“Because you knocked your sister’s future husband to the floor?” Francesca asked, a smile hovering at the corners of her lips. “Because the two of you were brawling through the parlour, knocking vases off tables and overturning chairs?”

Rochford started to protest, then stopped, his own mouth twitching into a small smile. “Well…yes. Because I was acting like a ruffian. And making a general fool of myself.”

“My dear Duke,” Francesca drawled, laughter glimmering in her eyes, “whyever should I have taken exception to that?”

He let out a short laugh. “Well, at least you have the good grace not to say that it is nothing unusual. Although I might point out that while I may have been a ruffian, at least I was not telling enormous clankers, as were some of us.” He shot her a droll look.

“Clankers!” Francesca tapped his arm lightly with her fan, scarcely noticing that the awkwardness had fallen away from them and she was bantering with him once again in a carefree way. “You are most unjust, sir.”

“Come, now, you cannot deny that you were…shall we say, most inventive that morning?”

“Someone had to bring that mess into some order,” she shot back. “Else we would all have been in a pretty predicament.”

“I know.” His face sobered, and he reached out, surprising her, and took her hand. “I know how much you did for Callie that day. You earned my undying gratitude for your ‘inventiveness.’ And your kind heart. Callie would have been embroiled in a serious scandal if it were not for you.”

Francesca felt her cheeks growing warm under his steady regard, and she glanced away. “There is no need to thank me. Indeed, I am quite fond of Callie. She is much like a sister to me.”

It occurred to her then that her words had been unfortunate, and she blushed even harder. Would Rochford think her presumptuous? Or assume that she was reminding him of the fact that they had nearly become man and wife?

Francesca turned and continued walking. Her hand was curled so tightly around her fan that the sticks were digging into her flesh. Rochford fell in beside her, and for a moment they walked in silence. She could feel him watching her. He knew something was wrong. She was only making it worse and prolonging her own anxiety.

“I have to apologize to you,” she blurted out suddenly.

“Excuse me?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice.

She stopped and turned to him, steeling herself to look up into his face. “I wronged you. Fifteen years ago, when we—” She stopped, feeling as though her throat was closing up on her.

He stiffened slightly, the puzzlement on his face turning to a slight wariness. “When we were engaged?” he finished for her.

Francesca nodded. She found she could not hold his gaze, after all, and she glanced away. “I— At Callie’s wedding, Lady Swithington told me—she said she lied about the two of you. That there was never anything between you.”

When he said nothing, Francesca squared her shoulders and forced herself to look back up at him. His face was still, his gaze shuttered, and she knew no more of what he was thinking or feeling than she had when she was turned away from him.

She swallowed and went on. “I was wrong. I accused you unjustly. I should have listened to you, heard you out. And I—I wanted you to know that I am sorry for what I said to you, for what I did.”

“Well…” He half turned from her, then swung back. “I see.” He was silent for a moment longer, then said, “I am afraid I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t know that there is anything to say,” Francesca admitted, and they turned and began to stroll back the way they had come. “There is nothing to be done. It is all long over. But I could not feel easy without telling you how wrong I was. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wanted you to know that I learned the truth, and that I am sorry for misjudging you. I should have known your character better.”

“You were very young,” he replied mildly.

“Yes, but that is not an adequate excuse, surely.”

“I daresay.”

Francesca cast a sidelong glance at the duke. She had worried that when she told him, he would slice her with a cold, acerbic remark. Or that his eyes would light with fury, and he would storm at her or stalk away. She had not considered that her confession might render him speechless.

They walked through the double doors leading into the upper level of the ballroom and stopped, turning toward each other awkwardly. Francesca’s heart hammered in her chest. She did not want to simply part from him this way, unsure of what he thought and felt, not knowing if he was seething inside or simply relieved to know that she no longer believed him a cad. She could not bear it, she thought, if her confession resulted in the ruination of the delicate friendship they had built over the years.

Impulsively, she asked, “Shall we dance?”

He smiled faintly. “Yes, why don’t we?”

He extended his arm to her, and they started down the curving staircase.

A waltz struck up just as they reached the floor, and Rochford swept her into his arms and out to join the dancers. Something fluttered inside her, soft and insistent, and she was suddenly uncertain and nervous, yet almost giddy, as well. She had danced with the duke many times over the course of the past few years, but somehow, in this moment, it felt different, even new. It felt…almost as it had years before.

She was very aware of the strength of his arms encircling her, his warmth, the smell of his cologne mingled with that faint, indefinable scent that was his alone. She remembered how it had been that Boxing Day, at the ball he had given at Dancy Park, when he had taken her into his arms for a waltz, and she had looked up at him and realized that the girlish infatuation she had felt for him for years was something much more. Gazing into the depths of his dark eyes, she had known that she was hopelessly, madly in love with the man. She had been dizzy with excitement, her entire body tingling with awareness of him. He had gazed back down at her and smiled, and in that moment, heat had burst inside her like a sun.

Staring up at him now, Francesca felt color rush to her cheeks at the memory. He looked so much the same; if anything, the years had only added to his handsomeness, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes softening the sharp planes and angles that could make his face appear cold. He had always looked a bit like a pirate, she thought, with his black eyes and black hair, and the high swooping line of his cheekbones. Or at least he appeared that way when his straight black brows drew together, or when he turned his level, icy stare on one. At those moments he seemed a trifle dangerous.

But when he smiled, it was a different matter altogether. His face lit up and his eyes warmed, and his mouth curved in a most inviting way. It was almost impossible not to smile back at him at such a moment, and, indeed, it made one want to do something to bring that smile out again.

She glanced away quickly, embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts. She hoped that he had not seen her blush or had any idea what had brought it about. It was absurd, of course, for her to be nervous or eager. And even more laughable for her thoughts to go skittering to juvenile maunderings about his good looks or appealing smile. She was long past such feelings—for Rochford or anyone else. Whatever girlish love she had felt for the man had died many years ago, burned away by long nights of sleepless anguish, drowned in a sea of tears.

She cast about for some topic to bridge the silence. “Have you heard from Callie?”

“I have had a letter from her. Very brief, I might add. ‘Paris is beautiful. Bromwell is wonderful. Looking forward to Italy.’”

Francesca chuckled. “Surely ’twas not quite so short as that.”

“Oh, no, there was a bit more description of Paris. But all in all, it was a model of brevity. Their plan is to return to London in another week—if, of course, they do not decide to extend the honeymoon.”