Читать книгу The Courtship Dance - Candace Camp - Страница 7

FRANCESCA FROZE, aware of a craven impulse to flee. But she could not, of course. Rochford was looking straight at her. She could not turn away without being rude. Besides, Irene was right: this was her opportunity to explain everything to him.

So she stood her ground and smiled as the duke approached them.

“Lady Haughston. Lady Radbourne,” he greeted them, sketching a bow.

“Rochford. How nice to see you,” Francesca replied.

“It has been a long time. I have seen you at few parties.”

She might have known that he would notice. Rochford rarely missed anything. “I…have been resting a bit since Callie’s wedding.”

“Have you been ill?” He frowned.

“Oh. No. No, not at all. Um…” Francesca sighed inwardly. Hardly two sentences spoken, and already she was floundering.

She found it the most difficult thing to lie to Rochford. Even the most innocuous social lie that she might blithely relate to anyone else seemed to curdle and die on her tongue when she was faced with his dark gaze. She felt sometimes as though his eyes could look deep inside her, see to the very depths of her soul.

She glanced away from those eyes now as she went on. “I was not ill, merely…tired. The Season can grow somewhat wearying, even to me.”

She had the distinct feeling that he did not believe her. He studied her for one long moment more, then gracefully replied, “None would know it, I assure you. You are as radiant as always.”

Francesca acknowledged his compliment with a gracious nod, and he turned toward Irene. “As do you, my lady. Marriage seems to suit you.”

“It does,” she admitted, sounding faintly surprised.

“Is Radbourne here this evening?” he asked. “I am surprised not to find him by your side.”

“That is because Irene deserted him,” Francesca put in, grinning.

“’Tis true,” Irene agreed. “I abandoned him to Lady Pencully’s clutches and fled like a coward for the stairs.”

“Good Gad, is Aunt Odelia here?” he asked, casting an alarmed glance toward the ballroom below.

“Yes, but she will not climb the stairs,” Francesca replied. “So long as you stay up here, you are safe.”

“I would not be so sure. The woman seems to have become positively reinvigorated since her eightieth birthday ball,” Rochford responded.

Irene glanced over at Francesca, then said lightly, “I suppose I had better play the good wife and go rescue Gideon before his patience grows too thin and he says something to her that he will later regret.”

Francesca quelled the spurt of panic that rose in her at her friend’s departure. She had conversed with the duke hundreds of times; it was absurd that it should suddenly seem so awkward.

“How is the duchess?” she asked once Irene had left, for want of anything better to say.

“Grandmother is well and enjoying Bath. She keeps threatening to come for at least a few weeks of the Season, but I think she will not. She is too relieved at no longer having to do her duty by chaperoning Callie.”

Francesca nodded. That seemed to be the end of that topic. She shifted nervously and glanced out over the ballroom again. She had to tell him, she knew. She could not continue in this way, being shy and uncomfortable around him. Over the past few years, she had become accustomed to having him as something of a friend again. She looked forward to conversing with him at parties; it was always enlivening to bandy words with him, and his wit made even the most boring gathering tolerable. And she could count on him for a waltz, which meant that at least one dance of the evening would be effortless, like floating around the floor.

She had to make amends. She had to confess and ask his forgiveness, no matter how much the thought of it frightened her.

She glanced up and found him watching her, his dark eyes thoughtful. He knew, she thought; the man was simply too discerning. He knew that there was something wrong with her. With them.

“Perhaps you would care to take a stroll with me,” he told her, offering her his arm. “I understand that the Whittingtons’ gallery is quite enjoyable.”

“Yes. Of course. That sounds quite pleasant.”

Francesca placed her hand upon his arm and walked with him through the double doors into the long hallway running along one side of the Whittington mansion. The gallery was hung with portraits of ancestors and a variety of other subjects, including a favorite hunter or dog of one Whittington or another throughout the centuries. They strolled along, now and then glancing at the pictures, but with little real interest. There was no one else about, and their steps echoed hollowly on the polished parquet floor. Silence stretched between them, growing deeper and more awkward with each passing moment.

Finally Rochford said, “Have I offended you past remedying?”

“What?” Startled, Francesca’s eyes flew to his face. “What do you mean?”

He stopped and turned to face her. His expression was solemn, his straight black eyebrows drawn together harshly. “I mean that while ’tis true that I have seen you at few parties in the past weeks, you have been at some of them—and whenever you saw me, you immediately turned and disappeared into the crowd. And if, by chance, you came upon me unexpectedly, with no way to avoid the encounter, you seized the first opportunity to make your excuses and leave. I can only assume that you have not forgiven me for what I said to you that day, when I found out that Bromwell had been courting Callie.”

“No!” Francesca protested, laying a hand earnestly upon his arm. “That is not true. I did not blame you. Truly I did not. I… Perhaps you were a bit harsh. But you apologized. And, clearly, you had reason to be concerned. But I could not betray Callie’s trust, and she had the right to choose her own future.”

“Yes. I know. She is quite independent.” He sighed. “I realize that you had little choice, and I had no reason to expect you to be able to control my sister. God knows, I had poor enough luck at it. And once I was over my anger, I knew I was in the wrong. I apologized, and I thought you had accepted my apology. But then you began hiding from me.”

“No, truly…” Francesca told him. “I did accept your apology, and I am not angry with you about what you said. I have seen your temper a time or two before, you know.”

“Then why are you upset with me?” he asked. “Even at Callie’s wedding, I saw you but little.” He stopped abruptly, then asked, “Was it because of that scene at the hunting lodge? Because I—” He hesitated.

“Because you knocked your sister’s future husband to the floor?” Francesca asked, a smile hovering at the corners of her lips. “Because the two of you were brawling through the parlour, knocking vases off tables and overturning chairs?”

Rochford started to protest, then stopped, his own mouth twitching into a small smile. “Well…yes. Because I was acting like a ruffian. And making a general fool of myself.”

“My dear Duke,” Francesca drawled, laughter glimmering in her eyes, “whyever should I have taken exception to that?”

He let out a short laugh. “Well, at least you have the good grace not to say that it is nothing unusual. Although I might point out that while I may have been a ruffian, at least I was not telling enormous clankers, as were some of us.” He shot her a droll look.

“Clankers!” Francesca tapped his arm lightly with her fan, scarcely noticing that the awkwardness had fallen away from them and she was bantering with him once again in a carefree way. “You are most unjust, sir.”

“Come, now, you cannot deny that you were…shall we say, most inventive that morning?”

“Someone had to bring that mess into some order,” she shot back. “Else we would all have been in a pretty predicament.”

“I know.” His face sobered, and he reached out, surprising her, and took her hand. “I know how much you did for Callie that day. You earned my undying gratitude for your ‘inventiveness.’ And your kind heart. Callie would have been embroiled in a serious scandal if it were not for you.”

Francesca felt her cheeks growing warm under his steady regard, and she glanced away. “There is no need to thank me. Indeed, I am quite fond of Callie. She is much like a sister to me.”

It occurred to her then that her words had been unfortunate, and she blushed even harder. Would Rochford think her presumptuous? Or assume that she was reminding him of the fact that they had nearly become man and wife?

Francesca turned and continued walking. Her hand was curled so tightly around her fan that the sticks were digging into her flesh. Rochford fell in beside her, and for a moment they walked in silence. She could feel him watching her. He knew something was wrong. She was only making it worse and prolonging her own anxiety.

“I have to apologize to you,” she blurted out suddenly.

“Excuse me?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice.

She stopped and turned to him, steeling herself to look up into his face. “I wronged you. Fifteen years ago, when we—” She stopped, feeling as though her throat was closing up on her.

He stiffened slightly, the puzzlement on his face turning to a slight wariness. “When we were engaged?” he finished for her.

Francesca nodded. She found she could not hold his gaze, after all, and she glanced away. “I— At Callie’s wedding, Lady Swithington told me—she said she lied about the two of you. That there was never anything between you.”

When he said nothing, Francesca squared her shoulders and forced herself to look back up at him. His face was still, his gaze shuttered, and she knew no more of what he was thinking or feeling than she had when she was turned away from him.

She swallowed and went on. “I was wrong. I accused you unjustly. I should have listened to you, heard you out. And I—I wanted you to know that I am sorry for what I said to you, for what I did.”

“Well…” He half turned from her, then swung back. “I see.” He was silent for a moment longer, then said, “I am afraid I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t know that there is anything to say,” Francesca admitted, and they turned and began to stroll back the way they had come. “There is nothing to be done. It is all long over. But I could not feel easy without telling you how wrong I was. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wanted you to know that I learned the truth, and that I am sorry for misjudging you. I should have known your character better.”

“You were very young,” he replied mildly.

“Yes, but that is not an adequate excuse, surely.”

“I daresay.”

Francesca cast a sidelong glance at the duke. She had worried that when she told him, he would slice her with a cold, acerbic remark. Or that his eyes would light with fury, and he would storm at her or stalk away. She had not considered that her confession might render him speechless.

They walked through the double doors leading into the upper level of the ballroom and stopped, turning toward each other awkwardly. Francesca’s heart hammered in her chest. She did not want to simply part from him this way, unsure of what he thought and felt, not knowing if he was seething inside or simply relieved to know that she no longer believed him a cad. She could not bear it, she thought, if her confession resulted in the ruination of the delicate friendship they had built over the years.

Impulsively, she asked, “Shall we dance?”

He smiled faintly. “Yes, why don’t we?”

He extended his arm to her, and they started down the curving staircase.

A waltz struck up just as they reached the floor, and Rochford swept her into his arms and out to join the dancers. Something fluttered inside her, soft and insistent, and she was suddenly uncertain and nervous, yet almost giddy, as well. She had danced with the duke many times over the course of the past few years, but somehow, in this moment, it felt different, even new. It felt…almost as it had years before.

She was very aware of the strength of his arms encircling her, his warmth, the smell of his cologne mingled with that faint, indefinable scent that was his alone. She remembered how it had been that Boxing Day, at the ball he had given at Dancy Park, when he had taken her into his arms for a waltz, and she had looked up at him and realized that the girlish infatuation she had felt for him for years was something much more. Gazing into the depths of his dark eyes, she had known that she was hopelessly, madly in love with the man. She had been dizzy with excitement, her entire body tingling with awareness of him. He had gazed back down at her and smiled, and in that moment, heat had burst inside her like a sun.

Staring up at him now, Francesca felt color rush to her cheeks at the memory. He looked so much the same; if anything, the years had only added to his handsomeness, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes softening the sharp planes and angles that could make his face appear cold. He had always looked a bit like a pirate, she thought, with his black eyes and black hair, and the high swooping line of his cheekbones. Or at least he appeared that way when his straight black brows drew together, or when he turned his level, icy stare on one. At those moments he seemed a trifle dangerous.

But when he smiled, it was a different matter altogether. His face lit up and his eyes warmed, and his mouth curved in a most inviting way. It was almost impossible not to smile back at him at such a moment, and, indeed, it made one want to do something to bring that smile out again.

She glanced away quickly, embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts. She hoped that he had not seen her blush or had any idea what had brought it about. It was absurd, of course, for her to be nervous or eager. And even more laughable for her thoughts to go skittering to juvenile maunderings about his good looks or appealing smile. She was long past such feelings—for Rochford or anyone else. Whatever girlish love she had felt for the man had died many years ago, burned away by long nights of sleepless anguish, drowned in a sea of tears.

She cast about for some topic to bridge the silence. “Have you heard from Callie?”

“I have had a letter from her. Very brief, I might add. ‘Paris is beautiful. Bromwell is wonderful. Looking forward to Italy.’”

Francesca chuckled. “Surely ’twas not quite so short as that.”

“Oh, no, there was a bit more description of Paris. But all in all, it was a model of brevity. Their plan is to return to London in another week—if, of course, they do not decide to extend the honeymoon.”

“Well, at least it sounds as if she is happy.”

“Yes. I believe she is. Against everything I would ever have thought, Bromwell apparently loves her.”

“It must be lonely for you without her.”

“The house is a trifle quiet,” Rochford admitted with a faint smile. “But I have kept busy.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “What about you?”

“Have I kept busy? Or have I been lonely without Callie?”

“Either. Both. She was with you more than she was at home the last two months before she married.”

“That is true. And I have found that I miss her,” Francesca admitted. “Callie is…well, her leaving creates a larger hole in one’s life than I would have imagined.”

“Perhaps you should take another young lady under your wing,” Rochford suggested. “I have seen a number of women here tonight who could do with an application of your expert touch.”

“Ah, but none of them has asked for my help. It is a bit rude, you know, to offer one’s opinion, unasked, on how another can be improved.”

“I suppose it would be. Although one cannot help but wish that you might say something to Lady Livermore.”

Francesca stifled a giggle, following the direction of Rochford’s eyes to where Lady Livermore was dancing with her cousin. She was wearing her favorite color, a strong puce that would show to advantage on very few women. Lady Livermore was not among them. The color would have been bad enough in itself, but Lady Livermore was of the opinion that if something was good, then more of it was even better. Ruffles festooned the neckline of her dress and the bottom of the skirt, billowing out beneath the scalloped hemline of her over-dress. Even the short puffed sleeves carried two rows of ruffles. Silk rosettes marked the upward points of the scallops, each one centered by a pearl, with a swag of pearls stretching from point to point. A pearl-trimmed toque of matching color sat atop her head.

“Lady Livermore, I fear, is unlikely to change,” Francesca told him. She paused for a moment, then said, “Do you know Lady Althea?”

Francesca could have bitten her tongue as soon as she said it. How could she have blurted that out so clumsily?

“Robart’s daughter?” the duke asked in a surprised tone. “Do you think that she needs help finding a husband?”

“Oh, no! Goodness.” Francesca let out a little laugh. “I am sure Lady Althea has no need for any help from me. I just saw her dancing with Sir Cornelius, that’s all.” She paused, then went on. “I am sure that she has no lack of suitors. She is quite attractive, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Rochford answered. “I suppose she is.”

“And accomplished, too. She plays the piano quite well.”

“Yes, she does. I have heard her play.”

“Have you? She is much admired, I understand.”

“No doubt.”

Francesca was aware of a distinct spurt of annoyance at his reply. She was not sure why the duke’s agreeable admissions of Lady Althea’s excellence irritated her. After all, her job would be much easier if Rochford already found the woman appealing. And surely she was not so vain herself that she could not bear to hear another woman praised. Still, she found it hard not to respond sharply, even though she herself had raised the subject.

She turned the conversation to something else, but later, when the music ended, she subtly maneuvered Rochford into walking off the dance floor in the direction that Lady Althea and her partner had taken. She was lucky enough that Sir Cornelius was taking his leave of the lady as they approached.

“Lady Althea,” Francesca greeted her with apparent pleasure. “How nice to see you. It has been an age since we have met, I vow. You know the Duke of Rochford, do you not?”

Lady Althea offered them a measured smile. “Yes, of course. A pleasure to see you, sir.”

Rochford bowed over her hand, assuring her politely that the pleasure was all his, as Francesca cast an assessing eye over the woman. Lady Althea was tall and slim, and her white silk ball gown was tasteful, if somewhat lacking in dash in Francesca’s opinion. And if her lips were a bit too thin and her face a trifle long for real beauty, she did have a wealth of dark brown hair, and her brown eyes were large and lined with thick, dark lashes. Many men, Francesca was sure, would call her pretty.

She cast a sideways glance at Rochford, wondering if he numbered among those men.

Lady Althea inquired politely after Rochford’s grandmother and Francesca’s parents, then moved on to compliment Callie’s wedding. It was the sort of polite chitchat in which Francesca had engaged for much of her life, as had Lady Althea and Rochford, and they were able to spend several minutes talking about almost nothing at all.

When they had finished praising Lady Whittington’s ball—perhaps her finest, in Lady Althea’s opinion—as well as commiserating over the sad state of Lady Althea’s mother’s nerves, which had kept her in bed tonight instead of attending this event, they moved on to the latest play at Drury Lane, which, as it turned out, none of them had actually seen.

“Why, we must go!” Francesca exclaimed, looking at Lady Althea.

The other woman seemed faintly surprised, but replied only, “Yes, certainly. That sounds quite pleasant.”

Francesca beamed. “And we shall press the duke to take us.” She turned toward Rochford expectantly.

His eyes, too, widened a trifle, but he said evenly, “Of course. It would be my privilege to escort two such lovely ladies to the theater.”

“Wonderful.” Francesca glanced back at Althea, who, she noticed, appeared more eager about the invitation now that the duke was attached to the expedition. “Let us set a night, then. Tuesday, shall we say?”

The other two agreed, and Francesca favored them with a smile. She had, she knew, ridden roughshod over them. She was customarily more deft in her maneuverings than she had been tonight. She was not sure why she had been clumsier than usual, but at least neither of the others looked disgruntled or suspicious.

She made a few more minutes of small talk, then slipped away, leaving Rochford with Althea. She made her way across the room, greeting some and pausing to chat with others. She should have felt a sense of triumph, she knew. She had finally set her plan in motion.

But, in truth, all she felt was the beginning of a headache.

She paused and glanced around her. She saw Irene in the distance, and a moment later she spotted Sir Lucien on the dance floor. She could make her way to Irene or wait for Sir Lucien—or, indeed, she could find half a dozen others to talk to, and there were any number of men who would doubtless ask her for a dance.

However, she found herself unwilling to do any of those things. Her temples were beginning to pound, and she felt bored and curiously deflated. All she really wanted, she reflected, was to go home.

Pleading a headache, which for once was real, she bade good-night to her hostess and went outside to her carriage. The vehicle was ten years old and growing somewhat shabby, but it felt good to be in it, snugly away from the music and lights, and the noise of a multitude of people chattering.

FENTON, HER BUTLER, was surprised to see her home so early, and immediately hovered over her solicitously. “Are you well, my lady? Have you caught a chill?”

The man had been her butler for over fourteen years; she had hired him soon after she and Lord Haughston were married. He was intensely loyal, as all her servants were. There had been many times when she had been unable to pay their wages, but Fenton had never grumbled—and she felt sure he had made quick work of any servant who did.

Francesca smiled at the man now. “No. I am fine. Just a bit of a headache.”

Upstairs, she faced the same quizzing from her maid, Maisie, who immediately took down Francesca’s hair and brushed it out, whisked off her dress and helped her into her nightclothes, then bustled out of the room to fetch lavender water to ease her headache. Before long Francesca found herself ensconced in her bed, pillows fluffed behind her, a handkerchief soaked in lavender water stretched across her forehead and the kerosene lamp beside her bed turned to its lowest glow.

With a sigh, Francesca closed her eyes. She was not sleepy. The hour was far earlier than she was accustomed to retiring. And, in truth, the headache had eased as soon as she returned home and let down her hair. Unfortunately, the gloom that had touched her at the ball seemed to have settled in.

She was not a woman who dwelled upon her misfortunes. When her husband had died five years ago, leaving her with little but this town house in London, one of the few things that had not been entailed with his estate, she had not sat about twisting her hands and bemoaning her fate. She had done her best to marshal her resources and pay off his debts, reducing her own expenses to the bare minimum. She had closed off part of the house and reduced the staff, then proceeded to gradually sell her silver and gold plate, and even her own jewelry. She had also quickly learned to practice economy, turning and refurbishing her old gowns rather than buying new ones, and wearing her slippers until the soles wore through.

Even so, it had become apparent that such economies and her small jointure were not enough to support her and even a small staff for any length of time. Most women in her position would have sought a new husband, but after her experience with the first one, Francesca had been determined not to embark on that course again. Without a marriage to finance her, she knew, the expected course would be to retire to her father’s house, now her brother’s, to live as a dependent relative for the rest of her life.

Instead, she had cast about for some means of bringing in more income. There were no jobs for ladies, of course, except for something like a companion or a governess. Neither of those held the slightest appeal for Francesca, and, indeed, she was sure that no one would have hired her for either one. The skills she possessed—impeccable taste, an eye for the fashions that complemented one’s looks rather than taking away from them, a thorough knowledge of the London social scene, the ability to flirt to exactly the right degree, as well as to enliven even the dullest party or most uncomfortable situation—were not the sorts of things that would make one money.

However, it occurred to her, after yet another society matron begged her help in bringing off an unpopular daughter’s Season, that her skills were quite useful in the primary occupation of the mamas of the ton—securing a good marriage for their unmarried daughters. Few could better guide a naive young girl through the treacherous waters of the Season, and none were as adept in finding the perfect dress or accessory to flatter a figure or diminish a fault, or the most becoming hairstyle for any sort of face. Patience, tact and a ready sense of humor had helped her through an unhappy marriage, as well as fifteen years as one of the leaders of the beau monde, an always-perilous position. Surely those qualities could be used to successfully steer a young woman into a good marriage—even, if she was lucky, into love.

Francesca had been matchmaking for three years now—always under the genteel guise of doing a favor for a friend, of course—and she had managed, if not to live well, at least to get by. She was able to keep food on the table and pay a small staff, as well as heat the house in the winter—as long as she kept many of the larger, draftier rooms closed off. And given the amount of business she was able to bring dressmakers and millinery shops, she was often given a dress that had been ordered but not picked up, or allowed to buy a frock or hat at a considerable discount.

It was not the life she had dreamed of as a young girl, certainly, and she spent far more time than she cared to think of worrying about whether she would be able to pay her bills. But at least she was able to live on her own, as independent as any lady could be if she hoped to be respectable. Her mother, she knew, would have been shocked if she had known about Francesca’s secret occupation—as would a number of other members of society. Perhaps what she did was not genteel, but, frankly, she found it satisfying to take those without a sense of style and turn them into fashionable and attractive young ladies, and it was always pleasing to help a couple find each other.

All in all, she was quite content with her life. Or, at least, she had been. But over the last few weeks she had been aware of a feeling of dissatisfaction, a certain ennui. She had even at times been…well, lonely.

That was absurd, of course, because her social calendar was invariably full. She had invitations for every night of the week, often more than one a night. Every day brought a steady round of callers, both male and female. She never wanted for a dance partner or an escort. If she had been alone often during the past few weeks, that had been of her own accord. She had not really wanted to go out much or see anyone.

She missed Callie, she knew. She had grown quite accustomed to having the girl around, and the house seemed emptier without her, just as she had told the duke. And, she had to admit, she was also suffering remorse and guilt about the terrible mistake she had made so many years ago. She would have been less than human, she supposed, if she had not considered how different her life would have been if she had not broken off her engagement.

Certainly, if she had married Rochford, she would not now be spending her days worrying about how she was to keep food on the table or whether an old dress could be restyled yet again. But far more than the material benefits, she had to wonder if she might not have lived a happy life with him.

What if she had been married to a man of honor rather than a libertine? What might have happened if she had married the man she truly loved? She remembered the dizzying excitement she had felt when she was with Rochford back then, the glow that had filled her every time he smiled at her…the way she had tingled all over when he kissed her.

His behavior with her had been quite correct, and the few kisses he had given her had for the most part been chaste. Even so, she remembered, her heart had pounded at his nearness, and her senses had been filled with the sight and sound and scent of him. Once or twice, when he had laid his lips upon hers, she had felt heat surge in him, and he had pulled her close to him. His lips had dug into hers, opening her mouth before he pulled away abruptly, apologizing for his lack of decorum. Francesca had scarcely heard him. She had stared at him, lips open slightly, dazed by the new and strange sensations sizzling along her nerves, the fire exploding in her abdomen, and she had shivered, wanting more.

If she had married Rochford, she might now be surrounded by children, honored by her husband, perhaps even well-loved. She might have been happy.

A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. She opened her eyes and reached up to dash away the wayward drop. What foolishness, she thought. She was no longer a girl of eighteen to be carried away by romantic notions.

The truth was that, though she might have had children, her marriage to Sinclair would probably have been equally unhappy.

When she had fluttered inside at Rochford’s kisses, she had not realized what came after the kisses and embraces, or how those tantalizing sensations would die when she was confronted by the reality of the marital act. If she had married the duke, she told herself, the result would have been the same. The only difference would have been that she turned stiff and cold with Rochford, and it would have been he, not Andrew, who left her bed cursing and calling her Lady Ice—or, rather, the Duchess of Ice, she supposed.

A grim little smile curved her lips. The duke had been fond of her, but it was absurd to dream that she might have won his love over the years. He would have acted more honorably than Haughston, of course. He would not have harangued her or paraded his mistresses before her. But he would doubtless have enjoyed their marital bed as little as Andrew had. He, too, would have lost whatever feeling he had for her when she could not respond to him with ardor. And how much of her love for him would have remained as, night after night, she had had to endure having him thrust into her, hoping that this time it would not be painful, sighing with relief when the act was over and he left her bed?

There was no reason to think that any of that would have changed. She would not magically have become a passionate woman simply because she married a different man. It would have been worse, she thought, to have seen the disenchantment dawn on Rochford’s face as he realized that his wife was cold in bed. And it would have been worse, surely, to have come to dread the nighttime visits of the man she loved.

No, it was better by far to have lived the life she had. Better to still have her happy memories of the love she had once felt. Rochford, too, would have been thankful that she had not married him if only he had known the sort of woman she was. He could still marry and have heirs.

Indeed, any of the women she had chosen would make an excellent wife and duchess for Rochford. He could easily fall in love with one of them. After all, Francesca had achieved a great deal of success in that regard with the matches she had helped to bring about. The rest of his life would be happier than it doubtless would have been if they had married. And such an outcome would make her happy, too. Very happy, she told herself.

So why, then, she wondered, did the thought of arranging his wedding to another leave her feeling so empty inside?