Читать книгу The Courtship Dance - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 9

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 generations 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.”