The Courtship Dance. Candace CampЧитать онлайн книгу.
found herself wanting to confide in Irene.
“Is he the reason for your melancholy?” Irene persisted.
“I think that is caused by the rapid approach of my birthday,” Francesca replied lightly, but then she sighed and said, “And a little by having hurt him when he did not deserve it. I am very sorry for what I did.”
Irene frowned. “I cannot imagine that you could have done anything so terrible.”
“I think he might differ with you,” Francesca responded. She looked into her friend’s eyes, warm with sympathy. “No one must know this—not even Lord Gideon, for he knows the man.”
Irene’s brows went up, and Francesca saw understanding dawn in the other woman’s clear golden eyes. “The duke? You are talking about Rochford?”
Francesca sighed. “I should have known that you would guess. Yes, it is Rochford, but you must promise me that you will not tell anyone.”
“Of course. I promise. Not even Gideon. But, Francesca, I don’t understand. Rochford is your friend. What great wrong could you have done him?”
Francesca hesitated. Her heart felt like lead within her chest, the long-dead sorrow hanging there still. “I broke off our engagement.”
Irene stared. “I knew there was something between you!” she exclaimed softly. “I just was not sure exactly what it had been. But I have never heard of this. I don’t understand. It must have been a huge scandal.”
“No.” Francesca shook her head. “There was no scandal. Our engagement was secret.”
“Secret? That scarcely sounds like the duke.”
“Oh, there was nothing havey-cavey about it,” Francesca assured her. “Rochford was always quite proper. He—he told me that he did not want me to be locked into an engagement during my first Season. It was the summer I made my come-out, you see. He said that I might change my mind once I had had a Season. I knew that I would not, but…well, you know the duke. He always allows for every contingency. And he thought me flighty, no doubt.”
“You were young,” Irene said.
Francesca shrugged. “Yes. But more than that—I have never been, will never be, a weighty sort.” She flashed a smile at her companion. “A ‘butterfly’ is the way he described me.”
“So you did not suit, then?”
“No, it was not that. Rochford was content enough, I think. He expressed no displeasure, at least. And I—” She paused, her eyes seeing a different time, a faint smile hovering on her lips. “I was desperately in love with him—as only an eighteen-year-old girl can be.”
Irene wrinkled her brow. “Then what happened?”
“Daphne happened,” Francesca replied grimly.
“Daphne! Lady Swithington?” Irene stared at her. “Lord Bromwell’s sister?”
Francesca nodded. “Yes. She was the source of the trouble between Rochford and Brom, the reason Rochford was so set against him becoming Callie’s husband. I was not the only one fooled by Daphne’s lies. Her brother believed, as well, that Rochford and Daphne were having an affair.”
“Oh, no! Francesca…” Irene laid her hand on her friend’s arm, sympathy warm on her face. “You thought she was his mistress?”
“Not at first. She told me straight out that she was, but I refused to believe her. I knew Rochford. Or I thought I knew him. I was aware that he did not love me as I loved him, but I believed he was too honorable a man to marry one woman and keep another as a mistress. But then, one evening—in this very house, in fact—I discovered that I was wrong. A footman brought me a note as I finished a dance. It said that if I went to the conservatory, I would find something interesting.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yes. Oh, dear. I thought the duke had sent me the note. I imagined that he had some sort of surprise for me, something romantic, perhaps. He had given me a pair of sapphire earrings the week before, saying that they were the best he could find, though they could not match the brilliance of my eyes.” She let out a sound, half laugh, half sigh. “Goodness, how long ago that seems.”
“Do you have the earrings still?” Irene asked.
“Of course. They were beautiful. I did not wear them, but I could not get rid of them. I offered them back to him afterwards, of course, but he refused, with the blackest look.”
“I presume you found him and Lady Daphne in flagrante?” Irene went on.
Francesca nodded. She remembered how she had felt, so brimming with love and eagerness, as she had hurried through the wide halls toward the conservatory. She had hoped that Rochford had found a way to steal some time alone with her. It had been even more difficult here in the city than it had been at home, surrounded as they were not only by chaperones, but all the ton, as well. Such a secluded tryst was not like him, of course; he was always supremely careful of her honor, unwilling to engage in any behavior that might damage her reputation. But perhaps, she had thought, tonight passion had carried him away, and the idea had sent a delicious shiver through her.
Francesca had not been able to quite imagine what it would be like to see Sinclair burn with passion. The duke was such a cool and elegant sort, ever unflappable in the face of the most major crisis, and correct to a fault. But there had been a time or two when he had kissed her, when his lips had pressed harder into hers and his skin had flamed in such a way that her own nerves had begun to jangle inside her, and she had wondered if something hotter, harder, stronger, boiled inside him, as well. He had always pulled away quickly, of course, but Francesca had seen a flash of something in his eyes—something hot and almost frightening, but in a somehow delicious way.
“I went into the conservatory,” Francesca recalled now. “I said his name. Sinclair was at the far end of the room, and there were some orange trees between us. He started toward me, and I saw that his ascot was in disarray, his hair mussed. I did not understand at first, but then I heard a noise, and I looked beyond him. Daphne had come out from behind the trees, as well. Her dress was unfastened down the front to the waist.”
Unconsciously, Francesca’s face hardened as she remembered the moment. Daphne’s hair had been partially undone, straggling around her face in tangled curls. Her flimsy chemise had been unlaced, and her full white breasts had spilled flagrantly out, almost completely uncovered. She had smiled at Francesca like the cat that had just gotten into the cream. And Francesca had shattered inside.
“When I saw them, I realized what a fool I had been. I had not been so deluded that I believed that Rochford was madly in love with me. He had, after all, pointed out to me all the very practical reasons why he and I were a good match. He had not spouted declarations of love or written odes to my smile or any such foolishness. But I believed that he cared for me. I had been sure that he would never harm me or treat me with anything but respect. And I had known that I would be such a good wife to him, make him so happy, that someday he would come to love me as much as I loved him.”
“Instead he had been bedding down with Lady Daphne while he was engaged to you.”
“Yes. Well, no, not really. It was all a lie. But I did not know that at the time, and I could not bear what I believed to be true. No doubt there are other women who would have ignored it, reasoning that they would still be his duchess, even if another had his heart. But I could not. I broke it off with him.”
“But in fact Daphne had arranged that little scene and sent you the note?”
“Yes. She told me at Callie’s wedding that it had all been a lie. He had not slept with her, just as he swore to me then that he had not. I did not believe him when he tried to tell me that, of course. I refused to listen to him. And afterwards, when he called on me, I would not see him.”
“And that is why you married Lord Haughston?” Irene asked shrewdly.
Francesca