life, knowing that she had lost all chance at the family she had once thought she would have. She was not sure if she had ever really loved her husband; certainly, whatever love she had felt for him had died since they became man and wife. And now she knew that she would not have the joy of children, either.
It had been a relief when Andrew came less and less frequently to her bed, and, frankly, she had not even really cared that he stayed away from their home more, as well, spending his time wenching and drinking. She had not bothered to remonstrate with him over anything but his gambling, which further endangered their always precarious finances.
When he died falling from his horse in a drunken stupor, she had not been able to summon up a single tear for him. What she had felt, really, had been a blessed sense of freedom. However great a struggle it had been to keep her head above water since, at least she had been her own person for the last five years. At least she no longer had to worry that Andrew might come stumbling in and once more lay claim to her body.
Nothing, she thought, would ever bring her to put herself in that position again. She had no interest in marrying. There were men far better than Lord Haughston had been, of course, but none, she felt sure, would welcome a wife who did not want to share his bed. And she had no desire to subject herself to the duties of marriage even with a nice man. Perhaps she was freakish in her lack of passion, as Andrew had told her. But she knew that she was unlikely to change at this age. She simply was not touched by desire.
It was that fact that made the dream she had just had so startling. What was that jangling heated yearning she had felt? And what did it mean? From whence had it come?
She supposed that the dream had grown out of the memories that had invaded her mind tonight—thoughts and emotions from fifteen years ago, when she had been in love with Rochford. It had been those girlish hopes and inexperienced feelings that had somehow entwined themselves in her dreams. Those feelings meant nothing about the barren husk of a woman that she had become.
Nothing at all.
TWO DAYS LATER, Francesca was upstairs consulting with her maid, Maisie, on the possibilities of freshening up one of her gowns, when her butler came to the door to announce that Sir Alan Sherbourne had come to call on her.
“Sir Alan?” she repeated blankly. “Do I know him, Fenton?”
“I do not believe so, my lady,” he replied gravely.
“And do you think I should receive him?”
“He seems quite unexceptionable. A gentleman who spends most of his time in the country, is my opinion.”
“I see. Well, my curiosity is piqued. Show him into the drawing room.”
When Francesca entered the drawing room a few moments later, she saw at once that her butler’s description of Sir Alan was perfectly apt. Of medium height, with a pleasant face that was neither handsome nor unattractive, the man was not particularly noticeable, but was also not lacking in any regard. His carriage, speech and demeanor were clearly those of a man raised a gentleman, but there was no arrogance about him. And though his clothes were of a good quality and cut, they were not in the most up-to-date fashion, indicating, as Fenton had remarked, that he was not a man of the city, an impression reinforced by the plainness and open quality of his manner.
“Sir Alan?” Francesca asked a trifle questioningly as she stepped into the room.
He turned from his contemplation of the portrait above the mantel, and his eyes widened expressively. “Lady Haughston. Beg pardon…I did not realize…” He stopped, a faint line of color forming on his cheeks. “Excuse me. I am not usually so inarticulate. I am afraid I was unprepared to find that Lady Haughston was someone as young and radiant as you.”
Francesca could not refrain from smiling. It was always pleasant to hear a compliment, particularly when it appeared as spontaneous and surprised as this one.
“Oh, dear,” she replied, her tone teasing. “Has someone been painting me as old and haggard?”
The color in his cheeks deepened as he stammered out, “No. Oh, no, my lady. No one said anything like that. It is simply that everything I have heard about your influence and your considerable social skills led me to envision someone much older than yourself. A matriarch…a—” He stopped short. “I am making a hash of it, clearly.”
Francesca chuckled. “Do not fret. I promise you, I am not offended. Please, sit down, sir.” She gestured toward the sofa as she took a seat on the chair that lay at a right angle to it.
“Thank you.” He accepted her invitation, sitting down and turning toward her. “I hope you will forgive my intrusion. It is presumptuous of me, I know, not being acquainted with you, but a friend told me that you might be willing to help me.”
“Really? Well, certainly, if I can.”
“It is about my daughter. Harriet. She made her debut this year.”
“I see.” His mission here was becoming clearer to Francesca. She tried to remember a girl named Harriet Sherbourne, but she could not picture her. Of course, that was probably the problem: Harriet was not making an impression in her first Season.
“I am a widower,” her visitor went on. “It’s been just Harriet and me for six years now. She is a good, sweet girl. She’s been a wonderful companion to me, and she would make any man a good wife. Why, she has more or less run my household since she was fourteen. But she, well, she just doesn’t seem to be ‘taking.’” He frowned, obviously puzzled.
“It can be difficult for a young girl when she first comes to London,” Francesca assured him.
“It’s not that I am anxious to see her married,” he went on quickly. “Quite frankly, I know I shall be quite lonely when she’s gone.” He gave her a small smile. “But I hate to see Harriet not enjoying her time here. And how can she, always sitting against the wall and not dancing?”
“Exactly right.”
“Someone told me that you were known to work wonders with young girls who had been, well, left behind in the social race, so to speak. I know you have no reason to help me, not knowing us, but I hoped that you might consider favoring me with some advice. I was told you were most generous in that regard.”
“Of course I should be happy to help you,” Francesca assured the man.
She liked her first impression of Sir Alan, and, in any case, she could scarcely turn down an opportunity that had happened along so fortuitously. She should have been combing the ranks of the new marriageable girls, looking for those who could benefit from her expertise—and were willing to open their purses, of course, to achieve results.
“I am not sure exactly what it is that you can do,” her guest continued a little uncertainly.
“Nor am I,” Francesca admitted. “It would help, no doubt, if I were to meet your daughter.”
“Yes, of course. If it would be acceptable for us to call on you, I should be most happy to bring her to visit you.”
“That sounds like just the thing. Why don’t the two of you come to see me tomorrow afternoon? Lady Harriet and I can become acquainted, and I can get a better idea of the problem.”
“Excellent,” Sir Alan responded, beaming. “You are very kind, Lady Haughston.”
“In the meantime, perhaps you might tell me a bit about what you, um, would like to happen for Lady Harriet this Season.”
He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I find that parents often have different expectations. Some hope for their daughter to make a quick match, others a highly advantageous one.”
“Oh.” His face cleared. “I have no expectations of marriage, my lady. I mean, if Harriet were to meet a suitable young man whom she wished to marry, that would be very nice, of course. But she is still young, and I have not heard her express a great interest in marrying. I wish