The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp

with him, Lady Haughston.”

      “No, of course I did not,” Francesca returned irritably. “He was an acquaintance of my late husband’s, that is all.”

      “Very bad form, his coming here,” Lady Althea commented.

      “I don’t believe that Mr. Perkins worries overmuch about ‘form,’” Rochford said dryly.

      “Well, there is scarcely time now to pay the Eversons a visit,” Francesca announced. “Come, let us sit down again, Lady Althea.”

      She tucked her arm through Althea’s, guiding her back to their chairs, so that Althea would once again be between Francesca and Rochford.

      Throughout the next act, Francesca kept glancing over at Rochford, trying to see whether he ever even glanced at Althea. His eyes were always on the stage, except once, when she found him gazing at her. She blushed up to her hairline, grateful for the concealing darkness. She hoped she had not been too obvious. Rochford had always been annoyingly quick to notice things, and if he realized what she was about, he might very well order her to cease.

      Deciding that the ploy of visiting another box had been a dismal failure, she remained seated during the next intermission and made a last attempt to engage Althea and Rochford in conversation. As it turned out, it was she and Rochford who did most of the talking, though she did her best to turn the discussion in Althea’s direction whenever she could. When Rochford brought up a composer, Francesca asked Althea what she thought of him. When he mentioned going to his manor house in Cornwall, Francesca sought Althea’s opinion of the loveliness of the area. And when Francesca and Rochford drifted off into a conversation about Francesca’s old bay at Redfields, she turned to Althea and inquired whether she liked to ride.

      It was a wearing way to conduct a conversation, and, frankly, Francesca could not tell that it did any good. Althea answered her questions, but her contributions were not particularly enlivening, and as a result the conversation did not flow naturally, but bumped and shuddered along.

      Francesca could not imagine that Rochford felt any particular inclination to seek out Lady Althea’s company in the future, but she was determined that if he did, he would be entirely on his own in the matter. She had no desire to spend another evening trying to milk an enjoyable conversation out of the woman.

      When the play was over, Rochford escorted the women home, politely walking Althea to her door, then returning to the carriage to see Francesca back to her house. The butler answered the door, and then, with a bow, took himself off to bed. Francesca turned to Rochford.

      She was suddenly, excruciatingly, aware of the dark silence of the house around them. They were alone for the first time that she could remember—not really alone, of course, but as much so as anyone could possibly be. The servants were all upstairs in their beds asleep. A candelabra set on the table in the hallway provided the only light.

      The silence was profound, almost a presence in itself, and darkness hovered at the edges of the candlelight. She looked up into Rochford’s face, feeling again the odd tingling of awareness that had affected her the night of the dance.

      Her stomach plummeted, however, when she saw his expression. His brow was knitted in a frown, and his mouth was a straight line. His dark eyes glittered in the dim light.

      “What the devil do you think you are doing?”