Page 34 of The Courtship Dance

“No, she is recently up from the country. She is over there, talking to Oscar Coventry.”

“Oh, yes. Pretty girl. Another one you are polishing up?”

“A little.”

Callie’s roving gaze stopped. “Who is the girl to whom my brother is talking?”

Francesca turned to where Callie’s gaze was directed. Rochford was standing beside a pretty young blonde, who was gazing at him raptly.

“That is Lady Caroline Wyatt. She just made her come-out this year. She is Sir Averill Wyatt’s daughter.”

“Sir Averill…” Callie frowned, then her face cleared. “Oh, she is Lady Beatrice’s daughter?”

“Exactly. Bellingham’s granddaughter.”

“Goodness, I can scarce believe that Sinclair is talking to her as long as he is. Usually young girls bore him to tears. Do you think he is interested in her?”

“Perhaps. She is quite pretty,” Francesca pointed out. Rochford did seem to be talking to the girl for a long time. The girl was saying very little, just nodding, and now and then smiling prettily or wafting her fan to cool her face.

They continued to watch the couple. Rochford continued to talk; Lady Caroline continued to smile.

“I must say,” Francesca commented with some asperity, “she does not seem to talk much. I should not think Rochford would find her very entertaining.”

It occurred to her as soon as the words came out of her mouth that they sounded harsh. She glanced over at Callie, wondering if her friend had noticed.

Trying for a pleasanter tone, she added, “Of course, I suppose many men prefer that sort of woman.”

She found herself hoping that Rochford was not one of them. Why had she even included the girl? She was not sure, but suddenly it seemed almost unbearable to think that Rochford might fall in love with the dewy-faced young woman.

That, of course, was utterly absurd. It should not matter to her which of the women he chose. She had tried to find ladies who would appeal to him. The whole point was for him to fall in love, wasn’t it? Why should it be worse if he chose a blond girl almost young enough to be his daughter? After all, Francesca herself had been a fresh-faced blond girl once.

“I would not think my brother is of that opinion,” Callie commented, which warmed Francesca’s heart.

There was the sound of masculine voices raised in the hallway, and Francesca pulled her gaze away from Rochford and Lady Caroline to look. As she watched, Galen Perkins strolled into sight, Francesca’s butler at his side, remonstrating.

“Oh, dear.” Francesca’s stomach twisted into knots. Was Perkins going to ruin her party, as well? She could easily imagine him declaring to one and all that this house was not really hers. “Excuse me,” she murmured to Callie, as she stood up and made her way to the open double doors.

“Ah, Lady Haughston.” Perkins smiled at her in an obnoxiously smug way. “I am glad to see you. Pray tell your servant that I am welcome at your little party.”

“What are you doing here?” Francesca asked in a low voice, ignoring his request. “I did not invite you.”

“I am sure you merely overlooked it,” he told her. “You would not have wanted to exclude an old friend of your husband’s.”

“Please leave.” What would she do if he made a scene? “You told me it would be three weeks—”

He leered at her, his grin growing broader. “Three weeks ’til what, my lady?” As always, the title sounded like an insult on his lips.

“Mr. Perkins, please…”

“Lady Haughston.” The duke’s cool, modulated tones sounded behind her.

Francesca turned to him in relief. “Rochford…”

“May I be of some assistance?” His gaze went to Perkins, and there was a flat, hard look in his eyes that took Francesca aback. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I am a guest of the lady’s. The late Lord Haughston and I were good friends.” His eyes cut toward Francesca. “I shall be happy to tell people about our friendship, should anyone question my being here.”

“Shall I toss him out for you?” the duke asked, his gaze never leaving Perkins.