but none of them has asked for my help. It is a bit rude, you know, to offer one’s opinion, unasked, on how another can be improved.”
“I suppose it would be. Although one cannot help but wish that you might say something to Lady Livermore.”
Francesca stifled a giggle, following the direction of Rochford’s eyes to where Lady Livermore was dancing with her cousin. She was wearing her favorite color, a strong puce that would show to advantage on very few women. Lady Livermore was not among them. The color would have been bad enough in itself, but Lady Livermore was of the opinion that if something was good, then more of it was even better. Ruffles festooned the neckline of her dress and the bottom of the skirt, billowing out beneath the scalloped hemline of her over-dress. Even the short puffed sleeves carried two rows of ruffles. Silk rosettes marked the upward points of the scallops, each one centered by a pearl, with a swag of pearls stretching from point to point. A pearl-trimmed toque of matching color sat atop her head.
“Lady Livermore, I fear, is unlikely to change,” Francesca told him. She paused for a moment, then said, “Do you know Lady Althea?”
Francesca could have bitten her tongue as soon as she said it. How could she have blurted that out so clumsily?
“Robart’s daughter?” the duke asked in a surprised tone. “Do you think that she needs help finding a husband?”
“Oh, no! Goodness.” Francesca let out a little laugh. “I am sure Lady Althea has no need for any help from me. I just saw her dancing with Sir Cornelius, that’s all.” She paused, then went on. “I am sure that she has no lack of suitors. She is quite attractive, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Rochford answered. “I suppose she is.”
“And accomplished, too. She plays the piano quite well.”
“Yes, she does. I have heard her play.”
“Have you? She is much admired, I understand.”
“No doubt.”
Francesca was aware of a distinct spurt of annoyance at his reply. She was not sure why the duke’s agreeable admissions of Lady Althea’s excellence irritated her. After all, her job would be much easier if Rochford already found the woman appealing. And surely she was not so vain herself that she could not bear to hear another woman praised. Still, she found it hard not to respond sharply, even though she herself had raised the subject.
She turned the conversation to something else, but later, when the music ended, she subtly maneuvered Rochford into walking off the dance floor in the direction that Lady Althea and her partner had taken. She was lucky enough that Sir Cornelius was taking his leave of the lady as they approached.
“Lady Althea,” Francesca greeted her with apparent pleasure. “How nice to see you. It has been an age since we have met, I vow. You know the Duke of Rochford, do you not?”
Lady Althea offered them a measured smile. “Yes, of course. A pleasure to see you, sir.”
Rochford bowed over her hand, assuring her politely that the pleasure was all his, as Francesca cast an assessing eye over the woman. Lady Althea was tall and slim, and her white silk ball gown was tasteful, if somewhat lacking in dash in Francesca’s opinion. And if her lips were a bit too thin and her face a trifle long for real beauty, she did have a wealth of dark brown hair, and her brown eyes were large and lined with thick, dark lashes. Many men, Francesca was sure, would call her pretty.
She cast a sideways glance at Rochford, wondering if he numbered among those men.
Lady Althea inquired politely after Rochford’s grandmother and Francesca’s parents, then moved on to compliment Callie’s wedding. It was the sort of polite chitchat in which Francesca had engaged for much of her life, as had Lady Althea and Rochford, and they were able to spend several minutes talking about almost nothing at all.
When they had finished praising Lady Whittington’s ball—perhaps her finest, in Lady Althea’s opinion—as well as commiserating over the sad state of Lady Althea’s mother’s nerves, which had kept her in bed tonight instead of attending this event, they moved on to the latest play at Drury Lane, which, as it turned out, none of them had actually seen.
“Why, we must go!” Francesca exclaimed, looking at Lady Althea.
The other woman seemed faintly surprised, but replied only, “Yes, certainly. That sounds quite pleasant.”
Francesca beamed. “And we shall press the duke to take us.” She turned toward Rochford expectantly.
His eyes, too, widened a trifle, but he said evenly, “Of course. It would be my privilege to escort two such lovely ladies to the theater.”
“Wonderful.” Francesca glanced back at Althea, who, she noticed, appeared more eager about the invitation now that the duke was attached to the expedition. “Let us set a night, then. Tuesday, shall we say?”
The other two agreed, and Francesca favored them with a smile. She had, she knew, ridden roughshod over them. She was customarily more deft in her maneuverings than she had been tonight. She was not sure why she had been clumsier than usual, but at least neither of the others looked disgruntled or suspicious.
She made a few more minutes of small talk, then slipped away, leaving Rochford with Althea. She made her way across the room, greeting some and pausing to chat with others. She should have felt a sense of triumph, she knew. She had finally set her plan in motion.
But, in truth, all she felt was the beginning of a headache.
She paused and glanced around her. She saw Irene in the distance, and a moment later she spotted Sir Lucien on the dance floor. She could make her way to Irene or wait for Sir Lucien—or, indeed, she could find half a dozen others to talk to, and there were any number of men who would doubtless ask her for a dance.
However, she found herself unwilling to do any of those things. Her temples were beginning to pound, and she felt bored and curiously deflated. All she really wanted, she reflected, was to go home.
Pleading a headache, which for once was real, she bade good-night to her hostess and went outside to her carriage. The vehicle was ten years old and growing somewhat shabby, but it felt good to be in it, snugly away from the music and lights, and the noise of a multitude of people chattering.
FENTON, HER BUTLER, was surprised to see her home so early, and immediately hovered over her solicitously. “Are you well, my lady? Have you caught a chill?”
The man had been her butler for over fourteen years; she had hired him soon after she and Lord Haughston were married. He was intensely loyal, as all her servants were. There had been many times when she had been unable to pay their wages, but Fenton had never grumbled—and she felt sure he had made quick work of any servant who did.
Francesca smiled at the man now. “No. I am fine. Just a bit of a headache.”
Upstairs, she faced the same quizzing from her maid, Maisie, who immediately took down Francesca’s hair and brushed it out, whisked off her dress and helped her into her nightclothes, then bustled out of the room to fetch lavender water to ease her headache. Before long Francesca found herself ensconced in her bed, pillows fluffed behind her, a handkerchief soaked in lavender water stretched across her forehead and the kerosene lamp beside her bed turned to its lowest glow.
With a sigh, Francesca closed her eyes. She was not sleepy. The hour was far earlier than she was accustomed to retiring. And, in truth, the headache had eased as soon as she returned home and let down her hair. Unfortunately, the gloom that had touched her at the ball seemed to have settled in.
She was not a woman who dwelled upon her misfortunes. When her husband had died five years ago, leaving her with little but this town house in London, one of the few things that had not been entailed with his estate, she had not sat about twisting her hands and bemoaning her fate. She had done her best to marshal her resources and pay off his debts, reducing her own expenses to the bare minimum. She had closed off part of the house and reduced the staff, then