Page 33 of The Courtship Dance

“And I am so happy for you,” Francesca said honestly. “First Constance, and now you—soon there will be infants crawling all over.”

“You must promise to be his godmother—or hers,” Irene said. “I am sure that Constance has already claimed you for the honor, but I insist that you stand for my baby, as well.”

Tears came unbidden to Francesca’s eyes. She hoped that her friend believed that they were simply tears of joy. She was enormously happy for Irene and Gideon, just as she had been for her brother and his wife when Constance had written with the news of her impending pregnancy. But Francesca also knew that deep down inside, her happiness was laced with pain and grief for her own lost child. Part of her cried not for joy, but for the knowledge that she would never herself know motherhood.

“Of course I will. I shall be the most doting godmother you have ever known,” she promised.

“There you are!” A familiar voice came from a few feet to their left, and both women whirled around to see a black-haired beauty in a stunning peacock-blue dress walking toward them, her hand on the arm of a tall, handsome man.

“Callie!” Francesca cried, jumping to her feet and hurrying over to her friend. “Oh, my goodness! I am so surprised to see you! I did not know you were in town yet. Your brother did not say a word about it.”

Francesca reached out and pulled Rochford’s sister into a hug. Callie squeezed her tightly, laughing. “I made him swear not to. I wanted to surprise you. Brom and I arrived just before Sinclair left for your soiree, and I told him that I had to come see you, even if we were not invited. Since we first had to clean up and dress, I made him promise not to tell you before I got here.”

“You are always invited,” Francesca assured her, stepping back to gaze at her friend. “You know that. You look beautiful.”

“’Tis the gown.” Callie’s dark eyes danced merrily. “I bought it in Paris.”

“It is not the gown,” Francesca told her firmly.

“Then perhaps it is married life.” Callie cast a fond look over at her husband.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with a leanly muscled build, Bromwell was one of the best-looking men in the ton. Indeed, only the duke could be said to be more handsome than he. His thick hair was the color of mahogany, and his eyes were a vivid blue. In looks, one could see the resemblance to his striking sister Daphne, but fortunately his character was a far cry from that woman’s.

Because of his sister’s lies, Bromwell had hated the duke for many years, and when he had begun courting Callie, he had acted more out of a desire to upset Rochford than anything else. In the end, though, he had come to realize that nothing else mattered but Callie and the way he felt about her. Even he and the duke had become reconciled to one another after Bromwell learned of his sister’s lies. Of course, that had not happened until after a dustup between the two men, but somehow, in that peculiar way men had, the incident had actually seemed to increase their regard for one another.

The Earl of Bromwell bowed to them in greeting. “Lady Haughston. Lady Radbourne. ’Tis good to see you both looking well.”

“And you, sir,” Francesca greeted the earl warmly. Early in the pair’s relationship, she had feared that Bromwell meant to harm her friend, and she had watched him like a hawk. But clearly the two of them were meant for each other, and Callie was a very happy woman.

“I am pleased to see you again,” Irene added. “I hope that you enjoyed your trip.”

“I think I have seen every cathedral in France and Italy,” Bromwell told them in mock complaint. “I had not realized my wife was so fond of churches.”

“It isn’t the churches, although they are lovely. It is the art,” Callie explained.

The four of them chatted for a few minutes about the sights the couple had seen on their honeymoon. Then Irene led the earl away to say hello to Gideon, and Francesca pulled Callie over to the chairs where she and Irene had been talking earlier.

“You are happy, aren’t you?” Francesca asked, her eyes searching her friend’s face.

“Incredibly, wonderfully happy,” Callie replied. “If I had known how very much I would enjoy married life, I would have wed years ago.”

“I think this particular husband might have had something to do with it.”

Callie beamed. “I love him, Francesca. More than I even realized. Or maybe it is just that it grows every day. I did not think it possible to love him any more than I did the day we married, but I do, somehow.”

“I am so happy for you, my dear.”

She had always been fond of Calandra, whom she had known since the girl was in leading strings, but over the last few months, the two of them had grown very close. Callie had once said that she felt almost as if Francesca were her sister, and Francesca knew that her own feelings about Callie were much the same.

“Tell me the latest news,” Callie urged. “I feel as though I have been gone forever—although it also seems as if the time simply rushed by.”

Francesca began by recounting the latest bits of gossip. There seemed oddly few of them, and she added a little apologetically, “I fear that I have not been to as many parties as usual. I am probably not up on a great deal of the news.”

“Have you been feeling ill?” Callie turned concerned eyes on her.

Francesca’s gaze fell before Callie’s searching one. She was suddenly afraid that Callie would realize how troubled she had been lately. “No, of course not. I am a little tired—I have been so busy with this party.”

“It’s lovely.” Callie glanced around. “Of course, that goes without saying. You have such an elegant touch. Sinclair said your party was for Harriet Sherbourne. Do I know her?”