Page 9 of The Courtship Dance

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.

FENTON, 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 remorse 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.

His behavior with her had been quite correct, and the few kisses he had given her had for the most part been chaste. Even so, she remembered, her heart had pounded at his nearness, and her senses had been filled with the sight and sound and scent of him. Once or twice, when he had laid his lips upon hers, she had felt heat surge in him, and he had pulled her close to him. His lips had dug into hers, opening her mouth before he pulled away abruptly, apologizing for his lack of decorum. Francesca had scarcely heard him. She had stared at him, lips open slightly, dazed by the new and strange sensations sizzling along her nerves, the fire exploding in her abdomen, and she had shivered, wanting more.

If she had married Rochford, she might now be surrounded by children, honored by her husband, perhaps even well-loved. She might have been happy.

A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. She opened her eyes and reached up to dash away the wayward drop. What foolishness, she thought. She was no longer a girl of eighteen to be carried away by romantic notions.

The truth was that, though she might have had children, her marriage to Sinclair would probably have been equally unhappy.

When she had fluttered inside at Rochford’s kisses, she had not realized what came after the kisses and embraces, or how those tantalizing sensations would die when she was confronted by the reality of the marital act. If she had married the duke, she told herself, the result would have been the same. The only difference would have been that she turned stiff and cold with Rochford, and it would have been he, not Andrew, who left her bed cursing and calling her Lady Ice—or, rather, the Duchess of Ice, she supposed.