are a vision, as always, Lady Haughston,” Rochford told her.
“A vision?” Francesca arched one delicately curved eyebrow. “I notice you do not say a vision of what. One could suppose almost anything to end that sentence.”
Something glinted in his eyes, but he said in a neutral tone, “No one with eyes to see could suppose that aught but beauty would apply to you.”
“An excellent recovery,” Francesca told him.
Sir Lucien leaned in toward Francesca, saying in a low voice, “Don’t look. Lady Cuttersleigh is approaching.”
But his warning was too late, for a high-pitched woman’s voice cut sharply through the air. “Your Grace! What a delight it is to see you.”
A tall, almost skeletally thin woman made her way toward them, her short, rotund husband chugging along in her wake. The daughter of an earl, Lady Cuttersleigh had married a mere baron and was never averse to reminding him and the rest of the world that she had married beneath her. She considered it her duty to marry off her gaggle of daughters to someone worthy of intermingling with her own elevated bloodline. However, given the fact that her daughters strongly resembled her in both face and form, as well as overweening pride, she had found it a difficult proposition. She was one of the stubborn few who had not given up on snaring the Duke of Rochford for one of her girls.
A pained expression touched Rochford’s face briefly before he turned and executed a perfect bow toward the approaching couple. “My lady. Cuttersleigh.”
“Lady Haughston.” Lady Cuttersleigh acknowledged Francesca and gave a brief, uninterested nod toward Sir Lucien, whose title fell far below her expectations, before she turned back to Rochford, smiling. “Delightful party, is it not? The party of the Season, I vow.”
Rochford said nothing, only giving her a quizzical smile.
“I wonder how many ‘parties of the Season’ there will be this year,” Sir Lucien commented drily.
Lady Cuttersleigh favored him with a look of dislike. “There can be only one,” she told him repressively.
“Oh, I should think there will be at least three,” Francesca put in. “There is the one with the greatest attendance, which I think this one will surely win. But then there is the party of the year based on how lavishly it is decorated.”
“And the one based on who attends,” Sir Lucien added.
“Well, I know that my Amanda will be sorry that she missed this one,” Lady Cuttersleigh said.
Francesca and Lucien exchanged a glance, and Francesca unfurled her fan and raised it to her face to hide her smile. Whatever the subject, Lady Cuttersleigh could be relied upon to somehow bring her daughters into the conversation.
Lady Cuttersleigh went on to describe in detail the fever that had laid low two of her daughters and the touching way her eldest, Amanda, had stayed home to watch over them. Francesca could not help but consider what it said about the woman’s own maternal instincts that it had been her daughter who had felt the responsibility to remain with the sick girls.
She continued to babble about the virtues of Amanda until at last Rochford cut in to say, “Yes, my lady, it is clear that your eldest daughter is a saint. Indeed, I imagine that naught but the most virtuous of men would satisfy as a husband for her. May I suggest the Rev. Hubert Paulty? An excellent fellow, and quite suitable for her.”
For once Lady Cuttersleigh was reduced to silence. She gazed at the Duke in consternation, blinking rapidly as she tried to recover from this blow to her efforts. Rochford, however, was too quick for her.
“Lady Haughston, I believe you promised to introduce me to your esteemed cousin,” he went on smoothly, offering Francesca his arm.
Francesca cast him a laughing glance, but said in a demure voice, “Of course. If you will excuse us, my lady. My lord. Sir Lucien.”
Sir Lucien leaned in close to her, whispering, “Traitor.”
Francesca could not hold back a small chuckle as she walked away on Rochford’s arm. “My esteemed cousin?” she repeated. “Pray, do you mean the one who is far too fond of his port? Or the one who fled to the Continent after a duel?”
A faint smile curved the Duke’s dark features. “I meant, fair lady, anyone of any sort who can get me away from Lady Cuttersleigh.”
Francesca shook her head. “Dreadful woman. She is ensuring her daughters’ destinies as spinsters, the way she goes about trying to marry them off. Not only is she horridly ham-handed about pushing them on people, her expectations far exceed the girls’ possibilities.”
“You, I understand, are an expert on such matters,” Rochford said in a faintly teasing tone.
Francesca glanced at him, her eyebrows lifting. “Indeed?”
“Oh, yes. I have heard that you are the one to consult on one’s foray into the marriage mart. One can only wonder why you have not ventured into the lists again yourself.”
Francesca released his arm and turned aside, looking out once again over the crowd below. “I find that the status of a widow suits me quite well, Your Grace.”
“Your Grace?” he repeated quizzically. “After so many years? I perceive that I have once more offended you. It is, I fear, something I am quite prone to.”
“Yes, you do seem to be adept at it,” Francesca replied lightly. “But you have not offended me. However, one cannot help but wonder…are you asking for my help?”
He let out a laugh. “No, indeed. Merely making conversation.”
Francesca turned to study the Duke’s face. She wondered why he had brought up the subject. Could it be that there were rumors about her matchmaking efforts? Over the past few years, she had come to the aid of more than one parent struggling to get his or her daughter into a successful marriage. There had always been a gift of gratitude from the mother or father, of course, after Francesca had taken the daughter under her wing and guided her through the tricky shoals of Society’s waters and into the arms of the proper husband. But such gifts had always been dealt with most discreetly by both parties, and Francesca did not know how word could have leaked out that a certain silver epergne or pigeon’s-blood ruby ring had found its way to the pawnbroker’s shop.
Rochford returned her gaze, and Francesca saw the spark of curiosity begin in his eye. She said quickly, “No doubt you find such a skill quite negligible.”
“No, indeed. I have met too many formidable mothers bent on making their daughter a duchess to discount matchmaking efforts.”
“It is appalling, really,” Francesca went on, “how many of those mothers go about the matter in precisely the wrong way. Not just Lady Cuttersleigh. Look at those girls.”
She nodded toward a group below them, standing beside a potted palm. A middle-aged woman, dressed all in purple, stood beside two young women, both clearly her daughters, given the unfortunate similarities of their features.
“Invariably, women who haven’t the faintest idea how to dress well themselves insist on choosing their daughters’ clothes,” Francesca commented. “Look
