one of silver voile taken from another gown, and adding a row of the silver lace around the hem, neckline and short, puffed sleeves. It took only a bit of work on the seams and the addition of a sash of silver ribbon, and the dress seemed entirely new and shimmery, not at all like the same gray evening dress she had worn a year ago. Francesca thought that she would look quite acceptable—and not at all like a woman fast approaching her thirty-fourth birthday.
When Tuesday evening came, bringing with it the trip to the theater that Francesca had arranged, the duke arrived, unsurprisingly, before his appointed time. It was much more unusual that Francesca, too, was ready early. However, when Fenton informed her of Rochford’s presence downstairs, she dawdled a few minutes before going down to greet him. It would never do,after all, for a lady to appear eager, even if the man in question was a friend, not a suitor.
The butler had placed Rochford in the formal drawing room, and he was standing before the fireplace, studying the portrait of Francesca that hung over it. The painting had been done at the time of her marriage to Lord Haughston, and it had hung there so long that she never noticed it anymore, regarding it as one of the familiar pieces of furniture.
She cast a glance at it now, however, and wondered if, indeed, her skin had been that wondrously glowing and velvety, or if it was just an example of the painter’s art.
Rochford glanced over his shoulder at the sound of her footsteps, and for an instant there was something in his face that brought her up short. But then the moment passed. He smiled, and Francesca could not work out exactly what it was she had seen in that brief glimpse…. Whatever it was, it had left her heart beating a trifle faster than was customary.
“Rochford,” she greeted him, walking forward with her hand extended to shake his.
He turned around fully, and she saw that he held a bouquet of creamy white roses in his hand. She stopped again, her hand coming up to her chest in pleased surprise. “How beautiful! Thank you.”
She came forward and took them from him, her cheeks becomingly flushed with pleasure.
“I am a day early, I know, but I thought that by thetime we parted this evening, it would be your birthday,” he told her.
“Oh!” The smile that flashed across her face was brilliant, her eyes glowing. “You remembered.”
“Of course.”
Francesca buried her face in the roses, inhaling their scent, but she knew that her action was as much to hide the rush of gratification on her face as to smell the intoxicating odor.
“Thank you,” she told him again, looking back up at him. She could not have said why it brought her so much pleasure to know that he had remembered her birthday—and had bothered to bring flowers to commemorate it. But she felt unaccountably lighter than she had for the past week.
“You are very welcome.” His eyes were dark and unfathomable in the dim light of the candles.
She wondered what he was thinking. Did he recall how she had looked fifteen years ago? Did he find her much changed?
Embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts, she turned away, going to the bell pull to summon the butler. Fenton, efficient as always and having seen the flowers when the duke entered, bustled in a moment later, a water-filled vase in hand. He set it on the low table in front of the sofa, and Francesca busied herself for a few moments with arranging the flowers.
“I do hope, however,” she went on lightly, watching the flowers rather than Rochford’s face, “that yourmemory is kind enough not to recall the number of years that I have gained as well as it remembered the date of my birth.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he told her with mock gravity. “Though I can assure you that if I were to reveal your age, there are none who would believe it, given the way you look.”
“A very pretty lie,” Francesca retorted, the dimple flashing in her cheek
When Tuesday evening came, bringing with it the trip to the theater that Francesca had arranged, the duke arrived, unsurprisingly, before his appointed time. It was much more unusual that Francesca, too, was ready early. However, when Fenton informed her of Rochford’s presence downstairs, she dawdled a few minutes before going down to greet him. It would never do,after all, for a lady to appear eager, even if the man in question was a friend, not a suitor.
The butler had placed Rochford in the formal drawing room, and he was standing before the fireplace, studying the portrait of Francesca that hung over it. The painting had been done at the time of her marriage to Lord Haughston, and it had hung there so long that she never noticed it anymore, regarding it as one of the familiar pieces of furniture.
She cast a glance at it now, however, and wondered if, indeed, her skin had been that wondrously glowing and velvety, or if it was just an example of the painter’s art.
Rochford glanced over his shoulder at the sound of her footsteps, and for an instant there was something in his face that brought her up short. But then the moment passed. He smiled, and Francesca could not work out exactly what it was she had seen in that brief glimpse…. Whatever it was, it had left her heart beating a trifle faster than was customary.
“Rochford,” she greeted him, walking forward with her hand extended to shake his.
He turned around fully, and she saw that he held a bouquet of creamy white roses in his hand. She stopped again, her hand coming up to her chest in pleased surprise. “How beautiful! Thank you.”
She came forward and took them from him, her cheeks becomingly flushed with pleasure.
“I am a day early, I know, but I thought that by thetime we parted this evening, it would be your birthday,” he told her.
“Oh!” The smile that flashed across her face was brilliant, her eyes glowing. “You remembered.”
“Of course.”
Francesca buried her face in the roses, inhaling their scent, but she knew that her action was as much to hide the rush of gratification on her face as to smell the intoxicating odor.
“Thank you,” she told him again, looking back up at him. She could not have said why it brought her so much pleasure to know that he had remembered her birthday—and had bothered to bring flowers to commemorate it. But she felt unaccountably lighter than she had for the past week.
“You are very welcome.” His eyes were dark and unfathomable in the dim light of the candles.
She wondered what he was thinking. Did he recall how she had looked fifteen years ago? Did he find her much changed?
Embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts, she turned away, going to the bell pull to summon the butler. Fenton, efficient as always and having seen the flowers when the duke entered, bustled in a moment later, a water-filled vase in hand. He set it on the low table in front of the sofa, and Francesca busied herself for a few moments with arranging the flowers.
“I do hope, however,” she went on lightly, watching the flowers rather than Rochford’s face, “that yourmemory is kind enough not to recall the number of years that I have gained as well as it remembered the date of my birth.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he told her with mock gravity. “Though I can assure you that if I were to reveal your age, there are none who would believe it, given the way you look.”
“A very pretty lie,” Francesca retorted, the dimple flashing in her cheek
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