Page 23 of The Wedding Challenge

“I am sure it will,” Callie told her, looking surprised. “Why ever would it not? Sinclair is not happy with me at the moment, but I do not think he would go so far as to deny me a visit with you. I am sure that you are someone whom he would accept as a chaperone for me. And what could my grandmother possibly say after she has been singing your praises to me?”

“Very clever. I will call upon the duchess tomorrow to extend my invitation.”

“Thank you!” Callie exclaimed. “You are so very, very kind.”

“Nonsense. I will thoroughly enjoy having you here. It is quite dull, really, until the Season begins, and having a friend here will make it ever so much livelier. Besides, we shall have a project!” Francesca smiled. “Now,” she said decisively, rising to her feet, “I think it is time we got a little sleep. Won’t you stay here the night? I shall send a note ’round to the duchess that you are here with me so that they will not worry, shall I?”

“I left a note for Sinclair on my pillow, so that they would not worry about me if they woke and found me gone.” Callie smiled at her a little shamefacedly. “No doubt they will probably worry anyway. I should not have left so impulsively. It was just that I felt as if I might burst if I had to stay there another instant!”

“I understand exactly how you felt,” Francesca assured her. “And it was thoughtful of you to leave a letter. Why don’t I just pen another little note telling him that you reached my house, and are quite safe and well?”

“Thank you. You are very kind.” Callie grinned a little mischievously. “Especially since you are doubtless laying the way for a visit from my brother bright and early tomorrow morning.”

FRANCESCA WAS NOT SURPRISED to find that Callie’s words were prophetic. Her maid awakened her the next morning with word that the duke himself was downstairs.

“Looking dark as thunder, too,” Maisie added. “Fenton didn’t dare tell him you were not receiving yet, so he set him in the front drawing room. The way he looked, though, we had better make quick work out of getting you ready or he’ll be up here, knocking on your door.”

“Do not worry,” Francesca assured her. “The duke would never commit such a vulgar breach of etiquette, even if the house were burning. He would say, ‘Pray tell your mistress that there is a slight problem with a fire downstairs.’”

Maisie giggled as she pulled out a simple morning dress and held it out for Francesca. “If you say so, my lady, but I warn you, he’s looking that grim.”

Francesca sighed. She had a sinking feeling that Rochford would not approve of Callie’s notion of staying with her, even until the Season began. Despite what Callie had told her, she had never gotten the impression that Rochford would regard her as a proper chaperone for his younger sister. Indeed, if anyone had asked her how the duke viewed her, she would have said that she imagined he found her frivolous. Rochford had always held a weightier view of the world than she.

Francesca washed her face and slipped into the dress her maid had chosen, then let Maisie quickly brush her hair and twist it up into a simple knot. It was not her usual sort of toilette before receiving callers, and she hated to appear anything but her best before Rochford, but it could not be helped.

She found the duke standing at the window of the drawing room, staring out into the street, his hands linked behind his back. His dark blue coat and fawn trousers were as impeccable as ever, his Weston boots as polished, his cravat as expertly tied, his short black hair as neatly cut and styled, but the face he turned to her was, as Maisie had reported, grim, and his dark eyes beneath the sharp black brows were worried.

“Rochford. Good morning,” she said, coming forward to give him her hand.

“I apologize for the early hour, Lady Francesca,” he replied stiffly, moving to her and bowing over her hand.

“Do not worry. I realize that you are…concerned.” She sat down and waved him toward the sofa that faced her chair.

“Yes.” His jaw tightened. “I—I trust that Lady Calandra is well.”

“Oh, yes. She is still asleep. I thought it best if you and I had a discussion together first.”

He nodded, avoiding her eyes as he said, “I appreciate the note you sent. I would have been most worried this morning if I had not already known that she was safe and sound at your house.”

Francesca knew that it was an indication of the duke’s inner turmoil that he, usually the most urbane and smoothest of conversationalists, was speaking in such a stiff and uncomfortable way. She could not help but feel a rush of sympathy for the man.

Before she could speak, he went on, “It was very good of you to take her in, and I must apologize for her imposing on your good nature in this way.”

“Nonsense,” Francesca told him firmly. “It was not an imposition, and Callie is always welcome in my home. I am very glad that she felt she could come to me.”

His expression grew even more wooden, if that was possible, as he said, “I presume that Callie told you that she and I…had a disagreement.”

“She did.”

He looked over at her, seemed about to speak, then released a sigh and let himself sag back against the sofa. “The devil take it, Francesca,” he said gruffly. “I think I have misstepped badly with the girl.”

“Yes, you may have.”

He cut his eyes toward her, and for a moment amusement lifted his features, so that he looked more himself. “My dear Francesca, you might at least have made a pretense of protesting my admission of incompetence.”

Francesca chuckled. “Ah, but what would be the point in that?”

She leaned across to him, putting her hand on his arm sympathetically. “Do not worry. I am sure that you have not ruined yourself with your sister. Callie clearly loves you, and it worries her, too, that you and she were at odds.”