Page 51 of The Courtship Dance

She paused a time or two to say hello to someone or compliment a gown or hairdo, not wanting it to seem as though she had made a straight line to the girl. When she felt she was close enough, she turned and let her gaze fall upon Mary as if she had just seen her sitting there.

“Lady Mary,” she said, smiling and going over to her. “How nice to see you again.”

The girl jumped up and bobbed a quick curtsey toward her, saying, “Lady Haughston. Hello. Um, it’s very nice to see you, as well.”

Pink crept along the girl’s cheeks, and she looked down at her shoes.

Francesca pretended not to notice Mary’s awkwardness. How in the world did the girl manage to converse so easily with Rochford, who regularly intimidated people far braver than she? Francesca sat down in the chair next to Mary’s. Mary looked faintly alarmed, but took her seat again. Francesca noticed that the girl sat at the front edge of the chair, as if she might bolt at any second.

“I am so glad you were able to come to my little soiree last week,” Francesca began.

Mary’s blush deepened. “Oh, yes. I beg your pardon—I should have said—That is, I am, um, very glad that you invited me. Us, I mean.”

“I hope that you enjoyed it,” Francesca went on, ignoring Mary’s blushes and stammering about.

“Yes, it was most beautiful.” Mary smiled, looking as though it was rather painful to her, and quickly glanced away.

“I hope your parents are well,” Francesca said, working her way through the customary polite chat.

Mary was of little help, answering in brief phrases and making no attempt to open up any topics of her own. Francesca felt as if she was being cruel to continue talking to the girl when she was so plainly uncomfortable, so she gave up the social niceties and simply jumped into the topic that had brought her over, trusting that Mary would scarcely notice the awkwardness of the transition.

“You seemed to enjoy a nice chat with the Duke of Rochford at my party,” she began.

Mary’s demeanor changed instantly. She lifted her head, her face suddenly glowing, as if lit from within. The lights glinted off the glass of her round spectacles as she said, “Yes. He is the most wonderful man, is he not?”

“Very admirable,” Francesca agreed, suppressing a sigh. Clearly the young lady was topsy-turvy over Rochford. It was no wonder, of course; any girl would be, even a bookish sort. Sinclair was handsome, witty and strong, everything a woman could want in a man.

Mary nodded enthusiastically. “He is ever so kind. Usually—well, I am sure you noticed—I do not talk easily to anyone. But the duke is so pleasant and attentive. Indeed, I scarcely realized that I was conversing until I heard myself babbling away.”

Francesca nodded agreeably, although she could not help but be amazed. She wondered if Caroline Wyatt would agree that the duke was so easy to talk with. But then, she supposed, it made all the difference in the duke’s demeanor if the girl who was talking was one who had caught his fancy.

“You must think me very silly,” Lady Mary went on, smiling in a self-deprecating way. “You have been friends with the duke so long.”

“Yes, indeed, I have.” Francesca forced herself to smile, to ignore the hard knot that had taken hold in her chest. “He is a wonderful gentleman.”

Mary beamed back at her. “I know. I am so lucky.”

Francesca fought to keep the pleasant smile on her face. Already the girl counted herself lucky? Was she that sure of herself and her hold on the duke? In another woman, Francesca might have termed the statement foolish arrogance, but Mary Calderwood was not the arrogant sort. No, she was simply too inexperienced to know that she should not speak with such certainty until the duke had actually asked for her hand.

But then, perhaps he had already asked and just had not told her. The thought cut Francesca like a knife.

Suddenly she could not bear to sit there anymore, listening to the happiness bubbling in the young woman’s voice, seeing her eyes shine. She smiled and uttered a few pleasantries that she could not remember afterward, then took her leave.

Francesca walked away from the rest of the crowd, ducking into a hallway. She found an alcove that was blessedly secluded, and she sat down, drawing a deep breath.

Could it be that Lucien was right, and she was jealous? She wanted to laugh and say that it was absurd, as she had told him, but she could not do it. All the time that she had been planning the party for Sinclair, the thought that it would be an engagement ball had preyed on her mind. It was wicked of her, she told herself, not to want Rochford to find love with Mary. There was naught wrong with the girl; she seemed sweet, and the love had been clear to see on her face. That was what Sinclair deserved, a girl who loved him, who would make him a good wife. That was what she wanted for him. Wasn’t it?

Yet neither could she deny the ache in her chest when she thought of the two of them together. She burned with resentment to think of him in love.

She knew it was wrong…and wicked. And she was determined not to feel this way. She would fight the nasty burning inside her. She would not allow herself to be the sort of woman who wished a man to be unhappy simply because she could not have him.

It could be done, surely. Perhaps she was not a deep person, but she was sure that she was not a bad person, either. She had started this whole thing because she wanted Sinclair to be happy, and she still wanted that. If Mary Calderwood was the woman who would make him happy, she would somehow bring herself to be glad.

The only problem was figuring out how to do so.

THE DEADLINE Mr. Perkins had set loomed before Francesca, but she refused to think about it. Barring a miracle, she could not possibly have the money for him, leaving her with nothing but the decision of whether to refuse to leave or to go meekly. And though she quailed inside at the thought, she was rather certain what she would do when it came down to it. Whatever else the FitzAlans may have been, her family had always been warriors.

Instead, she kept herself busy with the plans for Rochford’s party. She soon realized that she needed to discuss her plans with Cranston, Rochford’s efficient butler. She could have sent a note to him, requesting him to call on her. She knew that would be the most correct thing to do. Instead, she decided that she would go to Lilles House to consult with him. She would take Maisie with her, so it would be quite proper. And it would be easier to show the man what she wanted if they could actually go into the ballroom.