nerve endings all through her body.

“What should I do next?” He lowered his head, so close now that she could feel his warm breath against her cheek, and the delicate touch made her shiver.

“A kiss on the hand is never amiss.”

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, pressing his mouth gently against the back of her hand. Then he turned it over and laid another kiss in her palm. His mouth was warm and soft upon her flesh, and at the touch, the strands of heat that were curling through her tangled and pooled deep in her abdomen.