The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp

at her. She blushed up to her hairline, grateful for the concealing darkness. She hoped she had not been too obvious. Rochford had always been annoyingly quick to notice things, and if he realized what she was about, he might very well order her to cease.

      Deciding that the ploy of visiting another box had been a dismal failure, she remained seated during the next intermission and made a last attempt to engage Althea and Rochford in conversation. As it turned out, it was she and Rochford who did most of the talking, though she did her best to turn the discussion in Althea’s direction whenever she could. When Rochford brought up a composer, Francesca asked Althea what she thought of him. When he mentioned going to his manor house in Cornwall, Francesca sought Althea’s opinion of the loveliness of the area. And when Francesca and Rochford drifted off into a conversation about Francesca’s old bay at Redfields, she turned to Althea and inquired whether she liked to ride.

      It was a wearing way to conduct a conversation, and, frankly, Francesca could not tell that it did any good. Althea answered her questions, but her contributions were not particularly enlivening, and as a result the conversation did not flow naturally, but bumped and shuddered along.

      Francesca could not imagine that Rochford felt any particular inclination to seek out Lady Althea’s company in the future, but she was determined that if he did, he would be entirely on his own in the matter. She had no desire to spend another evening trying to milk an enjoyable conversation out of the woman.

      When the play was over, Rochford escorted the women home, politely walking Althea to her door, then returning to the carriage to see Francesca back to her house. The butler answered the door, and then, with a bow, took himself off to bed. Francesca turned to Rochford.

      She was suddenly, excruciatingly, aware of the dark silence of the house around them. They were alone for the first time that she could remember—not really alone, of course, but as much so as anyone could possibly be. The servants were all upstairs in their beds asleep. A candelabra set on the table in the hallway provided the only light.

      The silence was profound, almost a presence in itself, and darkness hovered at the edges of the candlelight. She looked up into Rochford’s face, feeling again the odd tingling of awareness that had affected her the night of the dance.

      Her stomach plummeted, however, when she saw his expression. His brow was knitted in a frown, and his mouth was a straight line. His dark eyes glittered in the dim light.

      “What the devil do you think you are doing?”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      FRANCESCA BLINKED, for a moment too taken aback to think. Then she lifted her chin and responded in a glacial tone, “I beg your pardon? I am sure I haven’t the slightest notion what you are talking about.”

      “Please. That innocent expression may work with others, but not with someone who’s known you since you were in short skirts. I am talking about your little performance tonight.”

      “Performance? Don’t you think you are being a trifle dramatic?”

      “No. What else would you call it? First you contrived for the three of us to attend the theater tonight—even though you are not friends with her.”

      “How can you know that?”

      Rochford shot a level look at her. “Francesca…really, give me a bit more credit than that. Then, when we got to the theater, it was ‘What do you think about this, Lady Althea?’ and ‘How do you like that composer, Lady Althea?’ Not to mention your plan to leave the two of us together while you went to call on the Eversons. Admit it. You were practically throwing Althea Robart at me this evening. I must say, it isn’t like you to be so ham-fisted.”

      “Yes, well, if the woman had even an inkling how to carry on a conversation with a man, I wouldn’t have had to be,” Francesca retorted in an aggrieved tone.

      “Why? Don’t tell me that she has set her cap for me. I cannot imagine her unbending enough to pursue anyone. Nor can I envision her mother seeking anyone else’s help, either.”

      “No. No one asked me to. Althea is not trying to catch you. I think that should be clear.”

      “Again I ask, why?”

      Francesca simply looked at him for a long moment, wondering whether there was any good way out of this situation. At her delay, Rochford crossed his arms and cocked a brow at her.

      “Don’t bother to think up a lie. We both know I shan’t believe it.”

      She grimaced. “I daresay not. Can you not accept that I was simply trying to do you a favor?”

      “By saddling me with a woman who can recite her entire family tree for five generations back?” he retorted.

      “I did not realize she was so boring,” Francesca admitted. “I am not well acquainted with the woman.”

      “Yet you thought she was the perfect woman for me?”

      “No. I thought she was only one of a number of candidates.”

      He stared, seemingly bereft of speech. Finally, speaking each word with great care, he said, “Why would you have any candidates?”

      “Well, really, Rochford, it is time that you married. You are thirty-eight, after all, and as the Duke of Rochford, you have a duty to—”

      “I am well aware of my age, thank you,” he ground out. “As well as of my many duties as the Duke of Rochford. What I fail to understand is why you thought I was seeking a wife. Or why you should be the one to provide me with prospects!”

      “Rochford!” Francesca cast a glance up the staircase. “Shh. The servants will hear.”