Page 50 of The Courtship Dance

Francesca turned to find her friend smirking at her. “Nonsense. Why would I be jealous?”

He did not reply, only studied her for a moment, then commented, “There is another name bandied about as the woman who has drawn the duke’s interest.”

“Who?” Francesca asked, surprised.

“Lady Haughston.”

For a moment she simply stared at him, his words having effectively rendered her speechless. Finally, she squeaked out, “Me? How absurd.” She rolled her eyes. “Why, Rochford and I have known each other forever.”

“Knowing one a long time does not necessarily preclude marriage.”

“We are friends, that is all.”

“Neither does being friends rule out marriage. Though one would have to assume that it would not continue after the ceremony.” He paused, then added, “You cannot deny that you and the duke have been a good deal friendlier in recent weeks.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Francesca opened her fan and began to waft it gently. The ballroom had become much warmer, it seemed.

“You have gone for rides in the park, just as Rochford and Lady Mary have.”

“One ride,” Francesca corrected swiftly.

“As Rochford and Lady Mary have,” he repeated. “You have stood up to dance with him several times.”

“It is not unusual for Rochford to ask me for a dance.”

“Three times in two weeks?”

“Have you been keeping count?” Francesca gazed at him in astonishment. “No doubt it is that many only because the duke has been attending so many more balls.”

“And he has called on you a number of times.”

“We are friends. You know that.”

“How often did the duke pay social calls on you in the past several years?”

Francesca searched her mind frantically. “I cannot remember,” she said at last. “But I am certain that he has. Why, in January, he called on me a time or two, I am certain.”

“Sometime other than when his sister was staying with you.”

“Really, Lucien, how can I be expected to remember every little detail?” She gave him an exasperated look. “I do hope you are not fueling such idiotic rumors.”

“Of course not. I would never gossip about you.” Sir Lucien looked wounded. “However, one cannot help but notice things. And one would think that one’s friends might inform one if—”

“Pray do not get on your high ropes, Lucien. I did not tell you because there is nothing to tell. Rochford is not interested in me, and I am not jealous.”

He looked at her for a moment, then gave in. “Very well. I shall just continue to look mysterious and say nothing when people ask me.”

“Lucien! You must disabuse people of the notion!”

“Are you mad? One can scarcely dine out on denials.”

Francesca had to chuckle. Lucien began to talk of the gossip swirling around the Countess of Oxmoor, which centered on her relationship with an artist her husband had hired to paint her portrait. Francesca only half listened to him, once more scanning the room.

She saw that Mary Calderwood was now seated by herself against the wall. It was, Francesca thought, the perfect opportunity to start up a conversation with the girl.

“Pardon me,” she inserted quickly into the first pause in Lucien’s chatter. “I need to speak to someone.”

She left almost as soon as she spoke and did not see the speculative glance her friend cast at her as she wound her way through the throng to the chairs where Mary sat.