Page 37 of The Courtship Dance

“He might retaliate,” she pointed out as she opened the door of a walnut cabinet and reached inside.

“I can handle him.”

“Very well. Brandy?” Without waiting for his reply, she pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured each of them a glass. Brandy was not considered a woman’s drink, and she usually did not partake, keeping it on hand more for her friend Sir Lucien than for any other reason. But tonight, she thought, a brandy seemed just the thing.

Rochford watched her as she poured. He wondered if she had even thought about the fact that she had answered the door in her dressing gown, her unbound hair flowing in a golden cascade down her back. Once he had dreamed of being with her this way—of course, in those daydreams he would have had the right to go to her and take her in his arms, to glide his hand down the silken fall of her hair.

He turned away abruptly and sat down on a chair. “Why did you permit him to stay tonight?”

Francesca sighed. “It seemed the easiest course. I did not want a scene, and I feared that Perkins was precisely the sort of man who would cause one. Besides, he was Andrew’s friend. I—I hated to be openly rude to him.”

She handed the duke a snifter of brandy and sat down on the sofa across from him. Rochford took a sip.

“I would have thought that it would be quite easy to be rude to most of Haughston’s friends.”

Francesca could not hold back a grin, but she tried to cover it by taking a quick drink of the brandy. It slid down her esophagus like velvet fire, igniting her stomach and sending soft tendrils of relaxation creeping through her. She let out a sigh, then took another sip and curled her feet up on the sofa beside her, like a child.

She looked across at Rochford. He was so strong, so capable. Of course Perkins would not worry him. He would brush the man off like an insect.

For an instant she thought of telling Rochford about Perkins and his threat, of putting the whole mess in his competent hands. Quickly she turned her gaze back to her drink, swirling the amber liquid around in the glass. She could not do such a thing, of course. She had no hold on Rochford, no claim. It would be unthinkably forward of her to tell him of her problems. Like the gentleman he was, he might try to solve the matter for her, but obviously that would be wrong.

Besides, it would be utterly humiliating to reveal to the man she had not married what a horrible, foolish mistake she had made in the man she had chosen. To let him see how close she lived to the edge of poverty, how she had to scrabble for money to pay for food and clothing and servants. Besides, he might think she was asking him for the money to pay off Perkins, which would sink her with shame. Quickly, she took another sip of her drink.

Rochford’s eyes went to the front of her dressing gown, where her lapels gaped a little, showing the shadowed tops of her breasts and the dark valley of demarcation between them. He could not help but wonder what she wore beneath the robe. If it was a nightrail, it must be low-necked. Or perhaps she had thrown the robe on over her undergarments, so that only a flimsy chemise and pantalets lay under the dressing gown.

He started to speak and was startled by the hoarseness of his voice. He cleared his throat and started again. “I thought we might discuss the, ah, ladies we were considering.”

“Yes, of course.” Francesca was happy to divert her thoughts from their course. “How did you like Lady Damaris?”

“She seems quite competent, as you said. Adept at conversation.” He paused.

“Then, um, was she your favorite?” His words seemed cool praise to her, but then, Rochford was a very sensible man.

“Not especially. I am not sure I had a favorite, really.”

“You talked to Lady Mary quite a bit. I was surprised. She has usually seemed rather shy when I have been around her.”

His lips twitched slightly. “I rather think that she thought me too old to be frightening. I believe she puts me in the category of her father and his friends.”

“Old!” Francesca gaped at him, then burst into laughter. “Oh, my.”

“Well you may laugh,” he retorted. “I might remind you, my dear, that you are not that many years behind me.”

“No, of course not. I am an old crone, as well, no doubt.” She grinned wickedly at him. “Perhaps you can steal in beneath her defenses. I have no doubt that later you would be able to convince her that you are not entirely doddering yet.”

“It seems quite an effort,” he mused.

“What of Lady Caroline?” She remembered the pang she had felt, watching him with the young girl. Envy, she supposed, at the girl’s youth. But she could not let that influence her—or cause her to try to influence him.

His mouth tightened. “Bloody hell, Francesca! What possessed you to saddle me with that chit? A more boring girl I hope never to meet.”

Francesca pressed her lips together tightly to suppress a laugh. She should not feel so elated to hear that he had disliked the girl, but she could not quell the amusement rising up in her like a bubble.

“She was unable to talk about anything,” he went on with some bitterness. “And if she had an opinion on something, I was unable to discover it. Every time I asked her a question, she responded by asking what I thought of it. Where is the sense in that? I already knew what I thought.”

Francesca swallowed her chuckle. “Perhaps you should give Lady Caroline another chance. She is young, after all, and mayhap she is shy around someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” he repeated, fixing her with his black gaze. “What do you mean? Are you implying that I am intimidating? Stiff and unyielding? Or perhaps it is my advanced age to which you are referring.”