by Candace Camp
Sinclair might want her, might want the memory of her, at least. And she knew that at this moment she wanted him. If she leaned toward him, if she put her hand upon his chest and gazed up into his eyes, she was certain that he would bend to kiss her. And she was filled with a tingling anticipation, a burgeoning hope that if they kissed again, she would once more know the new and wondrous sensations that had flooded her the other night. For a few minutes she might feel gloriously alive.
But that was a fleeting thing.
What Sinclair needed was a woman he could marry, a woman who could bear his children and share a life with him, who could return his passion and fill his life with love. He did not need a woman who was, at the deepest center of her, barren and cold. And she knew, after her years of childless marriage with Andrew, that she could not give Sinclair either the passion or the children he deserved.
She turned away, saying in a low voice, “It is growing late. I should return home.”
“Francesca…” He reached out, grabbing her wrist. “Wait.”
“No.” She looked back at him, her eyes wide and dark with the turmoil of emotions inside her. “No. We must go.”
She jerked her arm from his grasp and hurried out of the garden.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FRANCESCA DID HER best not to think about what had happened with her and Rochford in his mother’s garden. Anything between them was out of the question. The love she had felt for Sinclair had died long ago, and she was not certain that he had ever really loved her. All they felt now was desire, fueled no doubt by the knowledge that their romance had died an abrupt and bitter death.
The last thing either of them needed at the moment was an affair. Rochford was ready for marriage. And she should be concentrating on doing whatever she could to avoid losing her home to Mr. Perkins. Besides, it was bound to end badly. The flickerings of desire in her would wither and die once they reached the bedchamber, and she would be left shamed before Sinclair. She could not, would not, allow that to happen.
She spent the next morning tallying up the things Maisie and Fenton had managed to sell. Fenton had gotten rid of a number of objects, though he had held stubbornly to the silver flatware and a few large serving dishes, as well as the crystal goblets and china. She had not pressed the issue. The pearls, too, were gone, which cost her a bit of a pang, as well as all the candelabras in the house except those used in the drawing room and formal dining room. Even so, the amount of money they had amassed fell woefully short.
But she had known that would be the case. Perhaps it would be enough money for her to hire a solicitor. The thought of going to court turned her stomach to ice.
The afternoon she spent making plans for Rochford’s party, an occupation that greatly brightened her mood. It was wonderful having a huge room and an unquestioning source of money with which to work, and she let her imagination roam free.
However, she could not help but remember Sinclair’s offhand remark that it would perhaps be an engagement ball, and that thought deflated all her happiness.
The Haversley soiree was to take place the following evening. Francesca had not planned to attend, but she knew that the Calderwoods were certain to be there, as Lady Calderwood and Mrs. Haversley were cousins and friends. If Lady Mary was there, wasn’t it likely that Rochford would attend, as well? If the rumors she had heard were accurate, he certainly would.
She wanted to see them together. She was not sure why, but the idea was persistent. If she watched them, she was certain she could gauge the extent of Rochford’s interest in Mary. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to see that for herself.
Besides, she reasoned, it would be another way to help Harriet if she asked Harriet and her father to accompany her. By the time she went up to dress for supper, she had convinced herself to attend the party, and she sat down and dashed off a note to Sir Alan, asking them to go with her to the soiree the following evening.
As it turned out, she was correct in her supposition that the Calderwoods would be at the party. Francesca felt an unbidden sense of relief when she saw that the duke was not there, but he arrived a few minutes later. Well, at least he had not come with them, she thought.
She managed to keep her eyes on Rochford and Lady Mary throughout most of the evening. She saw them together once in earnest conversation, and later he brought the young girl a cup of punch. Of course, she also saw him talking at one point to Lady de Morgan, and later to Damaris Burke and her father. Indeed, if anything, he talked to Damaris the longest, but Francesca found it difficult to judge the depth of his interest in the girl, since most of the conversation appeared to be between the two men.
She tried not to be obvious about the direction of her attention, but at one point Sir Lucien, standing beside her, commented dryly, “Spying on the duke, are we?”
“What?” Startled, Francesca turned at him. “No, of course not. Don’t be silly.”
However, she feared that her words of innocence were spoiled by the blush she felt creeping up her face. Confirming her fears, Sir Lucien cast her a knowing look.
“Mmm-hmm. Then I am sure that you are not interested in hearing the word going around the clubs.”
“Word? What word? About Rochford?”
“The very same.”
“People love to talk,” Francesca said casually, looking off across the room as if she had no interest in the matter. However, when Lucien did not continue, she finally had to prompt him, “What do they say?”
A little smile touched his lips, but he said only, “Oh, that the duke seems to be in the market for a bride.”
“Really?” She turned to him, abandoning all pretense of disinterest. “Has he said something?”
“I doubt it. He’s a closemouthed one. But it has been noticed that he has been far more social than in other years. Attending parties and plays. Making social calls. Taking rides in the park in the company of ladies. And at those parties, he rarely leaves soon after his arrival, as he has been known to do in the past. He is often seen conversing, not only with friends and family, but with a number of young women—few of whom he even seemed to notice in years past.”
“I see.” Francesca paused. She knew all this, of course. Indeed, she was the one who had urged him to do these things. But somehow this information, coming as it did from general Society gossip, made it seem terribly real—and final. “And do they link him with any name in particular?”
“One I have heard more than once is Lord Calderwood’s youngest.”
“Mary.”
“Yes. She is a shy sort, yet she has been observed in animated conversation with the duke. Moreover, he has called on her and taken her for a ride in his phaeton. All unusual signs of interest.”
Francesca shrugged. “I suppose so. Still, it seems little enough to make people speak of marriage. Rochford is a notorious bachelor.”
“Which is precisely why such small signs are pored over and declared proof of wife-shopping. He is so disinclined to have his name linked with any lady that even the smallest indication is magnified. In one man, being in the market for a wife might involve showering a young girl with attention—flowers, walks, calls, rides, poetry. In Rochford, however, a few visits might suffice.”
“Still, I think people are being a bit premature. It could be only that he is making a bit more effort now that Callie is no longer living at Lilles House. He might want company.”
“Perhaps. But usually that entails spending more time at White’s, not taking up with marriageable young women.”
Francesca nodded a bit absently, turning to glance around. She could not find Rochford now. But she spotted Mary Calderwood sitting against the wall with one of her sisters.
Beside her, Lucien followed her gaze. “Of course, he would have to put up with Calderwood as a father-in-law. That should be sufficient deterrent.”
Francesca smiled. “That hardly seems reason not to choose a girl.”
“I don’t know. One would have
to talk to him if he was one’s father-in-law, and the chap is a dead bore.”
“True. Perhaps you ought to point it out to Rochford.”
He let out a little snort of derision. “You won’t find me attempting to give the duke advice on his love life. Some may find my life of little worth, but it’s quite valuable to me.”
Francesca tilted her head, considering Lady Mary and her sister. “She seems a bit…bland for Rochford, don’t you think?”
Sir Lucien cut his eyes toward her speculatively. “I don’t know. She is shy. Perhaps when one gets to know her, she sparkles with wit.”
“I cannot imagine her being able to meet the duke’s social obligations. She blushes and drops her gaze whenever she is introduced to someone.”
“Becoming modesty, some would say,” Lucien suggested.
“Nor are her looks exactly what one would expect Rochford to be drawn to.”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Sir Lucien drawled.
Francesca turned to find her friend smirking at her. “Nonsense. Why would I be jealous?”
He did not reply, only studied her for a moment, then commented, “There is another name bandied about as the woman who has drawn the duke’s interest.”
“Who?” Francesca asked, surprised.
“Lady Haughston.”
For a moment she simply stared at him, his words having effectively rendered her speechless. Finally, she squeaked out, “Me? How absurd.” She rolled her eyes. “Why, Rochford and I have known each other forever.”
“Knowing one a long time does not necessarily preclude marriage.”
“We are friends, that is all.”
“Neither does being friends rule out marriage. Though one would have to assume that it would not continue after the ceremony.” He paused, then added, “You cannot deny that you and the duke have been a good deal friendlier in recent weeks.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Francesca opened her fan and began to waft it gently. The ballroom had become much warmer, it seemed.
“You have gone for rides in the park, just as Rochford and Lady Mary have.”
“One ride,” Francesca corrected swiftly.
“As Rochford and Lady Mary have,” he repeated. “You have stood up to dance with him several times.”
“It is not unusual for Rochford to ask me for a dance.”
“Three times in two weeks?”
“Have you been keeping count?” Francesca gazed at him in astonishment. “No doubt it is that many only because the duke has been attending so many more balls.”
“And he has called on you a number of times.”
“We are friends. You know that.”
“How often did the duke pay social calls on you in the past several years?”
Francesca searched her mind frantically. “I cannot remember,” she said at last. “But I am certain that he has. Why, in January, he called on me a time or two, I am certain.”
“Sometime other than when his sister was staying with you.”
“Really, Lucien, how can I be expected to remember every little detail?” She gave him an exasperated look. “I do hope you are not fueling such idiotic rumors.”
“Of course not. I would never gossip about you.” Sir Lucien looked wounded. “However, one cannot help but notice things. And one would think that one’s friends might inform one if—”
“Pray do not get on your high ropes, Lucien. I did not tell you because there is nothing to tell. Rochford is not interested in me, and I am not jealous.”
He looked at her for a moment, then gave in. “Very well. I shall just continue to look mysterious and say nothing when people ask me.”
“Lucien! You must disabuse people of the notion!”
“Are you mad? One can scarcely dine out on denials.”
Francesca had to chuckle. Lucien began to talk of the gossip swirling around the Countess of Oxmoor, which centered on her relationship with an artist her husband had hired to paint her portrait. Francesca only half listened to him, once more scanning the room.
She saw that Mary Calderwood was now seated by herself against the wall. It was, Francesca thought, the perfect opportunity to start up a conversation with the girl.
“Pardon me,” she inserted quickly into the first pause in Lucien’s chatter. “I need to speak to someone.”
She left almost as soon as she spoke and did not see the speculative glance her friend cast at her as she wound her way through the throng to the chairs where Mary sat.
She paused a time or two to say hello to someone or compliment a gown or hairdo, not wanting it to seem as though she had made a straight line to the girl. When she felt she was close enough, she turned and let her gaze fall upon Mary as if she had just seen her sitting there.
“Lady Mary,” she said, smiling and going over to her. “How nice to see you again.”
The girl jumped up and bobbed a quick curtsey toward her, saying, “Lady Haughston. Hello. Um, it’s very nice to see you, as well.”
Pink crept along the girl’s cheeks, and she looked down at her shoes.
Francesca pretended not to notice Mary’s awkwardness. How in the world did the girl manage to converse so easily with Rochford, who regularly intimidated people far braver than she? Francesca sat down in the chair next to Mary’s. Mary looked faintly alarmed, but took her seat again. Francesca noticed that the girl sat at the front edge of the chair, as if she might bolt at any second.
“I am so glad you were able to come to my little soiree last week,” Francesca began.
Mary’s blush deepened. “Oh, yes. I beg your pardon—I should have said—That is, I am, um, very glad that you invited me. Us, I mean.”
“I hope that you enjoyed it,” Francesca went on, ignoring Mary’s blushes and stammering about.
“Yes, it was most beautiful.” Mary smiled, looking as though it was rather painful to her, and quickly glanced away.
“I hope your parents are well,” Francesca said, working her way through the customary polite chat.
Mary was of little help, answering in brief phrases and making no attempt to open up any topics of her own. Francesca felt as if she was being cruel to continue talking to the girl when she was so plainly uncomfortable, so she gave up the social niceties and simply jumped into the topic that had brought her over, trusting that Mary would scarcely notice the awkwardness of the transition.
“You seemed to enjoy a nice chat with the Duke of Rochford at my party,” she began.
Mary’s demeanor changed instantly. She lifted her head, her face suddenly glowing, as if lit from within. The lights glinted off the glass of her round spectacles as she said, “Yes. He is the most wonderful man, is he not?”
“Very admirable,” Francesca agreed, suppressing a sigh. Clearly the young lady was topsy-turvy over Rochford. It was no wonder, of course; any girl would be, even a bookish sort. Sinclair was handsome, witty and strong, everything a woman could want in a man.
Mary nodded enthusiastically. “He is ever so kind. Usually—well, I am sure you noticed—I do not talk easily to anyone. But the duke is so pleasant and attentive. Indeed, I scarcely realized that I was conversing until I heard myself babbling away.”
Francesca nodded agreeably, although she could not help but be amazed. She wondered if Caroline Wyatt would agree that the duke was so easy to talk with. But then, she supposed, it made all the difference in the duke’s demeanor if the girl who was talking was one who had caught his fancy.
“You must think me very silly,” Lady Mary went on, smiling in a self-deprecating way. “You have been friends with the duke so long.”
“Yes, indeed, I have.” Francesca forced herself to smile, to ignore the hard knot that had taken hold in her chest. “He is a wonderful gentleman.”
Mary beamed back at her. “I know. I am so lucky.”
Francesca fought to keep the pleasant smile on her face. Already the girl counted herself lucky? Was she that sure of herself and her hold on the duke? I
n another woman, Francesca might have termed the statement foolish arrogance, but Mary Calderwood was not the arrogant sort. No, she was simply too inexperienced to know that she should not speak with such certainty until the duke had actually asked for her hand.
But then, perhaps he had already asked and just had not told her. The thought cut Francesca like a knife.
Suddenly she could not bear to sit there anymore, listening to the happiness bubbling in the young woman’s voice, seeing her eyes shine. She smiled and uttered a few pleasantries that she could not remember afterward, then took her leave.
Francesca walked away from the rest of the crowd, ducking into a hallway. She found an alcove that was blessedly secluded, and she sat down, drawing a deep breath.
Could it be that Lucien was right, and she was jealous? She wanted to laugh and say that it was absurd, as she had told him, but she could not do it. All the time that she had been planning the party for Sinclair, the thought that it would be an engagement ball had preyed on her mind. It was wicked of her, she told herself, not to want Rochford to find love with Mary. There was naught wrong with the girl; she seemed sweet, and the love had been clear to see on her face. That was what Sinclair deserved, a girl who loved him, who would make him a good wife. That was what she wanted for him. Wasn’t it?
Yet neither could she deny the ache in her chest when she thought of the two of them together. She burned with resentment to think of him in love.
She knew it was wrong…and wicked. And she was determined not to feel this way. She would fight the nasty burning inside her. She would not allow herself to be the sort of woman who wished a man to be unhappy simply because she could not have him.
It could be done, surely. Perhaps she was not a deep person, but she was sure that she was not a bad person, either. She had started this whole thing because she wanted Sinclair to be happy, and she still wanted that. If Mary Calderwood was the woman who would make him happy, she would somehow bring herself to be glad.