The Courtship Dance (21 page)

Francesca had lost any hope of those things when she broke off their engagement. The duke was too proud a man to propose a second time to a woman who had jilted him. Even if, by some wild stretch of the imagination, she could believe that he would want to marry her, it would be a dereliction of his duty to his name and family for him to marry a barren widow.

No, Rochford knew where his responsibility lay, and he would marry the sort of woman he had to. Why else had he committed himself to finding a bride?

She would have no satisfaction from her love. But still, there was something deep inside her that could not help but warm to the knowledge. Her heart had been a cold thing in her chest for so many years that it was a
heady experience to have it swell again with sweet emotion.

She leaned forward, spotting a man walking toward her house. She waited tensely as he came closer.

“Sinclair!” Tears sprang to her eyes as the tall figure resolved into that of the duke.

Jumping to her feet, she picked up her candle and hurried to the door. She set the candle down on the entry table and shot back the bolt, then carefully pulled the door open. Rochford was turning off the street onto her walkway.

“Sinclair!”

He looked up at her and smiled. Francesca flew down the steps and launched herself at him. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up and into him, and his mouth came down to meet hers.

They stood that way for a long moment, their lips sealed together and the rest of the world lost to them. But finally Francesca recalled where they were and what she was doing, and she released him and stepped back, letting out a shaky little laugh.

“I was so worried. Come in, come in….” She took his hand and led him inside, casting a glance around the darkened street.

As they had the other time he had visited her late at night, they slipped quietly down the hallway to the cozy sitting room and closed the door behind them.

“What happened?” she asked, turning to face him. “Did you see Perkins?”

“I did.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. “Here is the note. I suggest that you burn it.”

Almost unbelieving, Francesca reached her hand and took the piece of paper. She noticed that it trembled in her fingers. “You did not—you did not pay him, did you?”

“No. I swear it.”

“Or kill him?”

A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Nor kill him. I persuaded the fellow to leave England. I do not think you will see him again.”

“Oh, Sinclair!” Francesca raised a hand to her eyes, pressing it against them to stem the tears that threatened her. “I suppose it is very wrong—legally the house may be his—but I cannot feel anything but glad that you sent him away.”

“The house is not his. Perkins admitted that the note was a forgery, just as I thought. Haughston was, God knows, mutton-headed enough to do it. But if Perkins had had this paper in his hands for the last seven years, he would have done something about it before now, even if he was in exile. Nor would he have been willing to accept money from you in lieu of taking the house. He would have gone straight to court with it when he returned home.”

“Oh.” Francesca thought about it. “No doubt you are right. I could have fought him in court. I should have, instead of bothering you with it.”

“You did exactly as you should have. If you had
challenged him, he would have made you miserable with lies and gossip. The man is a snake. It was no bother to me. I am sorry only that you waited so long to tell me what was wrong. I would have liked to save you the weeks of worry.”

His words, the gentle expression in his dark eyes, finally broke through her control. She began to cry.

“Francesca…sweetheart, no…” He went to her, pulling her gently into his arms. “Do not cry.” He kissed the top of her head. “I meant to make you happy.”

“I am!” Francesca let out a watery little laugh. “I am happier than I have been in—in so long.”

He chuckled, his arms tightening around her, and he rubbed his cheek against her hair. “So happy that you cry.”

“Exactly.”

She pulled back a little and looked up into his face, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her blue eyes shone as she gazed at him, full of tenderness and joy.

He sucked in his breath sharply. “Francesca…”

“You have been so kind, so good. I am more grateful to you than you can know.”

“I do not want your gratitude,” he answered, his voice rough with emotion.

“You have it anyway—and more. Much more.”

Boldly she went up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his cheek. Her hands came up to cup his face, and for a long moment they gazed into each other’s eyes. Then she rose again, her mouth moving to his.

They kissed, lips hot and hungry, tongues tangling in a primal dance of desire. Heat surged between them.

His hands went to her hips, moving restlessly over her, and he pulled her more tightly against him. Francesca wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing up into him, delighting in the hard feel of his body against her softness. A deep, formless yearning grew inside her, deepening with every brush of his fingers, every movement of his mouth. Her senses sprang to life as they had done only with him. Her skin was supremely sensitive, aware of the merest touch of air upon it. Sight, sound, smell—all were magnified until she felt almost overwhelmed with the rush of sensations.

She slipped a hand up his neck, feeling the prickle of the short hairs at the back of his head, then the silken slide of the longer hair above that, thick and soft. She dug her fingers into his hair, letting the locks trail across her skin, pressing the pads of her fingers against the solidity of his skull.

He moaned as she twined her fingers through his hair, and the sound sent desire leaping through her. Her heart slammed inside her chest, her pulse racing madly. His arms went tightly around her, almost bruising in their strength, as though he could meld their bodies together.

It was, she realized, what she wanted—to feel him inside her, part of her, to be so entwined with him that there was no separation between them. She trembled, almost frightened by the intensity of her eagerness.

“No.” He pulled away, gasping for air. “I don’t want you this way—you must not feel that you owe me anything.” He ran a hand back through his hair, taking a deep breath and visibly struggling to bring calm to his words. “I will not take advantage of you.”

He looked at her, his black eyes so heated, so intense, that his very gaze sent desire lancing through her. “You do not need to repay me for what I did. That isn’t why—”

“Hush.” She reached up and laid a finger against his lips. “I know that is not why you helped me.”

She gazed at him, drinking in his beloved face, her senses stirred by the lines of desire etched on his features. “It is my own free choice. I want to.”

She realized as she spoke how very true her words were. Despite the fear that lurked inside her, despite the dread of finding that this heat and hunger would once again disappear into cold ashes, despite all the reasons why they should not continue what they were doing, she wanted to. She wanted to more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Indeed, all she wanted in this world was him.

With a smile, she stepped forward into his arms, her face turning up to meet his.

“F
RANCESCA
…”
Her name shimmered with hunger and hope on his tongue, and he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up.

He kissed her hungrily, desperately, and Francesca clung to him with equal fervor, returning kiss for kiss, her hands digging into his jacket. He was her anchor in a maelstrom of emotions and sensations. The creator of her hunger and, at the same time, the only one who could ease it.

Untutored and clumsy with need, she moved her hands over his shoulders and up into his hair, desire increasing with every touch, driven by the awareness that it was not enough. She knew that it was his flesh she wanted to explore, his bare skin that her fingers trembled to touch. With a brazenness heretofore unknown to her, she slipped her hand beneath the edge of his jacket. The silk of his waistcoat was slick and cool beneath her fingers, and the texture of it sent tendrils of desire twisting down through her, but that was not enough, either.

She wanted to touch
him,
feel
him.
Most of all, she wanted to have
his
hands on
her.

Sinclair set her down and reached back to pull off his jacket, flinging it carelessly to the floor. Francesca undid the buttons of his waistcoat, fumbling a little in her haste and hunger. He ripped at his carefully arranged neckcloth and tossed it in the general direction of his jacket, following it an instant afterward with his waistcoat.

He pulled her to him then as if he could wait no longer and pressed his mouth into hers. Francesca, no longer restricted by his outer garments, ran her hands over his back and chest. She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin lawn of his shirt, but still she wanted more. Bunching his shirt up in her hands, she tugged until it came free of his breeches, and she slid her hands up under the cloth onto his bare skin.

She felt his flesh twitch beneath her touch, felt the heat that flooded through him. She rubbed her hands over his back, then trailed them across it lightly, her fingernails barely scraping over his skin, testing and exploring, now digging in, now tracing the faintest of swirling patterns upon it.

His breath hissed in sharply, and Francesca felt a tremor run through him. He dug his hands into her hair, sending pins popping loose and curls tumbling, and he kissed his way down her throat, lingering on the tender white flesh. His fingers went to the back of her dress, and he let out a low curse as the row of tiny pearl-like buttons impeded him.

Francesca could not hold back a chuckle, and he
raised his head, eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement, frustration and hunger.

“You find that funny, eh?” he mock-growled.

“I find it very familiar,” she returned, and then reached out to unfasten the ties of his shirt. “Much better to have these, I think.”

His only reply was a murmur as he returned to kissing her neck, moving up this time to lay kisses in a line along her jaw up to her ear. His lips grazed her earring as they moved along the curve of her ear.

He paused, then once again lifted his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the earring. He traced his thumb across the jewel. “You are wearing the earrings I gave you.”

Francesca blushed, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “Yes.”

Rochford looked into her eyes, his gaze searching. She could not read his expression, and a prickle of unease crept up her back. What if the earrings reminded him of the rift between them, the anger and resentment he must have felt when she broke off their engagement? What if he thought she was presuming too much?

But he only smiled and said, “They are lovely on you.”

He turned his head to look at her wrist, where the bracelet lay, then lifted her arm and placed a soft kiss upon her skin just above the jewels. Francesca felt her pulse jump beneath his mouth, betraying her.

Rochford traced his finger across the bottom of her
throat. “You need something there to match them, don’t you think?”

Before she could protest, he bent and kissed the vulnerable hollow of her throat. Francesca’s eyes fluttered closed, and she hoped her knees would not give way. Funny, how one tender little gesture like that could turn her insides to wax.

“Sinclair…” She smoothed her hand over his hair. “Oh, Sin.”

His mouth left a hot trail up the side of her neck, and he nuzzled her ear, sending shivers through her. He murmured her name, his voice husky with desire.

He had never been like this with her before, she thought—never so bold, so tempting…so
hungry.
Desire fountained in her in response, hot and swift. She slipped her hands beneath the edges of his open shirt and slid them outwards, exploring the ridged muscles and the smooth skin with its roughening of hair. Her fingertips found the small, hard masculine nipples and circled them.

He made a noise low in his throat, and his mouth came back to claim hers. His fingers worked at the fastenings of her dress, making short work of the rest of her buttons—Francesca was rather sure that she heard a snap as a button or two popped off, as well as a rip here and there, but she did not care. All that mattered was that now his hands were on her skin, gliding across her back, bringing every inch of her flesh tinglingly alive.

Sinclair pulled her dress down over her arms, and it fell to her feet. He bent to kiss her shoulder, then moved along the hard line of her collarbone, and finally down to the softly swelling mounds of her breasts. Francesca’s breath caught in her throat. Gently he edged down the lace of her chemise, and the movement of the fabric across her delicate skin was a caress. The top ruffle skimmed over her nipple, making it tighten.

His eyes, heavy and dark with desire, were fixed on her breast, watching his fingers follow the path of the cloth. Francesca trembled at the touch of his skin on her nipple, and the bud hardened even more. He traced his fingertip around the rosy button, teasing it, and moisture pooled between her legs in response. The blossoming warmth there startled her, but then he bent and took the fleshy bud into his mouth, and all thought was lost to her.

Francesca moaned, catching her lower lip between her teeth, and the noise seemed to excite him further. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up, as he pulled her nipple deeper into his mouth. He sucked at it gently, his tongue circling and caressing, driving the hunger in her ever higher. With each movement of his mouth, the heat deep in her abdomen grew, moist and pulsing, aching for fulfillment. She wanted to wrap her legs around him, to move against him in a way that would have made her blush if she had thought of it at any other time.

Roughly, he dragged down the other side of her
chemise and turned his attention to that breast. Francesca had to suppress a whimper, and her fingers dug into his arms.

Finally he let her slide back down his body to the floor, and his hands swept over her buttocks in a parting caress, his fingers digging into the fleshy mounds and pressing her flush against the hard ridge of his desire. With a wantonness that would have shocked her a few weeks ago, Francesca moved her hips, rubbing herself against him, and she smiled with satisfaction at the swift and unmistakable response of his body.

He tugged at the ribbon that fastened her chemise. Stretched as it had been, the bow had tightened, turning into a knot, but after a few seconds struggle, the narrow ribbon ripped, releasing her. Impatiently, he shoved the garment back from her shoulders and down. Stepping out of her slippers, Francesca reached back to untie the ribbons of her petticoat and pantaloons, circumventing the destruction of any further ties at his hand.

Her underclothes slid down to pool at her feet. Sinclair’s eyes moved slowly downward, taking in every inch of her body. Francesca remembered her embarrassment the first time her husband had looked upon her naked body in bed, the urge she had felt to cover herself before him and the impatience with which he had shoved her hands away.

It made the heat rise in her face to stand like this beneath Sinclair’s gaze, but she knew that only a small part of it came from any embarrassment, for her body
flamed with desire at the touch of his eyes as surely as if his hands had swept over her.

He shrugged off his opened shirt, and Francesca found herself exploring the naked expanse of his chest with her eyes just as eagerly as he had looked at her. She wanted, she realized with a twinge of surprise, to see even more of him. More than that, she was filled with a yearning to touch him, to kiss and caress him. Something deep within her longed to know him in every possible way, to possess and be possessed by him, to become a part of him.

She watched as he quickly divested himself of his boots, then the rest of his clothes, the throb of her pulse quickening with every garment that slid down his skin. He came to her then, taking her by the hands, and knelt on the floor, pulling her with him. Francesca lay back upon the tangle of her petticoats, her hair spreading out around her like a shimmering golden fan.

She tightened a little, thinking,
Now is when it will come—the cold, the indifference, even disgust.
This would be the moment when she learned that nothing had changed inside, nothing was different with Sinclair. She would grow stiff, and the warm pleasure in her loins would melt away, and she would know that she had been mad to think that it could end any other way.

Rochford lay on his side next to her, propped up on his forearm, and he gazed down at her, his eyes searching her face. “I always dreamed of making love to you in my bed, of seeing your hair spread out over my pillows.”

He ran his hand across her hair, then brought it back to caress her cheek and throat, saying, “But I want you too much to wait.”

Lowering his head, he kissed her slowly and tenderly, his mouth moving with a gentle lack of haste that was at odds with the words he had spoken. But Francesca sensed the barely leashed passion that lay beneath his actions. It was there in his thrumming pulse, the quick intake of his breath, the searing heat of his skin. She knew that he was restraining himself by force of will, like a dam holding back the floodwaters, tamping down his desire in order to savor the pleasure of each moment.

And all she felt was that same delight. Her body warmed, and the tightness relaxed. There was no trepidation, no anxiety. She was floating on pleasure, reveling in emotions she had never expected to feel.

Francesca trailed her hand up his arm, learning the texture of his skin—the tender skin on the inner side of his elbow, the firmness of muscle beneath his upper arm, the faint coarseness of hair. Her fingertips tingled from touching him, sending tendrils of desire wriggling down through her abdomen. She let her hand stray up onto his shoulder and over his back as far as she could reach.

How could she ever have feared that this would not be wonderful? Yet even as she thought it, she reminded herself that things might change at any moment, that Sinclair would leave off kissing and stroking her and
would shove himself between her legs, eager for his fulfillment.

When he lifted his head, she thought it would change then, but he left her mouth only to explore her neck and chest, his lips and tongue tasting and teasing her skin, arousing her more with each kiss. As his mouth moved over her, his hand slid down her body, caressing her in slow, lingering strokes.

Her legs moved restlessly at the touch of his hand, and the ache between her legs grew and pulsed, flooding with passion. His mouth crept over her breast, moving slowly, inexorably toward the nipple, and anticipation grew in her. She waited for him to take the hard bud into his mouth once more, and with each touch of his tongue, his lips, his teeth, the eagerness heightened and swelled until she was taut as a bowstring, her skin damp and her breath rasping in her throat. She dug her fingertips into his shoulders, aware of a primitive urge to rake her fingernails down his back and sink them into the soft flesh of his buttocks.

Then, at last, his mouth closed around her nipple, velvety soft and damp, and he began to suckle, pulling at the sensitive button of flesh with long, hot strokes. Francesca could not hold back a moan of satisfaction, so intense it was almost painful, and her hips moved on the bed of her petticoats.

Answering her unspoken urging, Sinclair’s hand slid up her thigh and over onto the flat plain of her abdomen, circling and inching closer to the thatch of hair between
her legs. His fingertips edged into the silky triangle, tangling in the hair, and gliding to the center and down into the slick, heated folds of flesh. Francesca jerked and tried to move away, embarrassed that he should feel the unusual flood of moisture there.

But his searching fingers followed her, gliding insistently over her, pressing into her in a way that made her gasp and dig her heels into the floor. Then his clever fingers were parting and exploring her in the most intimate way, stroking over the supremely sensitive nub of flesh until she was almost wild with hunger, her hips circling and pressing up against his hand. Soft whimpers of passion escaped her lips, and she turned her head to muffle the sounds against his arm.

Something was building inside her, a hard, aching knot of yearning, until she felt, desperately, as if she were going to scream. Then it burst within her, and she did cry out, sinking her teeth in his arm. A tidal wave of pleasure washed through her, and she trembled under the force of it, lost in the pure physical sensation.

She heard him groan, and he rested his head against her chest for a moment, as though fighting for control. And when, at last, she lay limp and languid beneath him, rendered utterly nerveless, he moved over her, parting her legs. She opened her legs to him eagerly, for despite the mind-numbing satisfaction of what she had just experienced, there was still an ache, a hunger that would not be filled until she took him inside her.

But he did not move into her just yet. Instead,
propping himself on his elbows, he began a leisurely pleasuring of her other breast, kissing and teasing it, taking the nipple into his mouth and repeating the slow, hard suction. To her amazement, the tension began to rise in her again—if anything, she was more eager this time, knowing what waited at the end.