Candace Camp - The Courtship Dance

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 he arched 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 Robart enjoying 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 see.”

Althea apparently took this mild statement as an expression of interest, for she spent some time exploring the family tree of the Ashenhams, who had, apparently, ties to most of the major families of England.

Francesca, keeping her face fixed in the courteous expression of listening that had been ingrained in her as a child, mentally began to go through her slippers, trying to find a pair that would suit the sea-green evening gown of voile over silk that she had seen in Mlle. du Plessis’ store last week. The modiste had told her that it was waiting for a buyer, hostage to that woman’s final payment on a bill that had been too long outstanding. Mlle. du Plessis had admitted to grave doubts that the buyer would ever return, and she had agreed to sell it to Francesca at only a third of its original cost if the woman had not paid her bill within a week.

The dress was too long, but that was a trifling matter that Maisie could take care of easily enough, and Francesca knew that she was desperately in need of a new gown. There were only so many times that one could redo a gown to look fresh, and it would not do to appear in the same ball gown too often. Pride was a sin, Francesca knew, but she could not bear for people to know how close she skated to the edge of penury.

The problem, however, was the slippers to go with it. No matter how careful she tried to be with them, the thin soles of dancing slippers wore through incredibly quickly, and they were not the sort of thing on which one could normally work a bargain. Therefore, she did her best to stick to plain colors that would go with many different frocks. What would really look marvelous with the dress, of course, would be a pair of silver sandals, but that would be too extravagant a purchase. But perhaps… There were several other dresses they would suit, after all.

Maybe she could go into the attic and dig about in the trunks again. Some valuable trifle that she could sell might turn up.

“Lady Haughston?”

Francesca glanced up quickly, aware that she had become entirely too lost in her thoughts. “What? I’m sorry. I must have been woolgathering.”

“We are here,” Althea told her somewhat stiffly.

“Ah, yes, so we are.” Francesca glanced out the window to see the familiar form of the Royal Theater.

She suspected that she had put Althea’s nose out of joint a bit by drifting off like that. But, really, the girl should learn that analyzing one’s family tree was scarcely the way to capture anyone’s attention. She would have to think of some way to tutor the girl in the art of conversation if she was to have a chance of winning Rochford’s favor. Of course, that was if she decided Lady Althea was the woman she wanted to win his favor. Francesca was, quite frankly, beginning to have her doubts.

Rochford climbed out with alacrity and reached back up to hand the women down. Francesca managed to hang back a bit as they strolled into the theater so that Rochford was walking beside Althea alone. She must, after all, give him a chance to get to know the woman better. Perhaps Althea had been a trifle nervous about the situation; Rochford’s presence sometimes had that effect. Nerves frequently made people chatter on about the most inconsequential things.

Francesca cast a glance at them, walking slightly ahead of her. Rochford’s dark head was bent a little toward Althea as he listened to her. Perhaps he had not minded Althea’s conversation earlier. She had seen husbands who were quite content with the most ninny-hammered of wives. And Althea was attractive.

It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to drop by someone’s box during intermission; that would give the couple a chance to be alone together without it being improper, given that there was an entire theater of people around them. She would have to look around the place before the play began to see if she could spot an acquaintance.

She turned to glance around at the other people walking into the theater. Startled, she felt a touch beneath her elbow and turned to find Rochford gazing quizzically at her. He and Lady Althea had dropped back beside her.

“Woolgathering again, Lady Haughston?” he asked with a faint smile.

“Oh, um…” Francesca felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. I am afraid I must be a trifle distracted this evening.”

They continued into the theater, with the duke now by Francesca’s side, Lady Althea in front of them. However, when they reached the duke’s luxurious box, Francesca managed to neatly maneuver things so that she was against the wall, and Althea was between her and Rochford. Again separating herself from their conversation, Francesca scooted forward in her seat and raised her opera glasses to inspect the other occupants of the theater.

There was Mrs. Everson, with her husband and two daughters. Francesca supposed she could visit with them later, though the prospect was not inviting. She lowered her glasses and nodded to them, just in case, then resumed her search. She wished she had urged Sir Lucien to attend with someone tonight, for then she could have visited with him and been assured of a lively conversation.