Page 48 of The Courtship Dance

“It locks only from the inside.” He gestured back toward the door, where, indeed, a metal bar could be pulled across to secure the door. “No children, no servants, no mother-in-law, could bother her here. Not even a husband, if she so wished. She liked to paint or read or simply sit and be…not a duchess.”

“And you kept it as it was.” Francesca turned to look up at him.

“Yes. It’s been many years since she was here. She came to London only a time or two after Father died. But I could not change it.”

“Of course not. It is lovely.” She glanced around again. “Do you visit it often?”

“Sometimes. But…it is the duchess’s garden.”

She looked up to find him watching her. A stray bit of breeze lifted a curl of her hair and brushed it against her cheek. Rochford reached out and smoothed the curl back from her face with his knuckles.

Would this garden be Mary Calderwood’s, then? Francesca wondered, and her heart tightened in her chest at the thought. She wanted this place to be hers, but she knew that the stab of possessiveness she felt went much further than that—she wanted this man to be hers.

She ached for what she had lost. For him. For a life that she would never know. For children and hopes and laughter.

But she knew that her wishes were futile. The time when she could have had those things, when she could have embraced love and lived a different life, was long gone. However much she ached for it, she could not have it back.

Was she really so selfish? she wondered. How could she begrudge Rochford his chance at happiness? If Lady Mary was the woman he wanted for his duchess, then she should do everything she could to help him win her.

And however sweet it might be to feel the stroke of his hand across her cheek, it would be folly to indulge in any nostalgic attempt to recapture the romance that she and Sinclair had once shared. Though he looked at her now in a way that made her want to melt into his arms, though her mouth yearned to press against his and try to recapture the sweet fire that it had felt the other night when he kissed her, she knew that to do so would be nothing but folly.

Sinclair might want her, might want the memory of her, at least. And she knew that at this moment she wanted him. If she leaned toward him, if she put her hand upon his chest and gazed up into his eyes, she was certain that he would bend to kiss her. And she was filled with a tingling anticipation, a burgeoning hope that if they kissed again, she would once more know the new and wondrous sensations that had flooded her the other night. For a few minutes she might feel gloriously alive.

But that was a fleeting thing.

What Sinclair needed was a woman he could marry, a woman who could bear his children and share a life with him, who could return his passion and fill his life with love. He did not need a woman who was, at the deepest center of her, barren and cold. And she knew, after her years of childless marriage with Andrew, that she could not give Sinclair either the passion or the children he deserved.

She turned away, saying in a low voice, “It is growing late. I should return home.”

“Francesca…” He reached out, grabbing her wrist. “Wait.”

“No.” She looked back at him, her eyes wide and dark with the turmoil of emotions inside her. “No. We must go.”

She jerked her arm from his grasp and hurried out of the garden.

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRANCESCA DID HER best not to think about what had happened with her and Rochford in his mother’s garden. Anything between them was out of the question. The love she had felt for Sinclair had died long ago, and she was not certain that he had ever really loved her. All they felt now was desire, fueled no doubt by the knowledge that their romance had died an abrupt and bitter death.

The last thing either of them needed at the moment was an affair. Rochford was ready for marriage. And she should be concentrating on doing whatever she could to avoid losing her home to Mr. Perkins. Besides, it was bound to end badly. The flickerings of desire in her would wither and die once they reached the bedchamber, and she would be left shamed before Sinclair. She could not, would not, allow that to happen.

She spent the next morning tallying up the things Maisie and Fenton had managed to sell. Fenton had gotten rid of a number of objects, though he had held stubbornly to the silver flatware and a few large serving dishes, as well as the crystal goblets and china. She had not pressed the issue. The pearls, too, were gone, which cost her a bit of a pang, as well as all the candelabras in the house except those used in the drawing room and formal dining room. Even so, the amount of money they had amassed fell woefully short.

But she had known that would be the case. Perhaps it would be enough money for her to hire a solicitor. The thought of going to court turned her stomach to ice.

The afternoon she spent making plans for Rochford’s party, an occupation that greatly brightened her mood. It was wonderful having a huge room and an unquestioning source of money with which to work, and she let her imagination roam free.

However, she could not help but remember Sinclair’s offhand remark that it would perhaps be an engagement ball, and that thought deflated all her happiness.

The Haversley soiree was to take place the following evening. Francesca had not planned to attend, but she knew that the Calderwoods were certain to be there, as Lady Calderwood and Mrs. Haversley were cousins and friends. If Lady Mary was there, wasn’t it likely that Rochford would attend, as well? If the rumors she had heard were accurate, he certainly would.

She wanted to see them together. She was not sure why, but the idea was persistent. If she watched them, she was certain she could gauge the extent of Rochford’s interest in Mary. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to see that for herself.

Besides, she reasoned, it would be another way to help Harriet if she asked Harriet and her father to accompany her. By the time she went up to dress for supper, she had convinced herself to attend the party, and she sat down and dashed off a note to Sir Alan, asking them to go with her to the soiree the following evening.

As it turned out, she was correct in her supposition that the Calderwoods would be at the party. Francesca felt an unbidden sense of relief when she saw that the duke was not there, but he arrived a few minutes later. Well, at least he had not come with them, she thought.

She managed to keep her eyes on Rochford and Lady Mary throughout most of the evening. She saw them together once in earnest conversation, and later he brought the young girl a cup of punch. Of course, she also saw him talking at one point to Lady de Morgan, and later to Damaris Burke and her father. Indeed, if anything, he talked to Damaris the longest, but Francesca found it difficult to judge the depth of his interest in the girl, since most of the conversation appeared to be between the two men.