The Courtship Dance (9 page)

“Being resigned hardly seems a good foundation for marriage,” Francesca blurted out. She was, she realized, perversely disheartened by the duke’s words.

Rochford quirked an eyebrow at her. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

“No! I didn’t want you to drag yourself to the altar. I—I wanted to make you happy.”

As soon as she said the words, she realized that they sounded all wrong. She glanced away, hoping that she did not appear as flushed as she felt.

“What I mean,” she continued, “is that I hoped that marrying would provide you with happiness. That it would change your life for the better.”

Quietly he asked, “Did marriage make you happier?”

Francesca shot a flashing look at him, then turned away. Tears clogged her throat. She would not,
could
not, talk to him about
that.
Swallowing hard, she gave a shrug and turned a bright smile toward Rochford.

“Ah, but we are discussing you and your happiness, not me.” Quickly, she moved on. “What are you planning to do, now that you have decided on marriage?”

“I have already taken the first step,” he informed her, his eyes steady on her face. “I came to you.”

Francesca stared at him speechlessly for a moment. “I—I beg your pardon?”

“What better person to guide me through this project than the woman who has brought about so many successful matches?” Rochford asked. “I thought that you could help me find my bride.”

“But I—” She felt blank and strangely weak. Whatever she had thought Rochford might say when he arrived at her house today, this certainly had not been it. “I fear that my accomplishments have been greatly exaggerated.”

“If even half of what people say you have done is true, then you must be quite skilled in the matter,” Rochford protested. “Certainly you did well by my cousin. I don’t know when I have seen a more happily married man. And your brother and his wife are quite happy. I saw them only recently, and they are obviously still as much in love as the day they married—perhaps even more so.”

“Those are unusual cases. And I cannot take credit for—for the love that they have found.”

“But for you, none of them would be together today,” he pointed out. “Nor my sister and Bromwell.”

“You cannot be pleased about that.”

“As long as Callie is happy, I am well pleased.” He paused, then went on. “In any case, you have already done a great deal of the work. If I understood you correctly last night, you have come up with several prospective brides for me.”

“You are not shamming?” Francesca studied his face earnestly. “Do you really want me to help you?”

“That is why I am here.”

She gazed at him for another long moment, then gave a little nod. “All right, then. I will help you.”

“Excellent.”

A barouche was approaching from the opposite direction, and when it pulled close, they could see that the open carriage held Lady Whittington and her bosom friend Mrs. Wychfield. Since the Whittington barouche stopped beside them, Rochford could not pass with only a polite nod, but had to stop and exchange a greeting. Naturally, they must then spend a few minutes commenting on Lady Whittington’s ball, how splendid it had been and how much everyone had enjoyed it, followed by polite inquiries as to the other members of everyone’s families.

Francesca could feel the women’s eyes fixed on her speculatively, and she knew that soon the news that she had been riding through the park in the duke’s phaeton would be circulating throughout the
ton.
Even though
everyone knew that they were well-acquainted, it did not take more than a change in the routine, such as this, to set the gossips’ tongues wagging.

Finally they were able to take their leave, and the duke set his team in motion, taking up their conversation again. “Tell me, how many candidates have you found for me?”

“What? Oh. Well, I had narrowed it down to three young women.”

“As few as that?” He cast her an amused glance. “Am I so unpopular?”

Francesca rolled her eyes. “You know it is exactly the opposite. There are scores of women who would love to be chosen as your fiancée. But I had to be rather choosey.”

“And what were your criteria, if I may ask?”

“Naturally, they must be pleasing in face and form.”

“I am fortunate that you took that into account.”

Francesca cast him a speaking glance and continued. “They must come from excellent families, though I did not think that wealth would be a matter of concern for you.”

He nodded. “You are correct, as always.”

“I also thought that it would be good if they were intelligent enough to converse with you and your friends, although I do not imagine that you would expect them to be as learned as your scholarly circle. They should also have the social skills necessary to be a hostess at the sorts of dinners and parties that a duchess must
give. They have to be able to converse with important guests. And they must have the knowledge and ability to oversee a large staff of servants—indeed, the staffs of several houses. Then there are the other duties that are expected of a duchess, such as dealing with your tenants’ families and the local gentry at your various estates. And, of course, they must be pleasing to you personally.”

“I had wondered if that entered into your equations,” he murmured.

“Really, Rochford, don’t be absurd. That is the most important thing. She must not be vain and self-centered. She must not be unkind or flighty or frequently sick.”

The duke chuckled. “I am beginning to understand why you came up with so few prospects.”

Francesca laughed with him. “I know that your standards are high.”

“Yes, they always have been,” he agreed.

The implication of his words hit her—he was implying, was he not, that
she
had met his high standards—and she cast a quick glance up at him. She found his gaze on hers, and she blushed, feeling foolishly pleased and a little flustered.

She cleared her throat and looked away, suddenly unsure what else to say.

“Your first pick, obviously, was Althea Robart,” he said, breaking the awkwardness of the moment. “One has to wonder why.”

“She is quite attractive,” Francesca pointed out, defending her selection. “Also, her father is the Earl of Bridcombe, and her sister is married to Lord Howard. Her family is quite good, and she doubtless has an understanding of the tasks she would have to perform as the Duchess of Rochford.”

“Rather arrogant, though,” he commented, casting her a droll look.

“I assumed that would suit a duchess well enough,” Francesca retorted.

“Mmm, but perhaps it would not suit the duke.”

Francesca could not keep her lips from curling up into a smile. “All right. I will admit that Lady Althea was a poor choice.”

“Yes. I suggest that we leave her out of any future considerations. Or perhaps hold her in reserve, if I should become desperate.” He paused for a moment, then added, “No, I fear not even then. I do not think that even my sense of duty to my heirs could compel me to endure a lifetime of Lady Althea.”

“Consider Lady Althea crossed off the list. What about Damaris Burke? She is intelligent and competent. Her mother is dead, so Lady Damaris has been acting as Lord Burke’s hostess for the past two years. As he is in government, she is accustomed to handling important people and putting on important parties.”

“Hmm. I have met Lady Damaris.”

“What did you think of her?”

“I’m not sure. I had not really looked at her with an
eye to her being my duchess, you see. I did not dislike her, as I recall.”

“All right, then we shall consider her. Agreed?”

He nodded.

“The last one is Lady Caroline Wyatt.”

The duke frowned, thinking. “I do not believe I am acquainted with her.”

“This is her first year out.”

Rochford looked at her, surprise and doubt mingling in his face. “A girl fresh from the schoolroom?”

“She is a trifle young,” Francesca admitted. “But her family is actually the best of all three. Her father is only a baronet, but her mother is the youngest of the Duke of Bellingham’s daughters, and her grandmother on her father’s side was a Moreland.”

“Impressive.”

“I have been around the girl, and she does not seem to be a giddy or silly sort. I have not once heard her giggle or fly into raptures.”

“Very well. I will consider her.” He paused for a moment. “But I must say, it does seem that you have chosen rather young women for me. I am, if you will remember, thirty-eight years old.”

Francesca pulled a face at him. “Indeed, yes. You are near decrepit, I am sure.”

“Are any of them over twenty-one?”

“Lady Damaris is twenty-three, and Althea is twenty-one.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Well, it is harder to find the best prospects among women who are older,” Francesca defended herself. “If they are lovely and accomplished and all that one could want, they are often already married.”

“There are widows who are nearer my age,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but—I did not consider any widows as prospective brides for you.”

“Why not? Some widows are the most beautiful women in the
ton.
”

Francesca flushed. Did he mean her? If this were any other man, she would have been certain that he was flirting with her. But Rochford did not flirt—certainly not with her.

And yet…she could remember a time when he
had
flirted with her—in a very understated Rochford style, of course. Still, he had looked at her in a certain way as he teased her, a way that made her feel warm and excited inside—very much the way she felt right now.

She hoped she did not appear as flustered as she felt. “Surely it is important to a man that his wife not have been married before. That she be…” Francesca blushed even harder. It was beyond embarrassing to have to speak to Rochford, of all people, about such things. Finally she finished in a low voice, “That she be untouched.”

He did not respond, and she rushed on. “Besides, there is the matter of children. A younger woman, after all, has more—more time…” She limped to a halt.

“Ah, yes, the all-important heir,” he said dryly. “I had forgotten. We are choosing a broodmare, not a companion for me.”

“No! Sinclair!” Francesca turned to him, concern overcoming her embarrassment. “’Tis not like that.”

“Is it not?” His smile was wry. “At least I wrung a ‘Sinclair’ from your lips.”

She glanced away again, unable to hold his gaze. Why did she feel so disconcerted around him today? One would have thought she was a schoolgirl, the way she was acting. “It
is
your name,” she pointed out a little breathlessly.

“Yes, but I have not heard it on your lips in many years.”

There was a tone in his voice that made her heart flutter in her chest. She raised her eyes to his and found herself caught by their dark depths. She remembered another time when she had looked up at him, feeling as if she might drown in his eyes. She had uttered his given name then, too, had whispered “Sinclair” as if it were a prayer, and he had kissed her, pulling her hard against him and seizing her lips like a man starved. The memory of that kiss sent a stroke of heat through her, and her pulse began to pound in her throat.

Francesca tore her eyes away from his. Struggling to keep her voice even, she said, “There are—I did consider two more women. They are both older than the others.”

“Indeed?” The odd note was missing from his voice
now; he spoke in his usual dry, faintly amused tone. “And who are these ancients?”

“Lady Mary Calderwood, Lord Calderwood’s eldest daughter. She is, I think, somewhere in her midtwenties. And Lady Edwina de Winter, Lord de Winter’s widow. She is a trifle older than that. Lady Mary is quite intelligent, I believe, though a bit shy. It is for that reason that I did not include her earlier.”

“I will be happy to meet both of them,” he told her. “Now, tell me, how do you propose I interview these candidates? Do you plan to stage a house party for all of them, as you did with Gideon? It is rather handy, I must say, collecting them all in one spot. Though I am not so sure that I should want to have to make my choice at the end of the two weeks.”

“No, I see no need for that. There were special circumstances, as you know, with Lord Radbourne, which hardly apply in this case. It is not necessary, anyway. It is the Season, after all, and everyone is here in London. I am sure it will not be difficult to arrange for you to meet them while you are out and about. Although…” She paused, thinking. “Why don’t you come to the party that I am holding for Sir Alan’s daughter next week? Your presence there would help establish Harriet in Society, and at the same time you would have a chance to talk with Lady Damaris and the others.”

“Very efficient of you.”

Francesca shot him a wary glance, not sure what his dry tone indicated. But he only smiled at her and added,
“I will put myself in your hands. I am sure that you will come up with the perfect woman for me.”

“I shall do my best,” she answered.

“Good. Then let us move on to more amusing topics. Have you heard about Sir Hugo Walden’s challenge to Lord Berry’s youngest?”

“To race their curricles?” Francesca chuckled. “I had indeed. I was told it ended with Sir Hugo landing in a henhouse.”

Rochford laughed. “No, no, that was some poor parson who got caught between them on the road. Sir Hugo wound up in the duck pond, I believe.”

The rest of the drive passed in cheerful conversation, talking of the latest gossip and dissecting the political news, then moving on to the changes that Francesca’s brother was instituting at Redfields. The awkwardness that had cropped up during their earlier conversation fled entirely, and Francesca found herself laughing and chatting freely.

It had been a long time, she thought, since she had spoken with Rochford with such a lack of restraint. In her earlier years, he had been not only the man she loved, but also a close friend. It had been the absence of his companionship as much as her shattered heart that had darkened the first years without him. She did not know that she had ever felt the same closeness and affection with anyone else.