Page 32 of The Courtship Dance

Only selling the house would provide adequate money, but as she had known last night when she had asked Mr. Perkins for more time, it would take a good while to find a purchaser, certainly more than the three weeks he had given her. Her agent had agreed to try to sell it, but he had been quite set against the idea. Better to lease it out during the Season if she needed to raise money, he had told her. But, of course, that would not answer her needs at all. And she could not bring herself to explain to him why she needed the money so desperately and so quickly.

Still, she thought, she must set Maisie to selling off whatever she could. She would, after all, need money to pay a solicitor if she decided to fight Perkins in court.

She went back to the jewelry box and took out the earrings and bracelet again. Everything else, she thought, but not these.

All through the week, as she prepared for Harriet’s party, Francesca’s worries gnawed at the back of her mind. But no matter how much she thought about the matter or how many tears she shed at night in the privacy of her bedroom, she could not come up with any solution.

She tried to put the matter of Perkins and the house out of her mind, going on about the business of creating a successful soiree. To her gratification, replies to her invitation were quickly returned, all but a very few happy to attend. The assembly room, one of the rooms in the east wing that she kept permanently closed off and now largely unfurnished, was opened up and received a thorough cleaning, requiring the hiring of two extra maids and a footman. Once that was accomplished, the task of decorating that room and the front hallway began. Wines were selected, and the final menu for the food and beverage tables chosen.

There were, moreover, the sessions she had set herself with Harriet, instructing the girl in the niceties of conversation, strategic flirting and other skills that would help her navigate her way through the Season. Harriet knew how to dance, at least, and she was amenable to applying the daily lotions Francesca recommended to lighten her sun-kissed complexion. But getting her to restrain her tongue was another matter. It was not that she was rebellious; she simply did not understand why the straightforward way she spoke was too blunt, or why some of the topics she brought up would cause many a matron to look at her askance.

Still, no matter how busily Francesca flung herself into her tasks, she could not keep Perkins and his threats out of her head. Even if she managed to outrun them during the day, every night, when she lay down to bed, they were there again, tormenting her: What was she going to do? How was she to live?

She could think of no answer, but neither could she find ease. Her thoughts ran round and round, covering the same ground with the same lack of success. She tossed and turned in her bed, often getting up to wrap her dressing gown about her and sit at the bow window of her bedroom, staring down at the empty street below.

In the mornings, she deeply regretted her nighttime vigils. Her head ached, and there were blue circles growing beneath her eyes. If she did not get more sleep, she would look like a hag, she told herself. But there seemed nothing she could do to stop her worrying.

In only a little over a week, she would have to decide. Would she stay in her home and make Perkins fight her in court, facing the scandal that would ensue? Or would she give up her house and take refuge at Redfields? Neither option seemed bearable.

The night of the party finally came. It was a soft summer evening, with no prospect of rain to keep anyone away. Francesca, dressed in her new light green silk, a silver tissue wrap about her bare arms, greeted her guests with a merry smile. For tonight, at least, she was determined to keep all worrisome thoughts at bay. It was the only party she had given this Season, and she meant to enjoy it.

In fact, as it turned out, she had little time to enjoy it. She was far too busy making sure that Harriet—who was quite pretty in her new white ball gown and with her hair done up in charming ringlets by Francesca’s maid—was introduced to each of the young men Francesca had invited, as well as to the women who could ease the girl’s path through the ton. An invitation to Almack’s might be too much to hope for, Francesca knew, but she thought that she could get Harriet invited to a number of entertaining parties.

When she was not busy with Harriet, of course, there was her other goal to be attended to: introducing Rochford to the young women she had chosen for him. She was gratified to see that every one of the four candidates had come to the party, and she skillfully maneuvered each of them into a conversation with the duke at some point in the evening.

Throughout the party, whatever she was doing, Francesca kept an eye on the duke. She was pleased to see that he made an effort to talk for some time to each of the women.

Once, when she looked over, she saw him conversing with Lady Damaris, and as she watched, Rochford smiled, then laughed, his face lighting up in that way it did. Something pierced her chest, sharp and painful, and for an instant Francesca wanted to cry.

Silly, of course, she told herself. Of course Sinclair would enjoy talking to Lady Damaris. She was intelligent and sophisticated, adept at conversation. Nor was she unattractive, with a short but pleasingly rounded form, and soft brown curls and lively hazel eyes. She was, in Francesca’s opinion, the most likely of the young women to appeal to the duke.

Lady Edwina de Morgan, on the other hand, was the prettiest of the women, with black hair and vivid green eyes, though her features were a bit too sharp, Francesca thought.

She feared that Lady Mary would prove too shy to talk to him, given her retiring, bookish nature. She was gratified to see him talking to the girl, for she imagined that it took some effort to get Mary to say anything. Somewhat surprisingly, when she glanced over a few minutes later, she saw that the two of them were still in conversation, and Lady Mary was even talking rather animatedly.

Francesca smiled to herself. Trust Rochford to manage that feat. He was nothing if not patient. And kind. And charming. He was, in short, the quintessential gentleman—or, at least, what a gentleman should be. She had to wonder if any of the women she had chosen were actually good enough for him.

But that, too, was foolish—almost as much as the pang of loss she had felt earlier when she watched him with Damaris Burke. Of course he would be happy with any of these women. She had researched them carefully, and while none were perfect, she was not likely to find one who was. Neither was the duke, for that matter.

Indeed, he could be impossibly stubborn. He was maddeningly sure of himself. And there was that way he had of quirking his eyebrow at one sardonically, a most irritating habit—all the more so because when he did it, the recipient of the quirked brow was usually in the wrong.

The evening was not entirely given over to work. Francesca managed to spend a few minutes chatting with Sir Alan, whose pleasant, affable nature she found calming. Sir Lucien was there, as well, of course, as were Lord and Lady Radbourne.

Irene set Francesca laughing with an account of her recent visit to her brother and sister-in-law. “Impending motherhood has brought not the slightest improvement to Lady Maura’s temperament. Thank heavens it is Mother staying with her and not I. I would doubtless wring her neck before she delivers. One moment she is too hot, the next she is too cold. Pillows have to be adjusted behind her back, then taken away. And someone has to help her up from her chair, because she has grown so terribly fat.”

Irene paused, looking thoughtful. “I suppose it’s wrong of me to find that fact amusing, but I do. Maura claims that it is because Humphrey’s heir is such a large, strong boy, but my opinion is that it has more to do with the plentiful servings of roast and potatoes she eats at supper—not to mention the box of chocolates that is always by her side.”

Francesca chuckled. “You are unkind.”

“Yes, I am,” Irene admitted unrepentently. “I suppose I shall be as large as she is before long.”

Francesca stared at her friend. “Irene! Are you—? Do you mean—?”

Irene smiled a little secretively. “Yes. I am. No one knows besides you and Mother. I am not three months along yet, and Mother says that is the most dangerous time. We don’t want to let Gideon’s family know about it until we are more assured that I will carry the child to full term. You can imagine how Lady Odelia will seize upon it.”

“Goodness, yes. Oh, Irene.” Francesca beamed at her friend, and reached out to take her hand and squeeze it. “I am so happy for you. I am sure that Gideon must be up in the boughs about it.”

“No more than I,” Irene admitted a little shamefacedly. “You know that I was never one of those women to gush about babies and motherhood. But these past few weeks—oh, Francesca, I have never been so filled with hope and happiness, even though I spend half the morning being sick. I am scarce like myself. I hardly ever argue with Gideon. I think he believes it is because of how ill I feel—and he is so careful around me, so solicitous, that I actually cried, I was so touched by his behavior. Which, of course, convinced him even more that I am exceedingly ill. But the truth is I am just so happy that I cannot bring myself to disagree with anyone. Well, anyone but Maura.”