as she grinned at him.
“No falsehood,” he protested. “I was just looking at your portrait and thinking how remarkably the same you look.”
She was about to toss back a rejoinder when suddenly, unbidden, the memory of her dream the night before came back to her. She stared at him, feeling as though her breath had been stolen from her, and all she could think about was the look in his eyes as he had gazed into her face and the velvet touch of his lips as they met hers.
She blushed deeply, and something in his face changed, his eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. He was about to kiss her, she thought, and her body suddenly shimmered with anticipation.
CHAPTER FOUR
B UT, OF COURSE , he did not kiss her. Instead, he took a step back, and she saw that his face was set in its usual cool reserve, not at all the expression that she had thought she glimpsed for an instant. It was a trick of the light, she decided, some shifting of shadows. No doubt Fenton, conserving money, had not lit enough candles.
“I am surprised that you are not holding a party to celebrate the occasion,” Rochford said somewhat stiffly.
Francesca turned away, struggling to quiet the tumult of butterflies in her stomach. She would not think about that ridiculous dream. It had meant nothing. And Rochford had no inkling of it, in any case. There was no reason to feel awkward and unsettled.
“Don’t be absurd,” she told him tartly, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. “I have reached the age where one does not want to draw attention to growing older.”
“But you deprive everyone of the opportunity to celebrate your presence here among us ordinary mortals.”
She cast him a dry look. “Doing it a bit too brown, aren’t we?”
He gave her a wry smile. “My dear Francesca, surely you are accustomed to being called divine.”
“Not by a man well-known all over the city for adhering to the truth.”
He let out a chuckle. “I yield. Clearly I am out-matched. I am well aware that it is an impossibility to have the last word when contesting wits with you.”
“’Tis nice to hear you admit it,” she replied with a smile. “Now…I believe that Lady Althea is awaiting us?”
“Yes, of course.” He did not look as interested in the prospect as Francesca would have hoped.
But then, she reminded herself, she had known that this would be a long and doubtless uphill battle with Rochford. He was not a man known for his changeability; it would take some time and effort to reverse the course he had pursued for years. Besides, she was not entirely certain herself whether Lady Althea would be the right wife for Rochford.
She could not help but remember the comment Irene had made the other night. Althea Robart was, frankly, a trifle snobbish, and while that was not really a problem for a duchess, Francesca could not help but wonder if such a person would really make Rochford happy. Rochford was certainly capable of assuming his “duke face,” as his sister Callie called it, when it suited him, but he was not a man who took himself too seriouslymost of the time. He was quite capable of conversing with almost anyone of any social level, and Francesca could not remember a single occasion when he had been too careful of his dignity to listen to or help someone.
Francesca glanced over at him as they left her house and approached his elegant town carriage. This carriage, for instance, was an example of his lack of overweening pride. Though well-made and obviously expensive, there was no ducal crest stamped on the side. Rochford had never sought the admiration of the general crowd, nor did he feel a need to announce his name or station to the world.
He handed her up into the carriage and settled across from her. She leaned back into the luxurious leather seat, the soft squabs cushioning her head. It was dark and close in the carriage, somehow much more intimate than sitting this near to one another in the chairs in her drawing
“No falsehood,” he protested. “I was just looking at your portrait and thinking how remarkably the same you look.”
She was about to toss back a rejoinder when suddenly, unbidden, the memory of her dream the night before came back to her. She stared at him, feeling as though her breath had been stolen from her, and all she could think about was the look in his eyes as he had gazed into her face and the velvet touch of his lips as they met hers.
She blushed deeply, and something in his face changed, his eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. He was about to kiss her, she thought, and her body suddenly shimmered with anticipation.
CHAPTER FOUR
B UT, OF COURSE , he did not kiss her. Instead, he took a step back, and she saw that his face was set in its usual cool reserve, not at all the expression that she had thought she glimpsed for an instant. It was a trick of the light, she decided, some shifting of shadows. No doubt Fenton, conserving money, had not lit enough candles.
“I am surprised that you are not holding a party to celebrate the occasion,” Rochford said somewhat stiffly.
Francesca turned away, struggling to quiet the tumult of butterflies in her stomach. She would not think about that ridiculous dream. It had meant nothing. And Rochford had no inkling of it, in any case. There was no reason to feel awkward and unsettled.
“Don’t be absurd,” she told him tartly, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. “I have reached the age where one does not want to draw attention to growing older.”
“But you deprive everyone of the opportunity to celebrate your presence here among us ordinary mortals.”
She cast him a dry look. “Doing it a bit too brown, aren’t we?”
He gave her a wry smile. “My dear Francesca, surely you are accustomed to being called divine.”
“Not by a man well-known all over the city for adhering to the truth.”
He let out a chuckle. “I yield. Clearly I am out-matched. I am well aware that it is an impossibility to have the last word when contesting wits with you.”
“’Tis nice to hear you admit it,” she replied with a smile. “Now…I believe that Lady Althea is awaiting us?”
“Yes, of course.” He did not look as interested in the prospect as Francesca would have hoped.
But then, she reminded herself, she had known that this would be a long and doubtless uphill battle with Rochford. He was not a man known for his changeability; it would take some time and effort to reverse the course he had pursued for years. Besides, she was not entirely certain herself whether Lady Althea would be the right wife for Rochford.
She could not help but remember the comment Irene had made the other night. Althea Robart was, frankly, a trifle snobbish, and while that was not really a problem for a duchess, Francesca could not help but wonder if such a person would really make Rochford happy. Rochford was certainly capable of assuming his “duke face,” as his sister Callie called it, when it suited him, but he was not a man who took himself too seriouslymost of the time. He was quite capable of conversing with almost anyone of any social level, and Francesca could not remember a single occasion when he had been too careful of his dignity to listen to or help someone.
Francesca glanced over at him as they left her house and approached his elegant town carriage. This carriage, for instance, was an example of his lack of overweening pride. Though well-made and obviously expensive, there was no ducal crest stamped on the side. Rochford had never sought the admiration of the general crowd, nor did he feel a need to announce his name or station to the world.
He handed her up into the carriage and settled across from her. She leaned back into the luxurious leather seat, the soft squabs cushioning her head. It was dark and close in the carriage, somehow much more intimate than sitting this near to one another in the chairs in her drawing
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