Page 52 of Her Rogue of a Duke
He paid her no heed, quite done with her ruse. She was not the woman he had envisioned in his dreams and countless times in his fantasies, and he would waste no more time entertaining that possibility. Hoisting himself up into the saddle, he urged his horse into an immediate gallop and took off down the driveway.
Joshua, now more than ever,neededto unravel the true identity of his savior. And if it truly was Francesca…
He shook his head, trying to rein in all his assumptions.
He needed to return to the place where it all began. Grenfell Cliff. Back to the scene of the accident, where his life had been utterly and irrevocably changed. It was nearly an hour’s ride,and he was impatient to reach it. He had to know the truth, one way or another.
Joshua needed to find out if Francesca Nightingale was the woman he had been searching for, for all these years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Francesca stepped into the ballroom nervously. Her heart fluttered as she felt the weight of curious eyes upon her, an air of expectancy surrounding her entrance. She held her head high and walked through the crowd, which seemed to yield to her passage.
Yet, it seemed as though hushed whispers and discreet glances followed her every move, and the weight of judgment began to feel suffocating. She tried to recall anything,everything,that might have given them cause to stare and she suddenly remembered her last showing at the Carrington ball, or rather, her little… misstep.
She tried feigning nonchalance as she caught snippets of the murmured conversations, “Did you see Lady Francesca's fall? Such an unfortunate display,” tutted one of the ladies.
“I heard she had a quarrel with Lord Terrell just moments prior.”
“Ah, but ladies, it is not so simple," a gentleman interjected with a malicious grin, his voice lowered, but not enough so as to ensure it still carried over to her. “There are rumors that Hucklow has set his sights on her father’s fortune—or lack thereof,” he chuckled deeply.
Clearly, no one had forgotten the unfortunate incident that had taken place at the last ball when she had gotten into an argument with Liam and ended up falling in the middle of the dancefloor before everyone in attendance.
Francesca had nearly forgotten about that incident herself. So much had happened since then that had occupied her thoughts day and night. Now, though, as she dug her way deeper and deeper into the trenches of the ballroom, she felt her cheeks singe with embarrassment as it became painfully clear that people were talking about her and not doing the most thorough job of hiding it.
For a fleeting second, she considered turning around and fleeing from the ballroom—and returning to Elmcroft if need be. However, she wrestled her nerves under control, reminding herself of why she was here in the first place. She needed to wait for Liam. She had come to meet him here, and she could not leave without securing his proposal.
Francesca found a solitary spot against the wall, from where she stood and gazed out over the ballroom, surveying the crowd for Liam. The throng of guests seemed to ebb and flow around her, but no one approached her save a servant offering a tray ofchampagne. She took a glass if only to give her restless hands something to be doing.
Truthfully, Francesca had scarcely felt to be a seamless fit into high society, even when her father was still alive, but she had never been outright avoided or ignored as she was being this night. It seemed Liam’s more favorable reputation among the ton had worked against her after the incident at the last ball, and she was being ostracized while he was no doubt being silently sympathized with for having such an unfortunate relation he was forced to deal with.
Standing there alone, she longed for Joshua's reassuring presence, for the sense of security and comfort he always provided when he was nearby. His absence that night amplified her loneliness, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable amidst the scrutinizing gazes. He had become her protector of sorts, standing between her and the perils of high society. Without him, she was like a lamb among wolves and it was only a matter of time before someone moved in for the kill.
And she did not have to wait long.
“My dear Lady Francesca, what a pleasure it is to see you.”
Francesca flinched at the familiar voice and turned to find a smug-looking red-haired lady in a forest green gown standing right beside her.
“Good evening, Lady Charlotte,” Francesca replied with a subdued tone. “You look lovely this evening.”
Lady Charlotte, known for her close ties with Lady Susan—when Susan was not scurrying after the Duke of course, was hardly the company Francesca desired this evening.
She looked Francesca up and down, before continuing, “I must say, your choice of gown this evening is rather... daring, is it not?”
Francesca fought to keep her expression neutral and polite. She was not in the mood to face a verbal barrage. So instead, she decided to don an air of blissful ignorance. “Why, thank you, my lady. I had hoped for a gown that stood out among the usual array of pastels and single-tones.” She swept her gaze pointedly over Lady Charlotte’s dress.
It was actually quite a lovely color on her, and the cut was flattering, but Francesca knew any true compliment in that instance would be seen as weakness and Charlotte would only grow more vicious with her words.
Lady Charlotte's brief flash of irritation was swiftly concealed, replaced by a raised eyebrow and a veneer of polite disdain. “Oh, indeed, it stands out, but I fear it may be for all the wrong reasons. The color clashes terribly with the room's décor, don’t you agree?”
Francesca had to admire the lady’s bluntness. She was at least not attempting to hide her true nature behind saccharine smiles and veiled jibes. She was being quite upfront about her disdain for Francesca, and that meant Francesca knew what precisely she was dealing with.
Francesca shrugged and maintained a tone of indifference. “I have always believed in making a statement, regardless of conventional opinions on color schemes.”
She was acutely aware that Lady Charlotte's critique of her gown was more likely rooted in envy than in truth. Francesca was not going to call her out on it, however. She would simply act as though she did not care, and with any luck, the lady would lose interest in tormenting her and move on to her next victim.
Leaning closer, Lady Charlotte's voice took on a condescending edge, “Ah, but my dear, one must make a statement that is aesthetically pleasing, not one that assaults the senses. And those ruffles! They seem excessive, as if attempting to compensate for the lack of elegance.”