destination. She pivoted back to watch the dancers, the picture of indifference.
But she knew immediately when he drew close, and she did not even turn her head when he stopped beside her and gazed out onto the dance floor, too.
“Quite a swan you have made out of your duckling, my lady,” he said after a moment, amusement curling through his voice.
Francesca glanced at him then. His saturnine face was, as always, unreadable. “It required little effort on my part, I assure you. I am afraid, Rochford, that you may have chosen the wrong subject for your bet.”
A thin smile touched his lips. “Expect to have an easy time of it, do you?”
“Not easy, no,” Francesca responded. “But she has far more possibilities than the other two.”
“Mmm. I may have chosen rashly,” he admitted. He looked at her, and Francesca thought there might be a hint of laughter in his eyes. It was always so hard to tell with him. “No doubt you will take advantage of my weakness.”
“But of course.”
The dance had ended, and Constance and her partner made their way across the floor to where Francesca stood between Sir Lucien and the Duke. Francesca saw Constance’s eyes go somewhat apprehensively to Rochford.
Francesca introduced Rochford to her protégée. She presumed that was why he had come over to her. But she was a little surprised to hear the Duke, after bowing to Constance, ask her for the next dance. Constance’s eyes widened, and she glanced over at Francesca, then back at Rochford.
“I, um, I fear the dance is already taken, Your Grace,” she said, looking more relieved than regretful.
“Ah, I see.” His eyes flickered over to the man who was walking toward them, and he went on, “To Micklesham?”
Constance looked confused. “What?” She turned to look in the direction Rochford indicated. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Mr. Micklesham.”
Rochford’s smile was a trifle vulpine as he greeted the new arrival. “Ah, Micklesham. I’m sure you would be willing to give up your claim to Miss Woodley’s hand for the next dance, wouldn’t you?”
Micklesham, a short, rather pudgy young man with carefully styled ginger-colored locks and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, looked startled at being addressed by the Duke. He flushed, his expression changing to one of awe. “Oh. Um…to you? Why, y-yes. Of course.” He bowed to the Duke. “My pleasure. That is, I mean…well…beg pardon, Miss Woodley.” He looked somewhat entreatingly at Constance.
“Very good, then. Miss Woodley?” Rochford extended his arm to Constance, who hesitated, then put a smile on her face and accepted.
Francesca watched the pair walk out onto the dance floor.
“Now what the devil is he up to?” she murmured.
“Perhaps he means to frighten your little bird away,” Sir Lucien offered.
“No, Rochford would not try to hinder my plans,” Francesca said. “I was quite correct when I said he would consider it beneath him to try to influence the outcome.”
She watched the Duke put his hand on Constance’s waist and sweep her into the steps of the waltz. He was smiling down at her. Francesca felt a distinct twinge of irritation.
“The devil take the man,” she said and turned away.
Sir Lucien cast a measuring look at her. “What do you think he is doing, then?”
“In all probability, just trying to annoy me,” Francesca responded.
“Then it appears he has succeeded.”
“Oh, hush, Lucien,” Francesca said crossly, “and ask me to dance.”
“Of course, my love,” he replied with a bow.
CHAPTER SIX
C ONSTANCE FELT AN ICY trickle of perspiration snake down her back. Never in her life had she expected to dance with a duke. Indeed, she had not even thought she would ever so much as meet a duke.
Lord Leighton would be an earl someday, of course, but his infectious grin and easy-going manner made one quickly forget about his title and his lineage. But Rochford was every inch a duke. His demeanor
But she knew immediately when he drew close, and she did not even turn her head when he stopped beside her and gazed out onto the dance floor, too.
“Quite a swan you have made out of your duckling, my lady,” he said after a moment, amusement curling through his voice.
Francesca glanced at him then. His saturnine face was, as always, unreadable. “It required little effort on my part, I assure you. I am afraid, Rochford, that you may have chosen the wrong subject for your bet.”
A thin smile touched his lips. “Expect to have an easy time of it, do you?”
“Not easy, no,” Francesca responded. “But she has far more possibilities than the other two.”
“Mmm. I may have chosen rashly,” he admitted. He looked at her, and Francesca thought there might be a hint of laughter in his eyes. It was always so hard to tell with him. “No doubt you will take advantage of my weakness.”
“But of course.”
The dance had ended, and Constance and her partner made their way across the floor to where Francesca stood between Sir Lucien and the Duke. Francesca saw Constance’s eyes go somewhat apprehensively to Rochford.
Francesca introduced Rochford to her protégée. She presumed that was why he had come over to her. But she was a little surprised to hear the Duke, after bowing to Constance, ask her for the next dance. Constance’s eyes widened, and she glanced over at Francesca, then back at Rochford.
“I, um, I fear the dance is already taken, Your Grace,” she said, looking more relieved than regretful.
“Ah, I see.” His eyes flickered over to the man who was walking toward them, and he went on, “To Micklesham?”
Constance looked confused. “What?” She turned to look in the direction Rochford indicated. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Mr. Micklesham.”
Rochford’s smile was a trifle vulpine as he greeted the new arrival. “Ah, Micklesham. I’m sure you would be willing to give up your claim to Miss Woodley’s hand for the next dance, wouldn’t you?”
Micklesham, a short, rather pudgy young man with carefully styled ginger-colored locks and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, looked startled at being addressed by the Duke. He flushed, his expression changing to one of awe. “Oh. Um…to you? Why, y-yes. Of course.” He bowed to the Duke. “My pleasure. That is, I mean…well…beg pardon, Miss Woodley.” He looked somewhat entreatingly at Constance.
“Very good, then. Miss Woodley?” Rochford extended his arm to Constance, who hesitated, then put a smile on her face and accepted.
Francesca watched the pair walk out onto the dance floor.
“Now what the devil is he up to?” she murmured.
“Perhaps he means to frighten your little bird away,” Sir Lucien offered.
“No, Rochford would not try to hinder my plans,” Francesca said. “I was quite correct when I said he would consider it beneath him to try to influence the outcome.”
She watched the Duke put his hand on Constance’s waist and sweep her into the steps of the waltz. He was smiling down at her. Francesca felt a distinct twinge of irritation.
“The devil take the man,” she said and turned away.
Sir Lucien cast a measuring look at her. “What do you think he is doing, then?”
“In all probability, just trying to annoy me,” Francesca responded.
“Then it appears he has succeeded.”
“Oh, hush, Lucien,” Francesca said crossly, “and ask me to dance.”
“Of course, my love,” he replied with a bow.
CHAPTER SIX
C ONSTANCE FELT AN ICY trickle of perspiration snake down her back. Never in her life had she expected to dance with a duke. Indeed, she had not even thought she would ever so much as meet a duke.
Lord Leighton would be an earl someday, of course, but his infectious grin and easy-going manner made one quickly forget about his title and his lineage. But Rochford was every inch a duke. His demeanor
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