Candace Camp - The Courtship Dance

She cast a glance at it now, however, and wondered if, indeed, her skin had been that wondrously glowing and velvety, or if it was just an example of the painter’s art.

Rochford glanced over his shoulder at the sound of her footsteps, and for an instant there was something in his face that brought her up short. But then the moment passed. He smiled, and Francesca could not work out exactly what it was she had seen in that brief glimpse…. Whatever it was, it had left her heart beating a trifle faster than was customary.

“Rochford,” she greeted him, walking forward with her hand extended to shake his.

He turned around fully, and she saw that he held a bouquet of creamy white roses in his hand. She stopped again, her hand coming up to her chest in pleased surprise. “How beautiful! Thank you.”

She came forward and took them from him, her cheeks becomingly flushed with pleasure.

“I am a day early, I know, but I thought that by the time we parted this evening, it would be your birthday,” he told her.

“Oh!” The smile that flashed across her face was brilliant, her eyes glowing. “You remembered.”

“Of course.”

Francesca buried her face in the roses, inhaling their scent, but she knew that her action was as much to hide the rush of gratification on her face as to smell the intoxicating odor.

“Thank you,” she told him again, looking back up at him. She could not have said why it brought her so much pleasure to know that he had remembered her birthday—and had bothered to bring flowers to commemorate it. But she felt unaccountably lighter than she had for the past week.

“You are very welcome.” His eyes were dark and unfathomable in the dim light of the candles.

She wondered what he was thinking. Did he recall how she had looked fifteen years ago? Did he find her much changed?

Embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts, she turned away, going to the bell pull to summon the butler. Fenton, efficient as always and having seen the flowers when the duke entered, bustled in a moment later, a water-filled vase in hand. He set it on the low table in front of the sofa, and Francesca busied herself for a few moments with arranging the flowers.

“I do hope, however,” she went on lightly, watching the flowers rather than Rochford’s face, “that your memory is kind enough not to recall the number of years that I have gained as well as it remembered the date of my birth.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he told her with mock gravity. “Though I can assure you that if I were to reveal your age, there are none who would believe it, given the way you look.”

“A very pretty lie,” Francesca retorted, the dimple flashing in her cheek 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.

BUT, 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 seriously most 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 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.