style="font-size:15px;"> A waltz struck up just as they reached the floor, and Rochford swept her into his arms and out to join the dancers. Something fluttered inside her, soft and insistent, and she was suddenly uncertain and nervous, yet almost giddy, as well. She had danced with the duke many times over the course of the past few years, but somehow, in this moment, it felt different, even new. It felt…almost as it had years before.
She was very aware of the strength of his arms encircling her, his warmth, the smell of his cologne mingled with that faint, indefinable scent that was his alone. She remembered how it had been that Boxing Day, at the ball he had given at Dancy Park, when he had taken her into his arms for a waltz, and she had looked up at him and realized that the girlish infatuation she had felt for him for years was something much more. Gazing into the depths of his dark eyes, she had known that she was hopelessly, madly in love with the man. She had been dizzy with excitement, her entire body tingling with awareness of him. He had gazed back down at her and smiled, and in that moment, heat had burst inside her like a sun.
Staring up at him now, Francesca felt color rush to her cheeks at the memory. He looked so much the same; if anything, the years had only added to his handsomeness, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes softening the sharp planes and angles that could make his face appear cold. He had always looked a bit like a pirate, she thought, with his black eyes and black hair, and the high swooping line of his cheekbones. Or at least he appeared that way when his straight black brows drew together, or when he turned his level, icy stare on one. At those moments he seemed a trifle dangerous.
But when he smiled, it was a different matter altogether. His face lit up and his eyes warmed, and his mouth curved in a most inviting way. It was almost impossible not to smile back at him at such a moment, and, indeed, it made one want to do something to bring that smile out again.
She glanced away quickly, embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts. She hoped that he had not seen her blush or had any idea what had brought it about. It was absurd, of course, for her to be nervous or eager. And even more laughable for her thoughts to go skittering to juvenile maunderings about his good looks or appealing smile. She was long past such feelings—for Rochford or anyone else. Whatever girlish love she had felt for the man had died many years ago, burned away by long nights of sleepless anguish, drowned in a sea of tears.
She cast about for some topic to bridge the silence. “Have you heard from Callie?”
“I have had a letter from her. Very brief, I might add. ‘Paris is beautiful. Bromwell is wonderful. Looking forward to Italy.’”
Francesca chuckled. “Surely ’twas not quite so short as that.”
“Oh, no, there was a bit more description of Paris. But all in all, it was a model of brevity. Their plan is to return to London in another week—if, of course, they do not decide to extend the honeymoon.”
“Well, at least it sounds as if she is happy.”
“Yes. I believe she is. Against everything I would ever have thought, Bromwell apparently loves her.”
“It must be lonely for you without her.”
“The house is a trifle quiet,” Rochford admitted with a faint smile. “But I have kept busy.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “What about you?”
“Have I kept busy? Or have I been lonely without Callie?”
“Either. Both. She was with you more than she was at home the last two months before she married.”
“That is true. And I have found that I miss her,” Francesca admitted. “Callie is…well, her leaving creates a larger hole in one’s life than I would have imagined.”
“Perhaps you should take another young lady under your wing,” Rochford suggested. “I have seen a number of women here tonight who could do with an application of your expert touch.”
“Ah, but none of them has asked for my help. It is a bit rude, you know, to offer one’s opinion, unasked, on how another can be improved.”
“I suppose it would be. Although one cannot help but wish that you might say something to Lady Livermore.”
Francesca stifled a giggle, following the direction of Rochford’s eyes to where Lady Livermore was dancing with her cousin. She was wearing her favorite color, a strong puce that would show to advantage on very few women. Lady Livermore was not among them. The color would have been bad enough in itself, but Lady Livermore was of the opinion that if something was good, then more of it was even better. Ruffles festooned the neckline of her dress and the bottom of the skirt, billowing out beneath the scalloped hemline of her over-dress. Even the short puffed sleeves carried two rows of ruffles. Silk rosettes marked the upward points of the scallops, each one centered by a pearl, with a swag of pearls stretching from point to point. A pearl-trimmed toque of matching color sat atop her head.
“Lady Livermore, I fear, is unlikely to change,” Francesca told him. She paused for a moment, then said, “Do you know Lady Althea?”
Francesca could have bitten her tongue as soon as she said it. How could she have blurted that out so clumsily?
“Robart’s daughter?” the duke asked in a surprised tone. “Do you think that she needs help finding a husband?”
“Oh, no! Goodness.” Francesca let out a little laugh. “I am sure Lady Althea has no need for any help from me. I just saw her dancing with Sir Cornelius, that’s all.” She paused, then went on. “I am sure that she has no lack of suitors. She is quite attractive, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Rochford answered. “I suppose she is.”
“And accomplished, too. She plays the piano quite well.”
“Yes, she does. I have heard her play.”
“Have you? She is much admired, I understand.”
“No doubt.”
Francesca was aware of a distinct spurt of annoyance at his reply. She was not sure why the duke’s agreeable admissions of Lady Althea’s excellence irritated her. After all, her job would be much easier if Rochford already found the woman appealing. And surely she was not so vain herself that she could not bear to hear another woman praised. Still, she found it hard not to respond sharply, even though she herself had raised the subject.
She turned the conversation to something else, but later, when the music ended, she subtly maneuvered Rochford into walking off the dance floor in the direction that Lady Althea and her partner had taken. She was lucky enough that Sir Cornelius was taking his leave of the lady as they approached.
“Lady Althea,” Francesca greeted her with apparent pleasure. “How nice to see you. It has been an age since we have met, I vow. You know the Duke of Rochford, do you not?”
Lady Althea offered them a measured smile. “Yes, of course. A pleasure to see you, sir.”
Rochford bowed over her hand, assuring her politely that the pleasure was all his, as Francesca cast an assessing eye over the woman. Lady Althea was tall and slim, and her white silk ball gown was tasteful, if somewhat lacking in dash in Francesca’s opinion. And if her lips were a bit too thin and her face a trifle long for real beauty, she did have a wealth of dark brown hair, and her brown eyes were large and lined with thick, dark lashes. Many men, Francesca was sure, would call her pretty.
