The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp
young ladies so dismal?”
Francesca shrugged. Though she and Irene had maintained a genteel silence regarding the matter, Francesca suspected Irene had guessed that her matchmaking efforts were more a question of survival than amusement.
“Indeed, I have not really given them much attention. I have been quite lazy since Callie’s wedding, I fear.”
Irene regarded her shrewdly. “You are distressed, are you not? Is there aught that I can do?”
Francesca shook her head. “’Tis nothing, really. I am just remembering…a time long past. Another party here.” She forced a smile, the charming dimple in her cheek appearing. “Where is Lord Gideon?”
In the six months the couple had been married, it was rare to see Irene without Gideon by her side. The pair had suited each other even better than Francesca had guessed; it seemed as if their love grew with each passing day.
Irene let out a little giggle. “He was waylaid by his great-aunt as we came in.”
“Lady Odelia?” Francesca asked, appalled. “Good Gad, is she here?” She glanced around apprehensively.
“We are safe here,” Irene assured her. “I do not think she will climb the stairs. That is why I fled to the balcony as soon as I stepped out of the cloakroom and saw that she had cornered Gideon.”
“And left him there?” Francesca asked, chuckling. “For shame, Lady Radbourne. What about your vows?”
“My wedding vows made no mention of Great-Aunt Odelia, I assure you,” Irene retorted, grinning. “I did feel a twinge of guilt, but I reminded myself that Gideon is a strong man, feared by many.”
“Even the bravest quail before Lady Odelia, however. I remember once when Rochford himself sneaked out the back door and went ’round to the stables when he saw her carriage out front, leaving my mother and me with his grandmother to face her.”
Irene let out a burst of laughter. “I should like to have seen that. I shall have to tease him about that the next time we meet.”
“How is the duke?” Francesca asked casually, not looking at Irene. “Have you seen him lately?”
Irene glanced at her. “A week or so ago. We went to the theater together. He and Gideon are now friends, as well as cousins. But surely you have seen Rochford, as well.”
Francesca shrugged. “Only rarely since Callie’s wedding. It was his sister who was my friend, really, not Rochford.”
The truth was that Francesca had been avoiding the duke since his sister’s wedding. The guilty knowledge of how she had wronged him had weighed on her, and every time she had run into him, she had been pierced with guilt anew. She knew that she should tell him what she had found out, that she should apologize for her actions. It was craven of her not to.
Yet she could not do it; her insides chilled whenever she thought of confessing and begging his pardon. They had at least achieved a kind of peace with each other after all these years. Not friendship, exactly, but some thing close to it. What if she told him and it brought back his anger? She deserved that anger, she supposed, but her stomach twisted at the idea. So she had taken to avoiding Rochford whenever possible, staying away from a party if she thought he would attend it, and when she did see him, taking care not to go near him. If they came face-to-face, as had happened once or twice, she had been stiff and awkward, escaping as soon as possible.
Of course, that must end if she was to have any success finding a wife for the man. She could scarcely bring him together with one of his prospective brides if she continued to avoid him.
“Callie told me that Rochford had been unfair to you,” Irene began carefully.
“Unfair?” Francesca glanced at her, startled. “No. How was he unfair?”
“I know not,” Irene admitted. “Something to do with Lord Bromwell courting Callie, I gathered.”
“Oh, that.” Francesca dismissed the idea with a flick of her hand. “The duke had reason to be concerned. Brom’s sister had certainly poisoned him against Rochford, but…” She shrugged expressively. “There was little I could do once they fell in love, in any case, and Rochford realized it afterwards. I am not so tender a female as to wither under a rebuke.”
Francesca glanced out again over the crowd, and Irene followed her gaze.
“Who do you seek?” Irene asked after a moment.
“What? Oh. No one.”
Irene’s eyebrows lifted. “You are most diligent in looking for no one.”
Francesca had difficulty dissembling with Irene. Something about Irene’s forthright manner seemed to call forth an equal candor in her. She hesitated now, then admitted, “I was hoping to see Lady Althea Robart.”
“Althea?” Irene repeated in surprise. “Whatever for?”
Francesca could not help but chuckle. “You dislike the woman?”
Irene shrugged. “Dislike is too strong a word. She simply is not company I would choose to keep. Too high in the instep for me.”
Francesca nodded. The lady did seem a bit stiff. But she was not sure that pride would necessarily be a detriment to a future duchess. “I do not know her well.”
“Nor I,” Irene agreed.
“What about Damaris Burke?”
“The daughter of Lord Burke?” Irene asked. “The diplomat?”
Francesca nodded. “Exactly.”
Irene thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I cannot say, really. I have never moved in government circles.”
“She seems quite pleasant.”
“Smooth,” Irene agreed. “What one would expect, I suppose, from a woman who holds diplomatic parties.” She glanced at her friend curiously. “Why are you asking? Do not tell me they have asked your help in seeking a husband.”
“No,” Francesca told her quickly. “They have not. I was just…considering them.”
“Ah, then it is a gentleman who has sought your help?” Irene guessed.
“Not really. I have been thinking. On my own, as it were.”
“Now you have completely aroused my curiosity. You are matchmaking for someone who has not even asked you? Is this another wager with the duke?”
Francesca blushed. “Oh. No, nothing like that. I had thought—well, there was someone I wronged once, and I had been looking to make it up to him.”
“By finding him a wife?” Irene asked. “There are a number of men who would not thank you for that favor. Who is the man?”
Francesca studied the woman next to her. Of all her friends, Irene knew the most about her. Though Francesca had never confided in her about her own past, Irene’s father had been a friend of Francesca’s late husband, so no doubt Irene suspected how little happiness Francesca had found in her marriage, and Francesca had never felt it necessary to maintain a pretense to Irene that she had missed Andrew in the five years since his death. She had never told anyone about what had happened between her and Rochford so long ago, but she suddenly found herself wanting to confide in Irene.
“Is he the reason for your melancholy?” Irene persisted.
“I think that is caused by the rapid approach of my birthday,” Francesca replied lightly, but then she sighed and said, “And a little by having hurt him when he did not deserve it. I am very sorry for what I did.”
Irene frowned. “I cannot imagine that you could have done anything so terrible.”
“I think he might differ with you,” Francesca responded. She looked into her friend’s eyes, warm with sympathy. “No one must know this—not even Lord