The Courtship Dance (4 page)

“Oh, no, there was a bit more description of Paris. But all in all, it was a model of brevity. Their plan is to return to London in another week—if, of course, they do not decide to extend the honeymoon.”

“Well, at least it sounds as if she is happy.”

“Yes. I believe she is. Against everything I would ever have thought, Bromwell apparently loves her.”

“It must be lonely for you without her.”

“The house is a trifle quiet,” Rochford admitted with a faint smile. “But I have kept busy.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “What about you?”

“Have I kept busy? Or have I been lonely without Callie?”

“Either. Both. She was with you more than she was at home the last two months before she married.”

“That is true. And I have found that I miss her,” Francesca admitted. “Callie is…well, her leaving creates a larger hole in one’s life than I would have imagined.”

“Perhaps you should take another young lady under your wing,” Rochford suggested. “I have seen a number of women here tonight who could do with an application of your expert touch.”

“Ah, but none of them has asked for my help. It is a bit rude, you know, to offer one’s opinion, unasked, on how another can be improved.”

“I suppose it would be. Although one cannot help but wish that you might say something to Lady Livermore.”

Francesca stifled a giggle, following the direction of Rochford’s eyes to where Lady Livermore was dancing with her cousin. She was wearing her favorite color, a strong puce that would show to advantage on very few women. Lady Livermore was not among them. The color would have been bad enough in itself, but Lady Livermore was of the opinion that if something was good, then more of it was even better. Ruffles festooned the neckline of her dress and the bottom of the skirt, billowing out beneath the scalloped hemline of her overdress. Even the short puffed sleeves carried two rows of ruffles. Silk rosettes marked the upward points of the scallops, each one centered by a pearl, with a swag of pearls stretching from point to point. A pearl-trimmed toque of matching color sat atop her head.

“Lady Livermore, I fear, is unlikely to change,” Francesca told him. She paused for a moment, then said, “Do you know Lady Althea?”

Francesca could have bitten her tongue as soon as she said it.
How could she have blurted that out so clumsily?

“Robart’s daughter?” the duke asked in a surprised tone. “Do you think that she needs help finding a husband?”

“Oh, no! Goodness.” Francesca let out a little laugh. “I am sure Lady Althea has no need for any help from me. I just saw her dancing with Sir Cornelius, that’s all.” She paused, then went on. “I am sure that she has no lack of suitors. She is quite attractive, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Rochford answered. “I suppose she is.”

“And accomplished, too. She plays the piano quite well.”

“Yes, she does. I have heard her play.”

“Have you? She is much admired, I understand.”

“No doubt.”

Francesca was aware of a distinct spurt of annoyance at his reply. She was not sure why the duke’s agreeable admissions of Lady Althea’s excellence irritated her. After all, her job would be much easier if Rochford already found the woman appealing. And surely she was not so vain herself that she could not bear to hear another woman praised. Still, she found it hard not to respond sharply, even though she herself had raised the subject.

She turned the conversation to something else, but later, when the music ended, she subtly maneuvered Rochford into walking off the dance floor in the direction that Lady Althea and her partner had taken. She was lucky enough that Sir Cornelius was taking his leave of the lady as they approached.

“Lady Althea,” Francesca greeted her with apparent pleasure. “How nice to see you. It has been an age since we have met, I vow. You know the Duke of Rochford, do you not?”

Lady Althea offered them a measured smile. “Yes, of course. A pleasure to see you, sir.”

Rochford bowed over her hand, assuring her politely that the pleasure was all his, as Francesca cast an assessing eye over the woman. Lady Althea was tall and slim, and her white silk ball gown was tasteful, if somewhat lacking in dash in Francesca’s opinion. And if her lips were a bit too thin and her face a trifle long for real beauty, she did have a wealth of dark brown hair, and her brown eyes were large and lined with thick, dark lashes. Many men, Francesca was sure, would call her pretty.

She cast a sideways glance at Rochford, wondering if he numbered among those men.

Lady Althea inquired politely after Rochford’s grandmother and Francesca’s parents, then moved on to compliment Callie’s wedding. It was the sort of polite chitchat in which Francesca had engaged for much of her life, as had Lady Althea and Rochford, and they
were able to spend several minutes talking about almost nothing at all.

When they had finished praising Lady Whittington’s ball—perhaps her finest, in Lady Althea’s opinion—as well as commiserating over the sad state of Lady Althea’s mother’s nerves, which had kept her in bed tonight instead of attending this event, they moved on to the latest play at Drury Lane, which, as it turned out, none of them had actually seen.

“Why, we must go!” Francesca exclaimed, looking at Lady Althea.

The other woman seemed faintly surprised, but replied only, “Yes, certainly. That sounds quite pleasant.”

Francesca beamed. “And we shall press the duke to take us.” She turned toward Rochford expectantly.

His eyes, too, widened a trifle, but he said evenly, “Of course. It would be my privilege to escort two such lovely ladies to the theater.”

“Wonderful.” Francesca glanced back at Althea, who, she noticed, appeared more eager about the invitation now that the duke was attached to the expedition. “Let us set a night, then. Tuesday, shall we say?”

The other two agreed, and Francesca favored them with a smile. She had, she knew, ridden roughshod over them. She was customarily more deft in her maneuverings than she had been tonight. She was not sure why she had been clumsier than usual, but at least neither of the others looked disgruntled or suspicious.

She made a few more minutes of small talk, then slipped away, leaving Rochford with Althea. She made her way across the room, greeting some and pausing to chat with others. She should have felt a sense of triumph, she knew. She had finally set her plan in motion.

But, in truth, all she felt was the beginning of a headache.

She paused and glanced around her. She saw Irene in the distance, and a moment later she spotted Sir Lucien on the dance floor. She could make her way to Irene or wait for Sir Lucien—or, indeed, she could find half a dozen others to talk to, and there were any number of men who would doubtless ask her for a dance.

However, she found herself unwilling to do any of those things. Her temples were beginning to pound, and she felt bored and curiously deflated. All she really wanted, she reflected, was to go home.

Pleading a headache, which for once was real, she bade good-night to her hostess and went outside to her carriage. The vehicle was ten years old and growing somewhat shabby, but it felt good to be in it, snugly away from the music and lights, and the noise of a multitude of people chattering.

F
ENTON, HER BUTLER
,
was surprised to see her home so early, and immediately hovered over her solicitously. “Are you well, my lady? Have you caught a chill?”

The man had been her butler for over fourteen years;
she had hired him soon after she and Lord Haughston were married. He was intensely loyal, as all her servants were. There had been many times when she had been unable to pay their wages, but Fenton had never grumbled—and she felt sure he had made quick work of any servant who did.

Francesca smiled at the man now. “No. I am fine. Just a bit of a headache.”

Upstairs, she faced the same quizzing from her maid, Maisie, who immediately took down Francesca’s hair and brushed it out, whisked off her dress and helped her into her nightclothes, then bustled out of the room to fetch lavender water to ease her headache. Before long Francesca found herself ensconced in her bed, pillows fluffed behind her, a handkerchief soaked in lavender water stretched across her forehead and the kerosene lamp beside her bed turned to its lowest glow.

With a sigh, Francesca closed her eyes. She was not sleepy. The hour was far earlier than she was accustomed to retiring. And, in truth, the headache had eased as soon as she returned home and let down her hair. Unfortunately, the gloom that had touched her at the ball seemed to have settled in.

She was not a woman who dwelled upon her misfortunes. When her husband had died five years ago, leaving her with little but this town house in London, one of the few things that had not been entailed with his estate, she had not sat about twisting her hands and bemoaning her fate. She had done her best to marshal
her resources and pay off his debts, reducing her own expenses to the bare minimum. She had closed off part of the house and reduced the staff, then proceeded to gradually sell her silver and gold plate, and even her own jewelry. She had also quickly learned to practice economy, turning and refurbishing her old gowns rather than buying new ones, and wearing her slippers until the soles wore through.

Even so, it had become apparent that such economies and her small jointure were not enough to support her and even a small staff for any length of time. Most women in her position would have sought a new husband, but after her experience with the first one, Francesca had been determined not to embark on that course again. Without a marriage to finance her, she knew, the expected course would be to retire to her father’s house, now her brother’s, to live as a dependent relative for the rest of her life.

Instead, she had cast about for some means of bringing in more income. There were no jobs for ladies, of course, except for something like a companion or a governess. Neither 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 re
morse 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.