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!” Francesca tapped his arm lightly with her fan, scarcely noticing that the awkwardness had fallen away from them and she was bantering with him once again in a carefree way. “You are most unjust, sir.”
“Come, now, you cannot deny that you were…shall we say, most inventive that morning?”
“Someone had to bring that mess into some order,” she shot back. “Else we would all have been in a pretty predicament.”
“I know.” His face sobered, and he reached out, surprising her, and took her hand. “I know how much you did for Callie that day. You earned my undying gratitude for your ‘inventiveness.’ And your kind heart. Callie would have been embroiled in a serious scandal if it were not for you.”
Francesca felt her cheeks growing warm under his steady regard, and she glanced away. “There is no need to thank me. Indeed, I am quite fond of Callie. She is much like a sister to me.”
It occurred to her then that her words had been unfortunate, and she blushed even harder. Would Rochford think her presumptuous? Or assume that she was reminding him of the fact that they had nearly become man and wife?
Francesca turned and continued walking. Her hand was curled so tightly around her fan that the sticks were digging into her flesh. Rochford fell in beside her, and for a moment they walked in silence. She could feel him watching her. He knew something was wrong. She was only making it worse and prolonging her own anxiety.
“I have to apologize to you,” she blurted out suddenly.
“Excuse me?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice.
She stopped and turned to him, steeling herself to look up into his face. “I wronged you. Fifteen years ago, when we—” She stopped, feeling as though her throat was closing up on her.
He stiffened slightly, the puzzlement on his face turning to a slight wariness. “When we were engaged?” he finished for her.
Francesca nodded. She found she could not hold his gaze, after all, and she glanced away. “I— At Callie’s wedding, Lady Swithington told me—she said she lied about the two of you. That there was never anything between you.”
When he said nothing, Francesca squared her shoulders and forced herself to look back up at him. His face was still, his gaze shuttered, and she knew no more of what he was thinking or feeling than she had when she was turned away from him.
She swallowed and went on. “I was wrong. I accused you unjustly. I should have listened to you, heard you out. And I—I wanted you to know that I am sorry for what I said to you, for what I did.”
“Well…” He half turned from her, then swung back. “I see.” He was silent for a moment longer, then said, “I am afraid I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t know that there is anything to say,” Francesca admitted, and they turned and began to stroll back the way they had come. “There is nothing to be done. It is all long over. But I could not feel easy without telling you how wrong I was. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wanted you to know that I learned the truth, and that I am sorry for misjudging you. I should have known your character better.”
“You were very young,” he replied mildly.
“Yes, but that is not an adequate excuse, surely.”
“I daresay.”
Francesca cast a sidelong glance at the duke. She had worried that when she told him, he would slice her with a cold, acerbic remark. Or that his eyes would light with fury, and he would storm at her or stalk away. She had not considered that her confession might render him speechless.
They walked through the double doors leading into the upper level of the ballroom and stopped, turning toward each other awkwardly. Francesca’s heart hammered in her chest. She did not want to simply part from him this way, unsure of what he thought and felt, not knowing if he was seething inside or simply relieved to know that she no longer believed him a cad. She could not bear it, she thought, if her confession resulted in the ruination of the delicate friendship they had built over the years.
Impulsively, she asked, “Shall we dance?”
He smiled faintly. “Yes,
