Page 54 of The Courtship Dance

At last he broke the kiss and raised his head. Neither of them spoke.

There was the sound of footsteps in the long gallery outside, and Rochford moved away. A footman appeared in the doorway to announce that tea was served. Rochford turned to Francesca and offered her his arm, as apparently cool and reserved as ever.

She took his arm, hoping that she seemed equally unfazed, and they strolled out of the room. However, instead of following the footman, Rochford led her out the French doors and onto the terrace, cutting across it to another door.

“This is the morning room,” he said as they stepped inside. “It is my favorite, although I actually prefer it late in the afternoon, like this.”

Francesca could understand his pleasure in the room. Spacious and comfortably furnished, it was graced by a wall of tall, wide windows facing the terrace and the extensive gardens beyond. Protected as it was from the west sun, it was delightfully cool and shaded, yet open to the lovely view.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, moving across the room to the chairs and low table where the butler had set out their tea tray.

She poured for them, and was struck once again by the thought that this might have been her life. It seemed so natural and right. His face across from her was as familiar as her own. Yet she knew, too, that it would never have grown commonplace to her, even if they had been married for years. Now, as whenever she saw him, her pulse leapt a little.

They chatted as they sipped their tea, and ate the square cakes and slivers of sandwiches. They talked of the ball and of Francesca’s letter from home that morning. Dominic was pleased with what they had accomplished on the estate this spring planting, and Constance, it seemed, was contentedly growing larger as she moved into her seventh month.

“Will you travel to Dancy Park to be with her?” he asked.

Francesca nodded. “I shall stay here another month or six weeks and then go. She has no family, you know, besides us—except for that excessively annoying aunt and uncle of hers, and I cannot imagine she would want that woman there at such a time. Nor is my mother a woman one would choose at such a time. Not, of course, that I am any hand with babies, but the nurse can provide that. I, at least, can keep Constance entertained.”

“I am sure you will be a great comfort to her. Perhaps I shall see you there. I intend to visit Dancy Park again before autumn.”

Francesca glanced at him, a little surprised. “I would have thought that you would remain here after—” She stopped abruptly.

His brows pulled together in a frown. “After what?”

“Nothing. It is none of my business, really. I only thought that, well, you would be making wedding plans.”

He looked at her steadily for a moment. “Did you?”

“Yes. After all, you seem to be moving in that direction. You as much as said you would be announcing your engagement at the ball, and you have shown a marked interest in Lady Mary. I must say, she seems an excellent choice. Only the other night, at the Haversley soiree, she was expressing her fondness for you.”

“Was she?” His black brows rose. “How interesting.”

“Oh, yes.” Francesca felt the now-familiar crawl of jealousy through her stomach, but she was determined not to give in to it. It did not matter what had happened minutes earlier in the ballroom; it did not matter how she felt.

She started to go on, but at that moment there was the sound of raised voices in the hall, something so uncommon in the quiet and aristocratic atmosphere of Lilles House that both Francesca and Rochford stopped their conversation and glanced toward the door.

“—must see him!” came a male voice, raised in agitation. “I don’t care what he’s doing!”

His words were followed by the deeper, calmer tone of Rochford’s butler, but it was clear that his attempt at reason had little effect.

Rochford rose to his feet and started toward the door at the clear sound of scuffling. “Cranston? What is going on here!”

“I must see you!” Though Francesca could not see the clearly agitated young man in the hallway, she could hear him well enough. “I am Kit Browning. Christopher Browning. I think you will know why I am here.”

Rochford scowled. “You were supposed to call on me tomorrow morning.” He sighed, then motioned for the visitor to come in. “Very well. It is all right, Cranston. I shall see him.”

He turned back toward Francesca. “I am sorry. This should take but a moment.”

Christopher Browning burst into the room. Francesca saw, with some surprise, that he wore the black suit and clerical collar of an Anglican priest. His thin, blond hair stood out all over his head, as though he had been worrying at it with his fingers, and his lean, ascetic face was pale and taut. He appeared at once frightened and angry, and he faced the larger duke with an air of defiance.

“I will not allow you to do this!” he announced to Rochford.

“Indeed?” Rochford studied him somewhat curiously. “And what exactly is it that you will not allow?”

“I will not let you have her! You may have dazzled her with your grand airs and your huge house and all the gold you no doubt have. But I know that those things will not make her happy. She is a quiet, studious girl. She loves nothing so much as a good book by the fire or a quiet ramble down the lane. She cannot be happy as a duchess.”

“I daresay,” Rochford replied quietly, and the corner of his mouth twitched in the way that told Francesca he was suppressing his amusement. “Am I to take it that you are speaking of Lady Mary Calderwood?”