by Candace Camp
“And can you imagine the duchess ever forgetting herself so much as to indulge in such a plebian emotion? I am sure she married my grandfather only because it was the most advantageous match.”
Francesca had to chuckle. “It is difficult to picture the duchess carried away by love.”
“Sometimes I wonder if there is something missing in us. But perhaps it is easier to be as Sinclair and I are. My mother loved my father greatly. She never stopped grieving for him until the day she died. I think she was almost happy to die so she could be reunited with him. It seems as though all I can remember of her is sadness. She passed through the days like a ghost, a shell whose heart had been stolen from her.” Callie shook her head. “I think perhaps it is better to be heartwhole.”
“Perhaps,” Francesca agreed. “Still, when one looks at Constance and Dominic…”
A broad smile spread across Callie’s face. “They are so obviously in love, the very air seems brighter around them. It must be thrilling to feel that way about someone.”
“Yes, it must,” Francesca agreed.
Callie looked a little wistful. “Have you ever been in love that way?”
“I thought I was,” Francesca replied wryly.
Callie glanced at her and quickly colored. “Oh! I am so sorry. I did not mean—how thoughtless and rude of me. I quite forgot that you had been married.”
“Mmm. More and more nowadays, I forget it, as well,” Francesca told her.
There was something in the other woman’s face that told Callie that Francesca preferred to forget her marriage altogether.
“I am sorry,” Callie said again, leaning forward impulsively and taking Francesca’s hand.
She had never known Francesca’s husband very well, as he had died the year of Callie’s first Season, and he had only rarely come to Redfields with Francesca when she visited her family there. But Callie had the distinct impression, though she wasn’t sure why, that her brother disliked the man, and she had heard her grandmother remark on one occasion that Francesca had had occasion to rue the day she married Lord Haughston.
“Do not fret yourself,” Francesca told Callie with a squeeze of her hand. “Anyway, we are not here to discuss me. We are talking about you.”
Callie released the other woman’s hand and sat back, politely following Francesca’s change of subject. “All right. Will you help me?”
“Of course I will. You should not even wonder about that. However, I am not sure what I can do that you and your grandmother could not do just as easily. The duchess knows everyone in the ton. And you certainly need no assistance on matters of style or charm.”
“It is very kind of you to say so. But my grandmother has assured me that you have a golden touch when it comes to finding someone a mate. Why, just look at the last few months. Since last Season you have brought together two couples—and very happy ones, as well.”
“I think the fact that Constance and Irene found the loves of their lives had more to do with them and their husbands than it did with me.” Francesca let out a little chuckle. “Indeed, I had intended Constance for a different man altogether.”
“I suspect that you downplay your own role in the matter,” Callie responded. “I am well aware that in all things regarding Society, you are an expert. I am certain that there is no one who could be of more aid to me in this endeavor than you. My grandmother knows many eligible men, ’tis true, and she is more than diligent about introducing them to me. But her standards are not mine. Her considerations are solely wealth and family and title, without any regard to looks or compatibility or temperament. I doubt that she even wonders whether a prospective husband has a sense of humor. But you know what people are like, not just their place in Society. Why, you realized how well suited Gideon and Irene were—even before she saw it.”
“Ah, but I was not determined not to see it, as Irene was,” Francesca told her.
“But you understand what I am saying, don’t you?”
Francesca nodded. “Yes. You wish to find a husband who suits you, not your grandmother.”
“Exactly. Not my grandmother or my brother or the ton. Just me.”
“I hope that you are not putting too much faith in my abilities,” Francesca said. “But I will certainly help you in any way that I can.”
“Good.” Callie grinned at her. “I am so glad you said that, for, you see, I have another—even larger—favor to beg of you.”
Francesca’s brows rose inquiringly. “But of course. You have only to ask.”
“’Tis terribly rude of me, I know, but I—it would be ever so nice if we could begin our search soon. And I must ask—that is, would you be so kind as to…to allow me to stay with you?” Bright spots of color stained her cheeks, and before Francesca could even speak, she hurried on. “Sinclair intends to return to the estate when he finishes his business in London. But I would like to stay here and begin my project at once. I cannot remain at Lilles House without a chaperone, of course, and while my grandmother might be persuaded to stay with me, well—frankly, I do not want her to. I don’t want her looking over my shoulder the whole time, telling me about this man or the other, any more than I want to retire to Marcastle and listen to her lecture me about doing my duty.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Francesca replied. “Of course you may stay with me. It will be quite fun. We can plan our campaign and go shopping. Look over all the suitable candidates. It will be good to get a head start on the Season, and I will enjoy having you here. But will that meet with Rochford’s approval?”
“I am sure it will,” Callie told her, looking surprised. “Why ever would it not? Sinclair is not happy with me at the moment, but I do not think he would go so far as to deny me a visit with you. I am sure that you are someone whom he would accept as a chaperone for me. And what could my grandmother possibly say after she has been singing your praises to me?”
“Very clever. I will call upon the duchess tomorrow to extend my invitation.”
“Thank you!” Callie exclaimed. “You are so very, very kind.”
“Nonsense. I will thoroughly enjoy having you here. It is quite dull, really, until the Season begins, and having a friend here will make it ever so much livelier. Besides, we shall have a project!” Francesca smiled. “Now,” she said decisively, rising to her feet, “I think it is time we got a little sleep. Won’t you stay here the night? I shall send a note ’round to the duchess that you are here with me so that they will not worry, shall I?”
“I left a note for Sinclair on my pillow, so that they would not worry about me if they woke and found me gone.” Callie smiled at her a little shamefacedly. “No doubt they will probably worry anyway. I should not have left so impulsively. It was just that I felt as if I might burst if I had to stay there another instant!”
“I understand exactly how you felt,” Francesca assured her. “And it was thoughtful of you to leave a letter. Why don’t I just pen another little note telling him that you reached my house, and are quite safe and well?”
“Thank you. You are very kind.” Callie grinned a little mischievously. “Especially since you are doubtless laying the way for a visit from my brother bright and early tomorrow morning.”
FRANCESCA WAS NOT SURPRISED to find that Callie’s words were prophetic. Her maid awakened her the next morning with word that the duke himself was downstairs.
“Looking dark as thunder, too,” Maisie added. “Fenton didn’t dare tell him you were not receiving yet, so he set him in the front drawing room. The way he looked, though, we had better make quick work out of getting you ready or he’ll be up here, knocking on your door.”
“Do not worry,” Francesca assured her. “The duke would never commit such a vulgar breach of etiquette, even if the house were burning. He would say, ‘Pray tell your mistress that there is a slight problem with a fire downstairs.’”
Maisie giggled as she pulled out a simple morning dress and held it out for Francesca. “If you say so, my lady,
but I warn you, he’s looking that grim.”
Francesca sighed. She had a sinking feeling that Rochford would not approve of Callie’s notion of staying with her, even until the Season began. Despite what Callie had told her, she had never gotten the impression that Rochford would regard her as a proper chaperone for his younger sister. Indeed, if anyone had asked her how the duke viewed her, she would have said that she imagined he found her frivolous. Rochford had always held a weightier view of the world than she.
Francesca washed her face and slipped into the dress her maid had chosen, then let Maisie quickly brush her hair and twist it up into a simple knot. It was not her usual sort of toilette before receiving callers, and she hated to appear anything but her best before Rochford, but it could not be helped.
She found the duke standing at the window of the drawing room, staring out into the street, his hands linked behind his back. His dark blue coat and fawn trousers were as impeccable as ever, his Weston boots as polished, his cravat as expertly tied, his short black hair as neatly cut and styled, but the face he turned to her was, as Maisie had reported, grim, and his dark eyes beneath the sharp black brows were worried.
“Rochford. Good morning,” she said, coming forward to give him her hand.
“I apologize for the early hour, Lady Francesca,” he replied stiffly, moving to her and bowing over her hand.
“Do not worry. I realize that you are…concerned.” She sat down and waved him toward the sofa that faced her chair.
“Yes.” His jaw tightened. “I—I trust that Lady Calandra is well.”
“Oh, yes. She is still asleep. I thought it best if you and I had a discussion together first.”
He nodded, avoiding her eyes as he said, “I appreciate the note you sent. I would have been most worried this morning if I had not already known that she was safe and sound at your house.”
Francesca knew that it was an indication of the duke’s inner turmoil that he, usually the most urbane and smoothest of conversationalists, was speaking in such a stiff and uncomfortable way. She could not help but feel a rush of sympathy for the man.
Before she could speak, he went on, “It was very good of you to take her in, and I must apologize for her imposing on your good nature in this way.”
“Nonsense,” Francesca told him firmly. “It was not an imposition, and Callie is always welcome in my home. I am very glad that she felt she could come to me.”
His expression grew even more wooden, if that was possible, as he said, “I presume that Callie told you that she and I…had a disagreement.”
“She did.”
He looked over at her, seemed about to speak, then released a sigh and let himself sag back against the sofa. “The devil take it, Francesca,” he said gruffly. “I think I have misstepped badly with the girl.”
“Yes, you may have.”
He cut his eyes toward her, and for a moment amusement lifted his features, so that he looked more himself. “My dear Francesca, you might at least have made a pretense of protesting my admission of incompetence.”
Francesca chuckled. “Ah, but what would be the point in that?”
She leaned across to him, putting her hand on his arm sympathetically. “Do not worry. I am sure that you have not ruined yourself with your sister. Callie clearly loves you, and it worries her, too, that you and she were at odds.”
“I hope you are right,” he replied with more fervor than he normally showed. “I know that I was too severe. I handled the whole thing badly. I wanted only to protect her.”
Francesca shrugged. “I have been told by Dom that that is simply the way brothers are. It is very nice at times. I can tell you that as a sister. I can also tell you that there are moments when a brother’s protectiveness can be excessively annoying. Callie is a levelheaded young woman, you know, nor is she just out of the schoolroom. I am sure that she would not do anything foolish.”
“It was not Callie I did not trust,” Rochford retorted darkly. “It was the man with her.”
Francesca frowned. “Who was it that was so terrible? Callie thought that he was an eligible young gentleman.”
He started to speak, then glanced at her and just as quickly looked away. “I suppose he is. But he does not wish me well, I think.” He shook his head, as though dismissing it all. “It was nothing, really. It was just that when I saw him there with her…Well, I may have spoken too harshly. I can only hope that Callie will not hold it against me forever.”
“I am sure she will not.” Francesca answered almost absently, her mind busy picking over the fact that he had not given her the man’s name.
Why was Sinclair reluctant to reveal the man’s identity? She cast about for someone who was known to be an enemy to Rochford, but, quite frankly, she could not come up with anyone. Rochford was not the sort of man whom anyone wanted to cross. Indeed, people were typically much more interested in currying favor with him than setting him against them. And, actually, he had not said that the man was an enemy, only that he did not think the man wished him well.
All she could think was that, in that typically masculine and very annoying way, Rochford felt that whatever was wrong with the man was something he deemed too indelicate for feminine ears. It was, she thought, easy to see why Callie had become irritated.
“I have a thought,” she offered. “Something that might help you and Callie to…get over this little rough patch.”
“Indeed.” He turned his eyes on her somewhat warily.
Francesca laughed. “Do not look at me with such suspicion, I beg you. ’Tis nothing terrible. I invited Callie to stay here in London with me, at least until the Season starts. Indeed, through the Season, if it is all right with you or you do not wish to return to London for the whole time. I think that Callie is a little bored at Marcastle, and the duchess…well…”
She trailed off, and Rochford could not keep from grinning. “Ah, yes, the duchess.”
“Callie is a lively young girl, and I am sure it must be tiring for the duchess to have to look after her,” Francesca continued diplomatically. “And Callie, while she appreciates all that her grandmother has done for her, chafes a bit under her control, I think.”
“Yes, I know, and it is no wonder. Grandmother rarely finds a situation that she cannot worsen by lecturing. I know she has been wearing on Callie’s nerves this winter. I have no idea why she took it into her head to spend so long with us instead of taking the waters at Bath with her friends.”
“She is, it seems, growing anxious about Callie’s unmarried state.”
Rochford let out a groan. “She is enough to make a person swear off marriage altogether just to spite her.” He cast Francesca a faintly abashed look. “You will think me ungrateful, I know, to speak in such a way about her, after she has done so much for Callie and me—taking us on when she should have been settling down to a well-deserved old age of leisure. But one cannot live one’s life according to her dictates.”
“Do not expect sympathy from me, Rochford. You know my parents,” Francesca responded lightly. “Still, as devoted and dutiful as I know the duchess to be, I think she would welcome a little respite from chaperoning a lively young woman. I, on the other hand, would welcome the company. The city is always dull at this time of year. Callie and I could visit the shops and attend the theater. It will be ever so much more enjoyable to have someone with me.”
The duke narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “Did my sister put you up to this?”
Francesca laughed. “You are far too suspicious. Of course Callie is not averse to the scheme, but I can assure you that I would very much enjoy her company, as well. Sometimes it is a trifle lonely here by myself.”
He gazed at her consideringly. Then, somewhat to Francesca’s surprise, he shrugged and said, almost offhandedly, “Of course, if you and Callie wish it, I am quite willing for her to stay with you. You know, despite what Callie may have said, she does not really have to obtain my permission to visit a friend for a few we
eks. She is, after all, over twenty-one. And I am not a tyrant.”
“I am sure you are not,” Francesca replied, then added, with the charming little catlike grin that was her trademark, “But do not forget, I have known you long enough to point out that you can be a trifle, shall we say, imperious?”
“Oh, really?” His straight black brows soared upward. “I challenge you to produce an example of it.”
“I could produce a hundred of them,” she retorted. “I remember when I was ten and rode my pony onto your drive and frightened that horrid peacock that used to parade about the front lawn of your house. And you told me that Dancy Park was your land, and you would not have me disturbing your bird.”
“Good Gad, I had forgotten about that peacock,” he said, and laughed. “Damned noisy thing. Did I really say that? I am surprised I did not cheer you on. Well, if you are going to dig back so far for examples, I should point out that you were a rag-mannered child, and I am sure that if I told you what to do, you no doubt needed to be told.”
Francesca protested, laughing, and they were bantering in this lighthearted way when Callie came hurrying into the room. She stopped, taking in the scene, and smiled with relief.
When the maid had brought in her tea and toast and had told her that the duke was downstairs this early in the morning, Callie had feared the worst. Dreading the prospect of another scene with Rochford, but determined not to allow Francesca to bear the brunt of his displeasure, she had dressed as quickly as she could and almost run down to the drawing room. Now, surveying the tableau before her, she told herself that she should have remembered that Lady Francesca was an expert at turning almost any social disaster into a triumph. No doubt charming an irate duke was an easy task for her.
“Hallo, Rochford,” Callie said a little shyly, still feeling a bit uneasy with him after their argument the night before, and entered the room.
He turned, smiling, at her voice. “Callie, my dear.”
A knot in Callie’s chest untwined, and she went to her brother, holding out her hands to him. “Oh, Sinclair, I am sorry for leaving the house like that last night. I am sure I worried you and Grandmother, and I should not have.”
