The Courtship Dance (14 page)

Still holding her hand, Rochford kissed each fingertip in turn. He looked up at her again, and his dark eyes smoldered. “Would that be pleasing?”

Flooded by new and startling sensations, Francesca could do nothing but stare back at him, her eyes wide and lambent.

He moved closer to her, raising his hand to brush his knuckles down her face again. “Or perhaps this,” he murmured, as he bent and touched his lips to her cheek.

He kissed the ridge of her jaw, and then moved on
to the tender skin of her throat. His hand went to her arm, sliding down it, and Francesca was aware of a vague wish that her dressing gown did not lie between her skin and his touch.

Nuzzling her neck, he moved lower, inch by inch, until he reached the collar of her dressing gown. Francesca trembled. Her knees were suddenly weak, and she feared that they might give way at any moment, and she would sink to the ground. She barely held back a soft animal moan as his mouth found the shallow hollow of her throat. Then his tongue crept out and traced the bony ridge around the hollow, and she could not restrain the tiny gasp of surprise and pleasure.

“They say,” he went on, leaving her neck and moving up to hover near her ear, “that some women prefer something like this.” He kissed her ear, then gently closed his teeth around the lobe and worried it.

Francesca swallowed, and involuntarily her hands came up to his chest, clutching the lapels of his coat, holding tightly as her world trembled around her. “Sinclair…”

His tongue traced the whorls of her ear, sending bright shivers of delight through her. She felt her nipples tightening almost painfully, and a pulse started between her legs. She had never felt anything like this before, this eager, thrumming surge of hunger that was spreading through her loins.

Then his hands were at the sash of her dressing gown, untying it, and one hand slid beneath the robe.
She felt his palm laid flat against her stomach, only the thin cloth of her chemise separating skin from skin. He slipped his hand up her body until he cupped her breast in his palm.

“A woman might wish something more…like this.” His voice was thick and low; it pulled at her like a physical sensation.

His fingers played across her breast, caressing the nipple so that it turned tauter and harder. Francesca made a soft, inarticulate noise deep in her throat.

“Though no doubt some would hold it far too bold.” His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her chemise and brushed across her bare skin.

Francesca feared that if she had not been holding onto his coat, her knees would have buckled and sent her to the floor.

“Mayhap it would be better…” Sinclair gently guided her to turn so that her back was to him, and he lifted the heavy mass of her hair in one hand, holding it up and away from her neck. He bent and kissed the back of her neck, making his way up the knobbed ridge of her spine, his mouth hot and featherlight, teasing at the sensitive skin.

A shudder shot through her, and Francesca sagged back weakly against his hard chest. His other hand went around her, splaying out over her stomach and pressing her into him. As he kissed the side of her neck, his hand slowly roamed her body, curving over her breasts, then drifting down onto her abdomen, moving ever closer to the seat of her yearning.

She drew in her breath softly, anticipating his touch, imagining his fingers sliding in between her legs. But instead he was turning her back around. She felt as limp and unresisting as a rag doll in his hands.

“Still, all in all,” he murmured as he kissed first one cheek and then the other, “this would be the best thing to do.”

His lips brushed hers, once, twice, and finally settled in. Francesca melted into him, her arms going up around his neck and her mouth opening to the pressure of his lips. His own mouth rocked against hers, pressure and heat increasing, and his tongue moved into her mouth to boldly claim it.

It was the way he had kissed her the other night, and like that other kiss, this one set her body aflame. Her skin felt taut and stretched, tingling all over with a new awareness. Their bodies were pressed together, nothing separating them but their clothes, and she found herself wishing that there was not even that. She wanted to feel his skin upon hers. She wanted, she realized wildly, to rub her body against him.

His arms wrapped around her, and he crushed her to him, his mouth avid on hers. Francesca clung to him, her heart leaping like a mad thing. She was lost in the experience, her senses so bombarded that she could not even name all she felt. She yearned and ached in an inchoate way, filled with a hunger she did not recognize.

He broke from her with a groan, burying his face in
her neck. “Francesca. My…” He bit off the rest of his words, and for a moment, there was no sound but that of their ragged breathing.

At last he said, somewhat unevenly, “I think this lesson is best ended.”

Francesca nodded, too dazed to put together any words.

He put his hands on either side of her face and kissed her forehead briefly. Then he turned and left, striding rapidly through the door and down the hallway.

Francesca hurried to the door and stood, watching, as he opened the front door and walked out. The house was dark around her. She realized that the servants had finished in the assembly room and gone up to bed.

Slowly she turned and walked back to the sofa, collapsing onto it in a heap.

What had just happened?

She was weak and limp, yet at the same time wide-awake and thrumming with energy. She wanted to run after Sinclair and call him back. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to kiss her like that again. She wanted—sweet heaven, she didn’t know what she wanted. All she was sure of was that she had never felt this way before.

Long, long ago, when she had been engaged to Rochford, there had been sparks of heat and desire, hints of feelings that lay buried deep inside. But never had she experienced this leaping, throbbing fire within her. Never had it seemed as if her skin was crackling
with sensations. Her heart had not hammered ’til she thought it would burst from her chest, nor had she longed, desperately longed, to feel more.

Was this what others felt? Was this what made married women giggle among themselves and exchange droll looks as they talked about their husbands? Did they look forward to nighttime and their husbands’ presence in their beds, knowing that a shimmering heat and pleasure awaited them?

She closed her eyes, sinking back upon the velvet cushions of the couch. If Sinclair had not stopped and stepped away, would she have ended up in bed with him? Would she have found herself enjoying a lusty coupling?

The thought brought fire to her cheeks. She rose and began to pace the room, running her hands up and down her arms as though she could rub away the strange feelings that had touched her.

She was being absurd, she knew. A few kisses were not the same as lying in bed with a man. Just because everything inside her had soared in response to Sinclair’s touch, it did not mean that she would enjoy anything that came afterwards. After all, she had been entranced when she first knew Andrew. Her pulse had fluttered around him, and she had felt drunk on his honeyed, whispered avowals of love.

But then it had all turned to bitter disappointment when they finally engaged in the marital act. Tender looks and sweet kisses had given way to a sweaty, grunting rutting.

It would be the same with Rochford. It would be foolish to hope otherwise. A man did not want merely kisses and caresses. He wanted to be in bed, stripping her clothes away and thrusting himself into her. She would regret it, would despise it, as she always had with Andrew, and she would turn wooden and cold beneath his touch.

And then Sinclair would look at her with disappointment, even disgust, as Andrew had.

Francesca shook her head. That would be worse than the way it had been in her marriage—to have her sweet memories of the love she and Sinclair had once shared destroyed by the reality of her coldness in bed. She would rather almost anything than to have Sinclair look at her as Andrew had.

With a sigh, she left the room and made her way back up the stairs to her empty bed.

F
RANCESCA DID NOT
see the duke over the course of the next few days. It was only to be expected, she told herself. Her part in the campaign to find him a bride was largely done. It was up to him now to carry on a courtship.

Of course she would be interested to see which of the women he chose, but she could not really expect to be further involved in the process in any way.

She felt a bit at loose ends, which was also to be expected. The search for the right woman, the planning, the party—all had occupied a good deal of her time. It was no wonder if her life suddenly seemed a trifle empty, even flat.

There was still Harriet Sherbourne to be dealt with, but even she would now require less effort on Francesca’s part. She was planning to attend the opera with Sir Alan and Harriet later in the week, and she would take the girl with her to a musicale tomorrow night and to several parties in the future.

But the real work was past. Francesca felt sure that the girl would receive invitations from the ladies to
whom she had introduced her at the soiree, and the improvement in Harriet’s hair and dress should be enough to insure that she would have adequate dances and flirtatious conversations at parties. Francesca would make certain of that with a few judicious hints to some of the young men who consistently danced attendance on her. Given that neither the young lady nor her father seemed to have any real interest in Harriet landing a husband this Season, there would be little maneuvering left for Francesca to do.

It was no wonder, therefore, that she felt a trifle bored, even lonely. Nor was it remarkable that her mind kept returning to the bizarre episode that had transpired between her and Rochford.

Thinking of what he had done, she could not help but feel a little tremor of remembered sensation. She closed her eyes, letting herself drift for a moment in the memory.

Why had he done what he had? she wondered. What sort of game had he been playing? She did not for an instant believe that he had expected her to accept his premise that he was asking her for advice. If it had been any other man, she would have said that he was seducing her. But that was absurd.

Wasn’t it?

Rochford was capable of flirtation, of course. He had flirted when he was courting her—in his own very dry, understated way. And there had even been a faint element of flirtatiousness in the various casual conversa
tions between them over the years—though it had been of a kind that hovered very close to sniping at times.

But he had never tried to seduce her—or any other lady that she knew of. Oh, she was not naive enough to think that he had never had a mistress. She had been wrong about Lady Daphne, but it would be foolish beyond belief to think that a gentleman of his age and station had never kept a fair Cyprian—some opera dancer or actress or professional courtesan. With those women, he might very well have acted as he did last night.

With a woman of good birth, however, the rules were different. A gentleman courted and wed a lady. He did not seduce her late at night in her home. At least, a gentleman like the Duke of Rochford did not.

On the other hand, she had to admit with a blush, a lady would not have come down to secretly open the door to a gentleman so late at night. Nor would she have slipped him past the servants and closed herself in a room alone with him.

Not only that, she had imbibed brandy in his company—she had even been the one to suggest it. Worst of all, she had thoughtlessly run down to meet him wearing only her dressing gown, under which she had on only her undergarments. No doubt any man might be forgiven for thinking that she was not averse to seduction.

When she looked at it in that light, it was enough to make her cringe with embarrassment. Widows were
often considered to be more lax about their morals than a maiden; they were, at least, far more knowledgeable. Widows were not closely chaperoned, and when a woman was childless throughout years of marriage, as she had been, then there was unlikely to be the scandal of a child born out of wedlock. And in the sophisticated world of the
ton,
once a woman had married it was not unusual for her to engage in affairs without being ostracized for it, so long as she kept the matter discreet. However, Francesca had always been extremely careful not to give anyone even the slightest reason to believe that she was loose in her behavior.

Whatever had possessed her to act as she had last night?
Had Rochford assumed that, given how she was dressed, she was open to seduction, perhaps even inviting it?

How could she face him again if he had thought that about her?

Yet she could not help but wonder—if he had thought her open to seduction, then why had he stopped? She had certainly done nothing to make him think she was unwilling. And that, she realized, was the most lowering thought of all: that he had grown uninterested in her.

Perhaps he had not felt the same excitement that she had. Maybe, even at that early stage, he had sensed in her the coldness that had so frustrated and angered Andrew. Tears sprang into her eyes at the thought. She had long ago stopped crying over her husband’s disap
pointment in her. In truth, she had been glad that it had at least caused him to seek her bed less and less often. She had hated knowing that she was inferior to other women, but it had stopped causing her sorrow that Haughston was disappointed in her.

But now, thinking that Rochford might have realized the true coldness of her nature, she wanted to cry. And as one day passed and turned into another, she could not help but think that his absence was due to the same reason that had made him cease kissing her and leave.

It should not make her feel so dejected, she knew. She would not have gone to bed with him if he had stayed—
surely
she would not have. She did not want an affair with him or any other man. Fortunately, the part of her life where she had to submit to a man’s pleasure was over. So there was absolutely no reason to feel downhearted because the man she had once loved had not tried to complete the seduction he had started.

And she would not dwell on it any longer.

She forced herself to turn to her neglected correspondence, but…within five minutes, her thoughts were going over the same well-trodden path.

When she did manage to put the matter of Rochford and their kisses from her mind, it was only to replace it with worry over Perkins. She had feared that he would appear at her door again to rage about Rochford’s treatment of him, but he had not. That fact should have been a relief, but it was not. Knowing that he might pop up
at any moment kept her nerves on edge, and her anxiety only increased as the days crept along toward her day of reckoning with him.

Francesca had no idea what she would do, what she would say to the man when he came again to demand her payment. She racked her brain to think of some argument that would convince him not to go through with his plan, some way to disprove what he said, some schedule by which she could pay off the debt that he claimed she owed him. But her thoughts were scattered and disjointed, and nothing she could offer seemed adequate. He would know as well as she that she could not pay off that much money in her lifetime, and he certainly would not want to wait. Perkins was not a man to display any kindness.

Two days after the party, Francesca was in the sitting room, trying to add up all her assets in the hope of making them amount to something close to the figure Perkins was demanding, when she heard Callie’s voice in the hallway.

She jumped to her feet, thinking Rochford would be there, as well.

But it turned out that Callie had come alone, and Francesca chided herself for the faint spurt of disappointment she felt. Putting that aside with a smile, she stepped forward and took her visitor’s hands, squeezing them affectionately.

“Callie, I was just thinking of you. I was going to call on you this very afternoon.”

“Then I am glad that I arrived before you left to see me,” Callie responded with an answering smile.

Francesca rang for tea, and the two of them sat down for a good cozy chat. The night at the party, they had barely scratched the surface of conversation. Unfortunately, Francesca learned, her friend was departing the next day for her husband’s estate in the country.

“No, you must not! You have just gotten home,” Francesca protested.

“I know. But Brom has been away from his estate far too long already. He says he has neglected it dreadfully. He went back to it only briefly before our wedding.”

Francesca grinned at her friend. “Yes, I remember. He said he was going back for the whole two months of your engagement, but he could not stay away from you longer than two weeks.”

Callie laughed in a throaty, self-satisfied way. “True. Of course, at the time he claimed that there was less to do than he had thought.”

“I shall miss you terribly.”

“You must come visit me,” Callie told her. “I shan’t know a soul there. It will be terribly lonely. You should come as soon as the Season is over.”

“You will have Bromwell,” Francesca reminded her. “And somehow, I suspect that he will be enough. I don’t want to intrude on a newly married couple.”

“It will not be an intrusion. Why, I will be an old married woman by then. And Brom will be busy. It will be harvest time.”

“Well, perhaps for a little while.”

“At least a month,” Callie insisted, and Francesca, laughing, gave in.

They went on to talk of other things, chief among them the gowns that Callie had purchased in Paris. She was wearing one of them today, a lilac silk day dress with short petal sleeves overlying puffed sleeves of lilac net. This topic occupied them quite happily until Fenton entered to inform them that Lady Mannering had come to call.

It was a disappointment to have her time alone with Callie cut into by another guest, but Francesca gestured for the butler to show their visitor in. Lady Mannering was one of the hostesses whom she was hoping would issue an invitation or two to Harriet in the future.

“Lady Haughston. And Lady Bromwell,” the newest guest said happily. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here, as well.”

There was polite chat about Francesca’s party, as well as about the beauty of Callie’s wedding. Then Lady Mannering leaned toward Callie with a knowing smile and said, “One has to wonder, Lady Bromwell, if there isn’t another Lilles alliance in the offing.”

“Excuse me?” Callie stared at the other woman blankly.

“Why, your brother, dear. He seems most interested in Calderwood’s eldest, does he not?”

Francesca felt a sudden cold clutch in her stomach. “Lady Mary?”

“Yes, that’s the girl.” Lady Mannering nodded her carefully coiffed head. “I saw him talking with her the other night at your party, Lady Haughston. I remarked to Lord Mannering about it—how long they talked and how unlike the girl it was. Quite pretty, she looked, too. Once she gets past that dreadful shyness of hers and actually smiles, you can see that she is rather attractive.”

“Yes,” Francesca agreed. “And sweet, as well. But, surely, one conversation at a party does not make a romance.”

Her guest’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, but that is just the thing. Yesterday I saw her with him again. They were riding along in that phaeton of his. She was chatting away as if they were old friends. It is so unlike her. And him. One cannot help but wonder if there is a courtship afoot.”

Francesca kept a polite smile on her face. “Indeed.”

“I would not refine overmuch on that,” Callie told the other woman. “If Rochford has any especial interest in anyone, I have not heard of it.”

The look on Callie’s face, Francesca thought, could almost rival the duke’s when it came to damping pretension. Lady Mannering quickly abandoned the topic and instead began to talk of the dinner she was planning in a week. Did Lady Haughston think that nice Sir Alan and his daughter might like to attend?

Francesca forced herself to put any other thoughts out of her head and concentrate on helping Harriet Sherbourne. As their conversation progressed, she had
the feeling that it was Lady Harriet’s father and his single state that spurred Lady Mannering’s interest more than anything else. However, Francesca was not above taking advantage of that interest to advance Harriet’s social career. Lady Mannering was one of the city’s most prolific party-givers, and her events were always well attended.

Besides, if she could stir up a romance for Harriet’s father, as well as enliven Harriet’s Season, surely that was to the good. So she answered Lady Mannering’s questions about the Sherbournes with alacrity and even added a few tidbits of information beyond what the woman asked.

Francesca managed to keep her attention on their conversation, but later, when both Callie and Lady Mannering had departed, she told Fenton that she was not at home to any more callers and took herself off to her bedroom.

She went to the window and stood looking out at the street below, but her mind did not really register what she saw.

So it was Mary Calderwood who had taken Rochford’s fancy.

Francesca supposed that she should have known that the duke would not do what she expected. Lady Mary would have been the last of the women whom she would have guessed Rochford would want. Not that there was anything wrong with her, of course. Her reputation was impeccable, and her lineage was excellent.

It was just that Francesca would not have thought that the duke would be drawn to a such a quiet, shy girl. She was, well, exactly the opposite of Francesca herself. Though there was really no reason, she supposed, to think that Rochford would want someone similar to the choice he had made fifteen years ago. Still, she had thought that he would be more drawn to beauty and vivacity than other qualities.

But then, as Lady Mannering had pointed out, Mary was pretty when her face became more animated, and clearly Rochford seemed to be able to put the reticent girl at ease. Besides, Rochford was fifteen years older now. Doubtless he had realized over the course of the years that there were more important reasons for choosing a bride than the physical attraction he had felt for Francesca when they were young.