The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp

She must tell him…but how?

      “I think that you are about to get your chance,” Irene told her dryly.

      “What?” Francesca looked up.

      And there, climbing the stairs toward them, was the Duke of Rochford.

      CHAPTER TWO

      FRANCESCA FROZE, aware of a craven impulse to flee. But she could not, of course. Rochford was looking straight at her. She could not turn away without being rude. Besides, Irene was right: this was her opportunity to explain everything to him.

      So she stood her ground and smiled as the duke approached them.

      “Lady Haughston. Lady Radbourne,” he greeted them, sketching a bow.

      “Rochford. How nice to see you,” Francesca replied.

      “It has been a long time. I have seen you at few parties.”

      She might have known that he would notice. Rochford rarely missed anything. “I…have been resting a bit since Callie’s wedding.”

      “Have you been ill?” He frowned.

      “Oh. No. No, not at all. Um…” Francesca sighed inwardly. Hardly two sentences spoken, and already she was floundering.

      She found it the most difficult thing to lie to Rochford. Even the most innocuous social lie that she might blithely relate to anyone else seemed to curdle and die on her tongue when she was faced with his dark gaze. She felt sometimes as though his eyes could look deep inside her, see to the very depths of her soul.

      She glanced away from those eyes now as she went on. “I was not ill, merely…tired. The Season can grow somewhat wearying, even to me.”

      She had the distinct feeling that he did not believe her. He studied her for one long moment more, then gracefully replied, “None would know it, I assure you. You are as radiant as always.”

      Francesca acknowledged his compliment with a gracious nod, and he turned toward Irene. “As do you, my lady. Marriage seems to suit you.”

      “It does,” she admitted, sounding faintly surprised.

      “Is Radbourne here this evening?” he asked. “I am surprised not to find him by your side.”

      “That is because Irene deserted him,” Francesca put in, grinning.

      “’Tis true,” Irene agreed. “I abandoned him to Lady Pencully’s clutches and fled like a coward for the stairs.”

      “Good Gad, is Aunt Odelia here?” he asked, casting an alarmed glance toward the ballroom below.

      “Yes, but she will not climb the stairs,” Francesca replied. “So long as you stay up here, you are safe.”

      “I would not be so sure. The woman seems to have become positively reinvigorated since her eightieth birthday ball,” Rochford responded.

      Irene glanced over at Francesca, then said lightly, “I suppose I had better play the good wife and go rescue Gideon before his patience grows too thin and he says something to her that he will later regret.”

      Francesca quelled the spurt of panic that rose in her at her friend’s departure. She had conversed with the duke hundreds of times; it was absurd that it should suddenly seem so awkward.

      “How is the duchess?” she asked once Irene had left, for want of anything better to say.

      “Grandmother is well and enjoying Bath. She keeps threatening to come for at least a few weeks of the Season, but I think she will not. She is too relieved at no longer having to do her duty by chaperoning Callie.”

      Francesca nodded. That seemed to be the end of that topic. She shifted nervously and glanced out over the ballroom again. She had to tell him, she knew. She could not continue in this way, being shy and uncomfortable around him. Over the past few years, she had become accustomed to having him as something of a friend again. She looked forward to conversing with him at parties; it was always enlivening to bandy words with him, and his wit made even the most boring gathering tolerable. And she could count on him for a waltz, which meant that at least one dance of the evening would be effortless, like floating around the floor.

      She had to make amends. She had to confess and ask his forgiveness, no matter how much the thought of it frightened her.

      She glanced up and found him watching her, his dark eyes thoughtful. He knew, she thought; the man was simply too discerning. He knew that there was something wrong with her. With them.

      “Perhaps you would care to take a stroll with me,” he told her, offering her his arm. “I understand that the Whittingtons’ gallery is quite enjoyable.”

      “Yes. Of course. That sounds quite pleasant.”

      Francesca placed her hand upon his arm and walked with him through the double doors into the long hallway running along one side of the Whittington mansion. The gallery was hung with portraits of ancestors and a variety of other subjects, including a favorite hunter or dog of one Whittington or another throughout the centuries. They strolled along, now and then glancing at the pictures, but with little real interest. There was no one else about, and their steps echoed hollowly on the polished parquet floor. Silence stretched between them, growing deeper and more awkward with each passing moment.

      Finally Rochford said, “Have I offended you past remedying?”

      “What?” Startled, Francesca’s eyes flew to his face. “What do you mean?”

      He stopped and turned to face her. His expression was solemn, his straight black eyebrows drawn together harshly. “I mean that while ’tis true that I have seen you at few parties in the past weeks, you have been at some of them—and whenever you saw me, you immediately turned and disappeared into the crowd. And if, by chance, you came upon me unexpectedly, with no way to avoid the encounter, you seized the first opportunity to make your excuses and leave. I can only assume that you have not forgiven me for what I said to you that day, when I found out that Bromwell had been courting Callie.”

      “No!” Francesca protested, laying a hand earnestly upon his arm. “That is not true. I did not blame you. Truly I did not. I… Perhaps you were a bit harsh. But you apologized. And, clearly, you had reason to be concerned. But I could not betray Callie’s trust, and she had the right to choose her own future.”

      “Yes. I know. She is quite independent.” He sighed. “I realize that you had little choice, and I had no reason to expect you to be able to control my sister. God knows, I had poor enough luck at it. And once I was over my anger, I knew I was in the wrong. I apologized, and I thought you had accepted my apology. But then you began hiding from me.”

      “No, truly…” Francesca told him. “I did accept your apology, and I am not angry with you about what you said. I have seen your temper a time or two before, you know.”

      “Then why are you upset with me?” he asked. “Even at Callie’s wedding, I saw you but little.” He stopped abruptly, then asked, “Was it because of that scene at the hunting lodge? Because I—” He hesitated.

      “Because you knocked your sister’s future husband to the floor?” Francesca asked, a smile hovering at the corners of her lips. “Because the two of you were brawling through the parlour, knocking vases off tables and overturning chairs?”

      Rochford started to protest, then stopped, his own mouth twitching into a small smile. “Well…yes. Because I was acting like a ruffian. And making a general fool of myself.”

      “My dear Duke,” Francesca drawled, laughter glimmering in her eyes, “whyever should I have taken exception to that?”

      He let out a short laugh. “Well, at least you have the good grace not to say that it is nothing unusual. Although I might point out that while I may have been a ruffian, at least I was not telling enormous clankers, as were some of us.” He shot her a droll look.

      “Clankers!”