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Authors: Candace Camp
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room.
She could not remember when she had ever ridden in a carriage entirely alone with Rochford. He had never been one of her escorts, at least not since that brief time when they had been engaged, and then she had been a young, unmarried female, so there had always been a chaperone accompanying them—her mother or his grandmother. Francesca looked down at her gloved hands in her lap, feeling unaccustomedly uncertain.
It was ridiculous, of course. She knew that she was a woman who was counted upon to keep a conversation running, yet here she was, unable to think of anything to say—and with a man whom she had known all her life. But she could not seem to keep her mind from turning to that dream she had had the night before, a vision that quickly dried up any words that came to her lips and set her heart knocking foolishly in her chest. Besides, she could not escape the feeling that Rochford was looking at her. Of course, there was no reason why he should not be looking at her. They were seated across from each other, their knees only a few inches apart. And there was certainly no reason why his gaze should make her nervous…yet she could not help but feel unsettled by it.
It was a relief that the trip to Lady Althea’s residence took only a few minutes. Francesca waited in the carriage while Rochford went in to escort Althea. It did not take him long, Francesca noted, so clearly the two of them had spent little time chatting. She supposed she could not fault Althea, given that she had just spent the last few minutes in the carriage with Rochford feeling quite tongue-tied herself. Still, it seemed to her that the woman could have made a little more of a push.
As they paused outside the carriage while the footman opened the door and set down a stool for Althea to step up on, Francesca heard Althea say in some disappointment, “Oh. Then you did not bring the ducal carriage?”
Rochford’s glance flickered over to Francesca, who sat watching them out the carriage window, and hearched one eyebrow sardonically. Francesca had to raise her hand to her mouth to cover the smile that sprang up there.
“No, my lady, I am afraid only my grandmother uses the carriage with the crest. Still, one could say that this is the ducal carriage, being that it belongs to me.”
Lady Althea gave him a slightly puzzled glance. “Yes, of course, but how is one to know it?”
Francesca suppressed a sigh. Lady Althea appeared to have little lightness or humor in her.
“Very true,” the duke murmured, extending his hand to help her up into the vehicle.
Althea sat down beside Francesca, favoring her with an unsmiling nod. “Good evening, Lady Haughston.”
“Good evening.” Francesca smiled. “How lovely you look.”
“Thank you.”
It nettled her only a little that Lady Althea did not return the compliment. It was more annoying that after her brief answer, Althea made no effort to say anything else to move the conversation along.
“I trust your parents are well,” Francesca went on gamely.
“Yes, quite, thank you. Father is rarely ill. It is always so with the Robarts, of course.”
“Indeed?” Francesca noted the amusement that briefly danced in the duke’s dark eyes. Althea, she thought with a flash of irritation, was doing little to make a positive impression. “And is Lady Robartenjoying the Season? I confess, I have seen her only rarely this summer.”
“She is frequently at my godmother’s side,” Althea commented. “Lady Ernesta Davenport. Lord Rodney Ashenham’s sister, you know.”
“Ah.” Francesca knew Ashenham and his sister, both rather priggish sorts. As she remembered, Lady Davenport had once told her that a true lady did not laugh aloud—that only the common sort were given to braying—when Francesca had burst into a fit of giggles over some mishap or other during her first Season.
“They grew up together, you see,” Althea went on. “They are first cousins, as well.”
“I
She could not remember when she had ever ridden in a carriage entirely alone with Rochford. He had never been one of her escorts, at least not since that brief time when they had been engaged, and then she had been a young, unmarried female, so there had always been a chaperone accompanying them—her mother or his grandmother. Francesca looked down at her gloved hands in her lap, feeling unaccustomedly uncertain.
It was ridiculous, of course. She knew that she was a woman who was counted upon to keep a conversation running, yet here she was, unable to think of anything to say—and with a man whom she had known all her life. But she could not seem to keep her mind from turning to that dream she had had the night before, a vision that quickly dried up any words that came to her lips and set her heart knocking foolishly in her chest. Besides, she could not escape the feeling that Rochford was looking at her. Of course, there was no reason why he should not be looking at her. They were seated across from each other, their knees only a few inches apart. And there was certainly no reason why his gaze should make her nervous…yet she could not help but feel unsettled by it.
It was a relief that the trip to Lady Althea’s residence took only a few minutes. Francesca waited in the carriage while Rochford went in to escort Althea. It did not take him long, Francesca noted, so clearly the two of them had spent little time chatting. She supposed she could not fault Althea, given that she had just spent the last few minutes in the carriage with Rochford feeling quite tongue-tied herself. Still, it seemed to her that the woman could have made a little more of a push.
As they paused outside the carriage while the footman opened the door and set down a stool for Althea to step up on, Francesca heard Althea say in some disappointment, “Oh. Then you did not bring the ducal carriage?”
Rochford’s glance flickered over to Francesca, who sat watching them out the carriage window, and hearched one eyebrow sardonically. Francesca had to raise her hand to her mouth to cover the smile that sprang up there.
“No, my lady, I am afraid only my grandmother uses the carriage with the crest. Still, one could say that this is the ducal carriage, being that it belongs to me.”
Lady Althea gave him a slightly puzzled glance. “Yes, of course, but how is one to know it?”
Francesca suppressed a sigh. Lady Althea appeared to have little lightness or humor in her.
“Very true,” the duke murmured, extending his hand to help her up into the vehicle.
Althea sat down beside Francesca, favoring her with an unsmiling nod. “Good evening, Lady Haughston.”
“Good evening.” Francesca smiled. “How lovely you look.”
“Thank you.”
It nettled her only a little that Lady Althea did not return the compliment. It was more annoying that after her brief answer, Althea made no effort to say anything else to move the conversation along.
“I trust your parents are well,” Francesca went on gamely.
“Yes, quite, thank you. Father is rarely ill. It is always so with the Robarts, of course.”
“Indeed?” Francesca noted the amusement that briefly danced in the duke’s dark eyes. Althea, she thought with a flash of irritation, was doing little to make a positive impression. “And is Lady Robartenjoying the Season? I confess, I have seen her only rarely this summer.”
“She is frequently at my godmother’s side,” Althea commented. “Lady Ernesta Davenport. Lord Rodney Ashenham’s sister, you know.”
“Ah.” Francesca knew Ashenham and his sister, both rather priggish sorts. As she remembered, Lady Davenport had once told her that a true lady did not laugh aloud—that only the common sort were given to braying—when Francesca had burst into a fit of giggles over some mishap or other during her first Season.
“They grew up together, you see,” Althea went on. “They are first cousins, as well.”
“I
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