by Candace Camp
“Lady Haughston. You look lovelier than ever. I would have thought eight years would have aged you, but clearly you have found some magic potion.”
“Mr. Perkins,” Francesca answered through tight lips, thinking that she could not say the same about him. She had never liked the man, but he had once been attractive. Years of dissipation, however, had padded his once-lithe frame and blurred the lines of his face. His golden curls, though still artfully tousled, had lost much of their glimmer and were growing thinner, and there was a jaded look in his pale blue eyes.
“Please accept my condolences on your loss,” he went on. “Lord Haughston was a good friend to me. I was very sorry that I was out of the country when he passed away.”
“Thank you.”
Rochford stepped past the women, placing himself in front of Francesca. “Perkins.”
“Rochford,” the other man replied, looking faintly amused at the duke’s gesture.
“I am surprised to see you here,” Rochford went on flatly.
“Indeed? I wished to speak to Lady Haughston. I could not ignore the presence of an old friend.”
“We were never friends,” Francesca told him.
“Such harsh words,” Perkins responded, the small, disdainful smile never leaving his lips. “After all the years that we have known each other, I would not have thought you could be so unkind.”
“I did not mean that I was surprised to see you here in this box,” Rochford explained sharply, “though it is somewhat presumptuous, given your lack of invitation. What I meant was that I would not have thought to see you in London after your precipitous departure eight years ago.”
“That is all in the past.”
“A man’s life can scarcely be shrugged aside so easily,” Rochford retorted.
“I can see that you have not changed,” Perkins drawled. “You always were a sanctimonious sort.” He turned toward Francesca, adding, “Setting your sights higher this time, my dear? I wonder what poor Andrew would think.”
Francesca stiffened. It had slipped her mind over the years how thoroughly she disliked this man.
But the duke spoke before she could open her mouth to deliver a set-down. “I think it is time you took your leave, Mr. Perkins.”
Perkins’ lips tightened, and for a moment Francesca thought he was going to shoot back an angry retort—or worse—but then he visibly relaxed. “Of course, Your Grace.” The honorific sounded like an insult on his lips. Perkins bowed toward Francesca and Althea. “Ladies.”
He turned and left the box. For a moment no one spoke. Then Althea said, “Really. What an obnoxious creature. Do not tell me you actually associated with him, Lady Haughston.”
“No, of course I did not,” Francesca returned irritably. “He was an acquaintance of my late husband’s, that is all.”
“Very bad form, his coming here,” Lady Althea commented.
“I don’t believe that Mr. Perkins worries overmuch about ‘form,’” Rochford said dryly.
“Well, there is scarcely time now to pay the Eversons a visit,” Francesca announced. “Come, let us sit down again, Lady Althea.”
She tucked her arm through Althea’s, guiding her back to their chairs, so that Althea would once again be between Francesca and Rochford.
Throughout the next act, Francesca kept glancing over at Rochford, trying to see whether he ever even glanced at Althea. His eyes were always on the stage, except once, when she found him gazing at her. She blushed up to her hairline, grateful for the concealing darkness. She hoped she had not been too obvious. Rochford had always been annoyingly quick to notice things, and if he realized what she was about, he might very well order her to cease.
Deciding that the ploy of visiting another box had been a dismal failure, she remained seated during the next intermission and made a last attempt to engage Althea and Rochford in conversation. As it turned out, it was she and Rochford who did most of the talking, though she did her best to turn the discussion in Althea’s direction whenever she could. When Rochford brought up a composer, Francesca asked Althea what she thought of him. When he mentioned going to his manor house in Cornwall, Francesca sought Althea’s opinion of the loveliness of the area. And when Francesca and Rochford drifted off into a conversation about Francesca’s old bay at Redfields, she turned to Althea and inquired whether she liked to ride.
It was a wearing way to conduct a conversation, and, frankly, Francesca could not tell that it did any good. Althea answered her questions, but her contributions were not particularly enlivening, and as a result the conversation did not flow naturally, but bumped and shuddered along.
Francesca could not imagine that Rochford felt any particular inclination to seek out Lady Althea’s company in the future, but she was determined that if he did, he would be entirely on his own in the matter. She had no desire to spend another evening trying to milk an enjoyable conversation out of the woman.
When the play was over, Rochford escorted the women home, politely walking Althea to her door, then returning to the carriage to see Francesca back to her house. The butler answered the door, and then, with a bow, took himself off to bed. Francesca turned to Rochford.
She was suddenly, excruciatingly, aware of the dark silence of the house around them. They were alone for the first time that she could remember—not really alone, of course, but as much so as anyone could possibly be. The servants were all upstairs in their beds asleep. A candelabra set on the table in the hallway provided the only light.
The silence was profound, almost a presence in itself, and darkness hovered at the edges of the candlelight. She looked up into Rochford’s face, feeling again the odd tingling of awareness that had affected her the night of the dance.
Her stomach plummeted, however, when she saw his expression. His brow was knitted in a frown, and his mouth was a straight line. His dark eyes glittered in the dim light.
“What the devil do you think you are doing?”
CHAPTER FIVE
FRANCESCA BLINKED, for a moment too taken aback to think. Then she lifted her chin and responded in a glacial tone, “I beg your pardon? I am sure I haven’t the slightest notion what you are talking about.”
“Please. That innocent expression may work with others, but not with someone who’s known you since you were in short skirts. I am talking about your little performance tonight.”
“Performance? Don’t you think you are being a trifle dramatic?”
“No. What else would you call it? First you contrived for the three of us to attend the theater tonight—even though you are not friends with her.”
“How can you know that?”
Rochford shot a level look at her. “Francesca…really, give me a bit more credit than that. Then, when we got to the theater, it was ‘What do you think about this, Lady Althea?’ and ‘How do you like that composer, Lady Althea?’ Not to mention your plan to leave the two of us together while you went to call on the Eversons. Admit it. You were practically throwing Althea Robart at me this evening. I must say, it isn’t like you to be so ham-fisted.”
“Yes, well, if the woman had even an inkling how to carry on a conversation with a man, I wouldn’t have had to be,” Francesca retorted in an aggrieved tone.
“Why? Don’t tell me that she has set her cap for me. I cannot imagine her unbending enough to pursue anyone. Nor can I envision her mother seeking anyone else’s help, either.”
“No. No one asked me to. Althea is not trying to catch you. I think that should be clear.”
“Again I ask, why?”
Francesca simply looked at him for a long moment, wondering whether there was any good way out of this situation. At her delay, Rochford crossed his arms and cocked a brow at her.
“Don’t bother to think up a lie. We both know I shan’t believe it.”
She grimaced. “I daresay not. Can you not accept that I was simply trying to do you a favor?”
“By saddling me with a woman who can recite her entire family tree for five gene
rations back?” he retorted.
“I did not realize she was so boring,” Francesca admitted. “I am not well acquainted with the woman.”
“Yet you thought she was the perfect woman for me?”
“No. I thought she was only one of a number of candidates.”
He stared, seemingly bereft of speech. Finally, speaking each word with great care, he said, “Why would you have any candidates?”
“Well, really, Rochford, it is time that you married. You are thirty-eight, after all, and as the Duke of Rochford, you have a duty to—”
“I am well aware of my age, thank you,” he ground out. “As well as of my many duties as the Duke of Rochford. What I fail to understand is why you thought I was seeking a wife. Or why you should be the one to provide me with prospects!”
“Rochford!” Francesca cast a glance up the staircase. “Shh. The servants will hear.”
She turned and picked up the candelabra, then slipped into the drawing room, motioning for him to follow her. She set the candelabra down on the nearest table and closed the door behind her.
“Very well.” She faced him, squaring her shoulders. “I will tell you, since you are so insistent.”
“Please do.” Rochford watched her grimly, his entire body taut as wire.
“I did it to help you,” Francesca began a trifle nervously. “I looked around and found several women whom I thought would be…qualified to be your duchess. I wasn’t trying to push any particular one upon you. But I thought that if you were around them, you might come to realize that you had an affinity for one or the other.”
“You still have not explained why you felt compelled to do this.”
“Because of what I did to you!” Francesca exclaimed, feeling tears rising and battling them back down. She took a deep breath and went on more calmly. “Because I believed Daphne instead of you. Because I did not trust you. I broke our engagement. I wanted to make up for the mistake I made fifteen years ago.”
Rochford looked at her for a long moment. His face was set and his voice deadly quiet as he said, “You broke our engagement, and when you found out you were wrong, this was your response? To find me a wife to replace the one I lost?”
“No. Of course not,” she protested. “You make it sound quite horrid.”
“How else is it supposed to sound?”
“I was not offering her as a replacement for me. That is absurd. I just thought— I know that you have not married all these years. And I feared that I— Well, that what I did to you must have influenced you against marriage. That I made you feel that women were not to be trusted, that we would all fail you. I felt responsible.”
“Not marrying was my choice, Francesca.”
“I cannot help but feel that if it had not been for me and what I did, you would have married long ago,” she insisted. “I was concerned about you. And I thought that this is a skill I apparently have, bringing couples together. I did not mean to upset you, truly. I was trying to help. I mean, obviously you must marry.”
He grimaced. “Now you sound like my grandmother.” He swung away, pacing a few steps, then whirled back to face her. “Do you think that I am so incapable of wooing a woman that you must do it for me? So lacking in charm? Do you think that I will frighten off any prospective bride if I am left to my own devices?”
Francesca’s eyes widened. “I—I—”
He stalked back to her, anger fairly crackling off him. “Am I so clumsy? Tell me, you are the one who would know. Was my courtship that dreadful?”
He stopped, looming over her, and she stared up at him, stunned. His anger was overwhelming. He seemed so huge, so close, his eyes lit with an inner fire.
“Was my kiss that unappealing?” he went on, his voice so low she could barely hear it. “Was my touch that repulsive to you?”
Then, astonishing her even more, he grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to him, his mouth coming down to seize hers in a hard, thorough kiss.
Francesca felt rooted to the spot, every thought in her head flying off into the atmosphere. She was aware of nothing except the fierce grip of his fingers upon her upper arms and the hot, hard pressure of his lips upon hers. A flame shot to life inside her, and she trembled, astonished as much by her own reaction as by what Rochford had done.
He moved his mouth against hers insistently, opening her to him, and his tongue swept inside. Heat washed through her, and her skin prickled. She felt strangely giddy and weak, as if she might tumble to the ground if his hands were not clutching her arms, holding her up.
Just as suddenly as he had kissed her, he pulled back. His eyes were wide, the light in them fierce. He let out an oath and pulled his hands away from her. Then he turned and strode out the door.
For a long moment Francesca stood where she was, staring after him. Her heart thundered in her chest, and her breath came hard and quick in her throat. She felt dazed, bombarded by a hundred different emotions.
His words had twisted her heart, and tears welled in her eyes. She had wounded him unknowingly. She wanted to run after him, to cry and beg him to stay and hear her out. Hurting him had been the furthest thing from her mind. Somehow she must make him believe that. She must make him see that she had meant nothing unkind by what she had done.
How could it have turned into such a disaster? She had thought he might be a bit annoyed at her machinations, but it had never occurred to her that he would be so furious. Now, however, she feared that she might have lost Rochford entirely, that she might no longer even have him as a friend. The thought of that made her cold all through.
And why had he kissed her? His kiss could hardly be considered an expression of feeling—or, at least, not an expression of any good sort of feeling. His mouth had been hard and brutal, seizing her lips, not asking or seducing. There had been more anger than passion in the way he had grabbed her and pressed his mouth to hers. It had almost been as if he were punishing her.
But what she had felt had been anything but punishment.
Francesca raised her fingertips to her lips, laying them gently against the tingling, sensitive flesh. She could still feel his lips on hers, the taste of his mouth. And deep in her abdomen there was a molten heat. Everything inside her was now jangling and alive in a way she had never felt before…or at least not in years and years.
She wanted to fling herself on her bed and indulge in a good cry. She wanted to curl up and float in the memory of that kiss all over again. Indeed, she was not sure what she wanted at all.
Shaken and confused, Francesca turned and, picking up the candelabra, made her way up to bed.
THE DUKE OF ROCHFORD strode through the front door of White’s, looking neither left nor right. He wasn’t sure why he was there. He certainly had no desire for company right now, but neither had he been able to face the prospect of going back to the huge empty Lilles House.
All he wanted, he thought, was to settle down with a bottle of port and drink himself into oblivion. With that purpose in mind, he gestured toward Timmons, the maitre d’, and flung himself down in a chair across the room, in an area unoccupied by anyone else.
He leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he struggled to restore himself to some semblance of calm. How the devil did she manage to get him twisted around like this, after all these years? He knew that he was generally regarded as an even-tempered sort—calm in a crisis and slow to anger. It was only with Francesca that he found himself on the edge of exploding.
Footsteps stopped beside his chair. Rochford kept his eyes closed in the hopes that the person would decide to pass him by. But there was no sound of anyone moving on, and after a moment he let out a little sigh and opened his eyes.
“Gideon!” He didn’t know who he had expected his visitor to be—perhaps one of the chaps who were always determined to speak to a duke, seemingly impervious to set-downs or hints—but he certainly had not thought he would see the man who was now standing beside his chair. “What are you doing here?”
&n
bsp; “I belong to this club,” the other man answered, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps you remember—you put me forth for membership.”
Rochford grimaced. “I am quite aware of that. It is just that you are so rarely here—particularly not at this time of the evening.” He gestured vaguely toward the chair sitting at a right angle to him. “Sit. Please.”
“One might say the same about you.” Gideon, Lord Radbourne, sat down in the chair Rochford indicated.
Gideon was a cousin of sorts to the duke, another grandnephew of the much-feared Lady Odelia Pencully, and there was a faint hint of family resemblance between them. Both were tall, with thick, dark hair, but Gideon was somewhat shorter, broader of chest and shoulders, and his hair was a shade lighter. It was not that which set him apart, though, so much as the way he carried himself and the harder, warier set to his face. Though an earl, Lord Radbourne had grown up on the hard streets of the East End of London, unaware that he was actually the son of the Earl of Radbourne. It had been only a year or so ago that the truth of his existence had been made known, but in that time he and Rochford had grown into a kind of friendship that had less to do with blood than with their essential natures.
The duke shrugged now, saying, “I admit I am not much one for clubs. I fear I am a boring sort. However, I do drop by now and then for a tipple before bed. But I do not have a beautiful wife waiting for me at home.” He looked significantly at the other man.
“Neither do I,” Gideon returned. “Irene has gone, along with her mother, to visit Lady Wyngate, her brother’s wife. ’Tis almost time for Lady Wyngate’s lying-in, you see.”
“Ah.” Rochford nodded sagely. “And she wants Irene there for the event.”
Gideon’s normally saturnine face lightened with a grin. “I sincerely doubt it. Maura and Irene get along like oil and water—and that is when they are feeling pleasant. No, ’tis Irene’s mother whose presence is requested. Irene is merely traveling with her. Her mother will doubtless be there several weeks, but Irene, I am sure, will be back within a sennight, if she can bear it that long. But for the moment, I am at loose ends.”
