The Courtship Dance by Candace Camp Read Free Book Online Page B

she had felt, really, had been ablessed 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.
     
    T WO 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