and moved on, followed by his daughter, whose smile was so fixed, Frances wondered what dire threat Marcus had made to produce it.
‘The Countess of Corringham,’ her ladyship said, suddenly looming large in Frances’s vision. ‘But I believe you are acquainted.’
‘Indeed.’ He bowed. ‘How do you do, Countess?’
She managed a smile, wondering if it looked as fixed as Lavinia’s. ‘I am very well, your Grace.’
‘The Countess is the reason for our little gathering,’ Lady Willoughby went on. ‘The guest of honour, you might say, excepting your good self, of course.’
‘Indeed?’ he said again, lifting a well-arched eyebrow at Frances, a gleam of humour lighting his dark eyes. It totally bewildered her. Had he forgotten? Or was he, like her, pretending nothing had ever happened between them? ‘I am sure it is well deserved.’
Lady Willoughby appeared not to notice as she turned away and clapped her hands for attention. ‘My friends,’ she said. ‘This is not a formal occasion, so there will be no speeches, but I particularly wanted you to be the first to see this.’ And with that, she tugged the cover off the portrait. ‘It is the most recent work of the Countess of Corringham.’
There was silence for about two seconds, two seconds in which Frances wished the floor would open up and swallow her, and then there was a burst of applause which was soon taken up by everyone, followed by a babble of conversation. ‘She has caught you to the life, Emma.’
‘The flesh tones are superb.’
‘You can pick out every individual hair.’
‘The hands are good too. Not everyone can portray hands.’
‘I am flattered,’ Frances said, rising to receive the plaudits. It brought her standing uncomfortably close to the Duke.
‘Flattered?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Methinks it is you who do the flattering.’
‘Why not? It does no harm,’ she whispered back, trying to ignore the frisson of something she refused to identify that coursed through her at his nearness. Seventeen years fled away as if they had never been. Mentally she shook herself, reminding herself that water never flowed backwards.
‘I believe it harms you.’
‘Fustian!’ Just in time she stopped herself adding, ‘And what does it matter to you what I do?’ The last thing she wanted was a personal altercation with him.
‘Are you so in need of funds that you must produce insipid stuff like this?’ He nodded towards the portrait.
‘Lady Willoughby is delighted with it. And that means others…’
‘Will want to fling money at you too.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘No, but I thought you had more spirit.’ He smiled at their hostess, who was bearing down upon them.
‘Lord Loscoe,’ she gushed. ‘What do you think? Is it not an excellent likeness?’
He bowed. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said, ignoring Frances’s splutter of laughter at his duplicity. ‘Lady Corringham is indeed very talented.’
‘Have you ever sat for your portrait, my lord?’ her ladyship asked.
‘Not for very many years,’ he answered carefully. ‘It can be a very tedious business, and I have so little time for it.’
‘Ah, but now you are in town, you must surely have some leisure. I can thoroughly recommend her ladyship.’
‘Oh, please, Lady Willoughby,’ Frances put in. ‘You are putting me to the blush.’
‘Oh, you are far too old to be blushing,’ the woman said tactlessly, a statement which made the Duke chuckle. Frances felt colour flood her face, which only proved how wrong her ladyship was. ‘Now, my lord, you must come and talk to my other guests. And Felicity is dying to make the acquaintance of Lady Lavinia.’
He bowed to Frances. ‘My lady, your obedient.’ And then he was gone, followed by his daughter.
Frances watched his tall straight back moving away from her and then her attention was taken by other people who wanted to talk to her about having their portraits painted. She was kept busy for several minutes, making appointments to meet them again to talk about their requirements, and she did not see the Duke and his daughter leave. A few minutes later she left herself.
As a business exercise, the afternoon had been a great success, though she was left wondering why her ladyship was so enthusiastically promoting her. Did she think she needed the money? But she did, didn’t she? Every penny.
That evening she attended a concert arranged by Mrs Georgiana Butterworth in aid of the war orphans, one of her favourite charities, and enjoyed the music immensely. She had not given the Duke of Loscoe another thought and was taken aback to see him during the interval talking animatedly to one of the guests. He was wearing an evening suit of black cloth and a pristine white cravat, simple clothes, but superbly cut, she admitted to herself, while wondering if he was truly interested in war orphans or was simply doing the rounds in search of his new wife, though the company could hardly be classed as the haut monde and not one of the worthy ladies present seemed to qualify. They were either married, too old, or not from the upper echelons of Society and he would never marry so far beneath him, as he had proved seventeen years before.
It was some moments before he saw her and then his eyebrows rose in surprise as if she was the last person he had expected to see. He excused himself from the matron who was engaging him in conversation and made his way over to her.
‘Countess, I had not anticipated seeing you again so soon.’
‘Nor I you. It is not a gathering I would have thought would interest you.’
‘Why not?’ he asked sharply. ‘The plight of children orphaned by war is a worthy cause and you must think so, too, or you would not be here.’
‘Indeed, I do.’
‘Then we have a mutual interest,’ he said.
She did not reply, and he looked quizzically at her. ‘Do you find that unacceptable, my lady?’ he asked softly.
‘What?’
‘That we are both interested in the orphans and wish to improve their lives.’
‘Not at all.’ She forced herself to ignore the swift beating of her heart. She was behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl and her thirty-five years old in a few weeks! ‘The more help they have the better. Some of them are in dire straits.’
‘Good. I should not like to think my presence in any way deterred you from your good work.’
‘Now why in heaven’s name should it?’ she retorted, her voice rising a fraction. She immediately dropped her tone to add in a hoarse whisper, ‘You are insufferably conceited, if you think that your presence or otherwise makes the slightest difference to me.’
‘Then
