Page 45 of The Courtship Dance

Maisie rode in the carriage with them. Though a widow enjoyed far more independence than a woman who had never married, Francesca knew that she could not be seen going into a bachelor’s house alone. However, when they reached the imposing white-stone Lilles House, Maisie made her way with the footman to the servants’ quarters, leaving Francesca in the foyer with the duke.

“I am surprised you do not insist that your maid accompany us through the house,” Rochford teased. “Am I so fearsome a creature?”

Francesca rolled her eyes. “Really, Sinclair, you know I could not come here without her. You were the one who suggested it, after all. It is as much for your sake as mine. I can imagine the look on Cranston’s face if you had walked in here with an unaccompanied woman.” She paused, glancing at him. “That is to say, with me. I suppose that you have brought women of a certain sort here before.”

The duke gave her a long, level look.

“Come, Rochford, I am not naive,” she told him. “You are a man in your thirties, after all. I realize that you must have had women.”

“Not here,” he replied simply.

Strangely, she felt warmed by his answer. Rochford was not the sort of man who would dishonor his house, his family or his wife in any way. He would not conduct casual affairs in the home that had been his parents’, and that would someday be his wife’s and children’s. Had she married him, she would always have had his honor, she knew, and for a moment regret swelled in her throat. How different her life would have been if she had married Sinclair.

Francesca turned her head away from him, afraid that her feelings showed too readily on her face. Rochford had always been able to see what she thought.

Sternly, she reminded herself that however little Sinclair was like Andrew, he was, after all, a man. He would have given her his respect, treated her with honor, but she had no reason to think that he would have been any happier in her bed. He would have done it more discreetly, of course, but he, too, would have sought other women when he found her cold and passionless. And, really, it was nothing but a pipe dream to think that, had she married Sinclair, her basic nature would have changed, that she would have blossomed with desire.

Pushing aside her foolish, useless thoughts, Francesca looked around her. The entry hall of Lilles House was vast, stretching up two stories, with a sweeping double staircase as its centerpiece. Behind the staircase, a hallway stretched back to the conservatory and garden entrance, while to the left lay the hallway to the kitchen and servants’ area.

To the right, however, the room opened up to the gallery, a stately hallway floored in Carrara marble, and lined with large portraits of former dukes and duchesses, as well as their children and pets. Elegant wall sconces provided light in the evening, but by day the tall, paned windows along the outside wall flooded the corridor with a golden light. Long velvet curtains, the color of dried moss, hung beside the windows, looped in artful swags over round metal holdbacks.

“I’ve always loved Lilles House,” Francesca said.

He glanced over at her, and she wondered if he, too, was thinking that the house would once have been hers. The idea flustered her, and she glanced quickly away, heat rising in her cheeks. What if he thought she regretted losing the magnificence of the house?

“I am fond of it, as well,” he replied, and to her relief she could detect nothing in his voice that indicated he found her words anything but normal. “Though it is somewhat dated, I fear. No doubt my bride will wish to change things. Put her own mark upon it.”

“Oh, no!” Francesca protested, a little surprised at how fiercely she disliked the idea. “I hope she will not. It is beautiful just as it is. I would not change a thing.”

But she had nothing to say about the matter, of course. She colored, once again aware of how her remark might be misconstrued, and she cast a glance at her companion. Fortunately, Rochford was looking in another direction and seemed not to have noticed her misstep.

He opened a set of double doors on the left. These doors, as well as a second pair farther down the hall, opened into the large ballroom, which stretched all the way to the rear of the house. Three huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the floor was of the same pinkish-veined marble that lay in the gallery. Along the side wall was a row of tall windows, shaded in heavy brocade draperies of a deep maroon shade, and across the rear wall stood three sets of double French doors opening out onto a terrace.

“If you hold it in this room, it will have to be a grand ball,” she warned. “Else it would not suit. It will take time to prepare for it.”

“An end of the Season party, then. Mayhap one to announce an engagement.”

Francesca felt the now-familiar clutch of nerves in her stomach. Was he so sure, then, of his choice? It must be Lady Mary. Given what he had said, she was certain that he was not considering Caroline Wyatt any more than he was Althea Robart. Damaris seemed a better choice, and Lady de Morgan was more lovely. But it was Mary Calderwood to whom he had talked for so long, whom he had taken riding in his phaeton.

Of course, he had taken Francesca herself for a ride in his phaeton, but that was an entirely different matter.

“You will have enough time to prepare, will you not?” the duke went on.

Her heart dropped. Would she even be in London in a few more weeks? If Perkins made good on his threats, she would be out of her house. How could she possibly still manage Rochford’s party?

She forced a smile on her face, however, and told him, “Yes, of course. One does not need to add much decoration here.”

They strolled through the grand ballroom to the sets of doors at the other end. Francesca stood, gazing out onto the terrace and the garden beyond. It was a very large yard for a house in the city, with an expansive garden.

“Would you like to extend the party into the garden?” she asked, turning toward him. “We could string up lights between the trees.”

“Like Vauxhall Gardens?” he asked.

“Well…yes, I suppose so. But less ostentatious, perhaps—and hopefully without some of the behavior that takes place there. But perhaps we could set up a few tables and chairs on the terrace.” She pointed. “There, where it is more secluded. We could have lights on the steps, and we could add decorations to the benches surrounding the fountain.”

“It sounds very pleasant,” Rochford agreed, reaching out to open one of the doors. “Let us go look at the garden more closely.”

He offered her his arm, and they strolled across the terrace and down into the garden, moving at a leisurely pace and looking all around them. Francesca pointed out where stands of candelabra could be placed, and how wide ribbons twined through the railings would add a festive touch to the terrace and stairs. It would be a delight to plan for this party, she thought—if it were not for the knowledge, sitting in her chest like a lump of lead, that she was planning the joyous occasion for another woman.