The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp

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      “I…ah! There is Lady Althea.” Francesca had spotted her quarry standing beyond the dancers, chatting with another woman. “I shall start with her. I think that I may chat with her a bit, maybe plan an outing together. Then I can arrange it so that Rochford makes up one of our party.”

      “If that is your plan, it seems that fortune has smiled on you,” Irene told her, nodding toward another part of the ballroom. “Rochford just walked in.”

      “He did?” Francesca’s heart sped up a bit, and she turned to look in the direction her friend indicated.

      It was Rochford, all right, effortlessly elegant in formal black and white, and easily the most handsome man in the room. His thick black hair was cut into an artfully casual style that many copied but few could achieve, and his lean, tall figure was perfectly suited for the close-fitting trousers and jacket that were the current fashion. There was nothing ostentatious about him—the only decoration he wore was a stickpin anchoring his cravat, the head of which was an onyx as dark as his eyes—yet no one, seeing him, would have thought him anything less than an aristocrat.

      Francesca’s hand tightened on her fan as she watched him glance about the room. Every time she had seen him lately, she had felt this same roiling mixture of emotions. It had been years since she had felt this way, so jittery and filled with trepidation, yet strangely excited, as well. Daphne’s words, she reflected, had opened some sort of door on the past, letting in a whole host of feelings that she had thought time and experience had worn away.

      It was entirely foolish, she realized. Knowing, as she did now, that Rochford had not been unfaithful to her made no real difference in her life. Nothing had changed because of it, and nothing would. Yet she could not deny the little spurt of joy it aroused in her whenever she saw him. He had never belonged to Daphne; his firm, well-cut mouth had not kissed her, nor whispered in her ear. His hands had not caressed her or showered her with jewels. The mental pictures that had tortured her fifteen years ago had been entirely false, and she could not help but be glad of it.

      Francesca turned away, suddenly busy with her gloves and fan, smoothing down the front of her skirt. “I must tell him,” she said softly.

      She knew that she could not be at ease around him again until she had revealed what she had learned and apologized for not trusting or believing him. And, clearly, she could not match him with a wife if she could not even be around him without going into a fit of nerves. She must tell him…but how?

      “I think that you are about to get your chance,” Irene told her dryly.

      “What?” Francesca looked up.

      And there, climbing the stairs toward them, was the Duke of Rochford.

      CHAPTER TWO

      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.”

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