The Courtship Dance (22 page)

He pulled back, blowing a soft breath of air upon the damp berry-colored nipple and causing it to prickle and lengthen, and he teased the other nipple between his forefinger and thumb, rolling and gently tugging. The hunger built in her until she was almost sobbing with need.

She moaned his name, and her hands drifted down his back to his buttocks, caressing the fleshy mounds. “Please,” she murmured. “Please…”

He moved into her then, lifting her hips and pressing slowly, steadily into her. She gasped at the sensation as he filled her, shocked by the sense of completion, the wonderful rightness of the joining. Sinclair began to stroke within her, pulling almost out, then thrusting back in, creating an intense, delightful friction that pushed the tension inside her ever higher. Then, once more, she convulsed, and this time she did indulge her primitive desire, raking his back with her nails and digging her fingers into his buttocks.

Sinclair let out a hoarse cry, jerking against her, and they met in a cataclysm of passion. Francesca wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging to him as the storm engulfed them.

H
E WAS A HEAVY WEIGHT
upon her, his face pressed into the crook of her shoulder, but Francesca did not mind the pressure. She was so buoyant with joy that she was not sure she would not simply float away otherwise. She held on to him tightly, reveling in the feel of his body upon hers, his skin hot and damp, his breath tickling her neck.

Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled over, trickling down her face, and she reached up to wipe them away.

“Francesca?” He rolled away from her then, gazing down into her face, a frown forming on his brow. “What is it? Are you crying?”

She nodded, embarrassed, and gulped back her tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

“No! Oh, no,” she hastened to assure him. “I don’t know why I’m crying—it was just so beautiful.” She began to tear up again, and she dashed the moisture away impatiently with her hand. “Oh, bother…”

He chuckled, his voice rich with satisfaction, and gathered her up in his arms, pulling her back against his chest so that they lay curled together like spoons in a drawer. He nuzzled into her hair and pressed a brief kiss on the back of her neck. “It
was
beautiful.”

“I have never felt anything like that before. I thought—” She stopped, suddenly realizing that perhaps she was giving away too much.

“Never?” There was astonishment in his voice. “You
mean…” He paused, then went on thoughtfully, “You mean you never felt—Oh, blast, I cannot think of any genteel way to put it—you never reached satisfaction before?”

She shook her head. Her voice was small as she replied, “No. I know you must find me very odd. And, really, there is no point in talking about it.”

Why had she ever brought this subject up? she wondered, cursing her own thoughtlessness. There was no reason for Sinclair to know about her former coldness. It was bound to make him wonder about her.

“I don’t find you odd at all,” he replied, kissing her hair again. “I find you—” he trailed his hand down her side, following the curves of her waist and hips “—delectable.” He laid another kiss on the point of her shoulder. “What I don’t understand is your late husband.”

“It was so different with him. I—I hated it!” Her vehemence shocked her a little. “I am sorry—I know you must think I’m terrible.” She pressed her lips together, trying to stem the flow of words.

“Of course I don’t think that.” He pulled her even closer into his body, surrounding her with his warmth and strength. “I think Lord Haughston must have been an even greater ass than I realized.”

The words poured out of her now, and she seemed helpless to stop them. “Andrew said that I was cold, an ice princess. I tried not to be, but I could not help it. It was…it wasn’t at all like tonight. I hated for him to touch me. I know I was a terrible wife. I should not have
married him. I did not love him. I tried to make myself think I did, but as soon as we were wed, I knew what a dreadful mistake I had made. It was so awkward and—and painful. I cried half my wedding night.” She swallowed, then added lightly, “’Tis no wonder, I suppose, that he found me unappealing. Or that he turned to other women. I made a horrible mess of it all.”

“Stop it,” Sinclair told her crisply. He went up on his elbow, pulling her over onto her back, so that he could look down into her face. “Listen to me. You are a lovely, extremely passionate woman. I detected not the slightest sign of coldness in you. You are utterly desirable, and whatever that fool Haughston told you, there was no fault in you.” He bent and kissed her, hard and fast. “Understand?”

She nodded, a blush creeping along her cheekbones.

He stroked his knuckles along her cheek, his face softening. “I am sorry for your unhappiness. For the pleasure you didn’t know. But I am a base enough fellow that I cannot help but be glad that he never…
had
this with you.” He smiled, his dark eyes lighting wickedly. “And I am…well, I am quite detestably smug and self-satisfied to know that you found satisfaction with me and not him.”

Sinclair bent to kiss her again. “Furthermore,” he went on, punctuating his words with kisses across her face and down her neck, “I intend to devote a good deal of my time to showing you exactly how lacking you are in coldness.”

A little gurgle of laughter escaped her. “Do you now?”

“Indeed. I shall make it my solemn mission. We shall discover exactly all the things that excite you.” He trailed a finger down her body, skimming over her breasts, smiling a little at the tightening response of her nipples. “It will take some time and effort, I fear, but I think it is my duty to discover each one.”

He bent and brushed a kiss on each hardened point.

“You are a very dedicated man,” Francesca told him.

“I am,” he agreed, his hand drifting lower.

She drew her breath in a little gasp, arching up at the sudden sizzle through her body. Her eyes clouded over in desire as she murmured, “Already?”

“Mmm. I believe so.” His voice turned husky. “I think it is imperative that I begin my research immediately. I would not have it said that I shirked my duty.”

“No…” She sighed on a new wave of pleasure as his fingers sought out the very center of her passion. “We cannot have that.”

He kissed her, and everything else faded from her mind.

F
RANCESCA AWOKE LATE
the next morning. She was lying in her bed, the sun streaming into the room past the draperies. She blinked, confused for a moment. Then memories of the night before came rushing back into her mind. A blush stained her cheeks, but she smiled, snuggling deeper into her covers. She stretched out a hand to the pillow where Sinclair’s head had lain last night.

He was gone, of course. After they had made love again downstairs, he had whisked her up here to her bed, and they had lain together for a while, holding each other in a quiet glow of contentment. She had fallen asleep finally, and he must have slipped out after that. She had known he would. Rochford would do his utmost to protect her reputation, even from her own servants.

On that thought, her eyes flew open and she sat up quickly, glancing around the room. When her eyes fell on the pile of her clothes in the chair by the bed, she let out a sigh of relief and sank back onto her pillow. Thank goodness he had thought to bring up her things
and not leave them in a telling heap on the floor of her sitting room.

She stretched, enjoying the feel of the sheets sliding over her naked body. Perhaps she would eschew nightgowns altogether now, she thought, and giggled to herself. Somehow Sinclair had turned her into a wanton overnight. She had barely awakened, and already she was thinking of what this night would hold and whether Rochford would come to her again.

But that was perfectly acceptable, she told herself. After all, she had a number of years to make up for.

Francesca rose and wrapped herself in her dressing gown. Her maid had apparently decided not to awaken her and had left her morning tray on the low table beside her chair. Both the tea and the toast had grown cold, but Francesca gulped them down anyway. She was suddenly ravenous.

She rang for her maid and ordered a bath. She could feel Maisie’s curiosity fairly radiating from her. She knew that her maid and all the servants were dying to know what was going on after the scene they had witnessed last night with Perkins. She would have to tell them that the problem had been taken care of so that they could stop worrying about their futures, but for now she kept silent. All she wanted was to soak in a hot bath and daydream about Sinclair.

There could be no long future for them, of course. Francesca was realistic enough to know that despite the blissful night they had spent together, it could lead only
to an affair. Yes, she loved Rochford, but while he had certainly enjoyed their lovemaking, he had not given any indication that he
loved
her. Passion did not mean the same thing for men that it did for women. Sinclair’s desire was not charged with love, as hers was. And even if he did love her, it would not make any difference.

The Duke of Rochford had to marry to produce heirs, no matter what Sinclair Lilles might want. And Sinclair was responsible. He followed his duty, not his desires. He could not marry a barren woman. He would have to choose a younger bride and have children with her.

But surely he would not have to do that just yet. He was clearly not interested in any of the women she had picked out as possibilities for him. Indeed, he positively disliked two of them, and he had helped a third become engaged to another man. Nor had he ever raised the hopes of any of them; he had been his usual circumspect self. He could wait for a few more months, even a year…or two. A man could produce offspring, after all, at a far greater age than his.

Until he had to marry, they could be together—or at least until he grew tired of her. They could have an affair, and no one in the
ton
would care, as long as they were discreet. After all, she was a widow, and he was single. No one would be hurt by what they did. It was often the case, even among the married nobility, to conduct affairs, though usually after the question of heirs had been settled.

There would be whispered rumors, perhaps, but as long as they were careful—and given Rochford’s reputation as a crack shot—it would not be blown up into a scandal. Even if it was, well—that was something she was willing to risk. It would be her reputation that would suffer the damage, after all, not his.

It would be hard, she knew, to give him up eventually, but she was willing to risk that, as well. She was determined to seize this moment of happiness. Afterwards, of course, she would do the right thing; she would not damage Rochford’s life. But for now, she intended to enjoy her bit of pleasure.

She sailed through the day on a cloud of happiness. Once she was dressed, she went downstairs and called the servants together in the kitchen. She thanked them for their efforts on her behalf the evening before and assured them that the problem with Mr. Perkins had been taken care of. He would not, she told them with a smile, be coming around again.

Their relief was obvious, though she could also see that a good deal of curiosity remained. However, she was not about to explain about running to Rochford or what he had done to get rid of Perkins. She might tell Maisie some of it later. A woman’s personal maid was, after all, the person from whom it was most difficult to keep secrets. But for now she wanted to hug to herself everything regarding the duke. She suspected that any talk of him would bring a glow to her face that would reveal the truth.

She tried to go about her daily tasks, but she found it hard to concentrate. She sat down at her desk to update her correspondence, which had been dreadfully tardy of late. She should have written to Constance days ago. However, as soon as she pulled out paper and started to write, she found her thoughts drifting away to Sinclair and the way he smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, or to things they had done the evening before. And
those
sorts of thoughts soon had her pulse racing and warmth blossoming deep within her.

She pulled her wayward thoughts back and started to write again, but after a while she gave it up and decided to take on a task that required less concentration. She turned instead to her mending, but it soon became apparent that darning stockings and sewing on ruffles kept her no more occupied than letter-writing.

Afternoon callers would, she reasoned, make the time pass more quickly, but she soon found that having visitors was the worst way of passing the time, for she had to struggle to appear to be listening and interested. At least no one had seen when she dropped her mending in her lap and started gazing sightlessly at the wall, a dreamy smile playing on her lips as she recalled Sinclair’s kisses.

She lost the thread of the conversation so many times that one of her callers asked her if she was feeling unwell, and a later one gave her an icy look when she left. Then the Duke of Rochford came to call.

Fenton announced him as she was sitting in her
drawing room with Lady Feringham and her daughter. Francesca’s heart leaped into her throat, and she jumped to her feet before she realized what she had done. Gravely, trying to look as if she rose for every visitor, she bowed her head to the butler, saying, “Please, show him in.”

She dared not glance at Lady Feringham or her daughter as she braced herself to see Sinclair again. She must not let anything of what had happened between the two of them show in her face. Discretion, after all, must be her watchword.

Rochford walked into the room after the butler, and Francesca saw the flicker of dismay on his face when he noticed her other visitors. He checked at the doorway before continuing into the room and bowing to her.

“Lady Haughston.”

“Rochford. How very pleasant to see you,” she greeted him, her voice carefully even. Her cheeks were a little warm, and she hoped that she was not blushing—at least not deeply enough that the others would notice.

She extended her hand to him. She wanted desperately to feel his touch, yet she knew that she must not allow any of that to be seen on her face. His fingers closed around hers, and she felt him squeeze briefly before he released her hand. She allowed herself one glance up into his eyes; it was all she could do to tear her own eyes away.

She gave a bright, general smile and gestured vague
ly toward one of the chairs. “Do sit down. You know Lady Feringham and her daughter, Lady Cottwell, I believe.”

“Yes, of course.” Rochford bowed to the other women and greeted them politely while Francesca sat down and sought to gather her composure around her.

It was absurd, she told herself, that all she could think about right now was the way Rochford had looked looming above her, his skin slick with sweat, his breath ragged, his eyes black as the pit, as he plunged into her.

She slipped out her handkerchief and dabbed surreptitiously at her face.
Was anyone else looking heated, or was it just her?
She wondered if it would appear odd if she called for Fenton to open another of the windows.

The room was silent, and Francesca glanced around, realizing that something was amiss. From the expectant looks on the others’ faces, she knew that they were waiting for some response from her.

“I—I beg your pardon. I fear my mind, um, wandered for a bit. I was thinking that it seemed a bit warm. Shall I have a window opened?”

“Oh, no, it’s quite pleasant,” the younger visitor assured her. “I had just asked you whether you enjoyed Lady Smythe-Fulton’s rout last week. I found it such a crush, I confess.”

“Indeed. But is that not the goal of a rout?” Francesca asked with a smile, doing her best to recall anything about the party.
That was not where she had
watched Rochford talk to Mary Calderwood, was it? No, surely that had been the Haversley soiree
. She could remember almost nothing of that evening except with whom the duke had chatted and the praise Lady Mary had heaped upon him.

She sneaked another glance at Rochford. He was watching her, and there was something in his gaze that made her skin flare with heat. She tried to give him an admonitory glare, but she feared that it did not come out looking that way at all.
When were these women going to leave? Had they not been here long past the polite limit for an afternoon call?

But still Lady Feringham prattled on. She had gone on to a discussion of Lord Chesterfield’s new phaeton, which his youngest son had apparently wrecked only this morning in an absurd race with Mr. William Arbuthnot. Francesca did her best to gasp and sigh and smile in all the right places, but she could not keep her eyes from straying back time and again to the duke.

She was swept with relief when at last Lady Feringham announced that they must take their leave. She could only hope that they did not see the joy flare in her eyes as she rose to bid goodbye to them.

When they were gone, Francesca whirled back to Rochford, who came to her in two quick strides and grasped both her hands in his, bringing them up to his lips and planting a hard, brief kiss on the knuckles of each one.

“I was beginning to think that they had taken root here,” he told her between kisses.

Francesca let out a giddy little laugh. “As did I. Oh, Sinclair…”

She let out his name on a sigh, gazing up into his face, her own features glowing as if lit from within.

He let out an oath under his breath and drew her into his arms, bending to kiss her fiercely. When they at last emerged from the embrace sometime later, Francesca’s face was rosy and her eyes shining, her lips soft and almost bruised-looking.

“When you look at me like that, I forget all else,” he told her hoarsely. “We must talk.”

“Must we?” she retorted lightly, grinning in a deliberately provocative way. “I can think of a number of things I would rather do.”

“Vixen.” He raised her hand again and turned it over to press a kiss into her palm. “You know that I would, as well. But I have to tell you—”

There was the sound of a discreet cough in the hallway, and they sprang apart, Rochford swinging away to inspect the mantel as though it held some deep fascination for him. Francesca grimaced, but composed her expression and turned to face her butler.

“Yes, Fenton?”

“Mrs. Frederick Wilberforce to see you, madam.”

She would dearly have liked to instruct him to tell the woman that she was not at home, but she knew that Mrs. Wilberforce must have seen the other callers
leaving, and if she was then turned away, her feelings would be hurt. Mrs. Wilberforce, having “married up,” was especially sensitive to any sort of slight.

Suppressing a sigh, Francesca instructed Fenton to send the woman in. She turned back to Sinclair, saying in a low tone, “I am so sorry.”

He shook his head, giving her a crooked little smile, and said, “I will wait.”

Francesca turned back to smile at the woman entering the room. She hoped that there was nothing in her face to reveal what she had been doing before Mrs. Wilberforce arrived. Certainly, her pulse was still thundering, and she dared not look over at the duke.

Fortunately, Rochford knew Mrs. Wilberforce’s husband, who hailed from a town near the duke’s property in Cornwall, and he was able to engage her for a few minutes in a conversation about the man. After that, it was slow going. For once Francesca was unable to summon up the usual social chatter to aid her. All she could think of was her desire for the woman to leave and allow her to be alone with Sinclair.

When she left, Francesca thought, she would tell Fenton that she was no longer receiving visitors. However, she was not sure what excuse she could make for Sinclair’s continued presence. By the rules of polite behavior, of course, he should leave before Mrs. Wilberforce. He had already been here longer than was customary for an afternoon call. She wondered if Mrs. Wilberforce would notice or would be too overawed by
talking to a duke to even be aware that he had made a social misstep.

Finally, surprising her, Sinclair rose, saying that he must take his leave of them. It was all Francesca could do not to utter a protest. She managed a brittle smile, however, and gave him her hand.

“It was so good of you to come,” she told him stiffly.

He smiled. “I hope to return soon.”

Her eyes flew up to his at his words, and she saw a smile lurking in their dark depths. “Oh. Well, yes, please do. I should like very much to show you my garden.”