by Candace Camp
The only problem was figuring out how to do so.
THE DEADLINE Mr. Perkins had set loomed before Francesca, but she refused to think about it. Barring a miracle, she could not possibly have the money for him, leaving her with nothing but the decision of whether to refuse to leave or to go meekly. And though she quailed inside at the thought, she was rather certain what she would do when it came down to it. Whatever else the FitzAlans may have been, her family had always been warriors.
Instead, she kept herself busy with the plans for Rochford’s party. She soon realized that she needed to discuss her plans with Cranston, Rochford’s efficient butler. She could have sent a note to him, requesting him to call on her. She knew that would be the most correct thing to do. Instead, she decided that she would go to Lilles House to consult with him. She would take Maisie with her, so it would be quite proper. And it would be easier to show the man what she wanted if they could actually go into the ballroom.
She might run into the duke, but she had taken herself firmly in hand after the Haversley soiree. She was sure that she had exorcised the demon of jealousy from herself. It had been just a momentary emotion, after all, and reason would overcome it. Besides, it was quite likely that Rochford would not even be at home.
He was not, as it turned out, and she told herself that things had worked out perfectly. Cranston looked rather surprised to see her, though he hid it well, only his light blue eyes revealing a hint of curiosity at finding Francesca and her maid standing in the entryway of Lilles House. When she explained that she was there to consult with him on the duke’s upcoming ball, his carefully polite expression vanished, and he beamed, the first time Francesca could ever remember seeing him do so.
“My lady, of course. I would be more than happy to assist you. I have seating charts, as well as plans for the ballroom.”
“Excellent,” Francesca said, her eyes lighting up. Such efficiency would make Fenton jealous, she thought. “If there is a table where we could sit…?”
“Naturally. If her ladyship would not mind, there is the table in the servants’ hall, where I do most of my planning. Or, um, the library might be more suitable.”
“The table in the servants’ hall sounds just the thing.”
So while Maisie went off for a bit of tea and gossip with the Lilles House housekeeper, having earned that woman’s friendship the last time they were there by praising Callie, Francesca settled down at the table in the servants’ dining hall, one of Cranston’s drawings of the large ballroom spread out on the table before her.
The dining area was a cozy place, separated by a short hall from the kitchen, and while there was the clanging of pots and pans and the usual bustle of a working kitchen, the sound was muffled enough that it provided only a low background noise. Cranston solicitously brought her a cup of tea and a pot for refills, as well as a small plate of biscuits, then stood a little behind her and to the side.
“Do sit down, Cranston,” she told him, indicating the chair beside her.
“Very kind of you, my lady, but…”
She knew that he was a stickler for correct procedure in every detail, but she was also aware that the older man had grown increasingly stiff in his knees over the past few years. She was well-versed in dealing with aging servants.
“Please do,” she insisted. “It will be much easier for us to talk. I shan’t have to crane my head around to see you that way.”
“Of course, my lady, if you wish it.”
The butler sat down beside Francesca, though he remained poised on the edge of the seat, as though ready to spring up at any moment, and he kept his chair slightly behind hers.
“Here is the preliminary list of guests,” she told him, laying a sheet of paper on the table. “I thought you might look over it and see if I have by chance missed someone who ought to be on it or put someone there who would be quite wrong.”
“I am sure your opinions are absolutely correct,” Cranston assured her, though he set the list aside for later viewing.
Francesca took up a pencil and began to describe her ideas for the decorations, marking them on his map of the ballroom. Cranston nodded approvingly, jotting down notes on a piece of paper as he went.
They moved on to the refreshments, which meant that the cook had to be brought in on the discussion, as well. The cook, obviously another Lilles retainer who had been there for many years, was a rotund woman with iron-gray hair and the beefy arms of one who had spent her life kneading bread and stirring soups. As possessive of her territory as most cooks Francesca knew, she came into the room with a slightly wary expression on her face. It did not take long, however, for Francesca’s charm to work its usual magic, and soon she, too, was nodding and agreeing to all Francesca’s suggestions.
“Well, well,” came a cultured male voice from the doorway. “Are you poaching my servants, Lady Haughston? Should I take umbrage?”
All three of the occupants of the room swiveled around to the door, where the duke was leaning against the frame, a smile starting on his lips.
“I should love to, I can assure you, but then I would have to face the wrath of my own staff,” Francesca replied, smiling back at him.
It occurred to her, as it had the other day when she was here, that had she married him years ago, this scene would have been a common occurrence. How many times would she have looked up to see him standing in a doorway, watching her?
“Then I can only assume that you are here laying plans for the ball,” Rochford went on.
“Yes. Would you like to hear where I intend to put the decorations?”
“Come show me instead,” he suggested. “Then perhaps we could have tea, if you would like.”
“That would be lovely,” Francesca answered honestly.
“Excellent. Cranston, tea in the morning room, I think. Twenty minutes?”
Cranston nodded, and he and the cook quickly disappeared into the kitchen. Rochford turned to Francesca, offering her his arm, and they walked back through the long hallway to the foyer, then along the even longer gallery to the large ballroom.
“I thought it would make sense to show Cranston where the decorations should go,” Francesca said, thinking that Rochford might wonder why she had come to his house to talk to Cranston instead of the other way around. “But he had plans of the ballroom, with everything marked, so I was able to jot it all down for him there.”
“He is a wonder of organization. I have little doubt that he has the layout of every room in this house, with each stick of furniture marked in its place. Nothing escapes Cranston’s attention. No doubt he was ecstatic at having someone who takes an interest in decoration and menus. I fear that he finds me hopelessly lacking when it comes to such things. I am sure he feels the loss of Callie deeply.”
Francesca smiled and squeezed his arm a little. “As do you, I imagine.”
He glanced at her and allowed a small smile. “You are right, of course. I had thought that I had become accustomed to her absence when she was staying with you, but I discovered that it is quite a different feeling when one knows that she is not returning after a month or two. I have to be glad for her, for I know she is happy with Bromwell, but I cannot help but wish that his estates were not so far as Yorkshire.”
“At least Marcastle is much nearer there,” Francesca put in consolingly.
“Yes. No doubt we shall visit more when I am back home.”
Francesca could not keep from feeling a pang of loneliness, thinking that then she would be here quite alone. It took her a moment to realize that she was being nonsensical—she was rarely alone in London, even when the Season was over. Besides, given the threat that loomed before her with Mr. Perkins, it was all too likely that she would not be in London at all, but immured at Redfields.
Determinedly, she steered the conversation in a new direction as they entered the ballroom. “I thought that you might have a Midsummer’s Night Eve party—what do you think? We could have it on that date and make the place
appear a fairyland. Cranston thought that it could be done in time. We can have lots of greenery and, amidst all that, white flowers of every sort.”
She went on happily describing the wonders that could be done with net and tulle sprinkled with silver sequins and draped in swags across the ceiling to catch the lights. After a few minutes, she stopped and arched an eyebrow at him.
“I am boring you to tears, am I not?” she asked with a sigh.
“Not at all. I could not be more transported,” he assured her, one side of his mouth quirking up in a grin.
“Liar,” she told him without heat.
He chuckled. “I am sure it will be delightful. Everyone will be dazzled. They will dance away the night and go home declaring that no one can entertain like Lady Haughston.”
“But it will be your party, not mine,” she pointed out.
“I think all and sundry will be aware that mine was not the genius behind it. Such elegance and whimsy could only be yours. Will you come as Titania—a vision in white and silver?”
Francesca’s eyes sparkled. “There’s an idea. Perhaps we should make it a fancy-dress ball.”
He let out a groan. “No, please, not that. Aunt Odelia’s fancy-dress ball was more than enough for one year.”
“You did not even come in costume!” she protested. “It could not have been so hard.”
“No, but I was plagued to death to do so, which is perhaps worse.”
Francesca shook her head at him, smiling. They had been strolling around the large room as they talked, but he stopped now and turned to look at her. She raised her eyes questioningly, not sure what he was doing.
“You must save the first dance for me,” he told her.
Under his gaze, she felt suddenly, strangely shy. She shook her head. “But I must oversee the arrangements—make sure everything runs smoothly. I won’t have time for dancing.”
“Nonsense. That is what Cranston will be doing. You will open the dancing with me.”
She looked up into his face. There was something in his dark eyes that made her breathless. “But surely…one of the young ladies—Lady Mary, for instance—should have the honor.”
“No,” he replied. “Only you.”
He surprised her by taking her hand and sweeping her out onto the floor, humming a waltz. Francesca laughed and fell into the easy rhythm of the dance, and they whirled around the room. It might have been daylight, and the grand room utterly empty of any decoration, but it felt for a few moments quite magical to her.
She was very aware of the hard muscle of his arm beneath her hand, of his long, supple fingers at her waist, guiding her subtly. Finally he stopped, and for a long moment they simply stood there gazing at each other, her hand still in his, his hand still at her waist. Though they had not danced long, his breathing was visibly harder, his chest rising and falling. His eyes glowed with a dark light. Francesca could feel the sudden surge of heat in his hands, and his mouth softened. He leaned closer.
She knew that he was about to kiss her, knew that she should move away. Instead, she closed her eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEN HIS LIPS were on hers, soft and seeking. His hands did not move from the position they had been in as they danced. He did not pull her against him or touch her anywhere else. Only his lips spoke for him, sweetly, yearningly kissing hers—entreating, teasing, tempting her.
Francesca trembled. She wanted to go up on tiptoe and throw her arms around his neck. She ached to hold on to him and kiss him, to press her body into his. She wanted to throw everything else aside—all caution, all sense—and indulge herself. To forget that he was on the verge of making an offer for another woman. To ignore her past and not think about where this kiss could lead.
But if she could not bring herself to pull away, neither could she allow herself to move forward. She simply lived in the moment, fragile and sweetly aching, drinking in the pleasure of his mouth.
At last he broke the kiss and raised his head. Neither of them spoke.
There was the sound of footsteps in the long gallery outside, and Rochford moved away. A footman appeared in the doorway to announce that tea was served. Rochford turned to Francesca and offered her his arm, as apparently cool and reserved as ever.
She took his arm, hoping that she seemed equally unfazed, and they strolled out of the room. However, instead of following the footman, Rochford led her out the French doors and onto the terrace, cutting across it to another door.
“This is the morning room,” he said as they stepped inside. “It is my favorite, although I actually prefer it late in the afternoon, like this.”
Francesca could understand his pleasure in the room. Spacious and comfortably furnished, it was graced by a wall of tall, wide windows facing the terrace and the extensive gardens beyond. Protected as it was from the west sun, it was delightfully cool and shaded, yet open to the lovely view.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, moving across the room to the chairs and low table where the butler had set out their tea tray.
She poured for them, and was struck once again by the thought that this might have been her life. It seemed so natural and right. His face across from her was as familiar as her own. Yet she knew, too, that it would never have grown commonplace to her, even if they had been married for years. Now, as whenever she saw him, her pulse leapt a little.
They chatted as they sipped their tea, and ate the square cakes and slivers of sandwiches. They talked of the ball and of Francesca’s letter from home that morning. Dominic was pleased with what they had accomplished on the estate this spring planting, and Constance, it seemed, was contentedly growing larger as she moved into her seventh month.
“Will you travel to Dancy Park to be with her?” he asked.
Francesca nodded. “I shall stay here another month or six weeks and then go. She has no family, you know, besides us—except for that excessively annoying aunt and uncle of hers, and I cannot imagine she would want that woman there at such a time. Nor is my mother a woman one would choose at such a time. Not, of course, that I am any hand with babies, but the nurse can provide that. I, at least, can keep Constance entertained.”
“I am sure you will be a great comfort to her. Perhaps I shall see you there. I intend to visit Dancy Park again before autumn.”
Francesca glanced at him, a little surprised. “I would have thought that you would remain here after—” She stopped abruptly.
His brows pulled together in a frown. “After what?”
“Nothing. It is none of my business, really. I only thought that, well, you would be making wedding plans.”
He looked at her steadily for a moment. “Did you?”
“Yes. After all, you seem to be moving in that direction. You as much as said you would be announcing your engagement at the ball, and you have shown a marked interest in Lady Mary. I must say, she seems an excellent choice. Only the other night, at the Haversley soiree, she was expressing her fondness for you.”
“Was she?” His black brows rose. “How interesting.”
“Oh, yes.” Francesca felt the now-familiar crawl of jealousy through her stomach, but she was determined not to give in to it. It did not matter what had happened minutes earlier in the ballroom; it did not matter how she felt.
She started to go on, but at that moment there was the sound of raised voices in the hall, something so uncommon in the quiet and aristocratic atmosphere of Lilles House that both Francesca and Rochford stopped their conversation and glanced toward the door.
“—must see him!” came a male voice, raised in agitation. “I don’t care what he’s doing!”
His words were followed by the deeper, calmer tone of Rochford’s butler, but it was clear that his attempt at reason had little effect.
Rochford rose to his feet and started toward the door at the clear sound of scuffling. “Cranston? What is going on here!”
“I must see you!” Though Francesca could not see the clearly agitated young ma
n in the hallway, she could hear him well enough. “I am Kit Browning. Christopher Browning. I think you will know why I am here.”
Rochford scowled. “You were supposed to call on me tomorrow morning.” He sighed, then motioned for the visitor to come in. “Very well. It is all right, Cranston. I shall see him.”
He turned back toward Francesca. “I am sorry. This should take but a moment.”
Christopher Browning burst into the room. Francesca saw, with some surprise, that he wore the black suit and clerical collar of an Anglican priest. His thin, blond hair stood out all over his head, as though he had been worrying at it with his fingers, and his lean, ascetic face was pale and taut. He appeared at once frightened and angry, and he faced the larger duke with an air of defiance.
“I will not allow you to do this!” he announced to Rochford.
“Indeed?” Rochford studied him somewhat curiously. “And what exactly is it that you will not allow?”
“I will not let you have her! You may have dazzled her with your grand airs and your huge house and all the gold you no doubt have. But I know that those things will not make her happy. She is a quiet, studious girl. She loves nothing so much as a good book by the fire or a quiet ramble down the lane. She cannot be happy as a duchess.”
“I daresay,” Rochford replied quietly, and the corner of his mouth twitched in the way that told Francesca he was suppressing his amusement. “Am I to take it that you are speaking of Lady Mary Calderwood?”
“Of course! Who else would I be talking about? Do you have some other poor young woman dangling on a string?”
Francesca’s interest rose even higher at the mention of Lady Mary, and she inspected the young man more carefully.
“I was not aware that I had Lady Mary ‘dangling,’ let alone any other. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what you are talking about.”
